Cut To The Bone (48 page)

Instead of going straight to Sallow Drive, she drove home to change out of her grubby work clothes before presenting herself at Sandra's door. Never again would she slum it in public and, having parked by Wort Passage, prayed she’d be spared the embarrassment of both men meeting. Prayed too, that Louis Perelman really was on his way to the Continent. As soon as she could, and in private, she’d find out more.

Having hidden
The Sunday Gazette
in her wardrobe, Rita returned from the bedroom in clean jeans and a new pink jumper to notice her answerphone showed three messages. She pressed PLAY, thinking first of Sandra Gregory. But no. A man's voice, seeming far away.

She froze. But not for long.

"Rita? It's me, Tim. Something big's come up. I can't make tonight after all. I’II ring again when I can. OK? Say sorry to the kids for me, won't you? Must go…"

Something big? Rita felt her pulse jump. She tried to reply, but his number was unavailable like before, and she suddenly hated these bloody machines that so quickly made one feel powerless.

She pressed the answerphone for its second message in case it was him again, but instead, a breathless Frank said some unexpected business had come up and he'd be in touch once he was in the clear. "I still love you, Reet," he added at the end, which went straight to her heart. He sounded rough, still in trouble, but there was no time to dwell on this or to wonder where he was, because the third caller’s voice made her hold her breath in dread. Male, strangely disembodied, yet eerily familiar to her despite a poor line.

"Don't fink I've done wiv yer lot yet, yerinterfering bitch. Ye’ll be seein' me again when I'm ready..."

Rita stared at the answerphone before playing the three messages again, then realised with a jolt the third caller could be someone either aping Pete Brown, or was Louis Perelman himself.  She called Briar Bank Police Station to be told by a temp that everyone was out on urgent calls and her message would be immediately logged.

“And 315b, Mullion Road? What’s happening there? I mean, I’ve two kids who…”

“You’re not the first who’s called about that address,” the girl butted in, “but I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to discuss it.”

Rita swore to herself and slammed the receiver down, telling herself that right now, she should focus on Freddie.

*

Sunday afternoons in Scrub End were usually pretty quiet, with just the odd group of youngsters hanging about near the pub, or a dog walker heading for the waste ground by the church. But today, as she approached 18, Sallow Drive - the opposite end to Bessie Wright's house - everything was silent, as if the plague had descended.

She rang the bell and waited, her chest beginning to hurt. Not a curtain moved in any of the windows, nor a single voice broke the silence. She knew Sandra Gregory kept her old Skoda in a lock-up round the back, so what was she waiting for?

Someone was tinkering under the bonnet of an ancient Ford in front of a row of run-down lock-ups. She hesitated, remembering what Tim had said. This seemingly harmless individual could be anyone. However, it was a benign-looking pensioner who emerged from his oily labours as she approached.

Excuse me," she began, “d'you know if Mrs. Gregory's around? Or if she's gone out in her car?"

"I don't live 'ere, me duck, sorry. This is me son's old heap."

"So you've not seen any cream-coloured Skoda leaving these lock-ups?"

He shook his grey head. "Which one's hers?" he asked, wiping his hands on a filthy rag.

"I’ve no idea."

"Let's take a look, then."

There were seven lock-ups in all. Each in varying stages of decrepitude, with gaps between their shabby planks. Rita started at one end, her new acquaintance the other. He finally stopped in the middle.

"There's only a purple job in here. Nothing else."

"Purple? You sure?" She peered through into the gloom beyond and gasped.

Sure enough, Molloy's Proton lay clumsily covered with old rags - most of which had slipped to reveal the car’s familiar shape and colour. However, its plates had gone and, as far as she could see, there didn't appear to be a tax disc on the windscreen.

"This is odd."

By now her mind was racing in crazy circles. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and punched the Briar Bank police number yet again, but because her words were incoherent with worry, she had to repeat her story and whereabouts several times.

