Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  From Scrub Lane came the faint throb of Reggae, the muffled slamming of car doors, and the more he concentrated, the more he realised he wasn't alone.

  A soft, buffeting sound came from the brook where the tar-like water belched and gurgled as if something was disturbing its sluggish progress.

  "Who's there?" Fraser pulled out his Glock and torch. But, as he trained the beam on to the murky stretch of water, it seemed that a piece of tree trunk was nudging along. However, as the thing drew closer, he realised this was no tree, but the rotted remains of a human arm attached to an equally lifeless corpse.

  41

  The Fawn was snoring away as Louis let himself in and crept upstairs to his bedroom. Fortunately the nearest street lamp had been smashed a while back, so the thickening fog hid his return.

  Meeting that knob-head pig in the Mall had deflected him from getting a burger and chips from the 24-hour snack bar on the first floor, and the chance to catch up with owner Fergal Murphy's latest news.

  Each syllable from that man's lips reinforced the one, true dictum ‘Knowledge is Power.’ The fifty-three year-old Londonderry exile seemed to trust this keen, young ‘Constable Frobisher’ and confessed to feeling more secure whenever he was around.

  “You lot heard of Diddler Molloy?” He’d said only last week.

  Louis' ears had pricked up at that do-gooder's name.

  "Diddler?"

  A nod. “If I tell you, make sure those fuckin’ Monks from the Old Soldier get off my back.”

  *

  Louis recalled Murphy’s alarming account of the area’s latest pervert as he stepped out of his still-damp uniform and bundled it into a Tesco Bag for Life, with fresh ideas already forming in his mind.

  No good being sentimental, he told himself, tying the bag's handles into a tight knot. He'd almost blown things tonight, being so forthcoming. Anyhow, there'd soon be the Army Cadets, then the real business in Vienna. But first things first.

  *

  Wednesday and Saturday lay too close ahead, so there was no time for rest - just a half-hour fix of Dekker's latest Der Held speech for the New Year, another urgent plea for a fake passport and matching ID, then a swig of The Fawn's gin from the kitchen cupboard before setting off again. This time to Frond Crescent via the main road, giving the Mall a wide berth.

  The Fawn’s next shift wasn't until 10 a.m. Time to get back and remind her that he was on Home Study Leave. Weymouth Road Comp's fortnight off for Sixth Formers, with a tutorial at 9 a.m. on Friday morning. He'd also planned to locate Darshan Patel via an Electoral Roll CD nicked from Briar Bank's crap library. For that, and his second trip, he'd need online train times and detailed maps. Another reason not to waste time.

  *

  "Louis? That you?" Came from her bedroom. "What exactly are you doing?"

  Any minute now and she'd be popping her fat head around the door.

  "Going for a run!" He yelled from the bottom of the stairs. And before she could stop him, he'd slammed the front door behind him. Next, he unlocked both his bike wheels and slung the bulky Tesco bag over its handlebars. He glanced up at her bedroom window to see her thin curtains lit from behind, suddenly slapped together.

  *

  Having returned home to a curling cheese sandwich and not much else, Louis switched on his computer and swore.

  There were 317 Ahmed Patels recorded in Birmingham, plus 263 Darshan Patels. He’d soon used up the ten free Electoral Roll searches, so had to then pay with The Fawn's new Visa Connect debit card. He'd kept its details safe in his wallet and the same PIN safe in his mind. Should she query this extra loss from her account, he'd say he was finding old friends, as he'd never been so lonely in his whole life.

  By the time she’d left for work, ‘A1 Sandwiches’ had thwacked his brain. Of course! That outfit wouldn't be hard to find, he reasoned and, sure enough, after a virtual tour of twelve Birmingham Industrial estates, Mr A Patel's low, white building between a hosepipe manufacturer and a refrigeration company, came up on screen. Only a twenty minute walk from New Street Station. Number 18A, Zintec Enterprise Zone. Plus all contact info.

  He felt a buzz down below as he eased the printout from the printer, and spun round in his swivel chair, laughing. The rest would be easy. Besides, he had no choice. It was dog eat dog. Or more accurately, dog eat turd.

