Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  When he’d dusted the likeliest surfaces for fingerprints and found two clear ones, he folded up the single bed's under-sheet and bedspread and placed them in a DNA-free zip-up plastic bag. Both items bore numerous stiff patches of dried semen. All very helpful. So was fancydressers.com whom clever-dick Fraser had just discovered had sent that very same uniform to a Dr. Perelman at Mount Vernon Institute of Higher Education.

  A recce of the room's few storage areas told Jarvis that wherever this boy had gone, he was unlikely to come back. Only a Gideon's Bible from school, and a new-looking computer and its printer remained. No obvious reference to a Pete Brown, or a Canon Eos camera and the means to develop negatives. Zilch.

  Aware of Crooker searching none to subtly downstairs, he switched on the machine, staring at the miserable view outside the window and noticing a smart silver bike propped against the back wall, while he waited for his unique police password to be verified.

  *

  Everything on the Toshiba’s hard drive had been erased.

  The clever, effing toe-rag…

  Jarvis clicked OFF, resentful that a sixteen and a half year-old could lead them all such a dance and set blame wherever he chose. He’d made Briar Bank CID, and especially himself, look like early hominids. Even the lid on the Press had somehow been prised open and Darshan Patel's vociferous family had bayed for blood since his murder. But at least something interesting had emerged. While living in Meadow Hill, Louis Perelman had called on that same Patel lad, wearing a genuine-looking copper’s uniform except for his trainers, and if the semen on that matched the bedding, then a useful link with his former neighbour could be established.

  He also dwelt on how Darshan Patel who'd only lived yards away from the Perelmans, had died a truly agonising death. If Perelman was responsible, the motive could only be guessed at. The grieving Mrs Patel had initially stated both boys had been friends. Perelman often rescuing him from North Barton Boys’ School bullies. Nevertheless, and almost incoherently, she'd added how unnerved she'd been by his visit before the soirée. How he’d seemed to be wanting something from her son. But secretive Darshan had never referred to the incident again, and once the Perelmans had gone, had enjoyed life noticeably more.

  In the freckled mirror over the bed, Jarvis caught sight of the stress lines around his eyes and the growing stomach, and wondered yet again if he shouldn’t have stayed a constable on the beat. Fraser hadn't helped by rattling DS Deakins' cage over Molloy, while Rita Martin's terrifying experience here on Wednesday afternoon had switched the perspective – his perspective - from adoptive father Dave Perelman to son. Was it really Jez’s killer she’d seen here and in Birmingham? Jane Truelove thought it possible, after what Carla Kennedy had said.

  A tremor of unease passed through him at how hindsight now held the upper hand. How that canny, former thirteen year-old who'd skipped lessons and covered his tracks at the time of the Black Dog Brook murders, had harboured an increasingly disturbed personality. Possibly planting evidence against his own step-father. Playing on his own and Briar Bank’s need to get a result.

  One thing was clear. It was priority that this oddball be caught and questioned again, pronto. He took a last look at the teenager's bedroom which to him - unmarried and childless - represented a wasted young life. An evil life, maybe?

  Increasingly, it would seem so.

  Before leaving, he sneaked a look into what could only be Jacquie Harper’s room, home to pills cluttering every surface, particularly her bedside table. Anti-depressants mostly, although not all household names. Her stale bed sheets and discarded clothes all smelt of the chicken factory, and when the wind slapped a loose wire against the murky front window embedded in black mildew, he jumped in surprise.

  *

  "All done, thanks." His forced cheerfulness filled the house as he reached the hallway, where Sergeant Crooker re-joined him. Jacquie Harper eyed Jarvis's bulging plastic bag. "What’s that you’re taking?"

  "Just a sheet and a bedcover from Louis’ room." He then extracted a small printed form and a ballpoint from his jacket and asked her to sign for them. "Don't fret. They’ll soon be back. Now then, tell me about your lad's police uniform. Did he ever wear it in public?"

  She ended her angry signature and looked up with defiance on her sallow face.

  "You’re joking."

