Willis grabbed her by the wrist.
"Mummy's here," he sneered, but Rita was undaunted.
"I' must see you, please," she begged her, barely above a whisper. In reply Carla wrenched herself away and strode towards the toilets.
"I need a pee, if that's OK with you." She shouted back to the thug, soon lost amongst the other players.
Carla slumped against a washbasin; her whole body losing its tension.
"Thanks, whoever you are," she said to Rita. "I can't even breathe any more without his permission."
"I'd have thought you could take your pick with blokes," Rita smiled.
“Don’t know about that, but he has to guard me. Especially after that ruckus over Dr. Perelman."
Rita started.
"That’s why I've come. He may be in trouble."
Carla Kennedy looked wary.
"You're not police are you?"
"Course not. I work at a dry cleaners in Coventry."
"Well, you're certainly not my mother. She's been dead two years."
"I'm really sorry," said Rita, then showed her new driver's licence. “I had to say something to get to see you. I'm Jez Martin's mum. That lad who was found in..." She gulped in the warm, stale air as Carla Kennedy finished the sentence for her.
"…in that filthy water by the Perelman's garden? How can I ever forget? Or you for that matter. Well, I'm not surprised Dave then went walkabout. Even though Mike Hayman did his best, it wasn’t the same after he left."
"You knew Dr. Perelman quite well, didn't you?" Rita ventured.
The girl pushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah, I suppose so. Anyhow, what trouble d'you mean?"
"Haven't you heard?"
"No." Which seemed genuine enough.
"The local police seem to think he killed my son, and did other pretty weird stuff, like taking intimate photos of my young daughter. But I know they're wrong. I just know..."
“Good God.” The young woman shook her head. "No way was Dave a pervert.”
“Your Greg obviously thought so, and told the police.”
“Idiot. Dave was decent. Had a heart. “Yes, he could be irritating, and if you missed a rehearsal or lost your music, he’d freak. His way of being in control, I suppose, as he didn't seem to have much at home."
"Go on." Rita sensed this might be leading somewhere and in her mind, she was back at 14, Meadow Hill with the then Constable Jarvis, that crazy piano music, and the mother and son who, with hindsight, had made an odd pair.
"Considering one thing and another," Carla turned to her reflection in the mirror. "He was a complete sucker. Specially where the boy was concerned."
"Louis?"
"Yes. Loved him like he was his own kid."
"So he wasn't the real father?" Rita wondered why Mike Hayman hadn't mentioned it.
"No. He and his partner adopted him as a baby, and no expense spared, apparently. Even bought him a top-of-the-range Guenari violin, the latest laptop, you name it. Mind, the kid's a really gifted player. A genius, I'd say."
"Did he ever buy him a camera?"
Carla thought for a moment. "Hang on, yes. For his twelfth birthday. Dave told me it had to be black, not digital, with a proper zoom lens for close-ups. Louis’ orders."
A sudden chill crept under Rita’s clothes.
"Was Jacquie his mother, then?"
Carla shook her head. "No.” She looked at the door, then her watch. "It's a long story, Mrs Martin. And I don't really know all the ins and outs. I'd better shift my butt. Or there’ll be trouble..."
"Anything else?" Rita persisted.
"Sorry, but the rest's pretty confidential, between Dave and me."
"It can't be, because if Dr. Perelman turns up wherever, he could be clobbered for crimes he didn't commit. And how would you feel about that?"
Carla turned to her, her face grown pale. Her words measured because of their implications. "OK. One of the last things he said to me was he thought his son was ill. He meant as in sick, like this." She tapped her head with a forefinger. "And over the years, he and Jacquie had suffered a lot. God knows where the man is now. Poor sod."
"May I take your phone number?"
"Sure." Carla produced a scuffed card from her jeans pocket. Its borders decorated with musical notes. "But please keep what I’ve said to yourself. Promise?"
Rita nodded.
"I'm trying to get a new life going now. God knows it's hard enough with Greg clinging on..."
"One last thing," Rita had to ask. "Have you any idea where Louis and Jacquie are living now?" She held the door open and Carla glanced back at her.
"No, but shortly after Dave went, she came into the College office a few times to try and get some info on him. I saw her there once. She looked a totally different woman. I actually felt pity for her."
Rita thanked her, wishing her well with her career and her controlling boyfriend, but all the while, a name was messing with her mind.
Louis Perelman.
She punched Tim Fraser's number on her mobile and left an urgent message on his voicemail.
*
1:30 p.m. and she was lost. She'd parked her little Peugeot in a car park adjoining a scruffy pub whose name she'd forgotten. Also, stupidly, her A to Z of Britain map with its close-ups of main city centres, was still at home.
She stopped a middle-aged woman weighted down by several carrier bags and, having followed her directions, knew this wasn’t the way she'd come.
"Where ye lookin' for, lady?" A voice behind made her jump. She looked round to see a young, skinhead postman with his mail sack slung across his body. "Sorry if I alarmed ye, but this isn't a great area for a woman on `er own."
