Cut To The Bone (40 page)

The teacher produced a less-than-clean handkerchief and coughed into it. "He could certainly be cheeky,” he wheezed, “and not all staff liked him, but what a tragedy. No-one to grieve for him either."

Fraser had meanwhile switched on the overhead strip light to scrutinise the handwriting in the record book more closely. The ‘No hawkers’ note from Mullion Road that Rita had sent him, came to mind. “Can we check this against a Toby Lake sample?”

He glanced up when Jarvis began to speak.

"Yes, but while I remember… we found a black Canon EOS 5000 at
Sunnyview
on Wednesday. Mrs Parsons there said she'd put it in a cupboard for safekeeping after Toby disappeared, then forgot all about it. So what a certain someone recently let slip, is very useful indeed."

"Who's that then?" quizzed Wardle, more bewildered by the minute.

"Sorry, I can’t say.” Jarvis then, as if remembering Fraser’s request, turned to the schoolmaster. "Is there any other writing by Toby Lake tucked away by any chance?  And by Louis Perelman?

We’d be grateful.'

"Perelman?"

"Sure."

Wardle frowned.

"Never could make him out."

“In what way?” Queried Fraser, aware of Jarvis’s not-so subtle point scoring.

“Nothing I could put into words.”

The man stumbled out into the corridor leaving the cops prowling round the room in their hunt for three crucial negatives.

"So," began Jarvis, "we have Toby Lake supposedly developing the three prints which Jez Martin took with what we can safely say was Louis Perelman’s camera. Also, Dave Perelman's purported message to Kayleigh on that very envelope containing them." The detective clamped a hand on his own forehead. "Is there no end to young Perelman’s ingenuity?"

"’Fraid not," said Fraser. "But stay stumm with Wardle and everyone else. Incidentally," he focused again on the record book, recalling what the assistant at Tipton’s had said. "What was the lens spec. on that camera from
Sunnyview
? 35 to 105 millimetres?"

It was Sergeant Crooker who answered.

"You won't like this."

"Try me."

"35 to 135."

*

Fraser still felt numb when Wardle soon returned with two history exercise books full of upper and lowercase handwriting. Less careful from dictations than for homework. Toby Lake’s work was accompanied by fish doodles in the margins. Perelman's by obsessive underlinings and a tiny doodle of a foetus.

Having studied both books for a few moments, Fraser shook his head, preoccupied by the fact the Canon camera hadn't been Molloy’s after all. The two boys’ writing styles showed similarities, but nowhere near enough.

"No way," he said.

"No way what?"

"Did Toby Lake enter those details in that record book. But I know who might have. Someone trying to ape him. Another nail in his coffin.”

Wardle gasped.

"Let’s make his pill-popping Mama start singing properly," suggested Jarvis, suddenly looking younger.

"Then it’s the cage, pdq." Fraser led the way out. “We need a result.”

"He’s right,” said Wardle. “Because we never did find out who’d butchered those two beautiful rabbits here three and a half years ago, and left them in my car."

"Like I said, sir, have faith," Jarvis smiled. "The pieces of this puzzle are just beginning to fit..."

Easy words, thought Fraser. Easy words…

56

10.30 a.m.

Louis had spent Thursday amidst the anonymity of Coventry city centre, avoiding newspapers and other media commentary, carefully re-inventing his appearance. On Friday morning, at
The Starling
hotel, while his classmates were attending their Home Study tutorial at school, he’d shaved and devoured a Full English breakfast. No sign of any pigs, but risk had kept him on his toes.

By evening, blond streaks and fake tan applied in the Gents at McDonalds, had done the business. However, it was the long mac with epaulettes and Hush Puppies from the Help the Aged shop, which added the final touch, plus a pair of black loafers and silver-framed glasses. He’d also treated himself to a Samsung Galaxy smartphone, committing The Fawn to monthly payments of sixteen pounds for the next two years. Not a bad deal, considering, and having watched
Wolf of Wall Street
with a tub of popcorn, he’d taken the bus to a different hotel for another decent shower and clean sheets. Now reinvigorated for the day ahead, even the foul weather beyond his bedroom’s blinds, didn’t matter.

*

A heavy downpour hit the Stern's Logistics truck windows as it grumbled along the Ml between Hertfordshire’s wet fields. The driver, a man in his mid-fifties, had picked him up on Coventry’s ring road, saying there'd be less accidents from drowsiness if more like him gave lifts to hitch-hikers. Except that this particular passenger with the holdall and violin case hadn't said a word for forty miles.

"You play the fiddle, then?" He finally asked, having switched off Radio 2.

"No. It's my mate's. He left it behind after staying with us.'

"Right." But the man still sounded puzzled.

The lorry's frantic wipers were making Louis feel dizzy. But baling out would only arouse suspicion. It had to be Paddington station by twelve, or else.

"Me Dad played the ukulele." The older man added, out of the blue. "Only four strings, but he was bloody good." He swung the vehicle out into the middle lane past a lorry with a Portakabin jutting out on either side. Louis also noticed a chequered car ahead of it, warning lights flashing, and when they overtook, he lowered his head as if reading.

"You'd think the plods had enough to do," said the driver. "Like catching more Romanian criminals for a start."

"There's worse than them," Louis corrected him. "Far worse."

The man eyed him again before re-joining the inside lane and heading for the next Services. After stopping for diesel, the ride into London was punctuated only by remarks about the weather, worsening under an almost black sky.

"Best drop you here." The driver pulled over in Bishop's Bridge Road and shook Louis' hand. "Bon voyage," he added, revving up again.

"Thanks." Louis slammed the cab door shut behind him, and was instantly soaked as the truck vanished in the heavy traffic.

