Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  "Odd question, that. No. Like I said, he went off the boil. Didn’t do much at all…”

  "And at Sunday school next summer, did he ever give you a film to develop, or mention Pete Brown, a friend of his? You know how it is when kids get chatting. Some never stop…"

  Molloy imperceptibly froze. Switched his gaze to Fraser.

  "You're not the fur by any chance, are you?"

  Fraser's laugh surprised even himself, making the other man's mouth curl into a mean smile.

  "Do me a favour. I've a degree in Molecular Biology and an MBA from Kings."

  "Point taken."

  Too many minutes had slipped by. Fraser had to see the camera and the makeshift darkroom for himself. To give the bastard enough rope to start hanging himself, all too aware that none of this was tying up with the ‘Pete Brown’ who’d allegedly made Jez Martin take those degrading shots with his own Canon. Unless this chameleon had managed to alter his voice and make himself resemble an adolescent. Was it possible? He was slight enough, the same height and eye colour as Rita had described. His skin relatively unlined. Not such a crazy idea after all.

  But Dave Perelman? Mid-forties, with a nascent paunch, receding hair and no form? Forget it. And who was to say this creep hadn’t got hold of one of Jez’s knives?

  His heartbeat quickened. With Molloy, he could be three steps away from a double killer. After all, in six cases out of ten, child abductors move on to more ambitious projects whether they've been slammed up or not. Logical progression, professional development, whatever. And for all he knew, this very character could already be working on his Ph.D.

  Fraser heard a phone ringing. Moments later, Pat Molloy stuck her head round the door.

  "’Scuse me," she dead-eyed him. "Eric, it's the Reverend. About tomorrow."

  Molloy made his apologies, put down the footstool and followed his wife to the kitchen. Fraser’s search of drawers, cigar boxes, music stools, then began in earnest. To find something to make Jarvis and his crew ditch their absent and unlikeliest suspect on this planet. To that end, Briar Bank CID was slotted in his schedule for tomorrow. Early as possible.

  The stove blazed like a furnace, but still Fraser searched, keeping an eye on the door and kitchen window. Suddenly, a ring-marked occasional table caught his eye. Wedged by an ancient Windsor chair into the outhouse’s corner, two of its drawers lay tucked beneath its top. One slightly ajar…

  He pulled it open. Caught his breath. Then, having checked neither Molloy was visible, slipped on his always handy latex gloves to extract the neat, plywood box and its sliding lid showing the name WALTON-ON-SEA. Inside, lay a leather-sheathed knife, in good condition. He hoped the subsequent bump made in his jacket wouldn't show.

  *

  "Sorry to keep you," Molloy had noiselessly re-appeared. Our vicar's always got another bright idea to pull in the punters."

  "All for a good cause though," said Fraser, then added, "you don’t happen to have any Ancient and Modern hymn books anywhere? I used to be a choir boy. Loved the smell of their old pages."

  "No patience for book re-binding." He then switched off the heater and turned towards the door. "Now then, my Canon..."

  Why not the dark room?

  "Be interesting to compare notes. Mine’s around the same age."

  "I bought him that," Pat Molloy announced as they re-crossed the kitchen. "To keep him happy, after..."

  Her husband shot her a warning glance which turned his face as hard as an axe blade. The last thing Jez and Wheeler had seen?

  "She means after I’d fallen off a ladder," Molloy said rather too quickly. “But it did the trick didn't it, pet?"

  Fraser waited by the front door, and in less than a minute, Molloy had placed the black Canon EOS into his open hand where it instantly chilled his skin. He also noticed a flash attachment.

  "Thanks," he said, returning it, while memorising the model number 5000 underneath. "No built-in obsolescence there."

  Molloy chuckled, holding the door open. Then without warning, positioned the camera lens level with Fraser's face. Before he could protest, the man's finger had pressed the button. The flash momentarily blinding, leaving Fraser with nothing to hold on to. Molloy, with surprising strength, pushed him through the doorway into the murky darkness. The knife box fell with him, clattering on to the concrete path. Fraser snatched it up. Kept it hidden.

