Cut To The Bone (42 page)

“Still waiting.”

“And his actual Birth Certificate?”

“The same, although hopefully Ms Harper can soon enlighten you about that as well.”

Jarvis added how out of control the boy had seemed at Meadow Hill. Full of puzzling contradictions.

"His difficult birth may have been a factor," said Fraser, deliberately excluding a possible drugs scenario. “After all,” he paused, “his step-father considered him mentally ill."

Stifled gasps followed.

"Mrs Martin told me that too." Jane Truelove not-so subtly point-scoring, which Fraser ignored. "She'd been to see Carla Kennedy, Dr. Perelman's squeeze before he vanished."

"Why were we kept out of the loop?" Jarvis complained.

"Confidentiality."

Sergeant Crooker snorted.

“And if Louis Perelman isn’t Pete Brown, who is?" Fraser quizzed, finally nuking his fixation with Molloy. “He tried framing Dave Perelman in front of Derek and Jane here, before Christmas. And with what Mrs Fletcher had found at Meadow Hill. Those three indecent photos of Kayleigh Martin had been taken by his Canon camera left at
Sunnyview
to implicate Toby Lake. Talk about butcher, baker, candlestick maker… Never mind possible dog killer…”

"Later, Tim, thank you.” Deakins had pinked up. Then, with a chewed fingertip, he pushed his glasses further up his nose and turned again to the whiteboard where alongside the violinist’s suspected crimes, the relevant forensics results glowed blood red

"Please keep any queries for the end.” He uncapped his red marker pen to tick off each item. “Neither our guys nor Bill Marchant in London could find any blood or fibres on the Walton-on-Sea knife box or its sheathed knife which Tim here took from the Molloys. However, its handle and blade is identical to that recovered from The Loop in Black Dog Brook. As you know, Mrs Martin said there were originally two of these knives which Jez first used for his carvings. It’s highly probable that he and Malcolm Wheeler - who suffered a deep gash to the head - were killed by either one or both blades. We can't gauge the sequence of their deaths because heavily-polluted water and air are great equalisers. But it might explain why Perelman, dressed as a Police Constable at the Tip, was so desperate to reclaim them."

“She took long enough to tell you they’d existed.” Jane Truelove eyed Fraser. “Even then, you hardly spread the word.”

Don’t react
.

“I think I can understand why,” said Deakins, while Jarvis stared at his empty cup before crushing it in his big hand and making for the door, muttering about needing fresh air. He returned a minute later, clearly unhappy, as the DS was about to resume his report. However, Fraser had a question.

"Sir, anything on the weapon used on Darshan Patel?"

"Possibly a brand new box-cutter not yet recovered and,” Deakins paused, “which almost severed his head. ” He fixed on each of the team in turn. “It was understandable that his family ignored Stechford CID’s advice and involved the media, but from now on – and Swindon have agreed – we keep absolutely stumm until Louis Perelman is apprehended. Understood?”

*

With the atmosphere in the Incident Room growing more sombre, Deakins, having again praised Fraser and the Met for their speed, summarised the various graphology results. The first two from yesterday.

"Convincing similarities were found between the pencilled letters on that envelope for Kayleigh Martin, the warning to unwanted callers etcetera written in black ballpoint removed by Mrs Martin from 315b, Mullion Road last Wednesday, and the message left in blue by her son’s grave.” He looked up. “These tie up with what was found in Perelman's history exercise book while he attended North Barton Boys’ School. So," he looked around, "clever though our friend thinks he is by using different writing materials and trying to implicate his adoptive father and Toby Lake, this devious character hasn't covered all his tracks."

"Give him time," muttered Crooker.

Fraser reported Marchant’s view on the author of that cruel note left in St Matthew’s churchyard. “A young adult male, probably highly intelligent. However, judging by the gaps between the words, a social outcast…”

“Who said that?” Jane Truelove re-crossed her legs.

“My graphologist pal,” and before she could spike him again, Deakins added that the slur on Malcolm Wheeler’s flier, referring to an ‘older female,’ turned out to be none other than the fragrant Pat Molloy.

Another red tick met the whiteboard.

"Jacquie Harper mentioned Vienna to me, remember?" Jarvis butted in, but Fraser was ready.

"That's her pills talking. “My hunch is that Perelman will head back to this area, sooner rather than later. He may have contacts, places to hang out in. If Jacquie Harper isn’t to be banged up for perjury, she should be re-housed for her own safety, and 313b Mullion Road cordoned off. Also, all empty properties in Downside, Ditch Hollow and Scrub End checked out. There's always the Molloy's crib, mind," he added. "Now that's a thought."

A murmur of approval followed, spurring him on.

“It's the Martins I'm really worried about. Who's to say Perelman didn't recognise Mrs Martin when she met him in Birmingham and when she turned up at his house? And what about her mac belt left there?  She says she never found it. Look, that family needs protection," he added. "Pronto."

Deakins shook his head and removed his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Impossible, given our staffing levels, and how d'you think I feel about that?"

He then added, “can they go elsewhere?"

"Sick joke, sir. I've just had my flat taken off me. Good, eh? They could have holed up there for a while."

Jane Truelove’s titter was noticeable, and Jarvis picked up on it.

"That’s the Met for you," he said.

Thanks…

"So, we wait until... until they’re dead, too? That it?" Fraser sprung up and left the room, whereupon Deakins left his whiteboard and followed.

"Save your anger, eh, Tim?" He said, pressing the lift button for the ground floor and the smallest, least commodious interview room where Jacqueline Louise Harper had been left to sweat on her own for half an hour.

“Everyone’s on edge.”