  "I’m not. He bought one off the internet three years ago, and we suspect he was wearing it during an incident at the Mall early on Tuesday morning. Impersonating one of our serving officers. He always wanted to be a copper, didn't he?"

  "This is preposterous."

  "The Tesco credit card used to make the purchase, was your partner’s."

  "So? Louis also had an allowance of forty pounds a month. What he did with that was his business."

  "Did he acquire a camera too?"

  "Dave got him one for his twelfth birthday."

  “A Canon EOS 5000 maybe?”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Remember in this very kitchen he told myself and PC Trulove that his step-father owned one? That would be some coincidence, hey, Sergeant?”

  Crooker nodded in the grim silence.

  "Where's it now?" Urged Jarvis.

  "He said he’d swopped it for Toby Lake’s fishing flies." Immediately, her reddened hands covered her mouth, while Crooker jotted that titbit down.

  "The late Toby Lake?"

  "Louis only mentioned him once,” she burbled. “He was from his school."

  "And what about the substantial knife with which he threatened Ms X last night? That's not turned up has it?" He eyed Crooker who shook his head. "No sir. The only ones here are two small veg ones and some table knives. None could have reached the other side of that letterbox."

  "So what d'you cut a loaf up with, then?" Jarvis turned to her. "Or a roast chicken, come to that?"

  "We only have sliced, and never eat chicken."

  Jarvis's tone hardened.

  "I suggest you get that letterbox seen to. Anyone could pop something nasty through it. Never mind the loss of heat."

  He nudged the sergeant towards the front door, then turned to face her. "Oh, and if you come across a mac belt in a light-coloured semi-waterproof fabric, please let us know. And of course, the moment your son returns. That's your duty."

  She had whitened throughout, and clung to the newel post as she watched the two men leave.

  "Just two more things," Jarvis stalled. “We’ve not seen any photos of your boy on show. Do you have a recent one we could take away? Would save us a lot of trouble if so.”

  “Dave took them all. Like everything else.”

  “I said recent.”

  “No.”

  “Any from Louis’ school?”

  “I couldn’t afford them.”

  "Where was he on Wednesday afternoon?

  “There. Why?”

  ”And what was he wearing when you last saw him?"

  "Pyjamas."

  She moved to shut the door.

  *

  "Nearly there." The younger officer's optimism hit the wrong note, and Jarvis scowled while detaching his two-way radio from his belt. He had to swallow his pride and ask DS Deakins to get Fraser back on the case.

  “Pronto,” sir, if possible,” he said. “We’re running out of tricks.”

  55

  Saturday 18th January 9 a.m.

  Tim Fraser forced his Saab through the Westway's Saturday traffic and on to the northbound Ml beneath a brooding canopy of clouds. That the Molloys were fading from the picture, plus Thursday’s tetchy meeting with his boss and equally curt call half an hour ago, fuelled his aggression.

  “You’ve left me high and dry over Gra
vesend today, so Operation Walton’s for two weeks max, understand? Parrott’s parting shot had left Fraser wondering if he really was hitting the Sancerre more than usual.

  As he passed signs for Watford, his BlackBerry rang. He pulled onto the hard shoulder, switched on his hazard warning lights, and listened.

  "Tim? Jarvis here, and first off, sorry for…”

  “It’s OK.” Fraser interrupted. He’d been re-called. All that mattered. “Things were getting pretty tense all round.”

  “Too right. You heard the news?" Reception was bad, making the DC sound eighty years old.

  "What news?" Rita his first thought.

  "The Molloys have done a flit."

  Fraser whistled to himself.

  "Where?"

  "God knows. Their house is all closed up. No sign of the kid either."

  "The garage?"

  "Spotless. We had to repair the double doors, though. Oh, by the way, Sergeant Crooker and myself have just spent an illuminating hour at Downside with an extremely protective mother hen."

  "Jacquie Harper?"

  "Correct. Seems her boy was given a camera on his twelfth birthday. Be useful to find out the make as he’d told me and Jane that Doctor Dave also had a Canon EOS 5000”

  So that’s who you meant…

  A Norbert Dentresangle juggernaut rocked the Saab as it went by.

