Cut To The Bone (33 page)

“Been done. Briar Bank should have told you.”

“Well, all I can say is I'll never forget how he eyed me as if I was a piece of meat. I'm a woman - I can tell these things, and nothing and nobody will make me think any different. Not even you." Her voice broke up. "Maybe I expected too much after all...”

With that, she hastened away down the corridor towards the stairs. Fraser stared after her, knowing it was useless to follow.

*

Twenty minutes later with Rita's despair recurring in his mind and the knife box now in a Thresher's bag in the Saab's boot, he headed for Ditch Hollow. Another London overspill area sandwiched between Scrub End and Downside, whose only claim to fame was that it boasted the biggest Council tip in the county.

This facility had doubled in size since his days on the beat, with even a kiosk selling hot drinks, while covered areas sold white goods and furniture, tools and machinery. No wonder Molloy was drawn to it.

Fraser kept a lookout for the man's Proton as he joined other cars and vans with trailers full of garden debris and other junk. He parked alongside a line of huge, rusted skips, and got out near an elderly man in yellow oilskins and baseball cap sweeping muck into a gully.

“Been here long?” Fraser asked him.

“Fifteen years now. Was humpin’ and sortin’ till me knees said no."

"Sorting what, exactly?"

"Why d'you need to know that, eh?" The sweeper resumed his slow, measured movements.

Fraser extracted his ID and held it under the man's nose.

"The Met, eh?" the old boy sniffed. "Wish I was impressed."

Fraser persevered.

"I need your help, Mr?'

"Grenville. Albert."

"It's about an important item which apparently turned up here some three and a half years ago. It's vital we trace its whereabouts."

"What item?"

Fraser stayed focussed as a heavily tattooed man began hurling bags of lawn mowings into the next skip.

"A smallish box made out of plywood with a sliding lid and Walton-on-Sea burnt into it."

"’Ad a pencil case like that, once,” said the sweeper. “And look where studyin’ got me?" Nevertheless, Albert Grenville was thinking hard.

"It contained a knife or maybe two, in a leather sheath. Hardly used." Fraser added to encourage him.

"Summer, 2010," obliged the other. "Yeah, I remember 'cos at last they put sorting under cover…”

Fraser let him ramble on, aware of more traffic coming through the gates. Then those worn eyes widened. "Now you mention it, there was a little box and a knife. Most likely on a Saturday when house clearances come in. Early July, that’s when."

“Just one knife?”

A nod.

Fraser tried to conceal his excitement. "Who brought it in?"

A shrug.

"Did anyone show serious interest? Even tried stealing it?"

"We do get theft," Grenville stopped to wipe his nose with a grubby handkerchief. "But there was summat a bit odd..."

"Go on, please." Fraser feared the man might be distracted by yet more trash being dumped nearby.

"A fuzzy. In uniform..."

"Fuzzy?"

"Yeah. He turned up first thing on the Sunday, asking if we'd sold the thing. And we ‘ad.”

"How old was he?"

Another shrug.

"Everyone's young next to me, but he seemed too young, if you get my meaning. And got nasty when ‘e knew the box and knife had already gone."

"What colour eyes?"

“Not sure.”

“Any number on that uniform? Does 8 ring a bell?”

"Sorry, mate. Me memory’s not what it was.”

"Thanks Mr Grenville. You've been a great help." As Fraser then turned away, he felt a tap on his shoulder and saw the old man's palm held out. He duly handed over a fiver.

"Cheers,” grinned the old boy, kissing it.

While driving away from the rubbish strewn near the tip’s entrance, Fraser realised that the uniformed cop could well have been Molloy getting off on wearing such a uniform. But who’d taken the knife box to the tip in the first place? And more to the point, why?

43

Before meeting DC Derek Jarvis, Fraser snatched half an hour at Tipton's photographers in Broad Street, not far from Rita’s workplace. The young employee there searched through customer records on his computer and revealed that prints and enlargements from a Mr Eric Molloy of 6, Frond Crescent, Scrub End, had indeed been developed there.

