Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  "Me Dad played the ukulele." The older man added, out of the blue. "Only four strings, but he was bloody good." He swung the vehicle out into the middle lane past a lorry with a Portakabin jutting out on either side. Louis also noticed a chequered car ahead of it, warning lights flashing, and when they overtook, he lowered his head as if reading.

  "You'd think the plods had enough to do," said the driver. "Like catching more Romanian criminals for a start."

  "There's worse than them," Louis corrected him. "Far worse."

  The man eyed him again before re-joining the inside lane and heading for the next Services. After stopping for diesel, the ride into London was punctuated only by remarks about the weather, worsening under an almost black sky.

  "Best drop you here." The driver pulled over in Bishop's Bridge Road and shook Louis' hand. "Bon voyage," he added, revving up again.

  "Thanks." Louis slammed the cab door shut behind him, and was instantly soaked as the truck vanished in the heavy traffic.

  *

  Having withdrawn an extra three hundred pounds from The Fawn’s account, using a cash point in the station's concourse, he found the sole remaining ticket office and an ever-lengthening queue of sodden travellers.

  "Single First Class to Swindon," he said to the booking clerk, but when he reached the train, most First Class seats were already reserved.

  His “fuckit,” made a couple of crusts turn round, but he kept his eyes to himself. Once on board, although his mac felt heavy on his back, no way was he drawing more attention by removing it, or by placing his equally wet belongings in the luggage rack to drip on those below.

  Instead, he tucked his violin and holdall under his legs, using the window’s glass to reflect his surroundings. While the train eased away from the platform, two geeks ran alongside, waving goodbye to people further up the carriage. ‘Each a glimpse and gone for ever.’ Words from a poem The Fawn had once read to him, adding her pride that he shared her’s and Robert Louis Stephenson’s middle name. But hadn't his own life consisted of goodbyes of one sort or another? Most of his choosing, needless to say.

  Now, after Strato’s farewell, it was time for the Big Hello and, as the train jerked through London’s western suburbs, he laid his head against the crisp, white antimacassar and let his eyes close to imagine how it would be. That smile of welcome; the scent of a woman's skin. Prelude to a unique, empowering intimacy...

  *

  He woke to more wet fields lined by dead trees, reminding him of Black Dog Brook, and as the train approached Reading, people ended their inane phone calls and reached for their belongings. "Please ensure you mind the step and take everything with you when you leave the carriage..." added the Tannoy’s voice.

  How pathetic that such morons needed telling. He could show them a thing or two about taking care and personal organisation. Oh yes, especially in Birmingham.

  Once the train had stopped, a young woman entered his compartment, removed her brown leather coat and sat directly opposite. Louis saw a V of white top between her suit lapels and the hint of cleavage. He thought of Miss Udder and wondered if she was still parading her tits to all and sundry. This one was the same, crossing and re-crossing her legs, eyeing him when she guessed he wasn't looking, except all her efforts at seduction left him cold.

  "Look, just so as you don't waste your time,” he addressed her. “Cockpits turn me off totally. OK? Sorry about that." He’d pitched his voice so no-one else could hear, and the stranger emitted a small noise before exiting her seat.

  Good.

  So was a mere tap of his forefinger on his new Galaxy, bringing Professor Renshaw’s images blazing into life, and the train's increased speed bearing him ever closer to his resolution with the past.

  *

  Swindon seemed newer than when he'd last lived there, but however brightly the town's image was marketed on the internet, the name still spelt betrayal.

  The nearest station was ten miles from Little Bidding, but with Patel's blood-spattered story still festering everywhere, hitching another lift was out of the question. He'd glimpsed more of that brown tosser's face yesterday and at Paddington. Now God was telling him to be, more cautious.

  NO BUS SERVCE UNTIL 1OAM TOMORROW, said a notice in the bus station's ticket office. So, using yet another new name, he called Westcott Construction Company's Human Resources Department to be told by a work experience stand-in that Mrs Tina Crabtree was working from home. He then made his way to the nearest taxi rank.