  “Deakins has organised a pow-wow at four," Jarvis went on. "He’ll be popular. And I'll see that PC Truelove doesn’t put arsenic in your tea."

  Fraser gave him the finger.

  "Cheers."

  "Now then, can you make North Barton Boys' School by eleven for a sniff round? Might be useful."

  "Better be. By the way, thanks for getting that other blade to London."

  “All part of the service.”

  Fraser clicked OFF, seeing COVENTRY 62 MILES. Too far, and two weeks not long enough. He re-joined the traffic and stepped on the gas.

  *

  He arrived at North Barton Boys’ School just after ten o’clock, and was chatting to the old caretaker when DC Jarvis and Sergeant Crooker appeared, plucking at their trouser creases.

  "Anyone looking for Pat, Eric and Joe, then?" was Fraser's first question as the School’s DELIVERIES ONLY gate was opened specially for them. He’d vowed to stay business-like, and not let petty issues delay justice any longer. If Jarvis still wanted to play silly buggers, let him, but at least the recent phone call had been promising.

  "This takes priority,” said the Detective Constable. “Orders from above."

  Fraser’s resolution didn’t last long. He kicked a small stone out of sight to show his contempt, then noticed a middle-aged man in ill-fitting clothes shambling along behind.

  "Mr Wardle, Head of Year 8." Jarvis announced, once the teacher had caught up. He looked unwell, and a succession of coughs seemed to wrack his whole body.

  "We've two dark rooms," he growled, in answer to Fraser’s question. "For juniors and seniors. Follow me." He led the way into the school's side entrance, past silent classrooms towards the Art block. Pee and dinner smells lingered in the airless corridor where Fraser hung back by a graphics display whose middle section showed a CD cover design by ex-pupil Darshan Patel, plus the Head's résumé of his life at the school.

  "Shocking business," Wardie muttered. "What are we coming to, I ask myself daily. Any idea who did it? I mean Patel wouldn’t hurt a fly..."

  "We’re getting warmer," Fraser nodded at Jarvis as if to say, time to move things on. "Tell me,” he added. “Was Louis Perelman into photography? Did he ever hang around here developing negatives?"

  "Not that I'm aware of." And as soon as the Head of Year opened a door duly marked DARK ROOM, the acrid residue of developer escaped. "However, we never had enough prefects to monitor things. Anyone using this room was supposed to enter their details in this record book. Name, project title and what materials they used, etcetera. It’s worked so far.”

  While Jarvis wandered under the lines of drying prints, Fraser perused the record book.

  "Look at this," he said. "June 11th 2010. Name; Toby G. Lake, 8JP: 6 fluid ounces developer, 6 fluid ounces fixer. Three sheets of 6 inch by 4 inch photographic paper for black and white printing. Name of project, ‘KMCockpit.’" He looked up. "Can someone enlighten me about that last word?"

  "Slang for vagina," said Jarvis bluntly, yet his sudden blush was noticeable.

  Fraser felt cold.

  "No wonder this entry was never reported," Wardle looked pained. "How many staff here would have known that? And Toby Lake, bless his soul, was only interested in fishing."

  The teacher produced a less-than-clean handkerchief and coughed into it. "He could certainly be cheeky,” he wheezed, “and not all staff liked him, but what a tragedy. No-one to grieve for him either."

  Fraser had meanwhile switched on the overhead strip light to scrutinise the handwriting in the record book more closely. The ‘No hawkers’ note from Mullion Road that Rita had sent him, came to mind. “Can we check this against a Toby Lake sample?”

  He glanced up when Jarvis began to speak.

  "Yes, but while I remember… we found a black Canon EOS 5000 at Sunnyview on Wednesday. Mrs Parsons there said she'd put it in a cupboard for safekeeping after Toby disappeared, then forgot all about it. So what a certain someone recently let slip, is very useful indeed."

  "Who's that then?" quizzed Wardle, more bewildered by the minute.

