"Coffee?" Jarvis finally spotted Fraser's bag. "Or something stronger?"
“Coffee’s fine, thanks.” The guy was trying hard alright, after his rudeness last night, but hell, why give him an easy ride? "Rita Martin's been badly let down," he began, helping himself from the tray.
"Meaning?" Jarvis plopped four sugar lumps into his own coffee and parked himself at his desk. The grey morning behind him.
"It's been three and a half years since her son died, and no sniff of a result."
"That why you're here? Think you and the Met can do better?"
Fraser recognised small-town envy.
"Let's just say it matters."
“I see. Personal stuff. Say no more, eh?" The older detective tipped back in his chair and propped up his chin with two pudgy index fingers to witness the reaction.
But Fraser knew better than to react.
"You're after the wrong man with Dave Perelman," he said instead. "Wasting valuable time."
"Let's be frank, Tim. What the hell do you know about it?"
"Enough to say that while you're chasing a Will o' the wisp, there's seriously dodgy pond life living less than two miles away from here, who I believe will strike again, given half the chance."
"Who might that be, then?"
"Eric Molloy, formerly Raymond Norris, 6, Frond Crescent."
Like Sergeant Crooker, Jarvis laughed out loud. "Come on, Tim, he's been clean a long time now. Wheeler was the busy bee."
"And Molloy goes teaching at Briar Bank Primary, straight from the slammer. Good, eh?"
"Nothing to do with me. Anyhow, how did you know?"
Fraser tapped the side of his nose, a gesture Jarvis didn't appreciate at all. Then he remembered Rita’s heartfelt request.
“Could I see that envelope which Mrs Martin left with Jane before Christmas?” he asked. “Not the contents, just the writing."
Jarvis sighed, extricated himself from his chair and lumbered over to the Incident Room. Once the door closed behind him, Fraser scanned his messy desk. Letters from Mount Vernon Institute notes on chats with Jacquie Harper and scraps of this and that not adding up to very much at all. When that door re-opened, Fraser sprang back into his seat.
Inside a labelled, clear plastic wallet, lay what had already been torn open, still faintly damp. The pencilled words on its front all too clear, and exactly as Rita had described. Of even height, slightly italicised, slanting to the right. Quite different to what he'd kept in his pocket from the Molloys.
Damn.
"Satisfied?" Jarvis removed it, as if he’d something up his sleeve, while Jane Truelove looked uncomfortable.
“When will the photos be examined?” Asked Fraser.
“Give us a chance.”
"Any DNA from spit on this envelope?"
"Self-seal, and no prints."
“May I make a photocopy? I’ve a pal who’s a top graphologist.”
Jarvis hesitated, then nodded, watching as Fraser did so, using latex gloves.
Fraser returned the envelope to its file and slotted the passable copy into his jacket pocket, next to the folded Malcolm Wheeler poster. "How about Molloy impersonating your Constable Frobisher?"
"Don’t be bloody daft."
Fraser then put his Thresher’s bag on the desk and, still wearing the gloves, lifted out the plywood box. He slid open the lid and withdrew the sheathed knife. "I found them at Molloy's place. He’d been pestering for it at Ditch Hollow’ s tip while apparently wearing that same cop's uniform as I saw in the Mall. And why would that be?"
This wasn't the first time Fraser’s hand trembled just to hold the items, and for a satisfying moment, Jarvis was lost for words.
"Molloy?" He repeated.
"Correct. Sunday 11th July 2010. He also owns a non-digital Canon EOS 5000 with an in-built flash, and can develop negs in his garage. I'm thinking of the three Kayleigh Martin pictures of course.” Fraser's self-control was finally slipping. "Which he could have planted at 14, Meadow Hill under some guise or other. He also has access to other kids via the Sunday School. Rita Martin confirmed he’s taken photos of them, and Jez. I have to pinch myself sometimes that your resident woolly-Liberal Deakins has allowed all this to go on.”
