Cut To The Bone

by Sally Spedding

  The place smelt damp, unused even, though the few limp posters askew on a notice board suggested otherwise. Rita read how Pat and Eric Molloy took a children’s Bible Study class there on Thursday evenings. COME AND SEE THE LIGHT ! it urged. Enough to make her run up the corridor.

  "God knows what you're hoping to find here,” the portly man muttered after her, switching on the light and jangling his keys in impatience. "I was just in the middle of High Noon…"

  Crooker and Frobisher exchanged a glance.

  "The situation has been explained to you, Mr Arnold." Crooker said sternly. "A young boy is missing."

  "No Dad. That’s why."

  Crooker ignored the slur. "So Eric Molloy does have a key for this place?”

  "Yes, sir. Pat and Eric do a great job. Kids love 'em. Their class is always full." His voice morphing into an American accent, sounded ridiculous, but then cowboys were probably his main companions.

  "Do they do anything else here?"

  "I don’t get it."

  "They've disappeared too."

  Arnold gulped. That was clearly news to him.

  "Citizens' Advice, if you must know,” he said. “Six o'clock tonight.” He then turned his sour expression on the two men. "Look, why aren't you out there stopping the damned speeders, the pushers and gippos who make decent folk too scared to go out?"

  Neither replied, for Rita had vanished into the main hall and they swiftly joined her in checking storage cupboards - all surprisingly unlocked - then the kitchen area whose stained worktops lay strewn with unwashed crockery. Finally, a smaller room adjoining the cloakroom and toilets.

  As Rita opened the door to its bare space, she let out a gasp. For on the opposite wall lay the only unmarked door so far unexamined and locked. She pressed her ear hard to its scuffed wood then called out.

  "Freddie? It’s Mum. Are you there? Please, please answer me!"

  Crooker urged Arnold to hurry. "Got a key for this room?" he barked as the man’s pudgy fingers seemed to sort through the bunch with deliberate slowness. Frobisher warned him he could be nobbled for obstructing the course of justice.

  "For God's sake, you!" Rita yelled at the pensioner. "Freddie might be in there!"

  Finally, Arnold inserted a small, bronze key into the lock. The moment the door began to move Rita kicked it wide open with the toe of her trainer and met the darkness. It was clear from the smell inside that despite the towers of tiny chairs and folded tables taking up most of the limited space, something other than man-made was also being stored.

  78

  Tim Fraser hurtled along the sodium-lit Ml past Daventry in a hired Honda CRV. Although supplied with a new BlackBerry, his Glock had been taken in for an overhaul. He felt like shit and looked even worse at the end of the longest, most testing time of his life, but no way could he stop for a shave or a shower. Someone was waiting. A woman he didn't deserve, yet who held his uncertain fate in her hard-working hands.

  *

  While he switched on his car radio to check the latest news bulletin, Rita cradled her youngest child in her arms until his mouth fell open and his body relaxed into the kind of sleep she herself was longing for. His clean, curly hair rested against her cheek while his heart, close to hers, seemed to beat with renewed vigour. This simple rhythm filled her with such huge relief, that the day's pent-up tears swamped her vision and fell, leaving dark patches on Freddie's pyjamas.

  Briar Bank Hospital had found nothing physically wrong with him, apart from two bruised knees and a cut on his right forearm. Whether from football or flight from his pursuers, he wouldn't say. Not even to Sergeant Crooker who'd bought him sweets from the hospital kiosk. He only wanted his Dad, and that Benny's Mum who'd promised both boys a treat after their practice, had dropped her own son off at a strange house then driven Freddie to the Ditch Hollow rec.

  Crooker had then asked him if he'd seen young Joe Molloy at all, but Freddie’s lips had firmed up.

  “He’ll talk when he’s ready,” the sergeant had reassured her, “but for a conviction, time is of the essence.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Rita finally carried Freddie through to his bed, resisting the urge to contact Kayleigh yet again. As for Tim, she was prepared to disobey police orders to find out where he was.

  She was just taking a peep at Freddie before returning to the kitchen and her mobile, when he cried out from under his duvet. "I want my Dada. Where's Dada? Please bring him back..."

  And as it continued, something inside her snapped.

  Stop it! Stop it!

  He had to know she'd done her best for him and Kayleigh all these years and was exhausted. That she'd not stopped thanking that same God for bringing him back safe from Ditch Hollow. But it was the front door bell ringing which suddenly froze her.

  "Who's that?" she shrieked. It was getting late. Cold and dark outside the lighted kitchen and her nerves couldn't take much more.

  "Rita?"

  Tim?

  Suddenly, her legs felt made of rubber, and when she opened the door on a man she barely recognised, her eyes widened in horror. He seemed years older. His hair a mess, while unpressed, unfamiliar clothes hung off him, bringing – she was sure – the smell of the sea.

  “What on earth?” She gasped.

  "I've been trying to make contact," he said, taking her hands in his and noticing they were trembling. How several fingernails had broken.

  "So have I. Where have you been?"

  "Portsmouth."

  Rita frowned. "Portsmouth?"

