Scar Tissue (15 page)

‘I’ve got to buy undies,’ I said firmly.

‘I shall be an embarrassed hubby. OK, embarrassed dad,’ he corrected himself.

And I would be an embarrassed young woman, unless I could shake him off. I set a cracking pace.

The bugger kep’ up with me, step for swea’y step.

‘This a’ernoon,’ he informed me, ‘I dun ’alf fancy having a quick shuftie round the building. Any ideas?’

‘Provided van der Poele’s out of the way, ask Paula to do what she did for Taz – give a conducted tour. Your boss should have told you: she’s got a detailed ground plan you might find useful.’

He nodded. ‘And if he doesn’t go out?’

‘She probably wouldn’t want to risk it. The only thing she might do is go inside herself to open a window for you to paint the frame. But if you went in for no reason and he
caught you out, she’d sack you in front of him. Assuming the dogs left her anything to sack.’

‘Ah,’ he said. And fell silent.

I felt quite sorry for him as the women descended on my bags of shopping, Paula quite forgetting to point out that I’d extended my lunch-hour. I’d have extended it even more had Sid not driven while I chomped a Marks and Sparks sarnie. And sorry for the women too – much as I’d wanted to splurge, I’d had no time to do more than grab the essentials on my list, and there’s not much to squeal about when it comes to multipacks of knickers, socks, clean jeans and a couple of T-shirts. Even my bra was bog-standard. But they did have a little squeak over what I’d bought for evenings in the hotel, a slinky wrap-around skirt and skinny tops – two for the price of one. The trouble was, if I often ate the sort of meal put before me last night, I’d soon need a bigger size: there’s nothing like being poor to control calorie intake. Except, of course, for the temptation to buy filling, comforting junk food. Thank goodness I’ve never had a sweet tooth, and an early tendency to spots kept me off the greasy end of the market. But there was a clear stone less of me than when I was on the game, and I’d not been fat then.

Paula coughed and looked at her watch. The stuff went back into the bags and into Trev, and we started work. Paula’s only concession to the heat was individual water bottles for each of us and a reminder to wear our floppy sunhats.

It was a good job Sid was handy with a paintbrush: there was no chance for him to do anything else. Van der Poele lurked
inside all day, only appearing – just as we were about to descend for our tea-break – with the damned dogs, one of which took instant exception to Sid, snarling furiously at the bottom of his ladder. Sid appeared to take no notice – but he stopped working on those tricky window edges and addressed himself to the sills instead.

Paula, descending from her ladder to snapping distance, called coolly, ‘Bring them to heel, Mr van der Poele. They’re putting my workers at risk, rushing at the ladders like that.’ When he took no notice, she added, ‘An investigation into a fatal accident by the Health and Safety inspectors would set us back days. If not weeks.’

Not to mention bringing all sorts of unwelcome visitors to the site. Van der Poele scowled and whistled. These days he seemed to be able to manage them without that whip. The dogs slunk back to him, but not without a couple of farewell growls.

‘You’ve brought in another man,’ he said, as if blaming Paula for the canine fuss.

‘You asked for speed: that means more workers.’

‘What happened to that pretty boy?’

‘I had to let him go. You didn’t see the mess he made of the only window he tried.’

‘Hmph. OK. So what time are you finishing tonight?’

‘We’ll take our tea break as soon as the dogs are inside,’ she said pointedly, ‘and work on till five-thirty.’

‘But there are still a couple of hours of daylight after that.’

‘That’s the standard day, as I explained when you accepted our estimate. We have to abide by the European directives on working hours. Unless,’ she added, with a
limpid smile, ‘you pay cash overtime like you did this weekend.’

There’d be no overtime tonight, that was clear as he stomped off inside. And I don’t think, as we eased our sweaty bodies inside soaked clothes, that we particularly cared.

I transferred my purchases to the utility truck, Sid having informed me that he’d be running me back. I assumed he meant to the hotel, and was basking in anticipation of a luxurious bath, followed by dinner in my new gear.