“Are you saying Molloy also placed those hymn books and their contents in Dave Perelman’s bedroom?”
“He denied having any, but who knows? He hoards and restores enough bloody stuff. Could have found out where Perelman once worked in Swindon. Knocked out some labels… And what if Jez Martin had found out too much about him? You know what kids are like.”
Jarvis sighed. Got up to pace along the window and back. "You want the truth? We've been strung up on this Pete Brown character since July 010. Rita Martin's bee buzzing non-stop in her bonnet. Apparently she saw him again outside St Matthew's church during her driving test last October."
"She did tell me."
Jarvis stared at him.
“Indeed? Well, on our patch there are 2,403 teenagers with light brown hair and brown eyes. 2,097 of five feet six and over. 120 who wear black-framed spectacles, most if not all, mitching after exams. Shall I continue?"
But Fraser, surprised by his memory, wasn't to be distracted.
"Apart from our black and Asian friends and eastern Europeans," he began, "Molloy hated Malcolm Wheeler's guts. I've proof. And who suspects a cop hanging about?" Fraser finished his coffee. It was cold. "I'd be on to every uniform hire outfit in the UK and getting a warrant to search Molloy's house, outhouse and garage.” He then added why.
“That it?” Jarvis said, when he’d finished.
“No. He’s got a kid himself. Joe. No trace of him when I was there.”
Jarvis sat down. Typed something on his pc.
“You never said.”
“Timing is everything. A Social worker should visit.”
Jarvis scratched above his ear while Fraser went on.
"We'd also need a genuine handwriting sample from Molloy which may yet tie up with what was written to Kayleigh Martin on that envelope. All I saw in his house were capital letters. And another thing, the corpse in Black Dog Brook last night was probably his fourth victim."
"Yes boss. Anything you say, boss." Jarvis leant forwards, lowering his voice. "You were out of order being in Scrub End earlier. Not your patch."
"At least I was out there."
"Give us twenty more flatfoots, then. Oh, I forgot, and a researcher as well. Ours is off sick."
"6, Frond Crescent." Was all Fraser said, for the second time that day.
"I don’t give the orders."
"Well, if Briar Bank's currently eight from bottom in the national clear-up league, God knows about the other seven, and please don’t give me the usual festive season excuse."
Jarvis tugged open each of his desk drawers until he retrieved a faxed solicitor’s letter stapled to Molloy's flash photo of Fraser off-guard, and handed it over. "He beat you to it. Gavin Taylor, eh?" His dry smile spoke volumes. Molloy had got hold of some wide-boy lawyer whose message was clear. ‘Lay off my client, Mr Fuzz, or we hang you out to dry.’
"How did he know my job?"
"Written all over your face. Now go and foul your own nest, eh?" Jarvis suddenly lunged forwards to take possession of the knife box, but Fraser was quicker.
Scooped it up and made for the door, leaving the empty Thresher bag on the floor.
“You’re withholding possible evidence!" Jarvis shouted after him.
"Using it, more like."
“Molloy’s not the only one with a Canon EOS 5000.”
“What?”
“Two can play at your game.”
“It’s not a fucking game.”
With that, Fraser reached the lift and, before the older man could
stop him, or alert anyone else, the Londoner was out of the building and heading for his car.
*
Fifteen minutes later, still angry that Jarvis had glimpsed the knife box, and had lobbed that mystery morsel his way, Fraser checked out of the Travel Lodge, posted the photocopied envelope off to his friend Bill Marchant via same-day delivery, and was speeding towards the city centre and Farnham Street.
He double-parked just in front of Best Press long enough to see that Rita's Peugeot was missing and the sign on the door read CLOSED FOR LUNCH.
"Bugger." He tried the sister shop in Bowater Road where a school leaver told him Mrs Martin only popped in to deal with the few customer complaints that arose and usually had a sandwich at the Ram & Tether near the cathedral. He could try her mobile if it was urgent.
When Rita finally answered, he could barely make out her voice above the hubbub. More than anything, he wanted to be there with her, to talk her through his logic and offer his help. Her reply was impossible to hear.