  First in line was a woman driver with hair the colour of stale piss and a face like some dog had been at it. Obviously a chainer, with half a fag left in her mouth.

  "Little Bidding,” he said, keeping his distance.

  "Pretty place, that," she chucked her dimp out of the window then lit another fag before pulling away from the kerb.

  *

  By the time they reached that village’s only pub, the rain had turned to drizzle. Louis counted out the rest of his cash before the chainer executed a three-point turn and headed back the way they'd come. He had enough in both the Fawn and Patel’s banknotes to last him for the next stage of his travels, so if she had in the meantime changed her PIN number, it wouldn’t matter.

  The smell of roasting meat filtered from the Royal Oak pub whose blackboard inside its porch offered a carvery lunch for £8.99. However, while pausing to read the puddings’ list, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  "You seemed lost."

  Louis spun round to see a tweed-caped crust whose nosy pug was sniffing at his Hush Puppies.

  "I'm fine, thanks." His best voice, his friendliest smile, wishing the stupid cow would pull the fucker off from what after all, was his property. "Just off to see an old friend." And before she could strike up a conversation, he snatched up his violin case and holdall and began to walk away.

  "Only trying to help,” she said. Yet Enid Turnbull stared at his departing form with a sense of unease. She still had several errands to run, but afterwards, she’d give the Swindon police a ring. Just in case.

  *

  He was relieved to reach a gap on his left between a tiny Post Office and a cottage advertising firewood for sale. Halfway down the narrow track, he paused on a drier patch of dead leaves. Supposing Tina Crabtree wasn't at home? That the teen in Westcott's HR department, had got it wrong or lied? However, worse than turning up to an empty house, would be to find one or both of the kids around.

  He’d discovered them on his Electoral Roll searches. Kids she'd chosen to keep.

  A familiar loneliness engulfed him as he scoured his surroundings. Also doubt about The Fawn, once she realised the knife was missing and her money gone. Would she still keep her gob shut? He couldn't bank on anything any more, not like the old days. Nevertheless, he kept to the pig wire on his left, then broke into a run. Five minutes later he'd passed Little Bidding’s deserted playing field, cleaned his shoes and, with purposeful strides, entered Cowslip Close.

  Here, the freaky silence made him forget to breathe. Yet his dick began to move just thinking of what lay in his holdall. The power of steel on soft, warm skin. A kind of going home. Yes, that was it, he smiled to himself. Going home.

  57

  Despite the dull afternoon, The Larches’ white rendering magnetised Louis towards its open double gates and the short gravel drive as if he belonged there.

  No dog, thank you, God, while large conifers on either side of the front garden kept it nice and private. To the right, a metallic blue people carrier with a personalised plate TDC100 was parked in front of a triple garage.

  Hers.

  His new black watch showed he was on time. The time of his birth, in fact.

  Louis unzipped his holdall, bringing the required t-shirt to the top. Having unravelled the knife and slotted it handle
-first up his mac’s right hand sleeve, he placed his belongings in the narrow gap between house and garage, and stood under the front porch.

  Using a knuckle rather than a fingertip, he rang the bell, and no sooner had it chimed than the solid front door opened. No bolts, no chain. Nor any hesitation on the pretty, blonde woman's part. Especially when he smiled.

  But why the tight-fitting pink suit? Short skirt, strappy stilettos? Was she expecting someone? Whatever. Working from home was the last thing she was doing.

  "Hi," he began, alert to any sign she’d be shutting the door. "Mrs Crabtree?”

  “Yes. And…?”

  “I was just wondering if your Charlie was around."

  "He's rehearsing a play at school. Who are you?"

  Big, brown eyes that could have been his own, looked him up and down, from the new shoes to his sun-streaked hair.

  "Mark Howes. We both play rugby for the village team. I just wanted to chat about our next match…”

  A puzzled frown brought her plucked eyebrows together.

  "But he only plays football, and …”

  Louis didn't give her a chance to finish. He wasn't there to learn what Charlie Crabtree did or fucking didn't do. Why his iron-hard thigh pressed against the door, letting him into the hallway. He kicked the front door shut behind him, whereupon his real mother made a run for the stairs.