  "Rita Martin's step-brother or not, if you snoop round here again, you’ll regret it!" Molloy shouted after him. "So be warned."

  Fraser pulled himself together and, as he regained his bearings in the drifting fog, he knew beyond all reasonable doubt that the man who’d just slammed his front door behind him and was probably now creeping back into the dubious recesses of his secretive home, was the one he wanted.

  39

  Rather than risk leaving his prize in his car, Frazer secreted it just inside the gate and, illumined by kitchen window, pulled some long grass over its lid.

  Tempting cooking smells met his nose as he approached Rita's flat. He speeded up, both livid and starving, thinking he could actually eat Molloy instead, but on second thoughts, he wasn't that starving.

  "Hi." Rita greeted him, picking up on his tension. "You OK?'

  "Yes and no."

  "Tell me."

  She was ironing, and a pile of unpressed clothes lay in on the kitchen table. Meanwhile, that appetising smell had intensified. He removed his jacket and hung it up behind the door. She stopped to look at him, iron in mid-air.

  "I'm waiting," she said."

  He gave a thumbs down.

  "Like that was it?" she plonked the iron in its holder, making him jump. "Look, I've a right to know. Two of my kids have been involved with those Molloys..." Then her eyes widened, the ironing forgotten. "Oh Jesus, you don't think... Jez...?"

  He showed her the flier, but for now, that knife and its box was private.

  “Well, they certainly didn't like me, nor Malcolm Wheeler, that's for sure. They could have bumped him off, but who knows?”

  “Nice message, not.” She returned to her task.

  “Look, just avoid them, and make sure Freddie doesn't go there again."

  "It doesn't add up, though, does it? Joe's such a sweet kid, and Freddie said they'd had a great time making dough aeroplanes."

  "People are clever. Trust me.”

  Fraser heard the television go silent and children's voices draw nearer.

  "Is he stayin'?" asked Kayleigh who’d come to rummage for cutlery in the drawer. Rita caught his eye.

  That decided him.

  "Thanks everyone," he smiled. “I'm ravishing."

  *

  Throughout the meal both kids continued to transfix him, It seemed that losing an older brother had made them attentive to each other, and above all, they seemed appreciative of what they had, which, materially, compared to his boss Des Parrott's brood in Berkhamsted, was not a lot. But they'd got Rita, and in that moment, his resolve to stitch up Molloy became almost unbearable. He wanted to smash his way back into Furtive Hole and drag the weirdo kicking and screaming all the way to 11, Wort Passage, to see what he'd done.

  Fraser suddenly looked at her. Their eyes met, and so intense was the connection, that Rita’s fork missed her mouth.

  When the kids had finished their ice cream, Kayleigh offered to wash up and clear away, but Rita suggested that, as Coronation Street was starting, they might like to watch it. Instead. After both children had gone, Fraser came and sat next to her, resting his hand on hers.

  "A question that's been niggling me," he began gently. "Did Jez ever take his k
nife set to school the term Miss Landerman wasn't there?"

  Rita thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  "He could have, but once she'd gone, some supply teacher came in for a term, and at the end, the Head himself did the Art and Crafts’ reports." She glanced at him. “Why?”

  "No reason." He cupped his hand under her chin and drew her face close to his. Then, when his ears told him both kids were safely in the lounge, he kissed her on the mouth.

  "Where are you staying tonight?" she asked afterwards, still blushing.

  "Travel Lodge in Briar Bank. And tomorrow I'm sorting Jarvis and those other idiots out. They won't like it, but tough." He got up and, having exchanged mobile numbers with her, kissed her again. "Then I'll treat you all to a takeaway."

  But how could she tell him that no-one delivered to Scrub End any more? And did it matter? No. What did, was her falling in love like some daft teenager, nevertheless with just one doubt refusing to budge. So far, Detective Inspector Tim Fraser seemed to be angling away from what she knew to be the truth. Pete Brown. Two words, no more, and as the senior detective let himself out into the night, Rita also had to ask herself when he'd start believing her.