  His violin case stood propped against the wall, and he leant forwards to pick it up. Having unzipped its shapely contours, he held the instrument under his chin, feeling a moment of celebration. After some expert tuning, he launched into Brahm's Opus 78, and when the first movement's final bars ended, he returned the treasured Guenari to its case, wrapping it in two bin liners. Next, to hide it from possible predators, he stood on a chair on the landing and pushed open the trap door to the tiny attic.

  He then packed his Nike sports bag with a spare set of clothes and a bottle of instant tanning lotion. With more stability at home he'd be on top of it all. As it was, each waking moment brought the worry that his innocent persona might suddenly collapse like a duff rubber. Just a whisper from Strato or The Maggot wherever he was. Or, the plods, egged on by that rough-skirt Martin, would be all it took. Never mind that knife that had showed up in The Loop…

  As he shoved the Nike bag under his bed in readiness for his next plan, he wished he'd still got the other sharp, clean blade and the perfectly-shaped handle and sheath as if God himself had designed it all. Who the fuck had bought it at the tip? He'd gone there first thing on that Sunday morning after the soirée. What more could he have done? Still, he mused as more of Der Held's fact-sheets slipped from his printer, he'd had his revenge on the sly Maggot-phone-wrecker alright. His conscience quite clear about that.

  He then waited for any sign that his new identity was on the way, but in vain. God obviously not reading the script, he thought, letting his troubled gaze settle on the layout of Little Bidding village, and more particularly, on The Larches. Maybe he had to pray harder. Hassle Fritz Dekker some more. Either way, as he studied access to that rural target, a righteous anger swelled in his chest, colouring his cheeks, blurring his vision. An anger so physically hurting that Saturday, January 18th seemed like a million years away.

  42

  Tuesday 14th January.

  Fraser was dropped back at the Travel Lodge by a silent Sgt. Crooker as the fog became a drizzly dawn. Despite his grim find in Black Dog Brook, he was still persona non grata as far as Briar Bank were concerned. They’d not been good enough for him then, so now it was his turn to be humiliated. Pathetic, he thought, managing a wave of thanks before the chequered Mondeo scorched away from the kerb.

  "Remember Molloy," was all he'd said to the sergeant, who’d openly laughed in his face.

  *

  Having cleaned up his black leather jacket, Fraser pondered on the previous hours' events - how police activity around the brook had attracted half of Scrub End to its banks, but not Rita. How the lights of the ambulance which had squeezed its way between the trees had picked out the onlookers' nightclothes, their frightened faces. How the recently elevated Jarvis as SOCO had cold-shouldered him, saying he was too busy to deal with outside interference. Therefore, the ‘only window of opportunity’ to meet up would be at 11a.m. prompt.

  *

  Fraser felt like death warmed up, yet logged in his BlackBerry what had happened since his arrival, realising there’d be time for one more vital sortie.

  Another shiver. A fresh shirt and clean pair of black jeans. He was about to turn on his room’s TV to check media coverage had indeed been blocked, when there came a knock at the door.

  Rita, in a mac over her work suit. Lack of sleep written all over her face.

  "Where are the kids?" he asked her, as it w
as way too early for school.

  "In the car of course. I wasn't going to leave them at home, was I?" Her eyes narrowed. “Not with Toby Lake from Sunnyview found in the brook. Poor boy went missing just after..."

  She paused, unable to say Jez’s name, then said, "I’m wondering if Pete Brown wasn’t one of his mates as well.”

  Fraser glanced down at his still sockless feet. His bare toes faintly ridiculous. So he’d not been credited with finding the body, but what else did he expect? "There’s been no formal identification yet,” he said to her instead, “and if it is Toby, he was a serial truant. Probably bunked off to the Big Smoke. That's where most missing kids end up."

  "Mine didn't." Was uttered under her breath. Then came another challenging look. "Mrs Parsons at Sunnyview said he lived for his fishing, and sometimes spent the odd night or two out with his rod. But not three and a half years.'