  “No, you don’t.” He’d caught her wrist. Tiny, like those moorhens' necks. Easy to snap if he wasn't careful."Help! Help!" She screamed as he let the knife slip down into his right hand.

  "What are you doing? Who the hell are you?"

  "In there," he ordered, letting the blade’s sharpest edge rest against the pulsing blue vein in her neck. "No messing."

  "Someone'll be coming any minute!" she burbled as he steered her into a spacious lounge, towards an enormous, black leather sofa. The biggest he'd ever seen.

  "Me too," he chuckled, and meant it. Blood was leaving his head too quickly.

  "Lie down and shut your face."

  A push then a shove with his knee was all it took. She cringed against the sofa’s cushions, bringing her knees up to her chest. He then noticed she was wearing stockings not tights, and higher up, beyond the suspenders, red lace panties. Louis leant over, smelling her musky perfume, taking in her rigid terror. He thought of that obstetrics website and mentally clicked to page 55 beyond the photographs.

  “After thirty two weeks, at the surgeon's discretion, preparation may begin to make the incision..." he intoned, forcing her to lie flat.

  Tina Crabtree let out a series of frantic gasps and kept struggling until Louis rested the blade’s tip in her skirt's waistband and split the material down to the hem. The same for her under-slip and panties.

  "Christ Jesus, help me," she whispered as his fingers touched her toffee-coloured stomach, "Why are you doing this? Why?"

  "Because I have to." His little finger found her navel and encircled it, before tracing the curved, wine-red scar which, even after all these years, still marked her stomach like some mystical ley line. Yes, exactly, because he knew it was his scar, his legacy on her flesh, and for a fleeting second what seemed like pure love, passed through to his fingertip as he tenderly re-opened the way to his long-lost domain.

  Chyk… chyk… chyk....

  *

  There’d been no fighting, no noise and, all things considered, Louis later reflected while on the half-empty bus down to Portsmouth, his intimate homecoming had been rather a subdued affair. As the wintry English Channel came into view, lit up by passing ferries and antiquated warships stirring on the tide, he realised how much better is repossession of that which was lost, than to rely upon the corruptible and flimsy fabric of memory.

  58

  While Louis Harper was fortifying himself with a large coffee and warmed-up ham and cheese panini at Portsmouth’s ferry terminal café, Briar Bank’s CID team had been corralled to an urgent briefing on the Little Bidding case which had just come to light. DI Tim Fraser and DC Derek Jarvis had left North Barton Boys’ School feeling that crucial progress had been made, also aware that an angry Jacquie Harper had been removed from her early afternoon shift at Happy Chicks to a holding cell at Briar Bank HQ. They’d stopped at a kiosk selling hot dogs in The Mall, but only Jarvis could face the fatty sausage and super-sized roll on offer, while Fraser stared at the very place he’d been kneed by the one who’d almost certainly taken his latest, sick game to new heights.

  *

  "So, where'lI you be stopping tonight?” quipped Jane Truelove, wearing cream slacks and a tight, black jumper, as she set down the coffee tray and handed Tim Fraser his full plastic cup. "Wort Passage or The Starling?"

  Not even this remark punctured the gravitas in Briar Bank’s Incident Room, following the dramatic news from Little Bidding. On a wet Saturday afternoon such as this, most of the team would be engaged in more pleasurable activities.

  "That was uncalled-for," Fraser retorted, seeing his ex-brief-fling settle herself opposite him while Jarvis and Crooker also in smart-casual gear, took their places near DS Peter Deakins positioned in front of a busy whiteboard. Fraser noticed too, how the bespectacled senior cop had lost weight. How his hand wasn't quite steady when he passed Crooker a pile of agendas to distribute. Fraser skimmed his with Rita uppermost in his mind.

  "Before we begin," Deakins glanced at him, “to avoid confusion, I've agreed with Chief Superintendent Parrott at the Met to have Tim here for two weeks. A - he knows this patch. B - he’s been privy to some vital information, and C,” he paused, for an all-too significant second, “with the Molloy dead-end now set aside, his focus will be invaluable…”

  Muted approval followed.

