Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  The leather jacket felt stiff as wood, his chinos like iced skin. The thin, black loafers even worse. So no way he could he hang about outside. His watch still showed 10.30 a.m. GMT, but his fingers were too numb to wind it on an hour. He'd try Dekker again, find some grub and, in a change of plan, hide somewhere else.

  He slipped over the lifeboat's side, wondering at the strange silence.

  The ferry wasn't moving.

  Jesus.

  Just then, two guys wearing donkey jackets and identical black woollen hats over their ears, pushed their way into his space. Although the taller, younger man stared at him and seemed about to speak, he managed to skirt past them and soon make himself scarce.

  Before joining the breakfast queue in the larger Moulin Rouge self-service cafeteria, he phoned Dekker's number, but there was still no reply, nor could he leave a Facebook message. Both accounts had mysteriously been cancelled. What the Hell was going on in Vienna? And more immediately, what if he was recognised here?

  So far he'd not spotted any of the pigs dropped on board, but they could be disguised in plain clothes. He briefly wondered what that diddler Molloy had done with his discarded uniform.

  Louis stared at the sizzling bacon strips, the fried bread and shiny, peeled tomatoes set out in what resembled a row of animal feed troughs. Having ordered something from each and paid, he stood to eat in a quiet corner. Moments later, with bad vibes growing by the second, he hurried down a flight of stairs marked ORANGE B where he came across a door marked PRIVATE. STAFF ONLY. Open, but pitch dark inside, smelling of a cleaning agent The Fawn used at Meadow Hill.

  He tried sliding the two bolts across behind him, but failing that, groped his way into the deeper darkness between what seemed to be boxes stacked high amidst buckets and an army of mops and brooms. He crouched stock-still, listening to someone’s solid footsteps on the stairs outside. The door opened then closed again, and that same purposeful tread continued down to the lorry deck. Louis breathed again. His watch showed yet another half an hour had passed. Surely, he was in the clear?

  No. He must alter his appearance yet again and, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could just make out the labels on some of the boxes. OVERALLS. GLOVES. CLEANING CLOTHS.

  What a gift, especially as an overall box was already open.

  He extracted a blue nylon one and slipped his leather arms into its slimy sleeves. It was on the extra large side, but did cover his other gear. Next, something to conceal his shorn crop. He soon located a bulk pack of caps with St. C embroidered at the front. He pulled one free then cast around for the final touch. What better than a mop and bucket? He emerged as a cleaner on to the now-deserted stairway. Through a porthole opposite, he saw the fog was lifting and under the wintry sun, the Normandy coast seemed at last, to be glowing its belated welcome.

  66

  "Dammit."

  Rita was already half an hour late and, as she drove down Farnham Street still in a bad mood, noticed Mr Waring's car already parked by the shop.

  "Traffic's been terrible," she lied to him, walking in with the milk. "I'm really sorry."

  "Good of you to come in, but,” he looked at her for longer than usual, “I worry about you sometimes. Especially now, after that terrible crime down in Wiltshire." He was filling the till with small change from the bank and didn't look up. "I’ll listen, if you want to chat.'

  "Everything's fine, thanks." She lied while plugging in the kettle and setting out two mugs. “Except for that poor woman and her dead baby.” Louis Perelman’s real mother.

  So far, Rita kept most things associated with Jez's death quite separate from her dealings with her employer, and wanted to keep it that way. After all, he was a businessman not an agony uncle. "It's just that my husband's phoned and I don't need the hassle," she said. "I want to focus on doing well here and get somewhere decent for me and the kids. Ideally by Easter."

  Geoffrey Waring looked up as she passed him his full mug of tea, as if aware she’d not told him the full story. He closed the till drawer. "Well, Rita, I’ve some good news for you. Should cheer you up. No pressure, mind.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes. I've just been granted permission for change of use on premises in Rugby town centre. Nice situation with double front windows and adjoining customer car park. I've never forgotten my father's dictum, ‘remember the buggers don't like to walk…"

  She smiled as he went on, yet unable to shift Louis Perelman from her mind. How she must somehow contact Tim, and also Emma Dixon’s mum.