  "Look, I heard about Freddie," he deflected, letting go of her hands to shift the parka off his back. "The CID insisted on no contact until he'd been found. And…" He stopped. Glanced towards the open door to the bedrooms. "I’m so bloody sorry I wasn't there for you." His voice momentarily trailed away. "Is he OK?"

  "He's fine." Rita’s voice cooled. She went to fill the kettle from the tap, wanting answers. “No thanks to you.”

  “Hello?”

  “I’m sorry too, but you could have left your phone on, especially after this morning when I finally realised that Louis Perelman was Pete Brown.” Her voice raised a notch. She couldn’t help it. “Have you any idea what it’s been like here?”

  “I’ve not stopped thinking about it. Look, can I explain it all in a minute?“ He swiped a hand through his hair.

  “It had better be good,” she plonked two empty mugs on the worktop. “He’s dead isn’t he? I heard Constable Frobisher say."

  A defeated nod.

  “Coffee or something stronger?" she asked. “Or a shower?”

  "Coffee. Thanks."

  She decided there was no point in pushing the Pete Brown scenario or mentioning Molloy's phone message and the other offerings. Tim Fraser was clearly in a state, and she wasn’t that hard.

  He pulled out a chair from under the table, and subsided on to its seat, yet both fists stayed clenched on the check tablecloth. "They found Molloy's kid," he said, catching her by surprise.

  "Joe?" The half-full kettle stayed in mid-air. "What d'you mean, found?"

  "In waste ground behind their house. Up the far end by North Barton Woods."

  Where Kayleigh goes riding...

  “Is he alive?”

  "Sadly, no. Apparently, Pat Molloy told the school he'd got tonsillitis, but the pathologist reckons he'd been buried there for about a week, which tied in with my visit. He's convinced the little chap had been raped then strangled.”

  He stopped for a moment as if to continue was too much. His tired eyes met hers. "No wonder the creep put one on m
e and did a bunk."

  "Poor little, innocent kid.” Rita set the kettle down.

  "Couldn't resist little Freddie either, could they?"

  She glanced down the passageway. He was still wanting his Dad.

  "Please, Tim, don't." She paused to look at the man opposite. "Then he gets a note too. In his football kit bag. The cops wouldn't let me see it."

  "You're kidding."

  "I'm not."

  “Do you want to?”

  “No.”

  Fraser stalled. He could either externalise the wave of emotion now hitting him, or give facts. A no-brainer.

  "By the way," he watched her spoon instant coffee into those same two Coventry cathedral mugs. "Briar Bank found traces of Molloy's blood in the Proton. Looks like Father Bear bashed it up driving through the woods. Traces of tree bark in the bodywork too. Of course Auntie Sandra was involved. Lovely lot, eh?"

  "I trusted her." Rita said simply, with a sneaking feeling Tim might be holding something back. That little Joe was just the lead-in. She brought over the drinks then a packet of M&S wafer biscuits from the cupboard.

  "What else is going on, Tim? It's Frank, isn't it? Was that why you were in Portsmouth? Why no-one's said anything to me at this end."

  "Sit down, Rita."

  She pulled out a second chair with her foot. Rather than meet her fierce gaze, Tim studied the colourful biscuit packet in front of him, depicting a happy dream world. "He owed one of Transline's bosses three grand. A weasel called Liam O’Donnell, acting as co-driver so he could screw him somewhere hard to escape from."

  "Frank said he was in trouble.”

  “Exporting terrorists to train in the Middle East. All tucked up in a load of sofa beds. I ask you."

  "My God." Then she paused. "So I was right about that damned firm all along." But that gave her no pleasure. She noticed how he ignored his coffee, his hands tensing again.

  "O’Donnell could get a long stretch,” he said. “Did you ever hear that name mentioned?"

  "I think it was him in the background when Frank phoned about coming over on Tuesday to talk about things. He sounded a nasty piece of work.” She then relayed their phone conversation. Tim Fraser looked across at her. The woman he loved just inches away and he should get up and take her in his arms. But his body was too rooted in the day's memories, which weren't over yet.

  "Well, he was on a St Malo ferry from late Saturday afternoon until this morning."

  "Ferry?"

  "The St. Christopher, delayed till today because of a dockers’ strike.”

  "No wonder I’d heard a foghorn when he’d called. I should have realised. So, where’s he now?”

  "Oh God.”

  "What d'you mean?’"

  "Look, Rita, I did my best. You have to believe that. I tried to reach him, I really did." He glanced at the jolly biscuit packet again. This was unbearable.

  "Reach him? Why? Isn’t he alright?" She had no mental picture of events down south and nothing was making sense. If Tim was trying to spare her feelings, he was having the opposite effect.

  "Jarvis and I caught him in a fight with this O’ Donnell on the top deck. Frank tried to get away and climbed on to the rail..."

  "And? Can I see him? Phone him?"

  A moment's panic passed like electricity between them.

  "I’m afraid you can't."

  "Why?"

  Tim took a deep breath. "I couldn't find him after..."

  "After what?"

  "He’d slipped and fallen into the sea. Oh, God. I'm so, so sorry."

