Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  "Can't you trace any of those calls?" she said, aware it would soon be dusk.

  "We'll try," said Crooker, beginning to dial and, after a number of attempts and repeated ring-backs which made her jump each time, he turned to her. "The first two are untraceable.

  However, what interests us most is that third call. It was local. Ditch Hollow, as it happens"

  "Ditch Hollow?" Rita's blood ran cold. "That's only a mile away! And Downside’s not far either.” She wasn’t going to let them off the hook. “Could it be Pete Brown? I mean, Louis Perelman? It sounded just like him."

  Both officers glanced again at each other.

  "No," Frobisher said knowingly, touching her arm. “Believe me.”

  "Molloy, then? I had a foul little note from him on Wednesday. Delivered by hand if you please."

  “You’re not serious? Where is it?”

  Rita hesitated. She didn’t want to mention Tim’s last visit.

  “Have either of you got kids?”

  “No,” said Crooker, not unhappily.

  “Well when you do, you’ll be amazed at what goes missing.”

  “The minute you find it, let us know. OK?”

  "Of course, but why's Molloy’s car hidden round here? He had his own garage."

  "How well do you know this Sandra Gregory?" was Crooker’s reply.

  Rita recalled the seemingly friendly woman of similar age to herself. "Quite well. We used to chat about our kids, specially at the Single Mums' Club." However, the moment she'd mentioned that, her lips went numb. She looked from one officer to the other, sensing something was wrong.

  "She's Pat Molloy's sister." Frobisher admitted. "Quite close, we believe."

  “What?” Rita sat down on the nearest chair. "She never mentioned her to me, and they never bothered with each other at those meetings." She banged her fist on the kitchen table then grabbed her phone on the nearby worktop. "I must speak to Tim Fraser."

  Crooker placed his cool hand on hers. "Just trust us, eh?"

  "You don't understand," she glared at them both.

  "We do. So let's take the car for another look round."

  74

  As the Mondeo sped along Graves Way and into Corporation Road past the Council tip. Rita felt a mounting self-loathing for trusting a woman she thought she knew. The tense atmosphere was punctuated only by the odd burst of radio contact with those other officers in the back-up car. Then Frobisher in the passenger's seat, half-turned to her after the last call came through.

  "Our friends behind us have just been to the football field in Scrub Lane. They found Freddie's kit bag, his tenner and his normal clothes intact, plus," he stalled before finishing the sentence. "A pretty weird note."

  "I can't take any more," Rita murmured, unaware of the officers' relief that she'd not pressed them as to its contents.

  "The clothes’ll be examined, and that note checked against the other one Tim Fraser handed in earlier. If Molloy is to blame, he’ll be well up shit creek. Excuse my language."

  Crooker slowed down by Ditch Hollow’s small, sunken recreation ground where several adults strolled and chatted while their kids played tag. Dayight had darkened, and to Rita's mind, any one of those young boys could be Freddie.

  "I must tell Kayleigh I'm out in case she phones home." Rita got out her mobile, but Frobisher whipped round.

  "Sorry love, but it could mess up our waves. Just give us the number."

  Afterwards, Rita handed back Crooker's phone, noticing the Mondeo had stopped.

  "Better come with us," Crooker suggested gently. "Your caller phoned from over there." He pointed to a telephone booth next to a line of run-down shops opposite the recreation ground. Rita could barely bring herself to look. "And very generously left us a couple of decent prints."

  *

  The air was chilly, the whole park area becoming bleak and dispiriting. Several skinny dogs coursed through the mean trees and Rita thought of Jip. Also, how much she'd lost since he’d died. Meanwhile, Crooker and Frobisher were heading for two shell-suited women with pushchairs. Nearby, two small boys kicked footballs at a makeshift goal. This scene was almost more than Rita could bear. She tapped one of the women on her arm, making her spin round in surprise.

  "You've not seen a young, fair-haired lad with freckles, have you?” she said. “He's eight and wearing his school's red strip. Scrub Lane Primary."