"I'm worried about you and the kids, can't you see?" he shouted. "You have to trust me."
"Why? When you don't believe me."
"Look, you must try and leave Wort Passage as soon as you can. You're not safe there and it's no good waiting for Jarvis and his fellow slugs to pull their fingers out.'
A pause. The crash of falling plates and someone's shrieks.
"I can't talk now," she said.
"When?"
"I don't know."
Then the line went dead.
44
At exactly midday, Fraser's BlackBerry chirruped from inside his jeans’ back pocket. His first thought was Rita, then less welcome possibilities.
"Tim?" Des Parrott sounded reassuringly far away. "How's your dear aunt?"
Fraser grimaced. His boss wasn't stupid.
"Picking up nicely, thanks," he lied, quickly. "She's having more tests tomorrow which should sort her out.”
"Good stuff. Pity they can't do the same for your brain."
Fraser steeled himself for the rest.
"What d'you mean, sir?"
"The DS at Briar Bank tells me you've been making yourself unwelcome in one or two quarters there. Not your scene any more. Got it?"
"Sir."
"And if we get involved, and that's a big if, it'll be DS Peter Deakins in charge. Not you. You're immigration, remember? Operation Maxim ring a bell?" Impatience and sarcasm hardened the Chief Superintendent’s voice. "And while we're at it, see that Briar Bank have that knife box and contents by 12:30 p.m. today, and be in my office on Thursday at 11a.m. We've had the nod that Gravesend's going to busy this weekend, and guess what, that means you as well."
*
After a solitary lunch at a deserted pizzeria, followed by a repeat but fruitless cruise past both dry cleaners, Fraser headed east; turned the Saab right just short of St. Matthew's church in Briar Bank, and parked in a lay-by alongside its graveyard.
His anger subsided as he approached the black railings set into a low wall of dark, mossy stones. He knew that on Thursday, Parrott would be all bonhomie again with doubtless an invitation to his family’s Sunday lunch at Berkhamsted. He pulled up his collar resolving not to let the guy’s problems be his. The omnipresent bottle opener and the fifth glass of Merlot invariably followed by five more.
Fraser gazed upwards. Unlike St Peter's in Scrub End, this was a proper church with a square tower complete with heavily protected stained glass windows and two weathered gargoyles jutting like black boils against the sky. The whole set on a curve of damp grass colonised by gravestones.
With the fog gone, a sharp, north-easterly wind made his leather jacket feel more like thin cotton as he made his way through the unlocked gates. It was time to see where Rita's elder boy lay, and maybe just being here might trigger a fresh perspective on the case. After all, she still had two children, who'd already suffered enough.
She’d mentioned yews, and now he made his way towards the far end of the church where they colonised the sky. Their gnarled branches creaking like old bones. He squatted down to read the details of those local youngsters whose lives had ended either on the city's roads, in house fires or, as in Jez Arthur Martin's case, by someone's cruel hand. His memory turned to his own sister who'd died before she could walk, and so absorbed was he in recalling her babyhood, he didn't at first notice the damage to the boy's grey marble headstone at the end of its tended plot.
JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUNBEAM
The word ‘Jesus’ had been defaced by black spray paint which left an oily smudge on Fraser’s fingertip. He straightened, looked around. He was on his own alright, but whoever had done this despicable thing, must have recently fled.
He could either approach forensics to run tests on it and the surrounding grass, which he'd already, stupidly adulterated, or, to spare Rita knowing anything about this outrage, clean up himself.
*
Twenty minutes later, with the aid of white spirit and some cloths from Shah's convenience store, Fraser had restored the headstone to its former pristine condition. Only when standing back for a final look, did he notice something white protruding from beneath Rita's pot of winter hellebores and Frank's decayed roses. A slip of paper encased in a small, clear plastic bag.
In that sodden silence as the wind dropped, the words conveyed in blue ballpoint grew almost audible, and the more Fraser studied it, the more he could see Molloy's lips moving...
