Later, at six o’clock, before going to the chippie, he asked The Fawn if The Maggot’s letter to him and those three sheets of paper from Parkside Maternity Home, had been left in her Meadow Hill bedroom.
“Here’s a clue,” was delivered with a lop-sided smile; a G&T in one hand, and a gesture towards her back bottom with another. “They saved me quite a bit in toilet paper, that’s for sure.”
What?
“And my birth certificate?”
“The same. Why not?”
*
After that, there was no communication between them, except for a note from her saying if he needed clean clothes or a pizza he'd have to sort it himself.
Fuckit…
So while she was snoring away, he helped himself to cash from her purse, having long since memorised her Visa card’s PIN number. He also burnt his baby photo together with that poxy note to Father Christmas.
Something at least going to plan.
35
2 p.m. and three days before Christmas, Louis popped his head round The Fawn’s bedroom door. Just the top of her tousled head showed above the duvet, with stuff strewn all over, including pill bottles. Worse than his room, which was saying something.
"No decorations, then?” he said. “Not even a fucking tree?"
Silence.
"It's Christmas."
A small wheeze.
“Are we getting a turkey or do I mingle with the pond life at the food bank trough?" He moved closer and peeled back the duvet cover, soon realising that The Fawn’s breathing was way too shallow, her face too pale. She was out of order. The cow.
He leapt downstairs and dialled 999. The ambulance took forty minutes to arrive and he complained their delay could have cost her life.
“Last time we came to Downside, our gear got nicked,” retorted a pimply paramedic in a green romper suit. “So, see it from our angle.”
"Not good enough," Louis argued. "A life's a life wherever it lives."
“If I was you, sonny," The Pimple turned on him as the ambulance door slammed shut behind The Fawn. "I'd get your pinny on and start clearing that shithole of yours up before she gets back."
*
It was therefore appropriate that on Christmas Day, Louis Claus Perelman felt he'd finally found God. Someone he could talk to, unlike her, still in hospital, or anyone at that scummy school of his. A man, yes, definitely a man, he decided, who was hot on Law, Order and Punishment.
This helped him cope with his damp, poky bedroom, the washing machine full of her blood-stained overalls, the fridge permanently empty, and above all, her pressure for him to get a weekend job at Happy Chicks. Was that all he was worth? No way. And however cool it would have been to see all those live birds being dunked in boiling water, he needed his time for more fruitful activities.
These included a cast-iron six-pack if he was to impress the Briar Bank Army cadets and his new mates abroad. And the Met later on. ‘Mens sana in corpore sano,’ he'd written as a motto on his practice letter of application, and saved it to his hard drive.
He'd also bought a no-frills pay-as-you-go mobile off Ebay, and if The Fawn were to complain about ‘unaffordable luxuries,’ he'd put her straight. “Investments for my future,” he’d say. Facts she’d dare not argue with.
*
While the winter rain lashed his window, Louis opened his nicked Bible at Hosea - his favourite prophet - and smiled at the Vienna street map on his computer’s Wilkommen zu Wien website. A cool place, especially those Far Right activists whose Mission Statements conjured up the very message of the Old Testament. Leadership, war, revenge. People to whom he was now Paul Dunholm, promised a fake passport and new ID card within two weeks. No Birth Certificate needed.
What else had he found in the Bible? Certainly not the meek-and-mild Jesus that his limp-wristed R.E. teachers had promoted, but a man of irregular parentage like him, who'd become the The Most Powerful Person in the world. Above all A Man with a Purpose and awesome focus. Even Jez Martin’s headstone proclaimed it. One day, he promised himself, he'd sort out that particular heresy.
*
Suddenly the doorbell rang. Ever since Meadow Hill and the cops’ last visit, he didn’t like surprises and, realising it wasn't Jarvis and his slapper sidekick again, opened the front door to a small man in a dark suit whose green umbrella turned his face the colour of a frog. He looked Louis up and down with neither recognition nor respect.
"Is Ms. Harper in?" He demanded.
"Who the hell are you?"
"George Lee of Lee and Atkins, Ledbury Street. Debt collectors. Where is she?
"Out, OK?"
"I don't like your tone, young man. I'm only doing my job. She your mother?"
“No.”
That came out quick.
"When's she back?"
"Dunno. Why?"
"Well, tell her I'll be back on Monday 13th. As good a time as any to get our records straight. Oh, and tell her I made twenty quid on her wedding ring."
That was no wedding ring, and a Merry Christmas to you too.
Louis watched him mince back to his car and resolved that once he’d joined the Force, creeps like that would be toast. The Audi slid away and Mullion Road resumed its sodden melancholy save for the jungle crap throbbing from two doors down. With all the sand niggers and dot-heads around, he and The Fawn were the real ethnic minority. Another reason to make sure to get his A levels for a decent CV, then he could start putting the world to rights.
He glanced up at his GCSE Certificate blu-tacked to the least damp wall.
Ten grade A's, four with stars. Music, IT, German and Religious Studies. He smiled again to himself. Yes, those impressive achievements would be just the start.