But he pulled into a lay-by only half a mile from Crabton Manor and poked his mobile. ‘Zilch. No effin’ phones, no effin’ roads. What a bloody place. Bet you wish you were back in Brum sometimes, don’t you?’ he added, as if to encourage a bit of a natter – if without any ‘T’s’.

‘Not very often. Except I do miss a good balti.’

He put his phone away. ‘Funny bugger that van der Poele of yours,’ he said, without remarking my choice of food.

‘His dogs didn’t think much of you, did they? Perhaps it’s true what they say – you can smell a copper a mile off. Though you’re dead nifty with a paintbrush,’ I added, not wanting to offend him.

‘My dad was in the trade. He’d have skinned me alive for a single paint drool.’

‘Quite right. Tell me, are you here to protect us or to get access to the building? Or a bit of both?’

‘Whatever, I was wasting my time today, wasn’t I? Strikes me that Paula could have taken on Hitler and won. Pity she doesn’t play cricket – we could do with her in the England team, couldn’t we?’

I explained about sport in the paper and the radio being dedicated to Meg’s news programmes.

‘That’s what’s so different about your lot,’ he said, snapping his thumb and finger. ‘No nasty little trannies, all tuned to different stations.’

‘If we want music, we wear Walkmans.’

‘A bit hot for anything extra, even that light,’ he sighed, mopping the back of his neck. ‘Can you navigate from here, like?’

I looked at my watch. ‘My betting is that now he thinks we’ve gone, van der Poele will have gone out. I had to leave a couple of windows ajar. If you fancy a shuftie I’ll keep watch.’

Despite his apparent eagerness earlier, he asked cautiously, ‘What about them bleeding dogs?’

‘He usually locks them in an outhouse.’

‘Bit rough on the poor buggers in this weather. I wonder if we could call in the RSPCA.’

‘You’re welcome – when we’ve finished. We need the money, remember.’

‘You really expect him to pay?’ he half-sneered.

‘Paula shares your view of him, so he’s paid in advance for the materials. And he paid cash for the weekend overtime, which is why he was miffed with us for finishing on time today.’

‘I wondered about that. Bit of a risk, isn’t it?’

‘You mean you’d expect us to work all hours God sends and be surprised when we end up with damaged joints from climbing all the ladders or repetitive strain injury from too much waggling the wrist back and forward?’

‘Well, I –’

‘Would you expect a team of men to work extra for no more pay? Well, then. We’re just the same as men – only we’re women.’

He threw his head back and laughed. I had to join in. At last, he wiped his streaming eyes and asked, ‘You’re sure about these dogs, then?’

‘No. But we can case the joint.’

‘And not take any risks.’

‘Sid, if you’d rather, we can wait until you’ve got a search warrant, I’s dotted and T’s crossed. I just sense you found today a bit of a waste of time.’

He looked guilty. ‘Thing is, Lucy, I ought to wait for a warrant. I’m supposed to be a cross between undercover and doing obbo, not to mention a spot of protection. So I really shouldn’t be in there. Not unless I have a really good excuse.’

‘In that case,’ I said, ‘do you want to keep an eye on things while I have a hunt? – so long as you tell me what I’m supposed to be hunting for.’

Sid was tempted, there was no doubt about that.

‘That’s one reason why I changed my appearance,’ I pointed out. ‘Van der Poele had already caught me taking an interest in the house and I thought if I turned up as someone else I could carry on working here and have a sniff round if necessary. I don’t usually look like the raddled oldest inhabitant of some inner-city whorehouse,’ I added brutally.

‘I never said you did. But it’s risky, see, now we’re not working – and I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you, not you keeping an eye open for me.’ Why was he backtracking as fast as he could? ‘I’m supposed to get you back to that posh hotel of yours, too, all in one piece. Plus your shopping, of course,’ he added. ‘You’ve done well today, haven’t you?’

‘How do you mean?’ I kept my voice flat as the Marsh.

‘Buying all this stuff. Pay-rolled by this posh geyser.’