  Mention of that estate, where even ice cream vans no longer ventured, made both mothers edge away. But Crooker drew alongside them. His ID at the ready.

  "Please, ladies, it’s important you try and remember anything you can. That little fellow may well have been with a man in his early forties. Slim, light brown hair, glasses. Also a plump, frizzy-haired woman - that's his wife - plus her sister who usually wears a track suit. Eric and Pat Molloy."

  Their names triggered no reaction at all.

  "What about Benny?" Rita turned to the sergeant. "Sandra’s son."

  "Skinny little thing. Looks nearer four than seven. There’s a dad who’s never around. A Ghanaian. Who knows?”

  The two women conferred, momentarily distracted by one of their lads whining for a drink. They seemed doubtful about getting involved.

  “It’s urgent,” said Rita.

  "We've only been here about fifteen minutes, but yeah," the shorter one said finally. "There was a young, blonde boy. I remember his freckles. My Darren wanted him to play, but..." Here she stopped. Pink lips pursed together.

  "Just tell us!" Rita shouted, having noticed the second police car moving away from the kerb.

  "There were two women, but no man and no other kid. They were having an argument. Nasty, by the sound of it. We didn't hang about did we?" She looked to her friend for concurrence.

  "Can you describe them?” said Frobisher. “It could save that child's life."

  "Ordinary, you know. Mind, the taller one had black roots showing. I'd never go out with my hair like that..."

  "Sandra Gregory," Rita's voice had shrunk to a whisper. "Bitch."

  "Did you see them leave?" asked Crooker, watching Frobisher home in on another group preparing to go. The woman shook her head as the sergeant radioed the back-up car and told them to start searching properties nearest that particular phone box.

  "Did this young boy say anything?" Rita couldn't use her son's name. Instead, visualised his hot, angry face. Jez all over again.

  "Yeah. He didn't want to go with them."

  Silence, in which Darren began to grizzle and Crooker gave the women the Briar Bank Police station number should they recall anything else. Suddenly, a shout came from the direction of the trees. Frobisher was pointing at a huddle of figures strolling away down the far slope of the recreation ground. "Those people over there saw a kid of Freddie's description running towards the Community Centre."

  "When?" barked Crooker.

  "Ten minutes ago."

  *

  Within seconds, Rita and both officers were at the concrete-rendered building abutting a small car park populated by overflowing wheelie bins, and were hammering on its main door. She knew that was futile. Nothing ever opened on a Sunday, and a nearby notice confirmed it. So, if Pat Molloy and Sandra Gregory hadn't caught up with Freddie, where had he gone from there? The answer too painful to consider, because each wintry clump of trees seemed to guard a hidden terror, and the curve of damp grass sloped downwards to God knew where...

  She had an idea.

  "He knew Kayleigh was going to Emma Dixon's overnight, and had the address and phone number on him. That's worth a try, but please, Kayleigh's not to know there's anything wrong."

  "OK." Crooker r
adioed his colleagues who'd already reached the third house along Ditch Hollow Road. He then radioed Briar Bank for forensics to test Molloy's damaged Proton for possible evidence of Freddie's more recent presence. Also to check if any accident involving it had been reported. He then passed on Rita's description of Sandra Gregory's Skoda. A noticeable car, he reassured her, knowing that was the only shred of encouragement he could give.

  75

  At 5.00 p.m. CET, after seemingly endless de-briefings by Burrows, his equally disappointing team and the French police on board an almost empty ferry, Tim Fraser sat with his back to the melancholy, dusk-laden English Channel. He was hunched over a bowl of tepid chocolat chaud in the first of Portsmouth’s police launch's small cabin, and although a thermal rug covered his still-shivering shoulders, it could never protect him from the horrors of the recent past. Especially Frank Martin’s final, desperate moments.