  "I'd say it had potential to expand our existing service from domestic into industrial cleaning such as carpets, furnishings, protective clothing. You name it. We'll do it. So,” he took a long sip of tea then put his mug down. “What d'you feel about Rugby, eh? Manageress, with overall responsibility for staff training and development in the three premises?" He fixed her with his keen but kindly gaze. "Nothing you couldn't do with your energy and loyalty."

  Rita continued to grip her tea mug. Rugby was nice, the schools good and house prices still reasonable. Most importantly, a move there would get her and the kids right away from what she'd come to fear most. A repeat of July 2010.

  "You'd get a basic salary of thirty-five grand per annum," Mr Waring continued, "plus bonuses and overtime of course, with an annual review on the first of each February. I’ll also fund Private healthcare for you and your family, and a pension scheme to start on day one... "

  He ignored the rest of his tea as he waited for her disbelief to form an answer. For Louis Perelman to briefly fade.

  “My God, that's wonderful. Thank you.'

  "Any more questions?"

  "Yes. When can I start?"

  67

  Louis climbed back up the ORANGE B stairs, hampered by his mop and bucket, soon realising something was wrong by the mass of people milling around the top step, restrained by a locked metal barrier.

  What now?

  Should he return to that cleaning store, or make his way down even further?

  Instinct drove him downwards, into thicker air, with his mop bucket occasionally clanking against the step behind.

  For a moment, claustrophobia set in. The stairwell was too narrow, boxed in by puke-coloured walls. He took a left and to his relief, found Car Deck 3's double doors already open. Although the stench of diesel, the sheer number of closely packed lorries took him aback, he realised that here, he could hide. Avoid his passport being examined.

  However, loud shouts from the docking end of the vessel made him edge forwards to see four unfamiliar security guards plus some suits standing around the open rear of a white container lorry marked TRANSLINE. Seconds later, a troupe of dark-skinned men climbed down from inside to be led struggling and shouting towards another exit.

  The ship's hold echoed to a strange language, but there was no doubting the tone. Hostile, violent, he thought, making himself inconspicuous against the steel-ribbed wall. But why France? The last country that wanted dot-heads. Jews too. Unless of course there was another agenda. Dekker had his theories. America’s bum-buddy love of Israel was upping the anti in the Arab world. He'd proof of terrorist cells all over Europe. So maybe, like himself, these men had been on their way to higher things, ending with virgins in Paradise.

  He waited until that truck's rear door was sealed and the remaining security guards gone, before creeping along to find another locked door saying STAFF ONLY barring his way.

  Despite the cold, his shorn head began to sweat under his stupid cap, yet he daren’t risk removing it. He was just about to revisit ORANGE B stairs where he'd soon be lost amongst the descending hordes, when the Tannoy announced in English then French, that due to unforeseen circumstances, there�
�d be an extra half hour delay at St Malo.

  What the hell was his slack God up to?

  Whatever. He must stay where he was and pray to this unreliable deity for those thirty minutes to pass as quickly as thirty seconds.

  68

  If it hadn't been for that alert foot passenger-checker and the Guenari violin case with its label and receipt, no-one would have guessed the identity of Captain Richards' and the trucker's attacker. Also, clear fingerprints found on its bow and case handle, matched perfectly two samples found by Jarvis on a wardrobe in Louis Perelman’s bedroom at Mullion Road on Friday morning.

  There'd been near-panic during Mike Burrows’ tense, short briefing. Time was running out for the Briar Bank and Portsmouth CID teams to catch the devious violinist, because not one recent photo of the young perp had so far, seemed to exist. Also, the boat was entering French territorial waters.

