Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  She soon tracked down Mount Vernon Institute of Higher Education and this time, a more helpful receptionist. Pretending to be the parent of a potential music student there, Rita learned that to cut costs, the Faculty of Music still hadn't replaced Dr. Perelman after his sudden departure in July 2010. Nevertheless, the receptionist added, their latest Quality Assurance inspection had proved excellent.

  “Why I'd like to bring my daughter for a look round if possible, and to meet some of the staff," Rita lied, warming to her mission. "I want her to have the best."

  *

  "Mike Hayman. Pleased to meet you." The acting Head of Department, grey-haired, in well-worn jacket and slacks, shook Rita's hand while looking expectantly past her into the corridor outside his office.

  "Is Melanie here as well?" he asked.

  Rita had that one ready. Severe toothache had driven her non-existent daughter to the dentist.

  "Let’s hope she soon feels better." He then indicated a spare vinyl chair near his over-crowded desk. A man with clearly too much to do.

  "Was this Dr. Perelman's office?" she asked, sitting down.

  "Indeed, and I’ve still not made much headway with what he left."

  To Rita, this was all a world away from her workplaces, yet everything about it intrigued her, from a colourful set of concert posters to a larger photograph of a bespectacled man in a black coat and Homberg hat walking along by the sea.

  "Gustav Mahler at Zandvoort," explained Hayman, settling behind his desk so that only his head showed over the paperwork. "Dave's favourite composer, after Bach and Finzi. Viennese, of course. What a dark soul that place has."

  Rita began digging in her bag then, to his surprise, showed him her driving licence. "As you can see, I'm not Mrs Jones, sorry. I had to lie to get to see you. My son Jez was murdered three and a half years ago not so far from here. It was in all the papers…"

  The academic got up from his desk and drew another chair alongside her. "Of course, I remember. Every parent's worst nightmare. But may I ask, what's really brought you here?"

  "Dr. Perelman," she began. "I know the police are keen to find him, but I also need to find out why he vanished. What was happening in his life to make him flip like that..."

  "I have been interviewed about him, yes," Hayman interrupted, "but the police seemed to forget he was my friend as well. Their tone was all wrong. After all, he wasn't here to defend himself against their inane accusations."

  “Which were?”

  “Libellous in the extreme.”

  "So he never gave you any hint that he might be, you know, a bit weird?"

  Hayman smiled. "Good Lord, no. Eccentric sometimes, but straight as a baton, and our end-of-year concerts were sublime. His students in the palms of his hands. Mind you, he was gutted when redundancies loomed large. Many senior staff were considered too expensive, so he thought it better to go before being pushed."

  “What a worry.”

  “Indeed, and I hope he's not done anything foolish," Hayman continued. "Nobody's heard a whisper. Not even his family. However, he did once say he'd an elderly father in Munich. You see, Mrs Martin, his home life didn't seem exactly normal. For a start, no family photographs ever came here. Not even of his son Louis, a gifted violinist. I heard him play once, with incredible sensitivity."

  Rita listened with interest. The man seemed to like her. To actually want to talk.

  "Go on, please.”

  "Well, sometimes Dave would hang about here long after everyone else had gone.'

  "Doing what?" suddenly thinking of Canon cameras and developing prints.

  "Photography? Stuff like that?"

  "No, no. Not him. Staring at that Mahler photo, as if in a trance."

  “Or knives?”

  Hayman almost laughed. Stood up, returned his chair to his desk and began doodling on a piece of paper as if what was to follow needed some kind of prop.

  "Despite my warnings, he also became rather close to one of our female students."

  "How close?"

  Hayman lowered his voice.

  "Look, I'm only five months off retirement then my wife and I will be heading to Spain. So I've nothing to lose by trying to help you. Yes, I should have told the police more at the time, but they’d put me in an invidious position. Please keep this confidential."

  Rita nodded.

  "So who was it?"

  "Carla Kennedy. A brilliant flautist. Beautiful too. I believe she played in a musical evening at Dave's house just before he left."