  Fraser blushed. However, his Molloy mistake was still raw.

  “How’s Mrs Crabtree, sir?" he deflected. "Any more news?"

  "Out of danger, but, as you already know, the foetus - another boy - had been severed from his placenta. At seventeen weeks, he’d not stood a chance…” “Sicko,” murmured Frobisher, looking ill.

  “Some latest forensic news just in. Are we ready?” Deakins looked around the room, avoiding eye contact. “And remember, from now on Louis Harper will be referred to as Perelman.”

  He then continued. “The semen left on Tina Crabtree’s body matched what was found on that fake constable’s uniform and, wait for it, Louis Perelman's under-sheet and bedspread that Derek here, collected yesterday.”

  Fraser bowed his head. The gurgling coffee machine echoing his empty stomach.

  “We’re still waiting for results on the dusting Derek did in his bedroom yesterday,” continued Deakins. “Meanwhile, Graham Lodge, who’s Perelman’s real father, has given a full Statement to our Swindon colleagues. Thank God he’d arrived at The Larches when he did. And had a key. According to him, it was to finally end his relationship with Tina Crabtree before a job transfer to Canada. He’s still under sedation in an unnamed hospital.” “Sir, you mentioned God…” Derek Jarvis toyed with his empty cup on his wide knees. “What God?”

  Deakins coughed then continued. "We now know who’d been targeting Mr Lodge with weird calls at his London workplace. He feels guilty he didn't alert the police about his other suspicions, but Louis Perelman was his son. We're all human."

  "Really?" said Crooker reddening.

  "And Jacquie Harper's protected him all this time," Fraser added bleakly. "That’s a kind of madness too."

  "Agreed."

  “He’ll need a damned good alibi for midday onwards.”

  “No swearing, please,” Deakins reminded everyone and, in another awkward silence, re-checked his watch. “Incidentally, four witnesses have come forward in response to the Little Bidding case. All recalled seeing our suspect wearing a distinctive, black-faced watch that Rita Martin had also noticed in Birmingham on Wednesday.
..” When he’d finished reading out the Coventry charity shop assistant and the lorry driver’s accounts, Fraser asked, “and the other two?"

  "Both women, who confirmed this character’s age and appearance. A Miss Joanne Clark, was on the Swansea train this morning when he accused her of making a pass at him. Apparently saying in a public schoolboy voice, ‘cockpits turn me off totally.’

  Fraser eyed Jarvis and Crooker. “Remember that photography project we’ve just seen in the Record Book at North Barton Boys’ School? KM cockpit? Perelman possibly trying to stitch up Toby Lake and not quite succeeding.” He then passed Deakins a short, signed summary of the morning’s other discoveries.

  “He should vary his vocabulary, for a start,” said Jarvis, clearly still embarrassed by the meaning of that word, before Fraser’s next question.

  “Speaking of Toby Lake, has an Inquest date been given?”

  “Provisionally the 30th.”

  "Thank you. And Sir, you mentioned another woman…"

  "Mrs Enid Turnbull. Out with her dog by the Royal Oak pub in Little Bidding, when she met a young man who appeared lost. Again, her description matches all the others. She felt awkward in his presence and found his slightly-hooded eyes disturbing. Also, his dilated pupils. Why she contacted Swindon CID. as soon as she could."

  Fraser’s fists tightened.

  He turned to the room. "Rita Martin’s description of her daughter’s sketch of Pete Brown could also indicate a cokehead.” He turned to Jarvis, who frowned as if dredging his memory.

  “Are there any copies here?” Fraser pressed on.

  “Not since our refurbishment. It was chaos.” Jane Truelove also looked uncomfortable.

  Perhaps she’d got rid of them, mused Fraser who’d never really known her.

  “And has anyone been to soften up the Monks at the Old Soldier? I remember Denise being very approachable about their snowbirds.”

  Another silence. Fraser broke it.