SERVE YOU RIGHT PRICK TEASER
He pulled out the Malcolm Wheeler poster and compared one sick gloat with the other. Blue ballpoint and capital letters with a forward slope were the common denominators, made Frond Crescent yet another possibility. But why such a disgusting message?
He pocketed both items and sprang to his feet, before again breaking the speed limit up North Barton Road. Once in Frond Crescent, he parked between a double-glazing van and some old Rover with smashed wing mirrors. No sign of Molloy's Proton, and time was getting shorter. He had work to do. Starting with a garage, accessed from the rear.
*
The jumpable wall into the waste ground behind Why Worry was strewn with glass and masonry remnants from sporadic repairs to the nearby St. Peter’s church.
Having vaulted up on to its stone wall, Fraser then leapt down into a world of overgrown, sour-smelling weeds, from where he could see the fenced-off rear gardens of Frond Crescent's even-numbered houses. Most boundaries had rotted, but not Molloy’s wattle fence, coated in a honey-brown stain, which fortunately was dry. An arched door led directly into the garden. Its double padlock hardly a surprise.
Once inside the neat winter garden, he saw the kitchen window and outhouse were unlit. This, plus no car at the front, surely meant the Molloys were out, but any relief was cancelled by seeing how a door at the end of their garage had been concreted over. Recently, too.
Damn.
Then something white sited near a buddleia bush in the fence’s nearest corner, caught his eye. A Tesco Bag For Life, which he soon noticed was crammed with a damp, dark blue material. Probably chucked over from the waste ground, he thought, until finding the constable’s helmet tucked inside the jacket. Number 8.
Jesus.
Molloy must have planned to bury it, the devious sod. Fraser's normally rational mind was on strike, because Rita and her remaining family kept sabotaging his logic. Yet what more evidence could anyone want that the Sunday School teacher still posed a serious danger? The possibility of more sick photos and handwriting samples on these premises would have to wait. Joe too.
Once out of the weeds, Fraser ran like the winger he used to be, until reaching his car. London was beckoning sooner rather than later, and his friend Bill Marchant in forensics was the man to nail the nutter once and for all.
> Having given Wort Passage, a quick backwards glance, he stepped on the gas down Needle Walk and joined North Barton Road’s traffic heading south towards the Ml.
45
2 o’clock, and Ria felt beat. Not just because of last night's sleeplessness and her altercation with Tim Fraser, but because that cursed Black Dog Brook had delivered yet another blackened corpse to Scrub End. With it, every single, painful memory of losing Jez. If her phone rang, she wouldn't answer it, and if that handsome London detective should appear, she'd ignore him. Although she wasn’t a cop, he could at least respect her conviction about Pete Brown.
She left the Ram &Tether's car park after her usual snack. Her mind made up. Her conscience clear. There was still plenty to find out about the family who'd lived at number 14, Meadow Hill. However, as she walked towards her Peugeot in the traffic-soiled city breeze, fear crept through her clothes. Who'd be Pete Brown's next victim? What devious plan was he working on now, and in what clever disguise? Somebody must be still shielding him.
Her search tomorrow would mean closing the Farnham Street shop an hour early, but Mr Waring who now worked from home on Wednesdays, didn’t need to know that.
*
David Claus Perelman had indeed been a full-time lecturer in Music at Chertstone College, Swindon for nine years and was still sorely missed. That much had its Department's secretary volunteered when Rita phoned from the shop. However, when she'd enquired about his current whereabouts, the other woman clammed up.
"I'm afraid Data Protection won’t let me say,” she said when Rita had asked again.
"But there was a career move to Coventry, surely?"
"Into Higher Education, yes," the secretary then sighed. "F.E. doesn’t have the same cachet any more."
Rita thanked her for her inadvertent clue and, as the shop was unusually quiet, with the new computer’s spreadsheets up to date, she searched it for Coventry colleges of Higher Education, including the University.
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