"November 8th 2011 is the last entry. Before that, we have a big gap." The assistant fetched a file from under the counter to flick through, and Fraser was relieved he was his only customer. "June 30th 2010 it was. A 400 ASA film for outdoors, used with a Canon EOS 5000. Lens type 35 to 105 millimetres."

“Subject matter?" pressed Fraser.

The assistant's thumb stopped halfway down the screen. “Trees, that’s all. We don't normally add that sort of detail..."

"May I take a look?"

Their eyes met as the file was turned towards him.

"We are obliged to report any pornographic material, sir. If that's what you mean."

“I do know.”

“Tricky, mind.”

“I can imagine.”

*

First impressions at Briar Bank police Station told Fraser that everything had changed since he'd left. The desk personnel, who were polite but nothing more, even the decor and the rows of hot and cold drinks machines in the empty public waiting area, where he'd first met Rita. A shirt-sleeved WPC was dismantling the synthetic Christmas tree and brusquely declined his offer of help. This only reinforced his sense of displacement with what had been his work base for eight long years. OK, he'd not wanted to be part of the under-performing CID team there, to try and change things. So the reason he'd left, according to WPC Jane Truelove following their split, was to rub their noses in it.

She'd been right of course. He'd never disguised his contempt for their parochial attitudes, where ‘imagination’ and ‘instinct’ were unheard-of words. Where DS Deakins with his softly-softly approach had seen at least four serious perps scarper off the patch and allowed Wheeler and Norris into Scrub End. But Truelove's acid tone had been laid on extra thick for maximum effect, and here he was, putting himself up for the noose again.

At the switchboard, he faced a pretty blonde at the switchboard whose vacant expression epitomised his criticisms of the place. She didn't even seem curious about his Thresher's bag, or indeed why he was even there.

"I’m DI Fraser, NSY,” he helped her out. “And I’m due to see Detective Constable Jarvis at eleven.”
             

He tensed while she relayed his message then replaced the receiver, still giving nothing away.

"He'll be with you in five minutes," she said without looking up.

Ah, the waiting game. The war of nerves, except, Fraser knew that the man who exemplified the Peter Principle could if he chose, not even give him the time of day and even though it had been arranged, there'd be nothing he could do about it.

"Hey, Tim. Good to see you." Jarvis emerged from the silent lift, a big hand outstretched. Quite a different bunny from Black Dog Brook.

"Ditto."

He was fatter, his greying hair shorn close to his head. The swagger of promotion obvious as he led the way back to his office where Jane Truelove, sporting a highlight-streaked bob, was delivering two Styrofoam cups of coffee on a tray already littered with used milk cartons and the like.

They always did things in style, Fraser thought, giving her a smile which she pointedly ignored, before closing the adjoining door to what had once been the Incident Room. As quiet as ever. He kept his jacket on, just in case.

"Coffee?" Jarvis finally spotted Fraser's bag. "Or something stronger?"

“Coffee’s fine, thanks.” The guy was trying hard alright, after his rudeness last night, but hell, why give him an easy ride? "Rita Martin's been badly let down," he began, helping himself from the tray.

"Meaning?" Jarvis plopped four sugar lumps into his own coffee and parked himself at his desk. The grey morning behind him.

"It's been three and a half years since her son died, and no sniff of a result."

"That why you're here? Think you and the Met can do better?"

Fraser recognised small-town envy.

"Let's just say it matters."

“I see. Personal stuff. Say no more, eh?" The older detective tipped back in his chair and propped up his chin with two pudgy index fingers to witness the reaction.

But Fraser knew better than to react.

"You're after the wrong man with Dave Perelman," he said instead. "Wasting valuable time."

"Let's be frank, Tim. What the hell do you know about it?"

