Cut To The Bone (41 page)

Hers.

His new black watch showed he was on time. The time of his birth, in fact.

Louis unzipped his holdall, bringing the required t-shirt to the top. Having unravelled the knife and slotted it handle-first up his mac’s right hand sleeve, he placed his belongings in the narrow gap between house and garage, and stood under the front porch.

Using a knuckle rather than a fingertip, he rang the bell, and no sooner had it chimed than the solid front door opened. No bolts, no chain. Nor any hesitation on the pretty, blonde woman's part. Especially when he smiled.

But why the tight-fitting pink suit? Short skirt, strappy stilettos? Was she expecting someone?  Whatever. Working from home was the last thing she was doing.

"Hi," he began, alert to any sign she’d be shutting the door. "Mrs Crabtree?”

“Yes. And…?”

“I was just wondering if your Charlie was around."

"He's rehearsing a play at school. Who are you?"

Big, brown eyes that could have been his own, looked him up and down, from the new shoes to his sun-streaked hair.

"Mark Howes. We both play rugby for the village team. I just wanted to chat about our next match…”

A puzzled frown brought her plucked eyebrows together.

"But he only plays football, and …”

Louis didn't give her a chance to finish. He wasn't there to learn what Charlie Crabtree did or fucking didn't do. Why his iron-hard thigh pressed against the door, letting him into the hallway. He kicked the front door shut behind him, whereupon his real mother made a run for the stairs.

“No, you don’t.” He’d caught her wrist. Tiny, like those moorhens' necks. Easy to snap if he wasn't careful."Help! Help!" She screamed as he let the knife slip down into his right hand.

"What are you doing? Who the hell are you?"

"In there," he ordered, letting the blade’s sharpest edge rest against the pulsing blue vein in her neck. "No messing."

"Someone'll be coming any minute!" she burbled as he steered her into a spacious lounge, towards an enormous, black leather sofa. The biggest he'd ever seen.

"Me too," he chuckled, and meant it. Blood was leaving his head too quickly.

"Lie down and shut your face."

A push then a shove with his knee was all it took. She cringed against the sofa’s cushions, bringing her knees up to her chest. He then noticed she was wearing stockings not tights, and higher up, beyond the suspenders, red lace panties. Louis leant over, smelling her musky perfume, taking in her rigid terror. He thought of that obstetrics website and mentally clicked to page 55 beyond the photographs.

“After thirty two weeks, at the surgeon's discretion, preparation may begin to make the incision..." he intoned, forcing her to lie flat.

Tina Crabtree let out a series of frantic gasps and kept struggling until Louis rested the blade’s tip in her skirt's waistband and split the material down to the hem. The same for her under-slip and panties.

"Christ Jesus, help me," she whispered as his fingers touched her toffee-coloured stomach, "Why are you doing this? Why?"

"Because I have to." His little finger found her navel and encircled it, before tracing the curved, wine-red scar which, even after all these years, still marked her stomach like some mystical ley line. Yes, exactly, because he knew it was his scar, his legacy on her flesh, and for a fleeting second what seemed like pure love, passed through to his fingertip as he tenderly re-opened the way to his long-lost domain.

Chyk…  chyk…  chyk....

*

There’d been no fighting, no noise and, all things considered, Louis later reflected while on the half-empty bus down to Portsmouth, his intimate homecoming had been rather a subdued affair. As the wintry English Channel came into view, lit up by passing ferries and antiquated warships stirring on the tide, he realised how much better is repossession of that which was lost, than to rely upon the corruptible and flimsy fabric of memory.

58

While Louis Harper was fortifying himself with a large coffee and warmed-up ham and cheese panini at Portsmouth’s ferry terminal café, Briar Bank’s CID team had been corralled to an urgent briefing on the Little Bidding case which had just come to light. DI Tim Fraser and DC Derek Jarvis had left North Barton Boys’ School feeling that crucial progress had been made, also aware that an angry Jacquie Harper had been removed from her early afternoon shift at Happy Chicks to a holding cell at Briar Bank HQ. They’d stopped at a kiosk selling hot dogs in The Mall, but only Jarvis could face the fatty sausage and super-sized roll on offer, while Fraser stared at the very place he’d been kneed by the one who’d almost certainly taken his latest, sick game to new heights.

