Scar Tissue

by Judith Cutler

  While they debated she jangled the house keys ostentatiously.

  Damn me if they weren’t about to call her bluff. She dialled, had a few words with Jan or Todd and passed the phone across to Simon, the scrawny one, whose blush practically glowed in the poor light. I didn’t need to hear his grovels: I could see from his body language he was ready to die of embarrassment.

  Snapping the phone shut with an air of contempt, Paula flapped a hand over her shoulder to tell me to join her, and shoved the key into the lock. It turned sweetly. And we were in. While I started looking, she went back for clipboards, tape and a variety of other clutter, promising to scowl at the men as if it was their fault she’d forgotten them. I could hear her snarling at them when she dropped them, no doubt deliberately, just so she could give another scowl.

  She dumped most of the things where anyone opening the door in a hurry would fall over them. We’d hear them and they’d be slowed down. Right: the plans and some light were all we needed.

  ‘I thought this place had been re-wired,’ Paula said crossly, flicking a light switch but getting nothing.

  ‘It has. It’s just that some stupid Sparks “forgot” to put in light bulbs except where he fancied. I’ll nip and get the lantern torch Todd gave me,’ I said, glad of an excuse to nip and get my reading matter before I got side-tracked.

  Yes, there were Evelina and Dubliners. I hugged them to me like old friends. But I couldn’t find my other ally, the torch, anywhere. Don’t think I didn’t check. There were plenty of places I might have put it, if I’d been in the habit of carrying it round. But surely I’d left it by my bedroll?

  Shaking my head, I ran downstairs, dropping the books by the rest of the booby-trap and calling to Paula.

  ‘In here. The kitchen. Or where it was and maybe where it will be.’

  The Daweses’ delight in the past hadn’t extended to old lead pipes, that was clear from the array of shiny new copper ones. But they’d found a range more or less in period, at least to look at, which was currently sitting sadly in the middle of the floor, awaiting installation. For some reason my torch – Todd’s torch – sat on the top of it.

  ‘Someone’s been in here,’ I said flatly. ‘That isn’t where I left it.’ I explained.

  ‘What about the rest of your stuff? Your sleeping bag? Clothes? Hang on, I’m coming too.’

  I didn’t ask why. Paula would never have forgiven me if I’d made her confess she was scared. Together and armed with the torch, however, I’m sure we both felt a good deal braver.

  Tidiness, as opposed to cleanliness, has never been my strong point. If only I’d left my bedding neatly rolled or spread out to air. If only I’d hung clothes in a graduated row. Those that I’d shown Taz were still in a jumble on the floor. I’d an idea they’d been neat when they were in my knapsack: shouldn’t the stuff still inside be folded? Whoever’s hand had been in there had stirred them up something shocking. Trouble was, whose hand? I shook my head at Paula, who tutted, more in sorrow than in anger, I thought.

  ‘Are you going to bring it down?’ she asked. ‘We can’t hang around much longer, you know.’

  ‘I’m not sure if – well, if mine was the last hand to touch it,’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t, maybe I should leave it here in case whoever it was comes back.’

  ‘Not much chance of anyone coming back anyway if we’re working here tomorrow.’

  ‘All the same.’ Truth to tell I didn’t want my pathetic rags anyway. They hadn’t owed the first owners anything when they’d arrived at the charity shops. Now they looked more like disgraceful dusters. No wondered Taz had been horrified when I’d worn them to meet his boss.

  Maybe Paula picked some of this up. Not usually a great one for touching, she slung an arm round my shoulders and drew me from the room.

  Not entirely to my surprise, she led us down to the kitchen again. ‘Hang on here while I go and look at the window from the outside,’ she said, checking she’d got her electronic measure in her pocket. I produced mine – only a cheap and cheerful tape, not her professional job, but good enough for what I was sure she had in mind.

  Her face appeared briefly at the window, pointing at the nearer edge of the house. The she disappeared from view. I knew better than to look for her until I’d got a measurement from the middle of the window to the outside wall of the kitchen, then, for good measure, from the same place to the inner corner. Then I saw her head bobbing round.