  Rita swallowed.

  "When my son’s body was found in the brook at the bottom of their garden. Maybe that was the last straw for Dr. Perelman. Or he got scared of becoming involved."

  Hayman stood up and began gently easing the Mahler poster from the wall, corner by corner, until it fell to the floor with a sigh. He rolled it up, inserted it into a cardboard tube before sitting down again.

  "Please tell me more about this Carla," Rita said, staying focussed. "Whatever you know."

  When he’d finished, she asked, "So, what happened to her?"

  "She was awarded a First degree, then after auditioning all over the UK, she joined the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra."

  *

  While Rita walked to her car, the pathologist at Briar Bank Hospital was finishing his Post Mortem on Toby Gabriel Lake and returning him to the refrigerator.

  She pulled her mobile from her bag and checked its voicemail. 1 Message. Not the kids, Mr Waring or even Frank, but Tim Fraser, obviously in a hurry and deadly serious.

  "Rita? What I said earlier is even more important.'

  Her voice tightened. "Where are you?"

  "M1 near Hemel. Traffic's bad. Listen, I've a pad in Marylebone you three can come to. Two bedrooms and a kind of box room..."She swallowed hard.

  "I'm sorry, Tim. I can’t. I know you mean well and I appreciate that, but I've still got things to sort out. Besides…” she stalled. “Jez is here. I can't leave him."

  "Jez is dead, Rita. You're not. Nor Freddie and Kayleigh. Jarvis's lot can't help you. They're half asleep. Besides, I've found more evidence against Eric Molloy…

  "I really must go," she said, disabling the car’s alarm.

  "I'll ring tonight. Remember what I said."

  Having punched END and fastened her seatbelt, Rita’s conscience made her drive back to the Farnham Street shop. Mr Waring's VW was unexpectedly by the kerb.

  "I’m sorry, but I needed something for my migraine," she forestalled him as soon as she went inside. "It was doing my head in."

  "Better now?" he asked, tearing open a consignment of polythene hangers.

  "Thank you, yes." She knelt down to help him. Anything rather than look him in the eye. "But I've a huge favour to ask you, and not sure where to start..."

  "Your family is it? Everyone alright?"

  "Sort of. I have to try and find someone in Birmingham tomorrow, but I'll make up the time on Saturday and Sunday if you'd like me to clean up. I promise."

  Her boss got up, stamped on the empty carton ready for re-cycling, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. Our Heidi can cover for you. Besides, I'll be in the other shop interviewing part-timers. So there we are. Sorted. Now, off you go."

  Rita pecked Mr Waring's cheek.

  "You've a heart of gold, d'you know that? I won't forget this."

  "Works both ways,” he said. “You've got business really picking up here, while most folk in this country are out to lunch. Least I can do." He smiled as he held up a man's trousers whose waist was wider than the leg length. "You be careful now."

  "I will."

  "Good luck."

  46

  Wednesday 15th January. 9.30 a.m.

  After a rushed breakfast, DI Tim Fraser began a serious appraisal of his police flat. Something h
e'd not done since moving in three years ago. However, now was different. He was thinking not only of himself, but also - and despite her protestations, Rita, Kayleigh and Freddie Martin. Would the fitted wardrobe in the second bedroom be enough for all their gear? Who’d have the Futon in the living room, and his late parents' still comfortable camp bed? Would the sole bathroom be enough in the mornings, and above all, would he even be allowed to house more people?

  He'd hardly been keeping his nose clean of late, and worse had ignored Parrott's order to hand that knife box into Briar Bank. He'd wanted Bill Marchant to look at it first, as well as that fake constable’s uniform and two further writing samples. Yes, good riddance is what the MPA would be shortly saying to him as well, if he didn't watch it.

  Was he finally losing it? Risking a hard-won career for a woman who was giving him a hard time? Two kids soon to be teenagers? Then Jez's freckled face from the school photo came to mind.

  He hadn't even been a teenager, let alone an adult.