Ah. A none-too-subtle allusion to my past. But I’d keep cool. ‘And his wife. My legal adviser.’

He looked taken aback. Good.

‘Who have made me a loan.’ I stressed the last word slightly. ‘I need essentials, since the police haven’t got round to getting my own gear back. In fact,’ I said, suddenly tiring of the game, ‘why don’t we go and see what’s happening in my Des. Res. right now? Turn left at the end of the road here. No, hang on.’ I grabbed a couple of bags and opened the passenger door. ‘I’m going behind that hedge and no peeping.’

So when we turned up at Fullers, in my clean jeans and
T-shirt
and lurking under sunhat and sunglasses, I wasn’t
recognisable as anyone in particular. Moffatt and his men had done a good job publicising the poor caravan’s demise: there were still a couple of TV vans and several bored looking reporters currently flaking out in the shade of handy trees. I had half a mind to join the reporters and ask a few questions, and was even tempted to duck under the police tape, but rejected both ideas as silly – I wanted to see, not be seen. I nudged Sid, now also stripped down to jeans and T-shirt, into action. ‘Go on, just sidle over to that bunch there and ask what’s been going on. Go on – just think of it as a bit of detective work, but stay in role.’

‘In wha’?’

It took me a second to realise he was sending me up. He winked and set off, rolling his bulk in an exaggerated waddle.

Of course, as we both knew, we could have simply phoned whoever was really working on this case. The question was, who. Last night Moffatt might have been a kind old geyser enjoying playing Santa Claus to a poor vulnerable girl, but by day he’d be sitting at a desk delegating like mad. As for Taz, he was now back in London doing whatever young constables do. I blushed. I’d never even asked him about his real work, as opposed to the Saturday job I’d wished upon him. A few years ago and I’d have hung upon his every word, as he described to me the horrendous pressures of his job – oh, he’d always changed the names in his case-load, in the interests of confidentiality. Come to think of it, I wonder how many fellow-clients he’d told about his whore with a heart of whatever. Funny, such a thought wouldn’t even have entered my head a week ago.

Broiling in the utility. cab, I wondered how much Sid
really knew about the set-up. I was sure he’d have a contact number for emergencies, but he hadn’t been awash with information, had he?

He came toddling back. He really was a small-framed man – yes, lanky, but light with it – who’d put on a huge amount of weight. When I knew him better, I’d talk to him about a diet. I reckon I’d saved several punters’ lives in my day, pointing out the only exercise they ever seemed to get was with me and that I preferred them not to smell of beer and chips. Blood pressure, too – I succeeded in getting one chap off salt when he’d simply ignored the doctor’s threats. Well, it brings it home to a man, the thought of an undertaker collecting him from a bed other than his wife’s. They never pointed out that they’d not be alive to feel embarrassed – perhaps they’d hoped I’d break my rule about mouth contact and give the kiss of life. And maybe I’d massage their hearts, having experience with other apparently lifeless organs.

‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘It seems the poor young lady staying at the caravan is currently fighting for her life in the William Harvey Hospital. Under police guard, of course.’

‘Is she expected to live?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘Terrible facial injuries. If she lives, there’ll be years of plastic surgery ahead of her.’

‘Poor girl. Any idea how it happened?’ The well-placed police vans meant you couldn’t see either the front of Fullers or the caravan itself.

‘There’s talk of a Calor-gas explosion. But no one seems to believe that.’

‘You couldn’t use a bit of your influence and go and look at the house?’

‘You’re off your head, girl. How can a painter get beyond the lines? Hey, you’re really upset, aren’t you? Tell you what, in that outfit you could always claim to be the deceased’s sister, casting her beadies over the scene of death. Nothing odd in that, these days – they even fly relatives to where aircraft have crashed, though I must say it seems dead ghoulish to me.’

Although I’d be unrecognisable, I didn’t think the press’d buy the idea of a grieving relative emerging from a decorator’s ute., so I said, ‘Perhaps we’d better wait till she’s properly dead. OK, time for an early bath, I’d say.’