  Having lost his elusive quarry down the ORANGE B stairs, Fraser re-joined Jarvis and jammed a euro coin into a coffee machine's slot. After the third try, he gave up until his companion handed over one of his.

  “You should have followed me," Fraser grumbled later as they yet again patrolled the Moulin Rouge cafeteria. "I had a hunch about that odd-looking young guy on the top deck. Something about his eyes.”

  “Like Robert Mitchum, you mean?”

  “Spot on.”

  "He looked nothing like the lad I questioned in Meadow Hill or Downside, if that’s what you mean. And by the way, can I say it now?"

  “Go on.” Yet Fraser knew what was coming.

  “I’m sorry I missed the drugs clue in that drawing. But I had Rita Martin so desperate to find…”

  “It’s OK, Derek,” Fraser interrupted, touching his arm. “Let’s just leave it and try and get a result. By the way, I keep wondering how Kayleigh Martin’s drawing got in the papers.”

  “And I wonder who grassed to them about Little Bidding, and took the risk of giving Perelman’s name.”

  “Hey up,” said Fraser, more than glad of a diversion. “Here come the glitterati.”

  Both Portsmouth detectives heading towards them, had changed from suits into jeans and waterproofs. They looked keen enough, but when Fraser had radioed them about this half-frozen character he and Jarvis had seen up on the smallest, highest deck, had received short shrift. They'd argued that no way would Louis Perelman risk being spotted in public. The coward who'd delivered a fatal heart attack to the boat's captain, was lying low, they’d said. And, at the briefing, added that gendarmes with sniffer dogs to test the violin case and the holdall, would be brought in before berthing at St Malo.

  Fraser watched the two men stride by as if they knew something he didn't, and for a second, was tempted to tail them.

  "Bum fluff." Jarvis observed, cramming his empty beaker into an over-full litterbin. "Think they’re bloody it. And small detail, Perelman’s not from fucking Portsmouth."

  “He’s ours, isn’t he? So let’s reel the slippery bastard in.”

  69

  "The toilets must be spotless before we dock, so move!" A sharp, female voice made Louis jump. A short-ass in the obligatory maroon jacket and navy skirt who'd appeared from nowhere, made him clamber after her up the ORANGE B stairs. She unlocked the barrier at the top and re-locked it behind him, ignoring those impatient Brits trying to sneak down to their wheels.

  The roar of more helicopters overhead grew louder as the St Christopher, behind schedule, continued to make progress. It would only be a matter of minutes before he too would have to be at the Information Desk before disembarking.

  No way.

  The boat’s fetid air intensified as if its ventilation system was overwhelmed, and Louis had just finished mopping the second of the Gents’ floor when an announcement made him stop in his tracks.

  “All male passengers must assemble immediately in the Shanklin Lounge and we assure you it will only be for a matter of minutes. Meanwhile, French police will shortly be searching the vessel with dogs, so we urge everyone to obey instructions and remain calm.”

  Sick joke.

  Louis emerged from his labours into a wall of bodies and collective rage. Someone crushed a can and flung it at the nearest window. Another, assuming he was French, gave him the finger. No-one else noticed him as he forced his way against the teeming flow up to the next floor’s Gents. The sooner he was finished here the better, but hell, hadn’t he realised he was an employee who could well be retained for the return crossing?

  Panic made him work with haste, thankful that passengers weren’t bothering with a last-minute dump or leak, so he finished in five minutes. Next, he tore off his cap, then the overall which, full of stat, sent little sparks pricking his skin. Having bundled them into the W.C. bin, he then climbed heavenwards.

  70

  Since Jarvis had left his ‘patch,’ it seemed to Fraser that he’d become even more the follower. But he was too pre-occupied to make that a problem now. "Just keep looking, but remember those eyelids,” he said to him. “That smug mouth."

  "Could be wearing shades," Jarvis added. “He’s already changed from his original clothes.”