  Fraser pulled out his go-bag from underneath the bed, then, careful to keep the knife box hidden from view. He found a clean pair of socks and put them on.

  "I know you think Molloy's behind everything," Rita continued, “but surely he wouldn't risk his new life - and Joe's, don't forget."

  "I met some freak dressed up as a cop last night," Fraser said, when he really wanted to say how wonderful she looked when she was angry. "And guess what? Same build, same height as Molloy…'

  "Eyes?" she interrupted, unimpressed.

  "Brown."

  "Molloy's are blue-grey. And I’ve never seen his pupils dilated."

  “Are you serious?” He’d not noticed that before being kneed.

  “Ask Kayleigh as well. She did the drawing.”

  "He could use contact lenses.”

  “And those strange eyelids?”

  “Make-up. Easy.” He paused. “Jesus, Rita, I'm only trying to keep you lot safe..." He tried to hold her, but she'd backed even further away, almost colliding with a passing linen trolley.

  "If you really want to help us, why not check Sunnyview to find if a Pete Brown hung around there?”

  “Been done. Briar Bank should have told you.”

  “Well, all I can say is I'll never forget how he eyed me as if I was a piece of meat. I'm a woman - I can tell these things, and nothing and nobody will make me think any different. Not even you." Her voice broke up. "Maybe I expected too much after all...”

  With that, she hastened away down the corridor towards the stairs. Fraser stared after her, knowing it was useless to follow.

  *

  Twenty minutes later with Rita's despair recurring in his mind and the knife box now in a Thresher's bag in the Saab's boot, he headed for Ditch Hollow. Another London overspill area sandwiched between Scrub End and Downside, whose only claim to fame was that it boasted the biggest Council tip in the county.

  This facility had doubled in size since his days on the beat, with even a kiosk selling hot drinks, while covered areas sold white goods and furniture, tools and machinery. No wonder Molloy was drawn to it.

  Fraser kept a lookout for the man's Proton as he joined other cars and vans with trailers full of garden debris and other junk. He parked alongside a line of huge, rusted skips, and got out near an elderly man in yellow oilskins and baseball cap sweeping muck into a gully.

  “Been here long?” Fraser asked him.

  “Fifteen years now. Was humpin’ and sortin’ till me knees said no."

  "Sorting what, exactly?"

  "Why d'you need to know that, eh?" The sweeper resumed his slow, measured movements.

  Fraser extracted his ID and held it under the man's nose.

  "The Met, eh?" the old boy sniffed. "Wish I was impressed."

  Fraser persevered.

  "I need your help, Mr?'

  "Grenville. Albert."

  "It's about an important item which apparently turned up here some three and a half years ago. It's vital we trace its whereabouts."

  "What item?"

  Fraser stayed focussed as a heavily tattooed man began hurling bags of lawn mowings into the next skip.

  "A smallish box made out of plywood with a sliding lid and Walton-on-Sea burnt into it."

  "’Ad a pencil case like that, once,” said the sweeper. “And look where studyin’ got me?" Nevertheless, Albert Grenville was thinking hard.

  "It contained a knife or maybe two, in a leather sheath. Hardly used." Fraser added to encourage him.

  "Summer, 2010," obliged the other. "Yeah, I remember 'cos at last they put sorting under cover…”

  Fraser let him ramble on, aware of more traffic coming through the gates. Then those worn eyes widened. "Now you mention it, there was a little box and a knife. Most likely on a Saturday when house clearances come in. Early July, that’s when."

  “Just one knife?”

  A nod.

  Fraser tried to conceal his excitement. "Who brought it in?"

  A shrug.

  "Did anyone show serious interest? Even tried stealing it?"

  "We do get theft," Grenville stopped to wipe his nose with a grubby handkerchief. "But there was summat a bit odd..."

  "Go on, please." Fraser feared the man might be distracted by yet more trash being dumped nearby.

  "A fuzzy. In uniform..."

  "Fuzzy?"

  "Yeah. He turned up first thing on the Sunday, asking if we'd sold the thing. And we ‘ad.”