*

As Fraser strode towards ’The Box’ as it was known, a call came through upstairs from a Nick Weaver, formerly of North Barton Boys' School, now at Park Grove Sixth Form College. Wary of the Law, despite being no longer a pusher and user, it took just five minutes for Deakins to learn that back in the summer of 2010, Darshan Patel had been blackmailing Louis Perelman over some alibi or other, on the very day Toby Lake disappeared, Weaver had also overheard the violinist suggest he and Lake go fishing by Wrecker's Brook.

“I hope this helps,” said the reformed student afterwards.

“We’ve turned a corner. Thank you.”

59

Detective Inspector Tim Fraser introduced himself to the woman hunched over the one table screwed to the middle of the holding cell’s tiled floor. Jacquie Harper was forty-two, but looked nearer sixty.

He made his way to the other fixed chair opposite her, immediately catching the mixed whiff of gin and Happy Chicks. She’d brought that place of death in here with her, yet even the numb pallor, torn coat and worn shoes left him cold. Her raw, red hands were ringless.

She'd wasted more than three years of police time and put Rita and her family in the greatest danger. Now was his turn to con her, and when he began speaking, his voice had the ‘I'm on your side’ tone honed to perfection.

"So, you're Jacquie. May I call you that?"

"I want a solicitor. It’s my right." She didn't look up.

"You've got the wrong impression, love. You're not being accused of anything, nor your son. In fact, I'd like to thank you for your recent co-operation with my colleagues. I wish more folk were as helpful."

“I said, I want a solicitor.”

Fraser visualised Jez's defaced grave, Darshan Patel's earnest face in his College photograph, and the horrors Tina Crabtree had endured.

“Think about it. Legal Aid’s collapsing, and do you know what solicitors charge? Two hundred quid an hour, and those are the generous ones.”

She shook her head as if in defeat, but Fraser was used to that. He produced a packet of Churchills, opened the lid and angled a jutting cigarette towards her. Usually a good ploy, but not this time.

"Mind if I do, then?" He placed one between his lips, and when there was still no reply, lit up. "The girlfriend's given me two weeks to dump this filthy habit up, or else." He drove the first smoke towards the ceiling. Pulled a disposable ashtray from his jeans’ pocket and kept hold of it. "She’s tough - but not like you, eh? You'd do anything for anybody, and don't get me wrong, Jacquie. I mean that in a nice way."

She looked up. Defiance returning.

"I'm losing pay being here. Will you be stumping up?”

"We'll sort that, no worries." Fraser eased back in his chair. "But first, we need more help. Did you ever see your son with a box containing two six inch knives?” He added a detailed description of the pyrography and waited.

“Never.”

“One knife, then?”

“No.”

“So how come that ended up in your partner’s bedroom?”

A flicker of her eyelids. That was all.

“He always was a mystery. OK?”

“But Louis had to get them back, didn’t he? Why? Because he’d killed twice with them? Because he’s a coward, who’d used another name. Pete Brown, for example.”

“All fairy tales.”

Fraser fought the urge to shake her until the truth tumbled out. He changed tack.

“So what did your lad do for money? I mean, kids of that age cost a bit. The latest gear, techie stuff, CD's etcetera…"

"He's not like other kids. He plays his violin, reads a lot, specially the Bible."

“Right.”

"Dave left him enough funds," she added unconvincingly. "He can please himself."

Deakins stole a glance through the door's small, glass panel, but no way would Fraser be pressured. "By almost cleaning you out?"

For the first time her eyes met his. Miserable as sin.

"What d’you mean?"

"You tell me."

"I repeat, I want my solicitor."

"And I want to help you."

She sat bolt upright, then stood. The pong even stronger as he rang the silent buzzer under the table corner. Killed his dimp in the ashtray and collapsed its sides, leaving it by his elbow.

"I'll report you for this!" she barked.

"What?"

"Lying. Keeping me prisoner."

Jacquie Harper made a clumsy dash for the door, but Fraser beat her to it, barring her way with outspread arms, careful to avoid physical contact. In close-up, she looked terrible.

"Look, Jacquie," he began, wondering where Frobisher was. Observing tricky interviews. was part of any rookie cop’s training . "We just want your lad back safe and sound.” He could be in danger. Anything could happen to him, so tell us where he is. For his sake too."

“He’s not my lad.”

Now we’re getting somewhere…

Defiance darkened her eyes.

"Was he into drugs and needed the dough? Involved with someone controlling him in some way?" Fraser persisted, and just as he felt she might be about to spill, Kieran Frobisher unlocked the cell door and squeezed himself in. Number 8 was a keen rugby player exuding fitness. He wandered over to the table. Stayed standing. Eyed the dead ashtray.

“That’s slander,” she spat out the words.

“I know you’ve been asked this before, but where was he last Wednesday afternoon? Birmingham, by any chance?”

“Fuck off.”

“Have you missed a carving knife since then?”

“Ask Jarvis and that other pig. We only eat ready meals.”

“Ms X swears he pushed one at her through your letterbox that very afternoon.”

“Bollocks. He was in school.”

That same lie was too quick. Frobisher clearly thought the same. Time for more pressure.

“I’d like a look at Louis’ birth certificate,” Fraser began. ”Just to confirm a few details. Do you have it?”

“No.”

Another lie.

“I can give you a lift home, or if you prefer, collect it later? ”

“I said, fuck off.”

“Where is it, then?”

She managed a tiny smile.

“Ditch Hollow sewage farm.”

The constable’s face said it all, but Fraser had to keep on track.

“Had either you or Dr. Perelman given your son his birth parents’ personal details?”

“Ask Dave.”

Just then, Frobisher’s phone rang. He listened, ended the call and cleared his throat, ready for the next move, as instructed. A promising actor, thought Fraser, still keeping Jacquie Harper clear of the door.

"Sir,” he began. “News just in. May I continue?"