Scar Tissue (25 page)

‘Of course,’ I said briskly.

‘But this time – no argument – you’ll have someone with you. OK?’ came Todd’s voice. ‘Meanwhile, I don’t know what your officers do about breaks, Gates, but it’s pretty well lunchtime. We could knock up a few sandwiches if you don’t mind an al fresco meal.’

That ought to have prepared me but it didn’t. Todd had certainly had a productive morning. If I’d thought about it I’d have expected him to replace the blown up mobile home with its twin.

He’d done that all right. And added another twin for good measure. A matched pair stood on the site of the first.

Paula was to be driven back to Crabton Manor after lunch, which wasn’t quite the social success I think Todd had hoped it would be. Apart from a lot of police comings and goings, there was a good deal of quiet shop-talk from the SOCOs, and Paula had snubbed Jan’s gossipy interest in her new significant other. Todd himself was more subdued than I’d known him, rather edgy and anxious. He did something I’d never seen him do before – he kept glancing at his watch. But when I asked, he insisted he was fine.

Before Paula left, I spoke to Gates again: ‘I suppose the bloke driving Paula couldn’t hang round a bit at Crabton Manor – you know, just in case.’ I wondered how I could wangle myself a lift there – I had a yen to see van der Poele’s face when he was handed the bill.

‘He’ll do better than that. He’ll get her to find him some overalls and he can help pack all your gear. Before you ask, he’s promised not to get housemaid’s knee. Would you prefer to see Granville before or after he’s sanitised?’

Todd was by my side. Did he have radar ears or something? ‘In the surroundings that’ll most convince her that he’s dead. Haven’t you noticed, she’d not stopped shaking since you asked her to ID him? This is a man who’s done her permanent lasting harm. Ineradicable.’ He was willing me to show my scars, wasn’t he?

I ignored him.

But however much I insisted I was fine, I knew I wasn’t. I didn’t even want to see him taken away lest he suddenly sat
up and pointed to me. Once he was on a slab, it should be all right. Should be. In the meantime, furious that I could let a corpse do this to me, I ran – well, stumbled – after Paula and her escort. ‘I’m coming too,’ I said. ‘I want to see the fun when Paula asks van der Poele for her money.’

There turned out to be two blokes driving Paula and me, neither inclined to chat. So I simply looked out of the window at the countryside I was coming to love – why, on a day like this, I could almost believe I was a holidaymaker admiring the view. Windmills; sheep; houses even more attractive than Fullers concealing goodness knows what or whom. Like Sid looking at the sea defences, I found myself shivering again. But I must pull myself together. Those damned dogs would smell my fear a hundred yards away. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t them that had scared me.

Paula inspected every single square inch of painting before nodding solemnly that we could stow everything in Trev. If I’d hoped to have a ringside seat when she spoke to van der Poele I was to be disappointed. We were all there to pull our weight. We would even check around and under the van so make sure we’d dropped no litter – with our non-smoking team, there’d be no butts, at least. Only one of the policemen helped. The other sat back in the car as if he were half asleep. But he hadn’t done as Paula asked and pulled out of sight. And I had an idea he was very far from asleep. Paula nodded, as if to reassure herself, and, her clipboard like a shield across her chest, marched up to the door. We could hear that knock from the van. So could the dogs.

And so, of course, could van der Poele. But he seemed to have quite a pleasant smile on his face, and we could hear
him laughing. Paula said something quite sharply, and he laughed again. We could do with Sid’s little bug, couldn’t we? There was a long pause: he seemed to be showing her something.

Then they shook hands, and Paula returned slowly, still with her clipboard but now with a Tesco carrier bag. I won’t say it was bulging, but it certainly looked both full and heavy.

‘He’s only been and paid us in cash,’ she announced. ‘In the van, girls, before he changes his mind.’