  ‘What kept you? The police?’

  ‘Finding something to focus on. You need to point this thing at something for it to tell you how far away it is. In this light it needed a big stone. Very big. I had half a mind to ask PC Pea-brain there to move one for me.’

  The readings were identical. All of them.

  ‘But the kitchen’s the logical place,’ I wailed.

  Without speaking she stomped off to the room at the far side of the house. It might once have been a library, with deep embrasures allowing shelving for massive tomes. A big, elegant window dipped from near the ceiling almost to the floor.

  ‘Not much light given the size of the room,’ Paula murmured. ‘I dimly remember having seen other windows bricked up – something to do with the tax on windows, whenever that was.’

  I thought it better not to tell her. ‘That’d make it easier to put in a false wall along here,’ I said, tapping hopefully.

  ‘Forget it! If they were building a priest hole they’d make sure no amount of tapping would betray it. Which room’s above this?’

  ‘Mine. Eventually. There’s a passage sandwiched between, of course, on the middle floor. No window. Very solid walls.’

  ‘Think enough to make a little run of steps? To your little cupboard. Which is almost wide enough to convince anyone that that’s all it is. Come on, we’re going back – what are you waiting for?’

  We stared at the wall, frustrated. Barely detectable, there was a closely fitting panel running ceiling to floor.

  ‘You’d need a jemmy to open it from this side,’ Paula sighed. ‘But I reckon it’ll open sweet as a nut from the other. And that we’ll find a little set of steps going down through that thick wall to the library.’

  ‘And then where? You see, it’s not just priests who had to hide. Later on it was Free Traders. And their booty, of course.’

  ‘Not a good time to look now, though,’ Paula said. A sheet of lightning had just lit up the big window. She held up her finger: I could see her counting. ‘About eight miles away, I should think. Whoops! And that one was even closer. My vote is, Caffy, that we abandon ship now. Before the rain.’

  ‘Too late.’

  ‘OK, then. Before the power goes.’

  Even as she spoke, the pale glimmer of the mean electrician’s forty-watt bulb quietly died.

  She pressed the van keys into my hands, plus the plans. I grabbed the books.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! Don’t blame me if you drop the lot.’

  I didn’t. Nor did she drop her load as she locked Fullers’ front door. It was a good job the locksmith had been more efficient than the electrician.

  We were both pretty soaked, of course, but to my surprise Paula signalled me to pull up by the police car. I did, nearside to nearside.

  ‘I’ve had to give up, officer,’ she said, grudging as if he’d turned on the storm. ‘Yes, I’ve locked the front door. See you tomorrow.’

  That was enough conversation. And it was raining in on to my lap. I slammed into gear and set off. We weren’t far from the summit of the Isle. All around, celestial fireworks were exploding. I knew better than to leap out of the van yelling, ‘Off, off, ye lendings!’ Instead, I asked quietly, ‘Half a bottle of champagne or just a glass?’

  Paula sighed. ‘If I’m going to drive home through this, it had better be water.’

  In the event we had nothing: in the wet there was no knowing if the van wouldn’t take it into its silly head to refuse point blank to start again. So I stopped and got out without cutting the e
ngine. Paula slid across and, waving, put the van into motion.

  ‘What now?’ she demanded, braking as I danced in front of her.

  ‘The books,’ I said.

  The expression on her face as she passed them across told her how crazy I was. I couldn’t blame her. I shoved them down my dungarees. By the time I’d reached the hotel foyer I was as wet as if I’d lain fully clothed in a bath.

  I stared down. Which would be worse manners, to paddle across their polished pretend-marble in my working trainers or to slide across in my socks? I was sure the chicest guest wouldn’t care a damn for the poor cleaner who’d have to sort out the mess. I set out as I was. I’d almost reached the lift, my finger poised to press the button, when a voice rang out, ‘Lucy? Ms Taylor? Can I have a word?’

  It was Assistant Chief Constable Moffatt.