  Fraser stared down from the living room's main window at the heavy traffic shunting east towards the City or west towards the flyover. The longer he looked, the greater his anxiety grew. What had Rita meant by ‘getting things sorted out?’

  Twice he'd warned her of the dangers they all faced. What else could he do, short of dragging the threesome into his car? All the while, Molloy was still creeping around that church, helping out some gullible group or other. The sly bastard. He should have leaked the man's recent antics to the Press, but that might have made him and the wife scarper with their kid before Marchant had a chance to examine the contents of that Tesco bag.

  Luckily, when Fraser had called forensics, Parrott was at out at St James. There’d be no contact with him until that planned rendezvous tomorrow morning. A day in which to lean on Jarvis again. Press him for a search warrant to check any computers and other possible devices in Frond Crescent. To hunt for the Kayleigh Martin negatives and any other extra-curricular photography…

  The phone rang behind him on his desk, making him jump. Marchant's number flashed up. He snatched at the receiver.

  "Timotei, my friend," the scientist quipped. "Some news.'

  Fraser let the quip go.

  "Your line clean?"

  "Checked last Friday.”

  "I shouldn't be doing this."

  "I'm on-my-knees grateful, OK?"

  "Here goes then, but remember, it’s all been a helluva rush… But you’re worth it. Just."

  Deep breath…

  "That plywood box and its knife are clean as a whistle. Someone's been pretty thorough…

  No surprises there…

  “It matches the one DC Jarvis sent us, give or take the rust and other damage."

  Fraser propped himself up against the sideboard. Just to hear the Constable’s new title still seemed odd.

  “Any trace of blood, human tissue?”

  “No, and as for the writing samples, the note near Jez Martin's grave was by a young, adult male, probably highly intelligent. However, judging by the gaps between words, a social outcast. The other, on the poster of Malcolm Wheeler came from an older female."

  Pat Molloy.

  "As for the photocopied message to Kayleigh Martin purporting to come from Dr. Perelman, someone may have been trying to imitate his writing, of which his colleague Mike Hayman kindly provided a sample.”

  "Are you sure?" Still clinging to the notion that Eric Molloy was his man.

  "Come on, Timmy."

  "And the uniform?"

  "Now that is interesting."

  Outside, both traffic lanes were gridlocked. God help any emergency vehicle trying to get through, thought Fraser. His beloved father might still be alive today if his ambulance hadn’t been delayed. "Although we found no useful hairs or fibres on the fabric, and inside the helmet showed nothing significant, there were semen traces on the badge and a recent sample inside the trousers," said Marchant. "Someone having fun. But,” he paused. “Not your friend."

  Damn.

  "How come?"

  Marchant laughed at the choice of verb, but Fraser felt sick.

  “This is a mid to late adolescent.”

  Young adult again…

  "How can you tell?"

  "The Prostate-Specific Antigen test result didn’t match Norris's sample taken in Stingwell prison. There’d been an incident."

  "What exactly?" Fraser feeling yet more depressed.

  "Touching up a young Maths teacher who was in his first job with the Prison Service. All very hush-hush as Norris was due out the following week."

  "His?" Fraser repeated, just to make sure.

  “Yep. So, your do-gooder isn’t fussy. Look, chum," Marchant's tone changed. "This lot'll have to go back to Briar Bank pronto. It's their case, and frankly, appropriating possible evidence wasn’t very clever."

  Fraser tied to unscramble his brain. His boat not only rocking, but tipping over. Could Rita be right after all?

  "What's Dozy Deakins' team done?” He protested. “Mrs Martin’s had no justice so far, except for that second Inquest verdict. Palmed off with one false hope after another."

  "What I've told you is entre nous. OK? And Parrott's pissed off about your Coventry trip. He’s threatening to take you off Operation Maxim and on to the Lambeth Working Girls Investigation instead. So I overheard."

  "Let him fucking try." Fraser knew that despite huge pressure from the Home Office, his results had been good. The word ‘shafted’ was now taking on a very personal meaning.