  40

  Tuesday 14th January.

  Fraser hadn’t banked on sleep. Not only did Eric Molloy's humiliation still rankle, but also Rita's kiss been the best six seconds of his life The way forward now seemed unclear. If that weirdo saw him or a uniform again, he'd either do a bunk or make life tricky for her. Yet as priority, that Frond Crescent property should be checked over, and Social Services visit young Joe.

  He'd bought himself a bottle of Glenfiddich and a long-life battery plus spare for his torch. While his travel clock glowed the passing hours, the bottle's contents had dropped below the label bringing neither peace of mind nor Morpheus to his pillow.

  At 4 a.m. he rolled off the double bed's sweaty under-sheet and headed for the shower. While its flow gained momentum, he detected what could only be the sounds of energetic lovemaking coming from the next room. He again thought of Rita and found himself wondering what she wore in bed. When he could be there too.

  *

  With five hours to go before his visit to Briar Bank’s HQ. Fraser drummed his fingers on the room’s windowsill. Yes, he had a functioning torch, but his Saab would be conspicuous wherever it was parked.

  No choice but to hoof it.

  He hid the plywood knife box amongst his underwear in the go-bag and shoved it beneath the bed. The night receptionist signed him out for two hours, making sure he had a main door key. "Will you be wanting breakfast, sir?" she asked finally. "We do a tasty black pudding."

  He shook his head. Black and bloody already too heavy on his mind.

  *

  No dawn, or even a hint of one to come. Just a cold, grey fug which seemed to find every bone in his body. Fraser shivered as he crossed North Barton Road studded by the dim lights of shop windows and their wakeful flats above. For an anxious moment he prayed he wouldn't be stopped by one of the Briar Bank beat. It wouldn't do to be recognised just now, especially with whisky still on his breath.

  He filled his lungs before reaching Happy Chicks’ toxic emissions and, with a confident stride to deter muggers, soon reached Graves Way.

  The Shopping Mall was now 24 hour opening, and its neon-lit Father Christmas complete with reindeer, still slid repetitively backwards and forwards along the roof of its entrance, even though Twelfth Night had been over a week ago.

  He headed for the Mall's lavatorial interior, where every scuff mark, every felt-tipped FOREIGNERS OUT was made raw by the fluorescent lighting. He scanned the Gents on the right. An automatic response since his first assignment in Soho as a detective had been a gay killing in just such a place. But he wouldn’t be casing this particular row of cubicles - that was Security’s job. Then he realised he'd not seen one uniform since those automatic doors had admitted him.

  The escalator was deserted save for litter and empty cans clattering eerily against its metal buffer at the top of the ride. Despite the Glock, his nerves were on edge. Anything could happen here, and in the past, already had.

  Suddenly, he heard footsteps behind him.

  He made for the shuttered National Lottery kiosk and waited for whoever it was to pass. But instead, those same footsteps ceased, replaced by an intake of breath.

  Fraser spun round, then grinned his relief.

  "Name, sir?" the youthful constable enquired, brown eyes beneath his helmet roaming up and down his body. "I have to ask, as we've had no end of problems here of late. Specially round the cash dispensers."

  "Tim Fraser. Detective Inspector. Metropolitan Police. And you?"

  His acquaintance, unfazed by such a senior cop, duly produced an ID complete with blurred photograph, dated 14th August 2013. "Constable Frobisher. Briar Bank. Number 8. Busman's holiday, is it, sir?" he added.

  Fraser's reply was interrupted by a woman wearing only a nightdress, erratically pushing her laden trolley towards the car park.

  "Just some unfinished business,” said Fraser. “Been bothering me a while now."

  An overhead strip light began to flicker and he glanced up, disinclined to chat any more. Suddenly weary. “You've not seen me, OK? Life has to have a few surprises."

  The other chuckled conspiratorially, then checked his watch. Not standard issue, Fraser noticed. But these days the Force wasn't as picky.

  "Best be going," the constable readjusted his helmet then patted his belt.