  I turned, managing a self-deprecating smile. Well, it could hardly have been any other sort, the rain dripping off my nose and chin and joining the muddy puddle around the trainers.

  His was less easy to read. I was sure it wasn’t as comfortable as the ones he’d managed on Sunday evening, but I didn’t feel any really sinister vibes.

  ‘Working late,’ I said.

  ‘So I see. I’ve made a table-reservation for dinner,’ he said, laughing as he added, ‘I think I’d better get them to put it back. Half an hour?’

  I was just about to tell him ten minutes when I thought of my lovely books. Two minutes to shower, two to dry my hair, and a last two to get dressed and slap on some make-up. Twenty-four minutes with what I knew were my friends.

  Moffatt greeted my reappearance with a kiss on my cheek. All very friendly, the sort of kiss Todd might give. But there was something about the way he took my hand that set off the tiniest vibe.

  Actually, I was dead worried about my own reactions, I should have told him I’d already eaten, and suggested he cancel the table altogether. I still could. But I’d had enough lean years to know that meals were things you didn’t refuse, not without a very good reason – and a burger nearly three hours ago wasn’t necessarily the best excuse. On the other hand I’d also learnt, also from experience, that there was no such thing as a free dinner. (I know, I know – but who eats lunch at nearly half-past nine?)

  It would have been much better if I’d worked out with Paula how much to reveal of our evening’s discoveries. On the whole, I thought, very little. The man hadn’t done anything to get in touch till I’d been to Fullers twice in two evenings. Were the visits connected with his sudden interest in my affairs or was the meal entirely coincidental?

  I’d have to stay on my toes. Hell, that meant I probably ought to stay on the wagon, too. And I’d have murdered for a Bishop’s Finger – not that this classy bar would have been likely to sell such plebeian stuff as ale. Spritzer? In my opinion that merely ruined both wine and water. I settled for what one of my clients always called Tart’s Tipple: dry Martini and lemonade with lots of ice. The menu arrived with the drinks. They were obviously desperate to close the restaurant on this vile night – there were only a couple of tables occupied in the far corner. It was lucky for my cycling friend that this was his free evening.

  Moffatt seemed inclined to dwell on the torrential rain, but I knew about that from an experience he lacked, and decided it was time to push the conversation the way I wanted.

  I ordered soup and salmon and looked him straight in the eye, cutting across an observation about an overflowing gutter. ‘How did our photographs come out? The ones of the people being loaded into the van?’ Whether I asked him about our other photos, the ones of the bed indentations, and the rope fibre Paula had picked up, would depend on how I felt about his honesty.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, effortlessly polite in the face of my rudeness. ‘You must have used a good camera.’

  Hmm. ‘I borrowed someone’s. What do you make of them? Your team, I mean – I’m sure you’re too busy to take a day-to-day interest even in major crime.’ He wasn’t to know it but I was quoting one of my most messed-up clients, one with as much braid and stuff on his uniform as Moffatt – again, incidentally, in very smart casual.

  ‘Not too busy to keep an eye on things. And, as you can see, to report back.’

  Victim liaison was hardly the job of someone of his rank. I wished desperately that Jan were sitting beside me – legal adviser or friend, it didn’t matter.

  ‘Unfortunately the bread van had been stolen – to order, no doubt. The shelves were found in an industrial estate in Canterbury. Someone reported having their removal van stolen in Southampton. Nothing’s been found yet, of either van.’

  ‘So someone’s got a big place to hide them till they can be repainted – or enough open space to torch them without some helpful person calling the fire brigade.’

  ‘Not every citizen is as helpful as you, Lucy. Anyway, our scene of crime officers have looked closely at the area you pinpointed and yes, they’ve got the impression of a shoe we believe comes from Eastern Europe. Nothing conclusive yet. The trouble is, in an operation like this, where we suspect one of our own may be involved, we want to do things as unobtrusively as possible. Which means what must seem intolerable delays to others involved.’

  ‘That explosion couldn’t have been unobtrusive,’ I said, smiling at the waiter who’d brought the wine. He looked tired enough to drop.