I hovered. Did she mean me too, or would the uncommunicative policemen return me to Fullers? I looked hopefully at the one stripping off his overalls. ‘Best go with them, Miss,’ he said. ‘Now it’s our turn to have a little talk to Mr van der Poele. Sharpish, please, Miss,’ he added, to Paula.

Sharpish meant me starting and driving. I reversed neatly, waiting only for a couple of cars hurtling up the lane. And then another. And another. Seizing my chance, I pulled out quickly. Too quickly. I stalled. All the swear words I knew – and there were more than enough to offend Meg – wouldn’t make the bloody van start. There we were, stuck in this highly conspicuous vehicle in the middle of what was quickly turning out to be a police raid. An armed raid. Paula said, ‘Everyone out this side. Now!’ We obeyed. Seeing what had happened, a policewoman waved us over to their version of Trev and bundled us in.

‘Keep down,’ she urged.

We kept. Paula huddled over the bag as if it were a new-born baby.

There weren’t many shots, and those that were fired
seemed to be almost at random. No. Whoever it was was aiming at the police vehicles. They were reinforced. Ours wasn’t. And though it’s hard to make diesel burn, bottles of paint thinners go up like a dream. And did.

I wouldn’t quite have expected Paula to dash up and try to beat out the flames with her bare hands, but I wouldn’t have expected her to watch our old friend’s funeral pyre as calmly as she did. She watched till the bitter end, as we all did, her face almost impassive. But not quite. It was as if – no, she couldn’t have the same pumpkin look as when she thought about her new date. Could she?

When all the fireworks were over, she got up cautiously, grimacing as she straightened her knees. She sat down on one of the seats; we were to do the same. Only when she had our full attention did she open the carrier bag and start to remove its contents, wad by wad. Wad by wad of fivers, to be precise. She counted them out, and then, I’m afraid, counted them back in again. ‘He paid in cash,’ she said simply. ‘At first he asked for a discount. When I said that wasn’t part of our terms, he just rolled over like one of his dogs. The whole lot. In cash. I suppose,’ she said to the WPC, ‘now everything’s quiet here, you couldn’t run me to a bank, could you?’

The young woman shook her head sadly. ‘I think I’d better run you to the police station in Ashford,’ she said. ‘Chief Superintendent Gates’s orders. I’m afraid that may be stolen cash.’

‘Laundered, not stolen,’ Gates said calmly. ‘I’m sorry about the mix-up. I think it ought to be impounded but–’

‘If you impound it, these women can’t eat or pay their rent this week. I can’t buy paint for the next job.’

‘A bank loan?’ he ventured. So my impassioned lecture had been in vain.

‘I can’t afford a bank loan. So it looks as if another small business will bite the dust.’ Paula might have spoken slowly and calmly, but she stood over him like an avenging Fury.

He stood too: they were eyeball to eyeball. At last I twigged. He was winding her up. He’d promised me she’d not suffer. So why trouble? Because he liked his power, that’s why. What a good job I hadn’t let myself forget those cold grey eyes and started fancying him. ‘My superiors –’

‘Bollocks,’ I said. ‘Stop messing us about, Gates. It’s been a long hard day and we need to get to the supermarket for our weekend’s shop. Unless your superiors would like to push our trolleys and pay?’

It wasn’t the supermarket that I went to, of course. It was the morgue. Fortunately I was so fired up with Gates I forgot to be anxious. And I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking why someone at his level, a man surely more used to pushing papers than accompanying young women on routine visits to stiffs, was driving me himself – surely not just because Todd told him to?

I chose my moment – he was just manoeuvring into a tight parking space. ‘So who killed Granville? And why?’

He pulled on the handbrake before he replied. ‘We’re almost certain – on the forensic evidence, of course – that it was van der Poele. Until we’ve talked to him we can’t be sure.’

‘Come now, he’s not going to lie there on his hospital bed and confess, is he?’

‘You never know.’

‘I do. Van der Poele wouldn’t confess to living and breathing if he wasn’t “persuaded” to. And I’m sure you people aren’t supposed to “persuade”, are you?’