  79

  Rita felt sick and faint in turn. The kitchen around her began to move and tilt this way and that as Frank loomed larger than life in her mind. His crinkly hair, his outdoor skin. How he'd let himself go before all this risky, ruthless business. How would she tell Kayleigh and Freddie? How? She wouldn’t have the strength. She was a widow. They were fatherless…

  "D'you mean you went in after him?" she asked eventually.

  "It was no big deal. I had to, while there was still a chance of rescue." He reached into his Parka pocket and withdrew Jez’s Mother’s Day card. He set in in front of her, still damp, but recognisable. “I could tell he was moved. He snatched it from my hand, and I found it in the sea shortly afterwards…”

  A numb silence followed, hard to break, but in which Rita now realised the true courage of the man opposite her.

  "Thank you doesn't sound much, does it?"

  "I don't want thanks, Rita. He was part of you, part of the kids..."

  He felt tears attack his own eyes. Tried pulling himself together, just then needing more than ever to feel her close, but still unable to move.

  “Did anyone else help look for him?" she asked, for the idea of no body to say goodbye to was unbearable.

  "There’ve been choppers, the lot. But not, I’m afraid, for Perelman."

  A brief pause followed suddenly broken by Freddie calling out again in his sleep. Tim turned towards the passageway.

  “Thank God you’re here,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  "Frank never learnt to swim," Rita began. "Even when Jez started at the baths." Her voice tailed away. She squeezed her eyes shut with no real urge to re-open them.

  "He helped us a lot though. And I told him that. Did you realise Jez kept a diary?”

  Her eyes snapped open.

  “No. Go on.”

  “Just a few entries from around the time he first met this Pete Brown. His handwriting matched exactly what was in this card. Why I asked to take it from here."

  Hearing that awful name seemed to bring a chill into the cosy kitchen.

  "And there was me complaining how little Frank had done." Her voice grew shaky, and he ached even more to hold her. He stretched out a hand to cover hers. Still ringless.

  "You can’t blame yourself. He wouldn't want that.”

  She sniffed. Tried once more to sound strong, in control.

  “It was crucial that everything was kept under wraps. Just in case…"

  "Why?"

  "Because it’s only recently that the writing in this diary has been matched with his Mother’s Day card. It proves Pete Brown was Louis Perelman. The respectable lad from a two-parent, de-luxe home in Meadow Hill, who ended up alone with his adoptive mother in Mullion Road. He was on that same bloody ferry and had given the captain a fatal heart attack and assaulted Frank and DC Jarvis."

  “My God.”

  “He then chucked himself overboard before I could catch him, but not before unburdening his black heart.”

  *

  When he’d finished listing the teenager’s crimes, she retrieved her copy of The Sunday Gazette and laid it on the table. Her tearful eyes strayed to its lurid front page while his hands now held hers tight. "I should’ve listened to you all along. I’m so sorry," he said.

  Her face softened. Her eyes met his.

  "Remember what you once told me? Stop saying sorry? Now it's your turn."

  "You're one special woman, Rita Martin. D'you know that?"

  A blush burned her face while a whirlpool of images spun in her mind. The boy with the hard, brown eyes, then Jez, Jip and Frank, all mixed up together in water and blood. Blood and water…

  *

  She went to stand by the window where, beyond the new blind, it was if the night had been there forever as Tim explained Louis Perelman’s cunning duplicity. The details Jez had recalled, which she ought to read when she felt able.

  Ri
ta turned round.

  "How had Frank got hold of it?"

  "From the Old Soldier. Jez and Perelman went there regularly to buy, and he must have left it behind on his last visit.” He paused. “I'm amazed Frank never saw him."

  "Are you?" Rita’s tone suddenly sharper. "So how did Jez get the money for drugs?" Another question she didn't really want answered.

  "Perelman wasn't hard up at the time. Think about it. He treated them both."

  The kitchen spotlights were suddenly too bright. Her insides too empty. She'd not eaten since Tim had last been there. "Why didn't one of those Monks give the diary back to me?”

  "Supplying youngsters with a class A drugs is a bad move. Or maybe they never noticed it. One thing's certain now. Monk Inc. – even Denise - will be sticking to their right to silence."

  Rita too, fell silent. Switched off one of the spotlights to reduce the glare. Tim didn't seem to notice the difference, but watched every one of her movements as she crossed over to the front door and drew its bolts across. He then shared his news about Jacquie Harper.

  “I can’t feel sorry for her,” she said, sitting down again. “Perhaps I should.”

  “No. She should have faced custody and the rest. Set an example.” He then lowered his voice to reveal how, on Saturday afternoon, he’d passed the Little Bidding bombshell to a journo friend on The Gazette, then Frank.

  “I see there’s no reporter’s name. Wasn’t that a big risk?”

  “Isn’t everything?”

  “And Kayleigh’s drawing? How come that appeared?”

  “I’m guessing that just before boarding the ferry, Frank must have found somewhere to fax it to that same paper. A good job too, because Briar Bank had mislaid their only copy. Or rather…” Here he stopped because Jane Truelove’s issues belonged to the past. “So bloody sad, really,” he said instead. “Still, what a gesture... At least he’s still got it on him, which is something.”

  "I’m not sure about that. Nor her being associated with it.”