"I'm fine, thanks." And with that, quickened away down the street. There'd been an uncomfortable aura about him - in fact, that applied to most male strangers since Frank had gone.
Besides, she thought while passing a row of Asian shops selling exotic fabrics, anyone could have nicked a Royal Mail sack and passed themselves off as a postman.
Yes, anyone.
*
Her surroundings subtly changed from retail to wholesale. From human-scale shops to depots, industrial units and car auction sites set against the roar of flyover traffic. Whenever she spotted a large, white van, she strained to see if Frank was driving. Big, stupid Frank. Even his name sounded unfamiliar now.
The racket overhead was far worse than being in the Scrub Lane underpass and Rita knew that if she didn't locate her car within the next hour, she'd be late back for the kids. To that end, she turned into Zintec Enterprises' second entrance leading to a long line of individual units. She'd had no breakfast, so far no lunch, yet even smells of food preparation coming from one of the graffiti-covered units weren't the least bit tempting. No, the only thing that mattered now was to find her car and get home.
At Digi-Solutions, Rita described the missing pub to a helpful receptionist, and to her relief, the girl’s face showed signs of recognition.
"That's got to be the St. George's Arms,” she said, drawing a simple map on a Post-it note. “They fly his flag all year round," she went on. "And hold National Front meetings there. Anyway, good luck."
Good luck? What was that? Rita asked herself, nevertheless smiling a thank you, and heading for the door. Perhaps if she repeated it often enough, it would find her.
49
Clutching the Post-it note, Rita set off the way she'd come, only pausing when the tall figure of a young man wearing a blue baseball cap emerged from the first Zintec entrance ahead of her. Immediately, his stride seemed familiar. Also, how his whole body moved. Then, with a shiver, she remembered her driving test. Could this be the same person she'd seen leaving St. Matthew's church?
Occasionally, and to he
r disgust, he spat on the pavement. Normally, she'd have told him off, but not here, on her own. For one dressed so sloppily, he seemed oddly purposeful, not once turning to check on her. Occasionally he'd slap both black-gloved hands around himself without slackening his pace.
New Nike trainers, too, she noticed, unlike the scruffy ones she'd seen by the church, and she couldn't help imagining that Jez would be around the same age...
Suddenly and without warning, he stopped in his tracks and spun round to face her, tapping his expensive-looking watch.
"Excuse me. Sorry to trouble you, but this stupid gizmo has gone on the blink. Do you happen to have the time?"
Rita felt her heart somersault. Not because she was alone with a stranger who'd so abruptly interrupted her, but that Kayleigh's drawing had come alive, with those same slightly hooded brown eyes. The dilated pupils.
However, there were no black-framed glasses, and unlike Pete Brown, he was well-spoken. Thirdly, what little hair was visible, suggested a darker brown than she recalled. If only she could flip the cap off his head. If only...
He leant closer to see her watch for himself. "I've a train to catch at three,” he explained. “Last one to Darlington today."
“Where from?"
"New Street."
"You'll be fine. It's only 2:28 now."
"Cheers, you." And with that he bounded away still swinging his arms with a fierce excess of energy.
*
He headed into a busy shopping street, pausing to buy gum from a kiosk and not waiting for his change. Rita drew closer, feeling safer being one of many swarming around the big stores whose window displays shouted SALE NOW ON!
The blue baseball hat bobbed to the end of the busy thoroughfare and stopped at another booth selling watches. He replaced the one on his wrist which he threw into a nearby bin. There was no time for her to retrieve it as he was already half way up the ramp leading to the station's concourse. Once inside, he made no move to buy a ticket, so she assumed he'd either got a return, bought one online, or was a fare dodger. If she queued to buy one for herself, she might lose him. Without a thought as to her car or the fact that Darlington was way up north, she decided to take a risk.
Suddenly, the loudspeaker announced the next departure for Coventry and London was from platform 3 in five minutes. To her utter surprise, the lad went that same way. If he was going to London, then why tell her Darlington? If it was Coventry...
No…
She joined the crush of travellers bowling along to where a four- carriage train was already waiting with its doors open. If her quarry chose the First Class carriage, she’d just have to stump up. Instead, Baseball Cap entered the half-filled non-smoker, but then whipped round to face her before plunging into a seat with its back to the cab.
Those eyes again. That same menacing challenge. She ducked down and settled herself next to a large woman unwrapping a tuna sandwich.
At 3:09 after a nasal announcement apologising for the delay, the now crowded train pulled away from the station and nudged its way through the city’s eastern suburbs past Solihull and Balsall Common. The tuna smell made her queasy, so did the full realisation of what she was doing. But she had no choice. Jez was still egging her on.
All at once, the dividing carriage door slid open and some official stepped forwards. "Tickets please."
Another nightmare had arrived. With grim inevitability, having checked everyone else, he drew nearer. Rita got her cash ready and the best excuse she could muster. "My Mum's just died. I've not been thinking straight. Sorry." she whispered, making her eyes water.
"Eighteen-thirty."
Having given her change from a twenty pound note, he moved on, and Rita slumped against the seat in relief. The last thing she needed was extra attention.