“Stay there, and someone will be along as soon as possible," reassured the male officer who’d just returned to the station. Whose name she didn't recognise.

"I also need to speak to DI Fraser. It's vital," Rita added, beginning to cry.

"I'm afraid he's not available."

She remembered his strange phone message.

"Where is he, then?"

A moment's pause. "I can't divulge that at the moment, Mrs Martin. Please try and understand that certain things are confidential. Now, like I said, you just wait there." He then ended the call.

Rita watched the old man resume his explorations beneath the Ford's bonnet. She felt more alone and scared than ever, and like the sun behind a storm cloud, the day's earlier happiness had gone. St Peter's bells chimed out four o'clock. The minutes were speeding by and every minute was without Freddie

"It's my son," she called out. "He's supposed to be here with Mrs Gregory."

"Well, no good worrying, me duck. Kids will be kids."

But all she could think of was 315b, Mullion Road, less than a mile away, and who might now be lurking behind its shabby curtains.

*

“Please take me to see it!” She almost screamed at Sergeant Crooker and Constable Frobisher the moment they’d got out of their chequered Mondeo. “It’s all I can think about. Supposing Freddie’s there. Supposing…”

“It was me you spoke to just now,” interrupted the Constable. Fit, clean-shaven with an eager look in his blue eyes. “And I can understand your alarm, but let me reassure you, that property is no longer of interest.”

“That’s correct,” said the one called Sergeant Crooker, “so let’s get cracking.”

“But you must have found something.”

“It’ll soon be dark. We need to shift.”

Nevertheless, Rita followed them in a state of numb dread as they began their search around number 18, Sallow Drive.

Both officers gave Sandra Gregory’s semi a quick once-over, then strode towards the lock-ups. After a cursory nod at the old man in overalls, they checked out the Proton by removing two front panels of the double door and replacing them when they left. Having confirmed the damaged car's chassis number as still belonging to the Molloys, Frobisher then radioed for a back-up car. Both officers accompanied her to Wort Passage in their Mondeo where she sat on the back seat in a sea of papers, high-vis jackets and half-empty Coke bottles.

Minutes later, having listening to her answerphone messages, and at the sound of Tim Fraser's voice, they exchanged subtle glances.

"Can't you trace any of those calls?" she said, aware it would soon be dusk.

"We'll try," said Crooker, beginning to dial and, after a number of attempts and repeated ring-backs which made her jump each time, he turned to her. "The first two are untraceable.

However, what interests us most is that third call. It was local. Ditch Hollow, as it happens"

"Ditch Hollow?" Rita's blood ran cold. "That's only a mile away! And Downside’s not far either.” She wasn’t going to let them off the hook. “Could it be Pete Brown? I mean, Louis Perelman? It sounded just like him."

Both officers glanced again at each other.

"No," Frobisher said knowingly, touching her arm. “Believe me.”

"Molloy, then? I had a foul little note from him on Wednesday. Delivered by hand if you please."

“You’re not serious? Where is it?”

Rita hesitated. She didn’t want to mention Tim’s last visit. 

“Have either of you got kids?”

“No,” said Crooker, not unhappily.

“Well when you do, you’ll be amazed at what goes missing.”

“The minute you find it, let us know. OK?”

"Of course, but why's Molloy’s car hidden round here? He had his own garage."

"How well do you know this Sandra Gregory?" was Crooker’s reply.

Rita recalled the seemingly friendly woman of similar age to herself. "Quite well. We used to chat about our kids, specially at the Single Mums' Club." However, the moment she'd mentioned that, her lips went numb. She looked from one officer to the other, sensing something was wrong.

"She's Pat Molloy's sister." Frobisher admitted. "Quite close, we believe."

“What?” Rita sat down on the nearest chair. "She never mentioned her to me, and they never bothered with each other at those meetings." She banged her fist on the kitchen table then grabbed her phone on the nearby worktop. "I must speak to Tim Fraser."