  "No radio?" quizzed Fraser. "In here of all places? Who's kitted you out then?" He also noticed the hems of this sparrow-cop's trousers had been let down, leaving tell-tale creases on show. He was about to peer more closely when he suddenly glimpsed a leg being raised; felt a knee connect with his stomach. He lurched backwards against the wall, and before he could regain his wind and give chase, the long-legged figure had sprinted away through the automatic doors into the fog outside.

  "Jesus Christ…"

  His gut ached as Rita's dinner began to defy gravity and, once he'd groped his way back along the wall to the Gents, he charged through the nearest door to be violently sick in a bowl, where a used condom floated on the water like the milky carapace of some strange, aquatic creature.

  *

  Having withheld his BlackBerry’s number, he punched in the one for Briar Bank Police Station. "Is a Constable Frobisher one of yours? Number 8?" He managed to ask.

  "Who's calling?" asked a Duty Sergeant whose name he didn't recognise.

  "DI Fraser. NSY." No option but to come clean. He felt sick again.

  "Kieran Frobisher joined us last August. Why?"

  "Just out of nappies?"

  The sergeant stalled. "What's he done?"

  "Was he on duty at the Mall around 5 a.m.? Tall, light brown hair, as far as I could tell. Brown eyes?"

  "Frobisher's five nine, max. Black hair, blue eyes. Anyhow, security’s down to Secray now."

  "Better get someone round here. Check out the Main Way car park asap.

  You've an impersonator on your hands. He's trouble. I could tell. Possibly armed."

  "You OK, sir?"

  “Ask my gut."

  Fraser pressed END.

  Having cleaned himself up and, with his mouth tasting marginally sweeter, he set off again the way he'd intended, towards the far exit and the delights of Black Dog Brook.

  *

  He’d been a fool to give out his ID to that weirdo, like a joint at a party, and the guy’s slightly-hooded eyes which had soon hardened to something pretty nasty, were all Fraser saw in his mind as he followed Scrub End’s pinpricks of light. Its sleepless incumbents vig
ilant against the night.

  He had to see where Rita's boy and his dog had spent their last moments and where Malcolm Wheeler perished after seven stab wounds to the chest. In other words, where Eric Molloy had done his worst, and the more he thought of that duplicitous shit and his hostile wife, the more he was convinced that this place was made for him. An Arthur Rackham illustration come to life, or death for that matter, in even bleaker tones. Then another realisation crept into his mind. That fake constable's eyes. Could they have been Molloy's under coloured lenses? And had that very same shmuck attacked him for the second time that day?

  Fraser kept a look-out for his assailant, and once the car park's tarmac ended, clicked on his torch. He kept to the track past a cluster of broken playground rides, then down on to rougher ground and shadowy trees. In the distance came the wail of a police car circling the Mall.

  Black Dog Brook smelt worse than he remembered it, reaching his still-delicate stomach. He switched off his torch and hid behind one of the chestnut trees near the water, straining to detect the slightest sound.

  That crazy, fake cop could still be nearby...

  He wondered if Rita was as asleep as he was awake and, for a fleeting moment felt an overpowering need to airlift the little family away from this stink of death. But first he had to be here, to fully sense the repository of evil that Black Dog Brook had become. Once a regular beat for Briar Bank on the junker hunt, but no more. Now he knew why.

  By The Loop, with his torch again at the ready, he located the narrow footbridge embedded in sludge and junk at one end, extending into the gloom at the other. His boots slipped on its slimy wood, almost delivering him into the morass below.

  Having steadied himself, he reached the other side, into dense hawthorn bushes’ pricking arms. His instinct said ‘turn right’ but then came the pulling mud where the stench was most concentrated. His boots were sinking. He could barely lift one after the other to walk. He shoved his torch in his pocket and flung himself forwards to grab whatever came to hand. Damp reeds which immediately uprooted in his grasp, before he connected with the lower branch of some tree. He hauled led himself up on to the far bank and sat there panting, as vomit once more crept up his throat.