*
The Fawn had been delivered home from hospital on Boxing Day, and seemed disappointed, less engaged somehow, thought Louis. Not good, especially after he'd sorted out the washing and tidied the grotty kitchen. He'd even plumped up the Meadow Hill cushions on the second- hand sofa. But had she noticed? No, and he resented the time it had taken instead of analysing grainy attachments of lakes and forests where Dekker’s briefings and training took place.
She didn’t mention her overdose again, and two day's later, was back at Happy Chicks on shortened shifts.
"A Mr Lee called when you were away," Louis informed her as she came through the front door the next Sunday afternoon. "He's back again on the 13th."
The Fawn paused while peeling off her mac, then went into the kitchen to wash her hands. Bits of chicken skin hung from her hair, and the smell left in her wake was worse than ever. Her face white.
"I owe him a thousand pounds."
Louis whistled. Then remembered something.
"To pay the debt of nature is to die.” Guess who said that?"
“I've no idea. All I know is your new computer, your exercise bike and the Raleigh, cost me three months' work. And you never once paid me back that forty pounds." She immediately checked he wasn't too close behind her.
"That's well below the belt," he snorted. "Considering I promised to repay it once I was a copper." Yet mention of it had made him catch his breath. Although he'd heard nothing from Darshan Patel since that soirée night and assumed the blackmailer had either forgotten or been bullied to a pulp, there remained the possibility he’d get greedy again. "Anyhow, if you’d not cleaned yourself out almost sixteen years ago on my account, you'd still be quids in, yeah?"
She swilled Value disinfectant round the shabby sink. “It was my choice, but," she added almost inaudibly, "God knows I'm paying for it."
His snide chortle chilled the already cold room. "What do you know about God, eh?"
"More to the point, what does he know about you?"
She was on the stairs and not w
orth chasing. Instead, Louis tore open a packet of Value Breakfast Flakes and filled his bowl with the dingy, yellow cereal. In Meadow Hill, there’d been Alpen with bits of real fruit. He yelled after her. “Guess what my new, fave word is?" As milk dribbled down his chin. "Viaticum. Can you hear me up there? Vi-a-ti-cum."
But only the opening and closing of drawers replied.
"It means provision for a journey. Isn't that fucking amazing?"
But ‘Eucharist for the dying’ was the important bit she didn't hear.
BOOK FIVE
Monday 13th January 2014
36
Yet more rain, and the darkening stain on Louis’ bedroom ceiling had spread, while outside a torrent of water gushed past his window.
The Fawn was on an early shift so he was alone, pounding out the miles on his exercise bike; his thigh muscles tightening with every turn of the pedals. She'd left him strict instructions not to answer the door, because if the bailiffs came in, that would mean the end of his bike, the TV the video and worst of all, the fridge, with still five hundred quid to find once they'd gone. However, it was the possible loss of his violin which troubled him the most, especially since his instrument would be his livelihood and cover in Vienna. No, if that Lee toad came calling again, it would be the first time in his life he'd obeyed her.
Above the burr of his bike wheels, he heard the letterbox snap shut. That meant junk mail. But today was different. A square, beige envelope addressed to him lay on the mat. He noted the second-class stamp and a smudged Birmingham postmark. Its shape and colour suggested a greetings card, but since his fourteenth birthday was three months’ away, he hesitated.
8/1/14.
Hail Brutus,
It’s four months since we moved away from Meadow Hill for father to expand his business in a safer area after his van was vandalised on the drive, and the racist mail was getting worse. The change is doing mother good. Me too, as I work for him in the holidays. I’m treated better at school here and plan to do a law degree to become a barrister.
What are your plans?
My mother still talks about that night you turned up in your uniform. It actually gave her quite a fright until she saw your trainers. Until I told her you were always full of surprises. Toby Lake was also shit scared of you, just like me, but I won’t be spreading that around just yet. Only when it suits me, because another thing, I looked up the Electoral Roll for the area round the Mall and no-one called Lisa was on it. Nor any Darnwood Road. Why I’m returning your sixty quid. From what I hear, you’ll have greater need of it than me.
No longer your slave,
Happy New Year!
Strato.
Louis gulped.
Cunt-faced tosser.
He felt hot and cold in turn, first pocketing the dough, then twisting the letter and its envelope into a tight spiral before fetching The Fawn's spare cigarette lighter from a drawer in the kitchen. Blackened fragments soon filled the narrow hallway like bits of dead bats.
Just then, the doorbell rang, followed by heavy knocking on the door's flimsy wood. The Debt Collector as promised, but this time, shoving in a demand for £200 by the end of next week. If not, his next visit would include a bailiff.
Still dwelling on Patel's letter, Louis left it on the kitchen table, pounded back upstairs to his computer where he sent an urgent email to Fritz Dekker. A last-minute change of plan meant he, Paul Dunholm, must have that promised passport immediately. In return, Der Held would have his fitness, cunning and language skills for whatever purpose. Having deleted it from his SENT box, he then began preparing for the next item on his agenda.
37
Less than two miles from the trials of Mullion Road, yet with his sense of direction hijacked by dense fog, Detective Inspector Tim Fraser finally admitted defeat. Monday’s weather had deteriorated once he'd left the Ml, and dusk combined with an eerie loss of surroundings, had forced his Saab Convertible into second gear. Its fog light suddenly useless.
