Skin

by Mo Hayder

  Flea sat back and rubbed her face wearily.

  ‘Are you still talking about the night you had that problem, Phoebe? Are you still going on about that?’

  ‘The night you had the problem. Do you remember? Your phone records will show it all. You called me over and over from the house that night.’

  ‘You know what? You’re right. I did. I did call – I remember now. I remember speaking to Thom. I remember how terrified he was something had happened to you. You were out, driving all over the place.’

  ‘Mandy, you’d better believe me when I say there is a photo. And it does show that Thom hit her. Thom hit Misty Kitson in my car.’

  Mandy sighed. ‘I wish you’d go and see someone, Phoebe.’

  ‘It’s true.’

  ‘Bring it to us then. We’re at home. You could be here in half an hour. Tell you what, I’ll put the kettle on.’

  ‘This conversation’s going nowhere.’

  ‘Then let me put you out of your misery and tell you how we’re going to finish it. Not only are you going to drop this thing – stop these hurtful fantasies about your younger brother – you’re also going to come up with a plan to cover up whatever it is you’ve done—’

  ‘What Thom’s done—’

  ‘Whatever you’ve done. Your deadline is midnight tomorrow.’

  ‘Deadline? What planet are you on, Mandy?’

  ‘You can live with a fucking deadline, can’t you, Sergeant? Isn’t that all you do in your job? Stick to deadlines? Midnight tomorrow night. Our house.’ Mandy’s breathing was harsh. ‘I want you to turn up and tell me that you’ve dealt with your problem. I want to hear that you’ve put it all to bed or I’m going to have to push the button on this and go to the police.’

  ‘Stop right there. I am not having this conversation.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  There was another shuffling sound, then silence. It took her a moment or two to realize that Mandy’d hung up. She pressed play and leant in to the speaker, listening to their voices. ‘I want this thing with Misty’s body sorted.’

  ‘This thing with what? With whom?’

  Mandy was clever. One clever bitch.

  A knock at the door. Wellard was there. Worried.

  ‘You OK?’

  She quickly hit erase on the phone and swivelled the chair to face him. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  He shrugged. ‘Just your – you know.’

  She touched her face gingerly. ‘This?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Cut myself shaving.’

  He tried to smile. Failed. ‘No banana bread? Thought maybe we’d upset you?’

  She looked at him for a long time. Dear, dear Wellard. The dear men who worked for her and never questioned what she said. Decent, decent people.

  She got up and found her sunglasses and keys in the top drawer. ‘Hold the fort for me, will you? Just hold it for a couple of hours?’

  ‘Where you going?’

  ‘I’m going to the bank, Wellard. I’ve got to see a man about a dog.’

  45

  Mahoney had agreed to bring the studio key to Lucy’s home. He said it would take him two hours to get there and not to come any earlier. Caffery wasn’t surprised to find him already at the maisonette when he arrived ten minutes early.

  He met Caffery at the front door. They didn’t waste time with greetings.

  ‘Is the studio open?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He led Caffery inside and went up the stairs, his footsteps heavy. He stopped at the studio door. ‘I’ve left it just as it was. Haven’t touched a thing.’

  ‘I’m sure you haven’t.’

  ‘Anything in here is Lucy’s choice. Things she chose. You see?’

  Mahoney unlocked the door and held it open. He didn’t make eye-contact as Caffery passed but followed him in and stood in the corner, arms folded, not speaking.

  The room was large – it must have been intended as the master bedroom. Caffery recognized it as the place Lucy had been filmed in on the second video. The walls were painted in metallics and canvases hung everywhere. She’d divided the area into two with a painted Oriental screen. The half of the room nearest the door was full: almost twenty canvases leant against the wall, four more on easels facing the window. He went to the other side of the screen, away from the window, and stood for a while with his hands in his pockets, looking at what was there.