‘Not unless you’re on the wrong side of the law, and you’re trying to “persuade” an apparently friendless young woman. It seems it’s open season for anything, then.’ He gave an apologetic smile.

Which I didn’t return. ‘Van der Poele. Were he and Granville in the same business? Or rivals? Or was it needle going way back?’

‘You never give up, do you? Van der Poele made a lot of money from drugs.’

‘So did Granville. So was it a turf war?’

‘More likely, according to our sources, who I’m not about to reveal even to you, Caffy, they’d become partners in this illegal immigration scam – van der Poele had premises he could stow a few people in if needs be. Granville had managed to find those hidey-holes at Fullers. A nice deal. He’d have liked to own Fullers legally, I suspect, but your friend Todd Dawes outbid him and moved Paula’s Pots in before he could clear everything out. Everything including a lot of drugs. And the drug-dealing hadn’t been part of the deal.’

I nodded. It sounded feasible. If you didn’t ask why they hadn’t shifted them when the builders were sorting out the outside. Which I did.

‘We’d better check out the builders: one of them must have been involved. Maybe one found the cache and offered
information about further hiding places – like the staircase from the false chimney.’ He seemed to think that had ended the conversation.

It hadn’t. ‘But what about “my” body – the one on the bed at Crabton Manor?’

‘According to the folk at the hotel, one man got stroppy about the conditions he was supposed to work in. So he was taken to work somewhere else: Crabton Manor. They assumed he’d got a nice soft billet there.’

‘Soft, yes. On top of that duvet.’

‘And now I’m afraid we’ve got to look at another of “your” bodies, Caffy.’ He laid a hand on my wrist. ‘Are you sure you’re up to this?’

Death hadn’t been kind to the cruelly handsome man that had been Clive Granville. Which was fair, I suppose, given how kind he’d been to me.

‘Is it Clive Granville?’ Gates pressed.

I couldn’t reply. Swallowing, I asked, ‘Can you leave me alone with him for a minute? I want to say goodbye.’

‘Goodbye to that bastard?’

I nodded.

He backed away.

I looked at the lips pulled back in one last grimace, the clenched fists. Standing in the sightline of those now blind eyes, I pulled up my T-shirt. ‘You did that to me, you bastard. You made me live with this forever. But at least I’m alive. Get that? And now you can’t touch me. Not here on the outside or here on the inside. Ever, ever again.’

What I needed after all that emotion was a duvet to dive under and a kind hand pressing a mug of creamy drinking chocolate into mine. What I got was a policeman in a dead faint.

Gates. Yes, Gates. Apparently he’d wanted to keep an eye on me – was afraid I might launch an attack on Granville’s corpse, maybe. Anyway, there he was, his face as grey as his eyes, spark out on the tiled floor. Yelling for help, I loosened his tie and raised his feet. Yes, he was coming round nicely before the morgue first aider arrived. I’d have thought they were used to fainters: perhaps they were, but not Chief Superintendent fainters.

‘Your stomach,’ Gates whispered. ‘He did that to your stomach?’

‘I told you he wasn’t a nice guy,’ I said mildly, not wishing to upset the sick.

Time for him to be the strong man again. He struggled on to one elbow. ‘You’ve made a claim to the Criminal Injuries Compensation Authority?’ Obviously it was easier for him to deal with facts than emotions.

I shook my head, holding out my hand for his car keys. I’d heard of it, of course, I explained as I backed out, but had never wanted to risk asking for money in case some bright civil servant took it into his head to call Granville as a witness.

‘No, it doesn’t work that way,’ Gates explained.

After the van, his Rover was a dream. We positively bowled along to the police station.

‘Talk to your friend Jan. She’ll be able to tell you all about it. You’ll probably have to be seen by a shrink and a plastic surgeon and they’ll ask for your notes from the hospital where you were treated. After that, it’s a simple matter of telling three old guys about your pain and suffering and holding out your hand for several thousand quid.’