"Damn.
Never a Satnav fan, he stopped the car half on to the pavement then consulted his BlackBerry until a map of Briar Bank and its environs swam into view, including Crowmore Lane where Transline, despite his suspicions and subsequent investigation, were still legitimately trading.
The screen also showed Ditch Hollow's continuing development. As if there wasn't enough building going on already, he thought, tempted to turn round and head back. But how could he? Rita Martin hadn't written a letter like that for nothing, Four years after meeting him, a relative stranger. As for Briar Bank CID, their promises of action had led nowhere, and would that recent, second Inquest’s Unlawful Killing verdict make any difference to their performance? He doubted it. Jez Martin’s badly degraded wounds could have been made by pretty much any knife, and meanwhile, too much hearsay was pointing the finger of blame at the still-absent Dr. David Perelman.
As the victim’s mother, Rita had been hurtfully side-lined, and her letter had been powerful enough for him to concoct an ailing aunt near Northampton who needed urgent medical attention. He knew his boss hadn't swallowed that spiel, but he was owed three days leave, so the guilt wasn't too consuming. Neither the desire to call in at his former base. He’d not forgotten the resentment at his departure; accused of milking his contacts to clinch a Detective Inspector post before the statutory five years in the Force. Not his fault that his new boss - a fellow rugby Blue at Cambridge - had wanted someone he’d believed could deliver results.
Fraser re-started the engine, hugging the kerb, aware of lit shop windows, more traffic and the muffled sequence of traffic lights. As he edged towards Scrub End, he couldn’t help wondering what Rita Martin looked like now.
*
He parked at the end of Wort Passage behind a red Peugeot 206, hoping his convertible's hood would be intact when he got back. Likewise his go-bag in the boot.
What a place, he thought. Where Briar Bank couldn't even get a beat going. Where mail didn’t go to certain streets. He could just about make out the house numbers hanging askew along the dark razor-wired fence… 3, 5, 7, 9, then 11, set straight, painted white.
Having combed his hair, he collected a ceramic pot of unopened hyacinths he’d bought at the last service station, and mounted the front steps. His pulse busier than usual.
"Hi. Are you Kayleigh Martin?" he smiled at the bright-looking teenager who answered the door, staring at his gift. Her eyes still so like her mother’s.
"Yeah. So?"
“Is your Mum in? I'm Detective Inspector Tim Fraser. She does know me."
The girl frowned.
"Is it about Dad? Has anything happened to `im?"
“No. Nothing like that. So don’t worry."
Visibly relieved, she called to her mother, and a few seconds later, Rita Martin was in the kitchen, meeting his gaze. He blinked. Surely this wasn't the same bruised woman who'd called into the station with the buggy full of an obviously ill daughter and a grizzling toddler? A woman so ground down by life?
Now she wore a neat, navy suit, while her hair was gathered up leaving stray tendrils brushing each cheek. Not a Doc Marten in sight, or that grungy puffa jacket. However, her memorably blue eyes hinted at another story.
“Thanks so much for coming all this way in the fog,” she began. “I hate begging.”
“I’m glad you did, the way things are going.”
Rita took the hyacinths, sniffed them and placed the pretty pot on the dresser. “Thanks for these, too. You didn’t have to,” she smiled. “They’ll be lovely when they open.”
She switched on the kettle and, as Kayleigh still in attendance, set out two mugs featuring Coventry’s rebuilt cathedral.
"I've not long been in," Rita
explained as Fraser settled himself at the table and took in his surroundings. The clean smell, the line of shoes - all except a man's - by the door. The framed picture of a lively, black dog, while a Christmas paper chain still hung over the sink. “I could have taken the week off,” she continued, “but Best Press has two shops now and to be honest, I was glad to get back to work after everything."
“I’m sure you were.”
He’d noted her voice had softened, probably because of her job. Also, there was no wedding ring.
"They’ve just dug Jez up," the girl announced, laying several Penguin biscuits on a saucer. "We `ad to go to this Inquisition thingy."
"Second Inquest." Rita gently corrected her.
“I heard more about it this morning,” Fraser said, aware of her briefly shutting her eyes. “It must be so hard for you.”
“To be honest, I can’t take much more, what with stuff in the papers, reporters pestering, and me worrying if the same thing's going to happen again..."
Fraser wanted to do more than just sit there and look compassionate. This woman needed a hug, and just thinking of where a hug might lead, sent a rush of colour to his neck.
"Once the truth does come out, Jez can truly be laid to rest. I’ll make sure of that,” he said.
"When'Il that be I wonder?" Was more to herself as she watched her daughter refill the kettle and take her tea through into the lounge. "And please call me Rita."
"OK. Rita, but first, until we get a result, I’ve suggested to Briar Bank they keep the media at bay for the immediate future, and the on-going enquiry should be steered away from gossip towards hard evidence. They accepted that first Inquest verdict on Jez and Wheeler too easily, meaning more than three wasted years.”
“Tell me about it. And as for Jane Truelove, she doesn’t seem bothered any more."
Cut To The Bone Page 21