*

"So, where'lI you be stopping tonight?” quipped Jane Truelove, wearing cream slacks and a tight, black jumper, as she set down the coffee tray and handed Tim Fraser his full plastic cup. "Wort Passage or
The Starling
?"

Not even this remark punctured the gravitas in Briar Bank’s Incident Room, following the dramatic news from Little Bidding. On a wet Saturday afternoon such as this, most of the team would be engaged in more pleasurable activities.

"That was uncalled-for," Fraser retorted, seeing his ex-brief-fling settle herself opposite him while Jarvis and Crooker also in smart-casual gear, took their places near DS Peter Deakins positioned in front of a busy whiteboard. Fraser noticed too, how the bespectacled senior cop had lost weight. How his hand wasn't quite steady when he passed Crooker a pile of agendas to distribute. Fraser skimmed his with Rita uppermost in his mind.

"Before we begin," Deakins glanced at him, “to avoid confusion, I've agreed with Chief Superintendent Parrott at the Met to have Tim here for two weeks. A - he knows this patch. B - he’s been privy to some vital information, and C,” he paused, for an all-too significant second, “with the Molloy dead-end now set aside, his focus will be invaluable…”

Muted approval followed.

Fraser blushed. However, his Molloy mistake was still raw.

“How’s Mrs Crabtree, sir?" he deflected. "Any more news?"

"Out of danger, but, as you already know, the foetus - another boy - had been severed from his placenta. At seventeen weeks, he’d not stood a chance…” “Sicko,” murmured Frobisher, looking ill.

“Some latest forensic news just in. Are we ready?” Deakins looked around the room, avoiding eye contact. “And remember, from now on Louis Harper will be referred to as Perelman.”

He then continued. “The semen left on Tina Crabtree’s body matched what was found on that fake constable’s uniform and, wait for it, Louis Perelman's under-sheet and bedspread that Derek here, collected yesterday.”

Fraser bowed his head. The gurgling coffee machine echoing his empty stomach.

“We’re still waiting for results on the dusting Derek did in his bedroom yesterday,” continued Deakins. “Meanwhile, Graham Lodge, who’s Perelman’s real father, has given a full Statement to our Swindon colleagues. Thank God he’d arrived at
The Larches
when he did. And had a key. According to him, it was to finally end his relationship with Tina Crabtree before a job transfer to Canada. He’s still under sedation in an unnamed hospital.”
“Sir, you mentioned God…” Derek Jarvis toyed with his empty cup on his wide knees. “What God?”

Deakins coughed then continued. "We now know who’d been targeting Mr Lodge with weird calls at his London workplace. He feels guilty he didn't alert the police about his other suspicions, but Louis Perelman was his son. We're all human."

"Really?" said Crooker reddening.

"And Jacquie Harper's protected him all this time," Fraser added bleakly. "That’s a kind of madness too."

"Agreed."

“He’ll need a damned good alibi for midday onwards.”

“No swearing, please,” Deakins reminded everyone and, in another awkward silence, re-checked his watch. “Incidentally, four witnesses have come forward in response to the Little Bidding case. All recalled seeing our suspect wearing a distinctive, black-faced watch that Rita Martin had also noticed in Birmingham on Wednesday...” When he’d finished reading out the Coventry charity shop assistant and the lorry driver’s accounts, Fraser asked, “and the other two?"

"Both women, who confirmed this character’s age and appearance. A Miss Joanne Clark, was on the Swansea train this morning when he accused her of making a pass at him. Apparently saying in a public schoolboy voice, ‘cockpits turn me off totally.’

Fraser eyed Jarvis and Crooker. “Remember that photography project we’ve just seen in the Record Book at North Barton Boys’ School? KM cockpit? Perelman possibly trying to stitch up Toby Lake and not quite succeeding.” He then passed Deakins a short, signed summary of the morning’s other discoveries.