  The man who'd shared Rita’s bed. A father of three, waylaid by greed in a land where decent jobs were scarce. The sort Fraser saw every day. Unlike Louis Perelman, unique in every terrible way whose holdall had revealed some startling contradictions. An Old Testament bristling with makeshift bookmarks. Neo-Nazi propaganda including German/English instructions on garrotting, plus several solo violin scores of the most sublime music ever written. There'd also been Rita's mac belt, rolled up amongst his clothes.

  Odd, that.

  And no passport.

  Nearly four hours ago, beneath the circling gulls, having failed to reach Frank Martin, he’d been on that same deck again, unable to shoot when it mattered. Instead, he’d heard a garbled litany of his target’s crimes added to by the deliberate drowning of Toby Lake in Wrecker’s Brook.

  *

  Having binned his sodden Sunday paper, Fraser turned the damp Mother's Day card round and round on the table in front of him, noting how Jez Martin's writing on it had almost disappeared, and the pretty cottage depicted on the front, was just a grey splodge. However, a sudden, nearby voice made him start.

  "Jarvis'll be OK," Detective Sergeant Burrows had popped his head round the door. " According to the hospital, he’s out of danger, thank God.”

  No thanks to you.

  Yet that was good news and Fraser managed a smile. “He might become a believer yet.”

  Burrows didn’t get it.

  "And Captain Richards?”

  “Not so lucky, I’m afraid. His wife’s collapsed in shock.”

  “I’m so sorry. And for Frank Martin, poor sod.”

  Fraser was back again in that freezing waterworld beyond the ferry. His normally active limbs a dead-weight, too slow to reach the man before he'd slipped deeper and deeper beyond reach.

  "You did your best for him, Tim. We could’ve lost you as well, remember? And on top of all that, you dealt single-handedly with Perelman and DC Jarvis. Well,” he smiled, with no trace of unease as his own inadequacy. “There could be a bravery award waiting."

  I don’t think so.

  “As for those four Frenchies,” Burrows glanced round to check they weren’t being overheard. “Not impressed.”

  Fraser almost laughed.

  “It was my call,” he said instead. “Perelman had hurt Derek and too many others…” He almost added Rita’s name but his voice ran out, for that vast sea still seemed to engulf him. Its muffled liturgy of wind and brine filling his head as the dying man's bulk had tilted ever further away, sinking, indivisible from the blackness. "Is the search still on?" he asked.

  "Till nightfall, then that's it."

  "I must call Mrs Martin." She’d have heard the news from Little Bidding. Seen her daughter’s drawing in today’s papers and been worried stiff. Yet how could he break the rules again?

  "Once we've hit base,” said Burrows, ”that's best. And if you’ve any idea who might have fed Fleet Street and the provincials so generously, you can whisper it in my ear."

  Fraser didn’t hang about.

  “Could be Jacquie Harper,” he suggested. “Briar Bank never really got a handle on her, and to be honest, I’d have found it easier squeezing a stone. Be interesting to hear what she’s got to say.”

  “Indeed.” Burrows repeated her name as Fraser's stomach curdled again. This contentious matter could soon seriously bite him on the bum. And Rita getting news of Frank, and having to tell Kayleigh and Freddie, was more than he could bear. However, ‘Pete Brown’s’ fate might just sweeten the pill.

  He fumbled for his BlackBerry then realized it had gone. As had his other phone. Only a damp wallet remained in his cargo pants’ pocket. Gear he’d never normally have worn. “I really have to speak to Mrs Martin,” he tried Burrows a second time. "I'm a friend of the family. Not some bloody stranger."

  Burrows left his post by the door and came to stand opposite him. The circular, veneered table and its nearly full ashtray between them. The one concession on that launch to anything resembling a homely lounge. "It’s still all rather delicate, Tim,” he said. “Just try and understand."

  But all Fraser could feel was defeat lapping at his heels as he watched the box-ticking, automaton that was the Detective Sergeant, walking away.