  "Sorry, Tim. See you after your briefing, eh?"

  But Fraser’s reply had died in his throat.

  47

  The Larches

  Cowslip Close

  Little Bidding

  Wed. 15th January 014

  Dear Graham,

  You may have guessed the past few months haven't been easy here, with Ronan away more with his work and the boys growing up so fast. Why I never replied to your last letter which hoped we could regularly meet up in London. I need to be here to cement things together, because our Charlie was found smoking cannabis in the school grounds and been threatened with expulsion, while Toby has become distant and introverted, I'm seriously considering going part-time at Westcotts. Of course the money's useful what with the pool and new extension to pay for, but there’s also something else you should know.

  I’m seventeen weeks pregnant. Strangely, I feel that after everything which happened between us all those years ago, that lost baby has somehow returned to me. You may think I'm mad, but it's how I feel. Ronan is over the moon of course, but worried that at thirty-nine, the birth may be tricky.

  He’s in Milan until Monday, but I'm around on Saturday if you can get down here. We do need to talk.

  Tina. X

  48

  Rita heard the result of Toby Lake’s Post Mortem examination in her car at 10 a.m. on the Wednesday morning as she turned off the ring road on to the A45, avoiding the crowded M6 for Birmingham.

  ‘Sadly, a tragic slip of the feet at a particularly treacherous part of Wrecker's Brook, with no certain evidence of assault,’ were the police Pathologist’s very words.

  Rubbish.

  She switched off the radio, telling herself she must keep taking the initiative or despair could drag her too far down, just when life was materially improving. Nevertheless, the kids each had her mobile number, and she’d warned them to avoid the Molloys. Although Freddie had protested, Kayleigh’s death stare had soon shut him up. “It’s a work trip,” Rita had explained. “And I’ll be back to pick you both up. OK?” Then, having kissed them goodbye at their school’s gates, she’d driven away from Scrub Lane.

  *

  Without a Satnav, the UK’s second city seemed a foreign country. Its complex loops of road
s with juggernauts swerving in and out to gain a few inches, made her want to turn back. But Jez somehow kept her going -

  "City Centre. Thank you, God," she muttered, hugging the inside lane until after turning off, she found herself among shops and offices with signs for NCP car parking. She pulled into one which still had spaces, and having paid too much, began her search.

  She soon found herself outside a modern, mirror-fronted building whose foyer doors carried the kind of promotional posters she’d seen in Mike Hayman's office. One in particular caught her eye.

  CBSO New Talent 2014.

  Carla Kennedy no less, posing against an outdoor jardinière brimming with summer flowers. Her flute sweetly at her lips. ‘Beautiful’ had indeed been the right word, and in a more muted light, accompanied by faint sounds of music, Rita approached some nearby double doors.

  REHEARSAL IN PROGRSS. STRICTLY NO ENTRY TO THE AUDITORIUM.

  By order of the Management.

  How long for? she wondered irritably, then headed for another door marked LADIES to revise her strategy. She had to see the flautist, whatever it took.

  A fresh coat of lipstick, a primp of her hair, and she emerged the smart woman about town, attracting one or two admiring glances on her way back to the auditorium. She'd just have to bluff her way in.

  Suddenly, came a rough tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a youngish, stubble-chinned security guard in a dark green uniform. The name, GREG WILLIS, SECURITY below an unattractive identity photograph.

  "Can't you read'?" He growled.

  "I have to see one of the orchestra players. It’s urgent."

  "No exceptions, or the whole world'd be in there."

  Rita took a deep breath. "I'm Carla Kennedy's mother if you must know. Now, let me in."

  The official frowned.

  "She's dead. What’s going on'?"

  Rita cursed inwardly. Of all the dumb lies to dream up...

  The music came to an end and Willis checked his watch. "Toilet break," he said, and once the auditorium doors were pushed open, a leggy young woman in frayed jeans and a baggy jumper stopped short when she saw the two people in front of her. Rita recognised her from the poster, and although her long hair was as short as a boy's, she was still radiant.