  Pooley had been right. Lucy’d had unusual tastes. Dominating the room was a three-quarter life-sized bronze of a naked woman. She was bending over, buttocks in the air, showing every inch and fold of flesh between her legs. Beyond her, a row of smaller wooden sculptures were probably modelled from the Kama Sutra or something like it. On the wall there were several paintings of nudes, men and women, some alone, some together. Those looked amateur so Lucy had probably done them. On a small table in the corner there was a box like the one at the Emporium. A velvet-lined display case with crystal penises and pewter nipple clamps. It was just as Pooley had said.

  He didn’t say a word. He walked calmly back to the other side of the screen. Went into the area where the other paintings were lined up. He didn’t look at Mahoney, but peered into a stack of paintbrushes nose down in a jar of turps. Idly he pushed them around with his fingertips as if there was nothing much on his mind, then wandered around the canvases. They were mostly sky-scapes: clouds, birds, a kite. All were painted in a shade of blue that reminded him of something. One of his exes in London had been an artist and she used to talk in terms of colours being saturated or clean, and of hues being at the blue or red end of the spectrum. Caffery had never fully understood, and he didn’t have the words to describe this blue. Or to explain why it felt familiar to him.

  ‘They’re all the same colour,’ he said levelly.

  ‘She loved it.’ Mahoney still hadn’t made eye-contact. He was looking at his feet. ‘Mixed it herself. Said it was her signature.’

  Caffery was still for a moment. He stood among the paintings and studied Mahoney’s grey suit.

  ‘Colin, I never asked. What do you do? For a living?’

  ‘Me? I’m a certified financial planner.’

  ‘What? Like an insurance salesman?’

  ‘I advise on indemnities.’

  ‘You’re an insurance salesman, then?’

  ‘These days, we’re more likely to call it a liabilities consultant. Or a risk-management agent.’

  ‘But you’re an insurance salesman.’

  Mahoney raised his eyes and looked at him. Then he pulled out a canvas and held it up. It was only about two feet square and it showed a girl’s face, very close. She wore a ribbon in her blonde hair. The same blue again. ‘This was the first painting she did of Daisy.’

  ‘Nice.’ Caffery pulled out the photo of Susan Hopkins, held it up to Mahoney’s face. ‘Do you know who that is?’

  Mahoney turned his head away from the photo as if it had a bad smell. ‘There’s no need to hold it so close.’

  ‘I said, do you know who she is?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen her.’

  ‘Know the name Susan Hopkins?’

  ‘You already asked me on the phone, remember? I said no.’

  ‘This is serious now. Really serious. Look at it.’

  Mahoney put down the canvas, took the photo and peered at it. He shook his head and handed it back. ‘No. Seriously. What’s this about?’

  Caffery put the photo in his jacket pocket. ‘The case has been reclassified. I’ve been back to Lucy’s friends. I know what they say about her past. About you.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What on earth have they been saying?’

  ‘That you’ve got a stick up your arse so high it’ll choke you. That you left her. But not because you didn’t love her any more. Because you couldn’t handle what she was doing. Collecting all that stuff in there. Doing those paintings. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

  ‘I didn’t thin
k it was appropriate.’

  ‘Not appropriate – not appropriate? Stop using that expression, you pompous git. Don’t you know how important something like this could be?’

  ‘How could it be important? It was just her hobby. Just another of the things she collected. Frankly, it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘She could have been a prostitute. Don’t you know how often hookers get killed?

  Mahoney’s face went a hard red. ‘She wasn’t a prostitute. She wasn’t like that. This is just a hobby.’

  Caffery put his hands on the windowsill and stood for a moment, getting his temper back. Out of the window the clouds and mists swirled around the base of Glastonbury Tor, a lonely island on the drained Somerset levels, like an upturned pudding on the horizon. ‘You’re right. She wasn’t a hooker. But that’s not the point. You should have told me. She could have got involved with someone and they might be the one she was blackmailing.’ He gestured to the other side of the screen. ‘Is that why you got custody of Daisy? Did you use all that against her? See, I look at you and I can just picture the words “gross moral turpitude, your honour” coming out of your mouth. You’re the type.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There was never any argument about where Daisy would go. None whatsoever.’