Sid was backing the van to turn into a gateway when he was tooted loudly, indeed offensively.

‘Effin’ Volvos,’ Sid muttered, offering a small selection of fingers for the driver to count.

‘Just get the hell out of here,’ I muttered. ‘I know you’d like to dot him, but I’d rather you didn’t.’

Obligingly, Sid simply pulled on to the road and drove back towards the hotel. To any onlooker, I was too engrossed in the crime scene to turn my head.

‘Find a lane and pull into it,’ I said, ‘and phone Moffatt or whoever. The bloke who tooted was Clive Granville.’

‘Not a big-time player like him in an effin’ Volvo!’

‘It isn’t just you and me who can go down to the woods in disguise,’ I said. ‘Pull over there and dial while I can still remember the registration number.’

He obliged. I’d have loved to hear the reaction of the person on the other end.

I don’t know what I expected at the hotel. Some sort of
welcome committee from the police updating me? I checked with the receptionist when I picked up my key that there were no messages. Nor was there anything on my room’s answerphone. Hmm. Nothing to do except have that early bath, then. As I stripped I slapped my head in anger. I never take a bath without the company of a good book, and I hadn’t had the nous to buy one in Folkestone. Paula wouldn’t really have begrudged me the extra five minutes it would have taken. True, she and the others wouldn’t have demanded to see the contents of a book bag, but a good paperback would have been a better investment than any of the clothes. Well, as good. Slinging that fluffy robe on, I watched a bit of early evening TV, flicking between channels till I found an item on ‘my’ explosion. The footage was pretty poor – just a few hot, sweaty policemen and a load of tape. Would that have been enough to convince Granville that he’d got me? That he could lay off and return to his usual occupations of kinky sex and money-making? Certainly the newsreader did his bit, eyes downcast and voice as sombre as if he were commentating on the Queen Ma’s funeral. It was all I could do not to dab away a sympathetic tear.

After the news, it dawned on me that I ought to eat. Maybe a swim first? That was a good idea. A swim, then the early bath. And bother the poor old hair.

But what about a book?

I managed a further dozen or so lengths, then hopped into the Jacuzzi for a few minutes. The subterranean gurglings weren’t all plumbing induced, however. My tum was joining in. I’d have to eat. On my own. In the posh dining room.

I put the process off as long as possible by showering and washing and drying my hair, now the texture of a politically incorrect golly I dimly remembered from my childhood. I even toyed with a meal from room service, but I dismissed that as cowardice. In any case, there was nothing on TV and no book to read as I ate.

Hair apart, I was chic enough as I presented myself in the bar where Moffatt had entertained us last night. When no waiters leapt to my side, I simply bought a drink at the bar. I’d done that time enough in the past, goodness knows. This time I didn’t scan the bar for the potential client, and I asked for it to be charged to my room. Kent Constabulary could surely afford a chilled white wine. Keeping my eyes demurely lowered, I retired to a table by the open window and sat studying the menu as if I was to be tested on it at the end of the evening. At longish last, a waitress sauntered over to take my order. Her body language told me where a woman on her own with no executive briefcase to fiddle with would find herself sitting – in a corner by the service table. My mouth demanded a table on the terrace. She opened hers to tell me that they were all booked, but perhaps she caught something of the steel in my eyes.

So I ate overlooking the golf course, my back to my fellow diners. Logic told me I should be facing the room with my back to a wall, as one or two of my police clients told me they preferred. But I couldn’t face an hour of avoiding eye-contact with people. And the view over that neat grass in the evening light was pleasant enough.

For company I’d brought the notepad and pencil I’d used earlier. A list for the following day was headed by the simple
word book. In fact, that was the list. Bored, I turned to what I’d written the previous night. Information. Why had that word stuck? What information had I given? And to whom? The smoked trout and avocado didn’t give me any clues, nor did the herbed chicken. But as I debated the merits of a sweet or coffee, something seemed to fall into place. I must have said something to Sergeant Marsh that had triggered his interest. When had he got up? What was the precise moment he’d said he’d talk to his colleagues?