Crooker placed his cool hand on hers. "Just trust us, eh?"

"You don't understand," she glared at them both.

"We do. So let's take the car for another look round."

74

As the Mondeo sped along Graves Way and into Corporation Road past the Council tip. Rita felt a mounting self-loathing for trusting a woman she thought she knew. The tense atmosphere was punctuated only by the odd burst of radio contact with those other officers in the back-up car. Then Frobisher in the passenger's seat, half-turned to her after the last call came through.

"Our friends behind us have just been to the football field in Scrub Lane. They found Freddie's kit bag, his tenner and his normal clothes intact, plus," he stalled before finishing the sentence. "A pretty weird note."

"I can't take any more," Rita murmured, unaware of the officers' relief that she'd not pressed them as to its contents.

"The clothes’ll be examined, and that note checked against the other one Tim Fraser handed in earlier. If Molloy is to blame, he’ll be well up shit creek. Excuse my language."

Crooker slowed down by Ditch Hollow’s small, sunken recreation ground where several adults strolled and chatted while their kids played tag. Dayight had darkened, and to Rita's mind, any one of those young boys could be Freddie.

"I must tell Kayleigh I'm out in case she phones home." Rita got out her mobile, but Frobisher whipped round.

"Sorry love, but it could mess up our waves. Just give us the number."

Afterwards, Rita handed back Crooker's phone, noticing the Mondeo had stopped.

"Better come with us," Crooker suggested gently. "Your caller phoned from over there." He pointed to a telephone booth next to a line of run-down shops opposite the recreation ground. Rita could barely bring herself to look. "And very generously left us a couple of decent prints."

*

The air was chilly, the whole park area becoming bleak and dispiriting. Several skinny dogs coursed through the mean trees and Rita thought of Jip. Also, how much she'd lost since he’d died. Meanwhile, Crooker and Frobisher were heading for two shell-suited women with pushchairs. Nearby, two small boys kicked footballs at a makeshift goal. This scene was almost more than Rita could bear. She tapped one of the women on her arm, making her spin round in surprise.

"You've not seen a young, fair-haired lad with freckles, have you?” she said. “He's eight and wearing his school's red strip. Scrub Lane Primary."

Mention of that estate, where even ice cream vans no longer ventured, made both mothers edge away. But Crooker drew alongside them. His ID at the ready.

"Please, ladies, it’s important you try and remember anything you can. That little fellow may well have been with a man in his early forties. Slim, light brown hair, glasses. Also a plump, frizzy-haired woman - that's his wife - plus her sister who usually wears a track suit. Eric and Pat Molloy."

Their names triggered no reaction at all.

"What about Benny?" Rita turned to the sergeant. "Sandra’s son."

"Skinny little thing. Looks nearer four than seven. There’s a dad who’s never around. A Ghanaian. Who knows?”

The two women conferred, momentarily distracted by one of their lads whining for a drink. They seemed doubtful about getting involved.

“It’s urgent,” said Rita.

"We've only been here about fifteen minutes, but yeah," the shorter one said finally. "There was a young, blonde boy. I remember his freckles. My Darren wanted him to play, but..." Here she stopped. Pink lips pursed together.

"Just tell us!" Rita shouted, having noticed the second police car moving away from the kerb.

"There were two women, but no man and no other kid. They were having an argument. Nasty, by the sound of it. We didn't hang about did we?" She looked to her friend for concurrence.

"Can you describe them?” said Frobisher. “It could save that child's life."

"Ordinary, you know. Mind, the taller one had black roots showing. I'd never go out with my hair like that..."

"Sandra Gregory," Rita's voice had shrunk to a whisper. "Bitch."

"Did you see them leave?" asked Crooker, watching Frobisher home in on another group preparing to go. The woman shook her head as the sergeant radioed the back-up car and told them to start searching properties nearest that particular phone box.