"Enough to say that while you're chasing a Will o' the wisp, there's seriously dodgy pond life living less than two miles away from here, who I believe will strike again, given half the chance."

"Who might that be, then?"

"Eric Molloy, formerly Raymond Norris, 6, Frond Crescent."

Like Sergeant Crooker, Jarvis laughed out loud. "Come on, Tim, he's been clean a long time now. Wheeler was the busy bee."

"And Molloy goes teaching at Briar Bank Primary, straight from the slammer. Good, eh?"

"Nothing to do with me. Anyhow, how did you know?"

Fraser tapped the side of his nose, a gesture Jarvis didn't appreciate at all. Then he remembered Rita’s heartfelt request.

“Could I see that envelope which Mrs Martin left with Jane before Christmas?” he asked. “Not the contents, just the writing."

Jarvis sighed, extricated himself from his chair and lumbered over to the Incident Room. Once the door closed behind him, Fraser scanned his messy desk. Letters from Mount Vernon Institute notes on chats with Jacquie Harper and scraps of this and that not adding up to very much at all. When that door re-opened, Fraser sprang back into his seat.

Inside a labelled, clear plastic wallet, lay what had already been torn open, still faintly damp. The pencilled words on its front all too clear, and exactly as Rita had described. Of even height, slightly italicised, slanting to the right. Quite different to what he'd kept in his pocket from the Molloys.

Damn.

"Satisfied?" Jarvis removed it, as if he’d something up his sleeve, while Jane Truelove looked uncomfortable.

“When will the photos be examined?” Asked Fraser.

“Give us a chance.”

"Any DNA from spit on this envelope?"

"Self-seal, and no prints."

“May I make a photocopy? I’ve a pal who’s a top graphologist.”

Jarvis hesitated, then nodded, watching as Fraser did so, using latex gloves.

Fraser returned the envelope to its file and slotted the passable copy into his jacket pocket, next to the folded Malcolm Wheeler poster. "How about Molloy impersonating your Constable Frobisher?"

"Don’t be bloody daft."

Fraser then put his Thresher’s bag on the desk and, still wearing the gloves, lifted out the plywood box. He slid open the lid and withdrew the sheathed knife. "I found them at Molloy's place. He’d been pestering for it at Ditch Hollow’ s tip while apparently wearing that same cop's uniform as I saw in the Mall. And why would that be?"

This wasn't the first time Fraser’s hand trembled just to hold the items, and for a satisfying moment, Jarvis was lost for words.

"Molloy?" He repeated.

"Correct. Sunday 11th July 2010. He also owns a non-digital Canon EOS 5000 with an in-built flash, and can develop negs in his garage. I'm thinking of the three Kayleigh Martin pictures of course.” Fraser's self-control was finally slipping. "Which he could have planted at 14, Meadow Hill under some guise or other. He also has access to other kids via the Sunday School. Rita Martin confirmed he’s taken photos of them, and Jez. I have to pinch myself sometimes that your resident woolly-Liberal Deakins has allowed all this to go on.”

“Are you saying Molloy also placed those hymn books and their contents in Dave Perelman’s bedroom?”

“He denied having any, but who knows? He hoards and restores enough bloody stuff. Could have found out where Perelman once worked in Swindon. Knocked out some labels… And what if Jez Martin had found out too much about him? You know what kids are like.”

Jarvis sighed. Got up to pace along the window and back. "You want the truth? We've been strung up on this Pete Brown character since July 010. Rita Martin's bee buzzing non-stop in her bonnet. Apparently she saw him again outside St Matthew's church during her driving test last October."

"She did tell me."

Jarvis stared at him.

“Indeed? Well, on our patch there are 2,403 teenagers with light brown hair and brown eyes. 2,097 of five feet six and over. 120 who wear black-framed spectacles, most if not all, mitching after exams. Shall I continue?"

But Fraser, surprised by his memory, wasn't to be distracted.