When I’d said we did jobs of all sizes, one day a pensioner’s bungalow, the next – yes, I’d said we hoped to get the contract to restore the interior of Fullers. Fullers on the Isle of Oxney. It was at that point he’d bolted.

It was back to Fullers I had to go, then.

But how?

Now I came to think about it, it was something I’d rather do without any police assistance. Telling myself I was simply going for a walk in the evening sun, I mooched round to the part of the hotel guests don’t normally see. The bins. The bottle bank. The staff going to and fro. To, in this case, involved a kid on a pushbike, hot and bothered and obviously late for his shift.

‘Hi. My name’s Lucy. Could I borrow your cycle? Just for an hour or two? It’ll be back here when you need it.’

He snorted. ‘Gives you a bit of time then – I’m on till two. Twenty quid. Mal.’ He shoved out a hand. I couldn’t blame him: he was probably earning even less than I was.

‘I’m borrowing it, not bloody buying it! Fiver.’

We settled for one of the Daweses’ tenners.

Fortunately for me the hotel lay to the west of the Isle, so I had a long gentle upwards slope to deal with, not the steep one I’d run up the other day. All the same, for someone not used to a bike – it was true, thank God, you didn’t forget how to ride one – it was bloody hard work, and at last I had to get off and push. It wasn’t as if I was in any hurry.

There were still a couple of cops there, trying to look as if they were doing something meaningful, not just having a smoke and basking in the sun’s last rays. I flipped a mental coin: to talk to them or keep mum? In the event it was no contest. They couldn’t have been as dozy as they looked, because one clocked me, despite my quiet arrival. He beckoned me over, unsmiling.

Good job I’d got a story ready. ‘I’m a friend of Caffy’s,’ I said. ‘They won’t let me see her yet, and I just wanted to see – you know, where she’d been …’ My voice quivered.

‘I’m not sure the SOCO team have finished yet.’

I might have known he’d be a jobsworth, though he was a bit young for that sort of attitude – twenty-five or -six, maybe, and scrawny with it. His hair was thinning already.

‘I wouldn’t touch or anything. The name’s Lucy Taylor.’ I gave my old address.

The older guy shrugged. ‘Why not, so long as you wear these?’ He ferreted in his back pocket and produced a pair of overshoes. ‘You’ll have to take her, mate.’ So he could return to the fag half-concealed behind his back, no doubt.

‘Have you known this Caffy woman long?’ the young cop asked. Marks for knowing the background, at least.

‘Years. On and off. I was telling one of your mates. Sid, I think his name is. Big bloke, drinks a lot of beer I should think.’

The young man shrugged.

‘If I’m Lucy, what’s your name?’ I did a bit of hip-swinging, just to encourage him. It was awful how familiar the routine remained, though I hadn’t practised for years. Perhaps I should have used it on Taz, after all.

He responded with a swagger of his bony shoulders and narrow hips. Bingo. ‘Simon. Simon Wallace. You won’t touch anything, will you?’ The way he was standing he might have meant the direct opposite.

‘Cross my heart,’ I promised, doing just that.

He registered breasts even I had always thought quite good.

We turned the corner and suddenly I didn’t feel so perky. The side of the caravan had been blown off, breaking some of Fullers’ windows. They’d been boarded over. Despite myself, I gasped and covered my mouth, turning away instinctively. Wrong. I turned towards the caravan, not away from it, as I’m sure I’d have done if I really was imagining a friend’s suffering. But Simon didn’t seem to notice.

‘Must have been a nice place before. We have to make sure it isn’t looted, of course,’ he said proudly, nodding at the caravan.

‘Anything left in one piece?’

‘Not a lot. Still, they’re stinking rich and there’s always the insurance.’

‘What about the house?’ I wasn’t much good at this, was I?

Simon shrugged. ‘Needed a lot doing before – just needs a bit more now. Fancy taking on a dump like that.’