  "How old was he?"

  Another shrug.

  "Everyone's young next to me, but he seemed too young, if you get my meaning. And got nasty when ‘e knew the box and knife had already gone."

  "What colour eyes?"

  “Not sure.”

  “Any number on that uniform? Does 8 ring a bell?”

  "Sorry, mate. Me memory’s not what it was.”

  "Thanks Mr Grenville. You've been a great help." As Fraser then turned away, he felt a tap on his shoulder and saw the old man's palm held out. He duly handed over a fiver.

  "Cheers,” grinned the old boy, kissing it.

  While driving away from the rubbish strewn near the tip’s entrance, Fraser realised that the uniformed cop could well have been Molloy getting off on wearing such a uniform. But who’d taken the knife box to the tip in the first place? And more to the point, why?

  43

  Before meeting DC Derek Jarvis, Fraser snatched half an hour at Tipton's photographers in Broad Street, not far from Rita’s workplace. The young employee there searched through customer records on his computer and revealed that prints and enlargements from a Mr Eric Molloy of 6, Frond Crescent, Scrub End, had indeed been developed there.

  "November 8th 2011 is the last entry. Before that, we have a big gap." The assistant fetched a file from under the counter to flick through, and Fraser was relieved he was his only customer. "June 30th 2010 it was. A 400 ASA film for outdoors, used with a Canon EOS 5000. Lens type 35 to 105 millimetres."

  “Subject matter?" pressed Fraser.

  The assistant's thumb stopped halfway down the screen. “Trees, that’s all. We don't normally add that sort of detail..."

  "May I take a look?"

  Their eyes met as the file was turned towards him.

  "We are obliged to report any pornographic material, sir. If that's what you mean."

  “I do know.”

  “Tricky, mind.”

  “I can imagine.”

  *

  First impressions at Briar Bank police Station told Fraser that everything had changed since he'd left. The desk personnel, who were polite but nothing more, even the decor and the rows of hot and cold drinks machines in the empty public waiting area, where he'd first met Rita. A shirt-sleeved WPC was dismantling the synthetic Christmas tree and brusquely declined his offer of help. This only reinforced his sense of displacement with what had been his work base for eight long years. OK, he'd not w
anted to be part of the under-performing CID team there, to try and change things. So the reason he'd left, according to WPC Jane Truelove following their split, was to rub their noses in it.

  She'd been right of course. He'd never disguised his contempt for their parochial attitudes, where ‘imagination’ and ‘instinct’ were unheard-of words. Where DS Deakins with his softly-softly approach had seen at least four serious perps scarper off the patch and allowed Wheeler and Norris into Scrub End. But Truelove's acid tone had been laid on extra thick for maximum effect, and here he was, putting himself up for the noose again.

  At the switchboard, he faced a pretty blonde at the switchboard whose vacant expression epitomised his criticisms of the place. She didn't even seem curious about his Thresher's bag, or indeed why he was even there.

  "I’m DI Fraser, NSY,” he helped her out. “And I’m due to see Detective Constable Jarvis at eleven.”

  He tensed while she relayed his message then replaced the receiver, still giving nothing away.

  "He'll be with you in five minutes," she said without looking up.

  Ah, the waiting game. The war of nerves, except, Fraser knew that the man who exemplified the Peter Principle could if he chose, not even give him the time of day and even though it had been arranged, there'd be nothing he could do about it.

  "Hey, Tim. Good to see you." Jarvis emerged from the silent lift, a big hand outstretched. Quite a different bunny from Black Dog Brook.

  "Ditto."

  He was fatter, his greying hair shorn close to his head. The swagger of promotion obvious as he led the way back to his office where Jane Truelove, sporting a highlight-streaked bob, was delivering two Styrofoam cups of coffee on a tray already littered with used milk cartons and the like.

  They always did things in style, Fraser thought, giving her a smile which she pointedly ignored, before closing the adjoining door to what had once been the Incident Room. As quiet as ever. He kept his jacket on, just in case.