  Moffatt didn’t reply until we were on our own again. ‘We wanted to convince… people… that the intended victim was unlikely to survive.’

  ‘And did she?’

  He looked at me oddly. ‘She’s deeply unconscious.’

  ‘How long can she be kept alive?’

  ‘As long as it takes to find her killer. They’ve taken away the caravan for full forensic examination.’

  I nodded, as if it were news to me. All those lovely books destroyed! Before I could ask the next question, we were summoned to our table. I drained my glass and followed Moffatt.

  He hadn’t ordered any wine. Terribly apologetic, he told me he’d stick to water since he was driving home, but pressed me to have half a bottle. We compromised on another glass.

  I felt as if I was in the ascendant. ‘What about the photographs of the interior of Crabton Manor? We passed them and a fibre of blue rope to Taz. He said he’d deal with them.’

  He reached in his jacket for and flipped open a little notepad. ‘I’ve no idea. I’ll get on to it first thing. How are you getting on with Sid?’

  ‘How does he say he’s getting on with us?’

  Moffatt laughed. ‘He finds Paula a bit tough.’

  ‘He shouldn’t try to mess her around. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever come across. Honest. Decent.’

  ‘But doesn’t suffer fools gladly.’

  ‘Do you?’

  He looked completely nonplussed. ‘No. But that’s different.’

  ‘Not in my book. Oh, the organisations you run are different in size and organisation, but you both take decisions that affect other people. Hers are more important, in some ways. If you make a mistake, you can cover it with press statements and internal enquiries. If Paula makes a mistake in her figure work, we don’t eat breakfast. If she makes a mistake where she sites a ladder, one of us might die. People tug their forelocks at you because of your uniform. They see our work clothes and try to fiddle us out of meal breaks and deposits and make us wait sometimes for years for money for materials she’s bought on their behalf. That’s why Paula takes no prisoners. She also took me on without a single word of criticism about my past – something some of your colleagues have found hard to do.’

  He flushed a deep crimson, avoiding my eyes. My vibes had been right. Deep, deep inside, so deep he probably didn’t have to acknowledge it, he’d harboured designs on me. Once a tart always a tart, that was what some little voice inside was telling him. He might think he was being gentlemanly, avuncular, even. But his hormones urged him differently.

  Tough.

  The arrival of the soup allowed hi
m to regain his cool.

  ‘As for how we see Sid,’ I continued, as if I hadn’t noticed, ‘we’re not at all sure. Helen and Meg don’t know he’s not a genuine decorator. He’s asked no questions, shown no signs of being – what’s the word? – proactive, that’s it – at all. He’s not a good workman. Van der Poele knows he’s not a good workman. That’s why Paula had to give him a verbal warning this afternoon.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘I shouldn’t imagine it was the first thing he’d put in his report. Tell me, is he there to protect us or to spy on van der Poele? And if he’s spying, what’s he looking for?’

  Cornered, he said, ‘Well, things like the presence of your friend Clive Granville near Fullers.’

  Yes, he side-tracked me. ‘Does he live down here? Or is he just visiting? And is there any evidence he believes the story of my death? OK, my coma. He may be hanging out for one of my kidneys for a transplant!’

  Moffatt threw his head back and laughed. ‘A man for his pound of flesh, eh? Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘I know. You were quoting Shakespeare.’ I didn’t admit how difficult I found his plays, though I’d tried hard to read the famous ones. Perhaps you needed to see them on the stage. I’d seen a modern dress Merchant of Venice on TV and it had bored the socks off me. ‘Anyway, what’s the latest on him?’

  ‘He’s an elusive man. There’s no doubt he’s down here – he’s used his credit card a couple of times in Tenterden – but we haven’t run him to earth yet. And until we do, I’m very much afraid you have to stay as Lucy.’

  There was something about the way his crow’s feet crinkled that made me grasp my tufty mane and say, ‘I can’t wait to get this cut off.’

  ‘Off! You mean –!’

  ‘Shorn. The perm and the dye have made such a mess of it it’ll have to go, most of it.’ Mistake. Huge mistake.