  "Sorry, I can’t say.” Jarvis then, as if remembering Fraser’s request, turned to the schoolmaster. "Is there any other writing by Toby Lake tucked away by any chance? And by Louis Perelman?

  We’d be grateful.'

  "Perelman?"

  "Sure."

  Wardle frowned.

  "Never could make him out."

  “In what way?” Queried Fraser, aware of Jarvis’s not-so subtle point scoring.

  “Nothing I could put into words.”

  The man stumbled out into the corridor leaving the cops prowling round the room in their hunt for three crucial negatives.

  "So," began Jarvis, "we have Toby Lake supposedly developing the three prints which Jez Martin took with what we can safely say was Louis Perelman’s camera. Also, Dave Perelman's purported message to Kayleigh on that very envelope containing them." The detective clamped a hand on his own forehead. "Is there no end to young Perelman’s ingenuity?"

  "’Fraid not," said Fraser. "But stay stumm with Wardle and everyone else. Incidentally," he focused again on the record book, recalling what the assistant at Tipton’s had said. "What was the lens spec. on that camera from Sunnyview? 35 to 105 millimetres?"

  It was Sergeant Crooker who answered.

  "You won't like this."

  "Try me."

  "35 to 135."

  *

  Fraser still felt numb when Wardle soon returned with two history exercise books full of upper and lowercase handwriting. Less careful from dictations than for homework. Toby Lake’s work was accompanied by fish doodles in the margins. Perelman's by obsessive underlinings and a tiny doodle of a foetus.

  Having studied both books for a few moments, Fraser shook his head, preoccupied by the fact the Canon camera hadn't been Molloy’s after all. The two boys’ writing styles showed similarities, but nowhere near enough.

  "No way," he said.

  "No way what?"

  "Did Toby Lake enter those details in that record book. But I know who might have. Someone trying to ape him. Another nail in his coffin.”

  Wardle gasped.

  "Let’s make his pill-popping Mama start singing properly," suggested Jarvis, suddenly looking younger.

  "Then it’s the cage, pdq." Fraser led the way out. “We need a result.”

  "He’s right,” said Wardle. “Because we never
did find out who’d butchered those two beautiful rabbits here three and a half years ago, and left them in my car."

  "Like I said, sir, have faith," Jarvis smiled. "The pieces of this puzzle are just beginning to fit..."

  Easy words, thought Fraser. Easy words…

  56

  10.30 a.m.

  Louis had spent Thursday amidst the anonymity of Coventry city centre, avoiding newspapers and other media commentary, carefully re-inventing his appearance. On Friday morning, at The Starling hotel, while his classmates were attending their Home Study tutorial at school, he’d shaved and devoured a Full English breakfast. No sign of any pigs, but risk had kept him on his toes.

  By evening, blond streaks and fake tan applied in the Gents at McDonalds, had done the business. However, it was the long mac with epaulettes and Hush Puppies from the Help the Aged shop, which added the final touch, plus a pair of black loafers and silver-framed glasses. He’d also treated himself to a Samsung Galaxy smartphone, committing The Fawn to monthly payments of sixteen pounds for the next two years. Not a bad deal, considering, and having watched Wolf of Wall Street with a tub of popcorn, he’d taken the bus to a different hotel for another decent shower and clean sheets. Now reinvigorated for the day ahead, even the foul weather beyond his bedroom’s blinds, didn’t matter.

  *

  A heavy downpour hit the Stern's Logistics truck windows as it grumbled along the Ml between Hertfordshire’s wet fields. The driver, a man in his mid-fifties, had picked him up on Coventry’s ring road, saying there'd be less accidents from drowsiness if more like him gave lifts to hitch-hikers. Except that this particular passenger with the holdall and violin case hadn't said a word for forty miles.

  "You play the fiddle, then?" He finally asked, having switched off Radio 2.

  "No. It's my mate's. He left it behind after staying with us.'

  "Right." But the man still sounded puzzled.

  The lorry's frantic wipers were making Louis feel dizzy. But baling out would only arouse suspicion. It had to be Paddington station by twelve, or else.