  ‘Seems strange for the mother not to get custody.’

  ‘It’s not strange at all. I’m her father. I let Lucy see her, but she had no legal rights. She’d never adopted Daisy. Lucy was completely reasonable about it.’

  Caffery glanced sharply at Mahoney. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Lucy was completely reasonable about it.’

  ‘No – before that. That she didn’t adopt her.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t. Not officially.’

  ‘She wasn’t her real mother?’

  ‘She was her stepmother. Daisy’s real mother’s dead.’

  Caffery stared at him hard. ‘No one mentioned she was her stepdaughter.’

  ‘We didn’t advertise it. For Daisy more than anything. She always thought of Lucy as her mum.’

  ‘So what happened to . . .’ He hesitated. He was thinking about the Caesarean scar – the botched one. Something was missing here. ‘What about Lucy’s other child?’

  ‘Lucy’s other child? There wasn’t one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Perfectly sure. She never had children. Never wanted them.’

  ‘And never lost a child?’

  ‘No. I just said, there were no children. Only Daisy.’

  Caffery opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He could see from Mahoney’s face that he really didn’t know there had been a child. He returned to the window and stood for a while, pinching his nose, his eyes on the tor, letting his thoughts settle in the right places. If Lucy’s Caesarean hadn’t been for Daisy, it must have been after they’d separated. There was a child. But Mahoney didn’t know anything about it.

  ‘When you separated . . .’ he said, eventually, ‘Lucy wasn’t pregnant, was she?’

  ‘Pregnant? Good God, what are you saying?’

  ‘I’m not “saying”, I’m wondering. Just wondering. That’s all. Did you tell me you didn’t see her for a long time after the separation? Almost a year?’

  Mahoney put his thumb to his right eye and pressed in the corner. He did the same with the left. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’

  Caffery didn’t answer. He looked out of the window at the tor, his mind floating away. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it was the right way through this, but it was something. Something big. Lucy had had a child that no one knew about – none of the friends, and not even her ex-husband. She’d had a child. It had disappeared. And maybe, just maybe, that was why she was blackmailing someone.

  Now all he had to do was find out who she was seeing after she’d left Mahoney.

  46

  The bank had carved itself offices out of a listed Georgian building in the centre of Bath. Frosted glass and fibreboard cubicles were crammed against the walls, a gap of almost eight feet between their tops and the corniced ceilings. At eleven a.m. the bank assistant found Flea a cubicle and they sat at opposite sides of a modern laminate desk, a computer screen between them, trading inconsequentials for a while and filling in forms.

  ‘So you’re police?’ He looked at the badge on her polo shirt. ‘Underwater search? What’s that? Like the coastguard?’

  ‘Not really.’ She’d learnt a long time ago there were only two responses to what she did for a living. Either a fascination that bordered on weird, or disgust. And usually the first thing anyone did was look at her hands and her clothing. In some countries jobs that connected you with death – undertaker, slaughterhouse worker – made you untouchable. As if death could rub off on you. ‘What’s that thing for?’ she said.

  ‘Hmmm? Oh, that. Panic button.’

  ‘In case what?’

  ‘You know.’ He moved his tie knot. ‘Sometimes customers get upset.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘Whether we’ll give them a loan or not.’

  ‘Do you think that’s going to happen to me?’

  He coughed and tapped a few more keys, studying the screen. Then he got to his feet and held up the folder he’d started. ‘Will you excuse me? I’m going to have a word with my line manager.’