"You was lucky," munched her companion, ejecting tuna flakes into Rita's lap.
"Me bro got done for fifty quid the other day."
Rita gave her a weary smile and, as the train gathered pace, she made a superhuman effort to stay awake. After all, if she shut her eyes for a second, her quarry could slip into another carriage or the W.C. and then what? She mustn't think of the kids, or her car already over its time limit and a likely target for vandals. If Baseball Cap had a ticket to Coventry after all, he could be local.
And local was too close to home. She must find out where he lived then contact Tim Fraser yet again.
*
At Coventry’s station, Rita sprinted to catch up with her target. At the ticket barrier he suddenly halted, fumbling in his tracksuit pockets, causing a queue behind him.
"Take a proper look, now, chum." A burly ticket officer insisted. "Then we can all go home."
The traveller glared at those trying to pass him and muttered obscenities to himself while removing his gloves. It was then she noticed the watch he’d bought. It was all black.
"Name?" said the man trying to quell the impatient crowd.
"Kevin Cookson."
"Cough up, now Kevin, eh? There's a good lad. Fifty quid. For all the trouble you've caused."
"Ye fuckin' bastard! Yerall the fuckin' bleedin' same. Arse wipes."
Rita's was back in Wort Passage as if it was yesterday.
Pete Brown…
"Watch your language, young man."
"Boil yer fuckin' `ead.'
With that, he vaulted over the barrier with inches to spare, and charged towards the exit punching the air with a clenched fist. Clearly no-one thought he was worth the chase - except Rita. He ran on into the gloomy bus station just as a North Barton bus was pulling in. Jogged impatiently behind a group of pensioners getting their passes ready.
"Downside," he muttered to the driver and, having paid with a heap of small change, swayed his way to the back seat.
Dammit.
She'd planned to sit behind him. Now he'd have to pass her in the aisle to get off.
Did he actually live in Downside? she wondered. Or was maybe seeing a friend? Either way, he’d be too close to Wort Passage.
"Downside as well," she whispered to the driver, angling herself at the windscreen. She then found a seat, still feeling like a feckless mother, when her mobile rang from inside her bag. Kayleigh. She dreaded what might come next.
"Mum, where are you?"
"I'm on my way.'
"When'II you be back?"
A ripple of panic.
"I'll ring later. Stay indoors. Promise?”
“We will.”
“Is Freddie OK'?"
"He wants a tin of baked beans to himself..."
"Let him. Be good."
She gave a weak smile to her neighbour.
"Kids, eh?" The other woman opined, as Rita switched off her phone. With the trickiest part of her mission still to come, Tim Fraser hadn’t yet replied to her first call.
*
The bus stopped at the end of Holly Road where a young lad was wheeling his bike out of number 74's gateway. She pressed her nose to the glass for a closer look. But what was the point? That nice house wasn't hers any more.
As the bus lurched towards its stop, someone nudged her arm. Baseball Cap, easing his way to the front. She turned away, for he'd surely recognise her if their eyes met a second time.
The driver manoeuvred into the bay by Downside Road. “Any more chicken pluckers?" he quipped once the lout had alighted.
"Yes. Me." Rita reached the front as the engine was revving. Soon her super-fit quarry would become part of the creeping dusk.
Give this up. Now... said an inner voice, but not while that same blue cap bobbed so tantalisingly in front of her.
He took a left into Mullion Road, until veering off towards a children's playground where he leapt on the one undamaged swing. Back and fore he strained
his body higher and higher into the darkening sky as he let out what Rita could only assume was a cry of victory.
*
Suddenly leaping free, he landed on all fours on the synthetic asphalt, before haring back to Mullion Road. Rita left her hiding place to follow until he finally jogged through a gateless gap in front of number 315b, and let himself in the front door.
This had to be the scruffiest dump in Downside with tatty curtains drawn behind its windows. Weeds and litter a-plenty. A smashed street light. Hardly what she'd expected.
But it was where Pete Brown lived.
50
Guilt and elation accompanied Rita back to Wort Passage, and in record time she’d rustled up compensatory burgers and chips for the kids. And because they’d been good, they could eat by the TV. Neither noticed her car was missing, and for that she was grateful. But she’d have to organise its retrieval soon.
She then phoned Tim Fraser with an update, soon wishing she hadn’t.
"You could’ve got done for leaving two kids alone like that,” he said, completely ignoring what she’d said about Pete Brown. “Are you crazy?"
"And you could have got back to me. I’ve been through Hell today."
"Join the club."
"Is that all you can say when I hand you news like that on a plate?"
Silence.
Was this the same bloke she'd come to rely on? she asked herself. The first man since Frank to show any signs of caring for her and what was left of her family?
"The MPA say they need my pad for some new recruit," he said finally. "Great, eh? And since my unofficial foray to the Midlands, the knives have been out. Nicely sharpened."
"Please don't talk about knives like that."
Another pause. Was it possible he was crying?
"Sorry. I just didn't think. Christ, Rita, I'm not much good for you, am I?"
Cut To The Bone Page 27