  "And the rest. We're just scuttling about in some floating warren. Two blind, bloody mice..."

  Hopelessness was slowing him down, making him wish he was on the M1 again, heading north. But how could he leave here empty-handed? Walk away from the psycho who shared his very air?

  All at once, his two-way bristled into life. Burrows out of breath.

  "Tim?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Just found some dodgy boys in a truck on Car Deck 3 heading for Marseille. The co-drivers, Frank Martin and Liam O'Donnell are missing."

  “Martin? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And O'Donnell's just been seen leaving the Bureau de Change. He changed at least four grand into euros, no questions asked. By the way, it's possible Frank Martin was the guy our violinist assaulted yesterday."

  A shiver crept under Fraser's clothes. Another chilling coincidence emerging from the ether. Should he tell Rita, or keep official secrets? No, he decided. One serious breach of protocol had been enough.

  "What's their gear?" he asked.

  "Old jeans, bum-huggers. All black, so we were told. Like the cargo on the truck."

  "And the operator is?" Although he’d already guessed it.

  "Transline. From up your way."

  Fraser groaned. It had been bad enough hearing Frank Martin's name. Jarvis eyed him as the call ended.

  "You checked them out," he reminded him, without any trace of gloating, then added, “The man from Maxim, eh?”

  Not funny.

  "Twice, yeah,” admitted Fraser. “But like Perelman, and half the London gangs I deal with, they've been too damned clever." Fraser knew Rita wouldn't be impressed by this failure either. "Let’s try top deck again," he said, then glanced at his watch. “You never know.”

  *

  He took the thin steps upwards three at a time towards the sky. Blue now, he noticed through the last grubby window, yet the sea although calm, seemed unusually dark. For a moment, he imagined being in it.

  Aware of Jarvis' laboured breathing behind him, he pushed through a rusted door to the small deck whose slippery space was mostly taken up by the base of a huge, navy blue funnel.

  Fumes from above bore sooty deposits on to every surface. But that wasn't all.

  "Quick, man!” he yelled to Jarvis.

  Next to the deck rail, two guys matching Mike Burrows' description, were locked so tightly together, neither could extricate himself. Fraser couldn't see any way of separating them without the risk of a weapon materialising. Jarvis beside him, cleared his thro
at.

  "Gentlemen, please!" he shouted as Fraser stepped closer to the fight. The older, stubbled man with hollowed cheeks he guessed to be Frank Martin, was already winded. His breath coming in short, wheezy gasps.

  "Cool it now, eh?" Fraser suggested, deliberately low-key. "It's too dangerous for this sort of thing up here."

  "Who the fuck are ye?" The older one glanced his way, then bellowed in pain as the other's hand suddenly squeezed his balls.

  "DI Fraser of the Met and DC Jarvis of Briar Bank CID. We know who you both are, so why not help us out?" He was about to radio the Portsmouth boys, when Frank Martin toppled against the deck rail, suddenly pale, dazed, clutching his groin. But before Fraser could reach him, his smaller, younger opponent had pulled him up by his collar and punched his jaw. The crunch of bone, and a fearful cry brought Fraser and Jarvis to his aid.

  The victim tried spitting out the blood and teeth filling his mouth. “I gave ye a fuckin' grand yesterday,” he gargled to his foe.

  "Not enough, mate. It’s two grand short. You wanna quit the job, so, it's gonna cost." He lunged again, but despite Fraser's yell to Jarvis to keep back, it was the detective constable who bore the brunt of O'Donnell's wiry strength.

  Jarvis staggered to the deck floor and, in the split second it took his attacker to flee, the older guy had hauled himself up on to the rails, straddling the wooden bar at the top. Dark blood dangling from his chin.

  "Hey, Frank!" Fraser yelled at him. "Get down!" There was nothing below to break any fall.

  Hearing his name made the man hesitate. His wheezy chest heaving in and out. His big, rough hands beginning to slip.