I didn’t like the idea of a shrink, and had no intention of enduring plastic surgery, but I didn’t argue. People like me can’t turn their noses up at the sort of payout he was talking about. Yes, I’d talk to Jan.

His phone rang. I concentrated on my driving, of course, but strained to hear all the same. Van der Poele. They were discussing van der Poele!

‘So he’ll be fit to stand trial? Excellent. I want him transferred to a different hospital as soon as he’s fit to travel. An armed guard at all times. No, two officers.’

I hummed a little tune; Gates took the hint.

‘Yes, he’s still alive. It’d take more than a bullet to finish him off, I’m afraid.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if he’d died? It’d save us tax payers an awful lot of money – his trial, and then providing him with board and lodging.’ Whatever had happened to the open-minded, justice-seeking Caffy?

‘Possibly. But it’d mean the officer who shot him would have to be investigated, which can be very unpleasant –’

‘Even if the bugger was taking pot shots at him?’

‘Oh, yes. I know your experience of the service hasn’t been ideal, but I can promise you that most of us are dedicated to seeing justice done – and if an officer shoots anyone, even in self-defence, there has to be a full investigation.’

‘And the poor guy would have a death on his conscience for the rest of his life,’ I mused. ‘OK. A trial, then. But what will you charge him with? Apart from money-laundering?’

‘Murder. Involvement in people trafficking. Drugs. All the things we spoke about earlier. A lot more maybe when Moffatt and Marsh hear he’s off the streets and it’s safer for them to turn Queen’s Evidence than not. We could throw in trespass and anything else we find. Corrupting police officers, for instance – we’ve found a young constable out here in Moffatt’s pocket and thus his.’

‘Would that be one with white eyelashes? He was really nasty when I wanted to wash Arthur the Postie’s blood off my hands. Or was it Simon something or other? He was out guarding Fullers.’

‘Yes, the one who “arrested” Dawes.’

I sighed. ‘Apart from White Lashes there was a nice black sergeant in Streatham. Taylor. I do hope he was just a dupe.’

‘We’ll find out.’ He made a note. ‘You’re right, of course: the taxpayer will have to look after van der Poele – for the rest of his natural life, I’d say.’

I drove on in silence. I might have scars but I had my life and I had my freedom. And maybe, yes, maybe I’d have a bit of compensation to buy a car. Now that would make things easier for the Pots. Obviously Paula’s insurance would come up with a new van, but another set of wheels would mean less trouble for everyone. Maybe she should ask that brother of hers. He might do a family discount. Me, with my own car!

‘…when this is all over,’ Gates was saying.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I said, I was wondering if you might join me for dinner one evening when this is all over,’ he said in a rush.

Why not? He’d given me my first frisson since Taz. But then, there was still the small business of Taz to clear up once and for all.

‘I’m a bit messed up at the moment,’ I said. And I wasn’t just referring to my hair and clothes. ‘But tell you what, ask me again when it is all over. I shall know what to say then.’ I parked neatly and handed him the keys.

‘Thanks. I will.’ He leant across and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

Why the hell hadn’t I said, Sweep me off my feet tonight and I’m yours? Because I still hankered after that kind hand passing me drinking chocolate, I suppose. And I’d no idea what duvet I’d sleep under or where. The obvious place to head was back to Fullers and those twin caravans.

The site was still seething with the police, some of them armed. But when I was delivered there in a police-car, courtesy Gates, now safely back at his desk, I was welcomed politely and handed an envelope. It was already dusk, so someone obligingly passed me a torch, not that I needed one for Jan’s huge scrawl. Mine was the right hand van, she said. She and Todd had nipped out for a meal and might be back late, but I was to make myself at home.

Odd. I couldn’t imagine them not including me in their meal. They’d know I’d want a bit of looking after. I felt quite let down.