  When he was gone Flea got up and went to his side of the desk to look at the computer screen. He’d logged out. The words ‘Just 8% APR’ flashed in blue on the screensaver and when she shook the mouse a log-on box came up. She wandered around the room, looking at the leaflets, the lifestyles you could buy for just eight per cent APR. Her head still ached. The polymer Elastoplast itched where it held together the edges of the wound on her cheek. She went to the frosted-glass doors and peered out at the people coming and going. At the door he’d gone through. He was taking a long time. She went to sit down again and tried not to fidget. Put her fingers to her temples and pressed hard to hold the headache in.

  ‘Hello.’

  He was standing in the doorway. He gave her a brief smile and shut the door behind him. Not so friendly now. He put down the folder, sat at the desk, got himself comfortable and logged on. The computer came to life, lighting up his face. He began tapping in numbers.

  ‘You going to torture me?’

  He glanced up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Please don’t torture me. If the answer’s no, just say it. Have I got the loan?’

  ‘Of course you have.’

  ‘Of course I have?’

  ‘In spite of the horror stories, we do still give out loans, you know. And you’ve got good collateral in your property, a good job, you’ve been a customer for twelve years. In fact, there was never any question you would get it.’

  ‘You mean you always knew I’d get it?’

  He squinted at her over his spectacles, as if he hadn’t properly looked at her before, then went back to the computer: hitting a button, firing off a sheet on the printer. He made a couple of crosses on the paper and passed it to her. ‘Sign here and here.’

  She signed, pushed it back.

  ‘Simple as that.’ He recapped the pen. ‘The funds will be ready for withdrawal in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Twenty-four—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But that’s a day.’

  He looked at his watch. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘That’s no good. I need to be able to walk out with the cash.’ She paused. ‘OK, let’s go for a different loan. One I can take out now. We can do the forms quickly.’

  ‘There isn’t a loan on offer you can walk out with today.’

  ‘There has to be. Look at all these products. I don’t care what interest you charge – I just don’t care. Like you said, I’ve been a customer for twelve years. I’ve got good collateral. There must be a loan I can . . .’ She trailed off. He was looking at her pointedly, his eyes going from the scar on her cheek, to her police badge, to her hands. She
realized she was half standing, hands on the arms of her chair. He raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the panic button.

  ‘Just testing.’ She sighed and sat down. Forced a tired smile. ‘Just testing.’

  47

  ‘Well?’ Steve Lindermilk is sitting on the sofa. The french windows are open. It’s a nice afternoon, and in the garden the pink azaleas are out. There’s a rum and Coke at his elbow but he hasn’t touched it. ‘What did you want to see me about?’

  Ruth smiles at her son. He’s wearing jeans and trainers. An Umbro top with piping down the sleeves. He’s got her legs: strong. And her nose. Not too much of the Lindermilk side in Stevie. None of that pushed-in face like with Sue. ‘There was a question, darling. But there isn’t any more. I just wanted to see you.’ She raises her glass to him. Like it’s his christening or a special event and she wants to toast how wonderful he is. She’s feeling good this afternoon: only an hour ago she put the phone down to Little Miss PI. Little Miss PI who might not know how to dress like a girl but at least has a sensible head on her shoulders. She’s come up with the money. It’ll be delivered tomorrow afternoon. ‘I just wanted to see my lovely boy. My lovely, lovely boy.’

  He gives a weak smile. Crosses and uncrosses his legs. Looks at the drink in her hand. Looks at the calico cat lying on its back at her feet.

  ‘See you’ve got another cat.’

  ‘Two, darling.’

  Steve sighs. ‘Two more?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. They were going into a rescue centre. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘You could always say no.’

  ‘You might be able to harden your heart, Stevie, but I can’t. Not ever.’ She taps her glass. ‘You don’t want to start sounding like them out there, do you? Don’t want to be one of those who hassles me?’

  ‘Mum, there’s a simple way round this. Put the telescope away. That’s what’s pissing them off.’

  ‘No. I’m not taking it in. If they know I’m watching they might drive a bit slower.’