*

Having withdrawn an extra three hundred pounds from The Fawn’s account, using a cash point in the station's concourse, he found the sole remaining ticket office and an ever-lengthening queue of sodden travellers.

"Single First Class to Swindon," he said to the booking clerk, but when he reached the train, most First Class seats were already reserved.

His “fuckit,” made a couple of crusts turn round, but he kept his eyes to himself. Once on board, although his mac felt heavy on his back, no way was he drawing more attention by removing it, or by placing his equally wet belongings in the luggage rack to drip on those below.

Instead, he tucked his violin and holdall under his legs, using the window’s glass to reflect his surroundings. While the train eased away from the platform, two geeks ran alongside, waving goodbye to people further up the carriage. ‘Each a glimpse and gone for ever.’ Words from a poem The Fawn had once read to him, adding her pride that he shared her’s and Robert Louis Stephenson’s middle name. But hadn't his own life consisted of goodbyes of one sort or another? Most of his choosing, needless to say.

Now, after Strato’s farewell, it was time for the Big Hello and, as the train jerked through London’s western suburbs, he laid his head against the crisp, white antimacassar and let his eyes close to imagine how it would be. That smile of welcome; the scent of a woman's skin. Prelude to a unique, empowering intimacy...

*

He woke to more wet fields lined by dead trees, reminding him of Black Dog Brook, and as the train approached Reading, people ended their inane phone calls and reached for their belongings. "Please ensure you mind the step and take everything with you when you leave the carriage..." added the Tannoy’s voice.

How pathetic that such morons needed telling. He could show them a thing or two about taking care and personal organisation. Oh yes, especially in Birmingham.

Once the train had stopped, a young woman entered his compartment, removed her brown leather coat and sat directly opposite. Louis saw a V of white top between her suit lapels and the hint of cleavage. He thought of Miss Udder and wondered if she was still parading her tits to all and sundry. This one was the same, crossing and re-crossing her legs, eyeing him when she guessed he wasn't looking, except all her efforts at seduction left him cold.

"Look, just so as you don't waste your time,” he addressed her. “Cockpits turn me off totally. OK? Sorry about that." He’d pitched his voice so no-one else could hear, and the stranger emitted a small noise before exiting her seat.

Good.

So was a mere tap of his forefinger on his new Galaxy, bringing Professor Renshaw’s images blazing into life, and the train's increased speed bearing him ever closer to his resolution with the past.

*

Swindon seemed newer than when he'd last lived there, but however brightly the town's image was marketed on the internet, the name still spelt betrayal.

The nearest station was ten miles from Little Bidding, but with Patel's blood-spattered story still festering everywhere, hitching another lift was out of the question. He'd glimpsed more of that brown tosser's face yesterday and at Paddington. Now God was telling him to be, more cautious.

NO BUS SERVCE UNTIL 1OAM TOMORROW, said a notice in the bus station's ticket office. So, using yet another new name, he called Westcott Construction Company's Human Resources Department to be told by a work experience stand-in that Mrs Tina Crabtree was working from home. He then made his way to the nearest taxi rank.

First in line was a woman driver with hair the colour of stale piss and a face like some dog had been at it. Obviously a chainer, with half a fag left in her mouth.

"Little Bidding,” he said, keeping his distance.

"Pretty place, that," she chucked her dimp out of the window then lit another fag before pulling away from the kerb.

*

By the time they reached that village’s only pub, the rain had turned to drizzle. Louis counted out the rest of his cash before the chainer executed a three-point turn and headed back the way they'd come. He had enough in both the Fawn and Patel’s banknotes to last him for the next stage of his travels, so if she had in the meantime changed her PIN number, it wouldn’t matter.

The smell of roasting meat filtered from the
Royal Oak
pub whose blackboard inside its porch offered a carvery lunch for £8.99. However, while pausing to read the puddings’ list, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"You seemed lost."

Louis spun round to see a tweed-caped crust whose nosy pug was sniffing at his Hush Puppies.

"I'm fine, thanks." His best voice, his friendliest smile, wishing the stupid cow would pull the fucker off from what after all, was his property. "Just off to see an old friend." And before she could strike up a conversation, he snatched up his violin case and holdall and began to walk away.

"Only trying to help,” she said. Yet Enid Turnbull stared at his departing form with a sense of unease. She still had several errands to run, but afterwards, she’d give the Swindon police a ring. Just in case.

*

He was relieved to reach a gap on his left between a tiny Post Office and a cottage advertising firewood for sale. Halfway down the narrow track, he paused on a drier patch of dead leaves. Supposing Tina Crabtree wasn't at home? That the teen in Westcott's HR department, had got it wrong or lied?  However, worse than turning up to an empty house, would be to find one or both of the kids around.

He’d discovered them on his Electoral Roll searches. Kids she'd chosen to keep.

A familiar loneliness engulfed him as he scoured his surroundings. Also doubt about The Fawn, once she realised the knife was missing and her money gone. Would she still keep her gob shut? He couldn't bank on anything any more, not like the old days. Nevertheless, he kept to the pig wire on his left, then broke into a run. Five minutes later he'd passed Little Bidding’s deserted playing field, cleaned his shoes and, with purposeful strides, entered Cowslip Close.

Here, the freaky silence made him forget to breathe. Yet his dick began to move just thinking of what lay in his holdall. The power of steel on soft, warm skin. A kind of going home. Yes, that was it, he smiled to himself. Going home.

57

Despite the dull afternoon,
The Larches
’ white rendering magnetised Louis towards its open double gates and the short gravel drive as if he belonged there.

No dog, thank you, God, while large conifers on either side of the front garden kept it nice and private. To the right, a metallic blue people carrier with a personalised plate TDC100 was parked in front of a triple garage.