And then extremely guilty. The key the officer handed me opened the door to the nicest pad I’d ever had. All this was
mine! Well, mine until I had to hand it back. In the meantime, there were all the little features that had endeared their first caravan to me. And they’d had it kitted out, too – two of everything. There was a picnic hamper on the kitchen surface, champagne and wine in the fridge. In the bedroom area hung all the clothes someone had retrieved from the hotel. My bedroll from the eyrie was neatly stowed too. The bed was made up, with fresh towels nestling on it.
Dubliners
and
Evelina
lay on the bedside table.

Back in the living room were a TV, a sound system and a whole row of the books I’d given to Jan for safekeeping what seemed like weeks ago.

And the buggers weren’t here to thank! Perhaps they were right. They knew I’d have a damned good howl, and they’d prefer to hug me when I’d calmed down.

But no. Even as I had my first sniff, there was a knock at the door. I bounded over to open it, holding out my arms to – to Taz?

‘What are you doing here?’ I asked stupidly.

He shifted from one foot to another, looking as embarrassed as any man might carrying a bouquet as big as a baby.

No point in waiting for an answer, then. ‘Come on in.’

So in this fairy grotto now stood a handsome prince. Pity Cinderella hadn’t had time to transform herself from a hot, sweaty, scruffy lump desperately in need of not just a new hairdo but also new hair. Still, I’d been attractive enough for Gates to kiss.

Jan – or was it Todd – had even provided a vase for the flowers. They’d set this all up, hadn’t they? Popping out for supper, indeed. Making sure the coast was clear and that we
both knew it. All we had to do to oblige them was fall into a passionate clinch and become an item.

If only we could.

‘Look,’ I began, ‘you couldn’t go and have a natter with your police mates, could you? Just for five minutes? Just till I’ve sluiced off the day’s dust.’ Then, trying to sound less practical and sensible, I added, winsomely, seductively, ‘If there were a bath we could share it, but –’

He didn’t like winsome and seductive, that was for sure. He bolted, almost falling over himself in his efforts to escape. So much for the filmy negligee I found tucked under one of the pillows. I showered in next to no time and slipped into the nice skirt and top I’d bought for my London visit. And tried to tame my hair. And applied discreet make-up and a dab of a perfume sample Meg had once passed on. And unpacked the hamper and laid the table and wondered where the hell he’d got to.

I could hardly go looking for him, could I? Shrugging, I sat on the bed and started on
Dubliners: After the Race
. I’d just got to the bit where the naïve young man thinks he’s living the high life just because two men are dancing together when there was another tap at the door. Damn.

‘This is like the one that got blown up, isn’t it?’ he said, stepping inside.

‘Yes, it’s very kind of them to get me my own place. I don’t know how I shall ever repay them. Which reminds me, you won’t have to pay for my hotel, will you?’

‘I shall be reimbursed, don’t worry.’

And that was about as romantic as it got. We broached the champagne, largely because I thought I deserved it, to
celebrate a satisfactory conclusion to the case. It went straight to my head. So we had to have some of the picnic. And more booze.

Romance? All I wanted to do was sleep. This was fine, because although booze is supposed to provoke the desire (OK, and take away the performance) the only desire it provoked in Taz was to yawn – and not the sort of yawn shy young men give when they want to be invited into a bed.

Retiring to the bedroom, I emerged not in the negligee but with the bedroll. ‘The sofa turns into a bed,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you see to it while I tidy away here?’ I couldn’t bear to leave the pretty place slovenly with unwashed plates.

He did as he was told.

‘I’m sorry, Caffy,’ he said, spreading his hands helplessly. ‘I really like you. You’re a great girl. But I can’t – I can’t face …’

It was the scars, was it? Maybe I should think about that plastic surgeon.

‘I can’t face having sex,’ he said with a rush, ‘with someone who’s made love with so many other men.’

I looked at him blankly. ‘You don’t understand, do you? Lots of men have had sex with me. I don’t deny that. That’s sex. But – can’t you see? – sex isn’t love. Taz, I’ve never made love to anyone, I promise you.’

When I woke up the following morning, he’d gone.