“He should vary his vocabulary, for a start,” said Jarvis, clearly still embarrassed by the meaning of that word, before Fraser’s next question.

“Speaking of Toby Lake, has an Inquest date been given?”

“Provisionally the 30th.”

"Thank you. And Sir, you mentioned another woman…" 

"Mrs Enid Turnbull. Out with her dog by the Royal Oak pub in Little Bidding, when she met a young man who appeared lost. Again, her description matches all the others. She felt awkward in his presence and found his slightly-hooded eyes disturbing. Also, his dilated pupils. Why she contacted Swindon CID. as soon as she could."

Fraser’s fists tightened.

He turned to the room. "Rita Martin’s description of her daughter’s sketch of Pete Brown could also indicate a cokehead.” He turned to Jarvis, who frowned as if dredging his memory.

“Are there any copies here?” Fraser pressed on.

“Not since our refurbishment. It was chaos.” Jane Truelove also looked uncomfortable.

Perhaps she’d got rid of them, mused Fraser who’d never really known her.

“And has anyone been to soften up the Monks at the
Old Soldier
? I remember Denise being very approachable about their snowbirds.”

Another silence. Fraser broke it.

“And what kind of knife was used in the attack on Tina Crabtree?” he queried. “Has it been found?”

“Most likely a sizeable carver,” volunteered Deakins, as if relieved to leave yet another shortcoming. “Swindon haven’t yet said.”

"Sir,” began Crooker, “If it was a carving knife, then it could have come from Mullion Road. I only saw two small veg knives in the cutlery drawer.” His tone changed. “Jacquie Harper knew alright…"

A shocked murmur followed.

"I'm sure Tim here will re-visit all that when he interviews her shortly." Deakins' eyes met his before returning to his whiteboard. “And incredibly, despite the blood loss, only Tina Crabtree and her ex’s prints were at the crime scene. Like the Black Dog Brook murders and Darshan Patel’s killing, this assault and murder was carried out by a careful, right-handed attacker. As was the savaging of two rabbits at North Barton Boys’ School in July 2010, using an older box-cutter.”

Fraser's queasy stomach became more audible. He craved another sweet coffee.

“As for why Perelman, who’d passed himself off as one of the Crabtree lad’s school friends, should do such a vile thing to his own mother, may be partly explained by this.” Deakins held up a single sheet of pale blue notepaper. “From a Miss Carole Underwood, biology teacher from North Barton Boys’ School.”

Having read out the letter, he added, “this gives us valuable insight into our subject’s obsession with the Caesarean procedure and how it related to him. We and Swindon should be grateful for this young woman for her help.”

“Indeed,” said Fraser.

“And before liaising further with our Wiltshire counterparts, they want more background on Louis Perelman himself. Perhaps Derek here. can kick off.”

Jarvis duly reached for his tablet. His wide fingers soon busy.

“We not only had crucial confirmation of his absences from North Barton Boys’ School when Jez Martin and Malcolm Wheeler were murdered,” he began, “but also from Weymouth Road Comprehensive School in Downside for yesterday morning’s Homework Study tutorial session. Ms Harper claimed not to know where her adopted son had gone on Wednesday afternoon, and so far, let’s be honest, there seems no motive for killing Darshan Patel. If indeed he did it.”

“Exactly,” said Deakins.

“Although Mrs Martin is to be congratulated on her powers of observation, it’s beyond frustrating that the CCTV cameras at Zintec weren’t in use. They could have helped establish whether or not Louis Perelman is one and the same as this Pete Brown she swears she saw there and has blamed for so long.”

“Thank you, Derek.”

Deakins then addressed his Indexer seated at a nearby computer who passed him two further sheets of paper. "As you all know, the Perelmans relocated to Meadow Hill from Swindon in January 2010. Our colleagues checking local hospital records there, struck lucky at six a.m. this morning." He continued with details of Louis Claus Perelman’s tricky arrival, and the background on his real parents.

“Any info yet from BIBA?” Fraser queried. The Birth Certificate Information before Adoption had proved useful in previous cases.