  *

  As the ferry continued to surge beneath him, he glanced up at the window to catch a glimpse of the dying day, but sea spray denied him even that. He then rested his head on his folded arms and the last thing he saw before nodding off was Rita, unconvinced he’d really tried his best to save the man she’d once loved. The father of her kids.

  76

  After that rushed trip to Scrub End’s park and Community Centre, the police back-up car radioed that Freddie hadn't made contact with either his sister or the Dixons. In fact Mrs Dixon had been horrified to think of yet another Martin child in possible trouble. Sergeant Crooker steered a numb Rita towards their Mondeo.

  “He can be bolshy,' she said, suddenly. "If he doesn't want to do something, that’s that. The school bullies won't go near him."

  "So?" Frobisher started the engine, trying also to follow her train of thought. Imagination not his forte.

  "I doubt this little crew would want him on their hands for long. You ever heard him yell?"

  Crooker chose not to reveal what usually happened to snatched kids who wouldn’t shut up, but let her continue. "I'm thinking they've dumped him somewhere where he can't be heard. Nice and private. I bet it's not far. I mean, Freddie's hardly Marathon Man. He's only got little legs." She sniffed a sob. "I bet they caught up with him. So we need to ask if anyone noticed that Skoda and check out any more places that are empty or derelict.”

  Crooker checked his watch. "Molloy’s big in the community, yes?"

  Rita nodded, then his logic dawned on her.

  *

  Five minutes later, they’d parked again in the Community Centre’s car park. As far as Rita could tell, there was no-one else around. Those track-suited women and their kids long gone, along with everyone else.

  "If Molloy worked here, he'd have had a key." Rita’s damp eyes once more scanned the Centre before she ran from one grilled window to the next, calling out Freddie's name, scratching her fingers, breaking her nails trying to shift the rigid metal strands covering each grimy sheet of glass. Meanwhile, out of earshot, Constable Frobisher once more radioed Briar Bank, muttering afterwards that any keyholders were probably comatose by the telly after their Sunday dinners.

  Crooker kept a wary eye on Rita while his colleague held the line, then raised a thumb to signify a result.

  "Clerk to the Council reckons Molloy has keys to three other community centres," he said, and was about to end the call when something else made him press the radio to his ear.

  “Shit.”
/>
  “What’s up?”

  "News just in,” Frobisher said, then whistled under his breath. “Young Perelman's a goner.”

  Rita felt as if a black balloon in her chest had just deflated, to be replaced not by relief but nausea.

  “How?“

  “Talk later.”

  *

  Frobisher relayed the rest of the day's news into Crooker's ear, aware of him paling. "Rita Martin mustn’t know about her husband either," whispered the sergeant. "It could be the last bloody straw right now."

  "She's bound to find out soon."

  "Not from us she won't.”

  “There’s something else. You ready?”

  “Try me.”

  “Jacquie Harper's OD'd. Found in bed two hours after my calling in with Hopper and Groves. All for love, eh? Except that several of her boy’s spare passport photos were all torn up inside her knickers."

  Frobisher then listened some more before shoving his aerial in, looking more than serious.

  "Show's what a guilty conscience can do," Crooker still kept Rita in view, willing a key to arrive.

  "Bit hard, that."

  "We weren't hard enough." Crooker saw an exhausted Rita lean against the Centre's front door. “She lied to us from the start, and if there are questions asked about your visit, I’ll bloody tell them.”

  “Thanks.” Yet Frobisher didn’t sound too happy.

  “Now then, is someone coming with a spare key for this dump, or do we collect it ourselves?"

  "A Mr Arnold should be here in five minutes."

  "Great."

  The already darkening sky made Crooker aware that the world had gone crazy. An innocent, fatherless little boy who’d just lost his Dad, was somewhere in these godforsaken suburbs of the damned.

  77

  While Tim Fraser and the Hampshire team arrived by launch at Portsmouth, Ron Arnold duly showed up at Ditch Hollow Community Centre as daylight disappeared.