Scar Tissue

by Judith Cutler

  ‘But nothing ever came of it?’

  Just that phone number twice a year. I shook my head firmly. ‘A social worker. A client. Professional misconduct. No.’ I had a very good idea she sensed that there was a lot more to tell. I’d told her all about the drugs and the rotten start I’d had. She knew I’d turned to education quite late in life. But she didn’t know about my professional past. And now wasn’t the time to tell her, not with a skinny black sergeant opening a door and beckoning me in.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘What I can’t understand, Sergeant Taylor,’ Jan said earnestly, ‘is why your Ashford colleague – Sergeant Marsh? – treated my client as if she were the perpetrator of the crime, not the intended victim.’

  You’ve seen the TV programmes where those facial reconstruction people take a skull and put the face back on, muscle by muscle? Sergeant Taylor’s face was so thin it looked as if they’d only half-finished it. At least when he smiled, it crinkled into almost as many planes as Todd’s. I preferred it that way – it was less a reminder of what Joyce called ‘our last end’; you see, that set of short stories that Todd had recommended was coming in useful already. ‘I’m sure your client was mistaken,’ he said smoothly. There was no way of knowing whether he was practising a little esprit de corps or whether he was in cahoots with Marsh. ‘I’m sure Sergeant Marsh was merely trying to establish if Ms Tyler knew who might have sent her the bomb.’

  I itched to interrupt and yell, but I remained silent, even to the extent of sitting on my hands.

  ‘That has been established, has it? You have forensic evidence that the bomb was addressed to her? The address label survived the blast?’ Her voice expressed extreme doubt.

  ‘We have been able to piece together fragments,’ Taylor said.

  And in double-quick time, too – Marsh had been sure it was mine within half an hour. Jan pressed my foot. She knew what I wanted to point out.

  ‘What a pity he didn’t ask me directly.’ Damn. It had popped out of its own accord.

  ‘You know who might have done it, then? One of your punters?’

  I removed a fist from under my bum and pressed Jan’s hand. I should have told her, shouldn’t I?

  ‘May I have a word with Ms Dawes in private please?’ I asked humbly.

  Taylor’s eyes widened – back to the skull again – but he nodded courteously enough and left the room. He hadn’t issued the routine warning about the interview being taped, there was no other officer with him – which may or may not have been a good sign – and he closed the door without displaying the irritation many other officers would have shown at such an interruption so early in the proceedings. So far I rated him a potential goodie.

  ‘Caffy! Why didn’t you tell us? A prostitute!’ Or would she have been Guardian politically correct and called me a working girl or a sex worker, a term which always conjured up for me visions of women in white coats, like the Clinique girls in nice department stores. Whatever she’d called me, she’d have ended, ‘Oh, you poor child!’ That would have been the scenario I’d chosen. With one of her kind motherly embraces. What I got was a furious pair of hands on my shoulders shaking me so hard I was afraid my teeth would rattle. Can a shake that hard be loving? ‘You little fool. You know it wouldn’t have made any difference about how Todd and I feel about you, not an iota, and now you’ve made me look a complete amateur.’

  ‘That’s why I asked to speak to you,’ I mumbled. I managed to look her in the eye. ‘It’s not something I’m proud of, Jan, my past. Being on the game – it wasn’t a nice job. Even though I was never a street girl reduced to doing blow-jobs for a tenner. I used to meet my clients in a hotel. Oh, not the very posh end of the market. Not those women with degrees and such that call themselves escorts. Just a prostitute. Nice women don’t do it. I mean, being involved with drugs was bad enough, but –’

  ‘Was that why Granville cut his initials into your stomach? Because you weren’t just his customer, you were his whore?’ She didn’t know what to do with her face; just as you thought it was trying not to cry, you realised it was brimming with anger – and then all the way back again.

  ‘I told you I was his mistress,’ I said, trying not to wince at the word she’d used, not to whine an excuse. But she might as well have a bit more of the truth. ‘He’d bought me from my pimp. Yes, he owned me. When I escaped the first time he got me out of the unit and filled me full of heroin. And made his mark. The next centre I managed to get into was miles away, and he seemed to lose track – or lose interest. He’s got another girl now, as I told you.’

  ‘How many years –?’

  ‘On the game, four. Nearly three years, on and off, as “his”.’

  She put her thinking expression on. ‘So that’s why he said “punters”?’

  ‘Marsh hinted I was a tom the first day we met. I’m on file. Soliciting. When I was with Granville one of his turnons was to watch me with other men.’

  ‘Jesus! Oh, Caffy! Why didn’t you tell us? You poor child!’ This time she did gather me in that kind and loving hug. ‘Shall I ask that sergeant if you can have a cup of tea before we continue?’

  ‘I’m fine. Glad to have it off my chest. You don’t … mind? You’re sure?’

  ‘Even the most po-faced Christians love the sinner however much they hate the sin. And I’ve always said that if it weren’t for men, women wouldn’t have to do the job anyway.’ She wasn’t as relaxed as she liked to think – her voice was clipped, the way I imagined she must have sounded in court. She turned away – did she really dab at her eyes? – but turned back trying to smile. ‘Come on, Caffy: you must know how much you mean to us.’ Her voice broke. ‘We – we never had a daughter, but if we had we’d have loved her to be like you.’

  At least, that was what I hoped she said.

  ‘But all I’ve done is put you to endless trouble and expense!’

  She didn’t know whether to nod or shake her head. One of us had to turn down the emotion. ‘One day I’ll pay you back. Well,’ I conceded more honestly, ‘I’ll try.’

  At that point there was a knock on the door – a knock! – and Sergeant Taylor popped his head round the door. He coughed meaningfully and glanced equally meaningfully at his watch. Of course, he had a shift to finish and a home to go to. He might even have the weekend free and be hoping to dash down to the coast. Jan and I smiled and sat down.

  I felt so much better I didn’t even try to sit on my hands. ‘You were speaking about my clients, Sergeant.’ I emphasised the word slightly. ‘Most were very ordinary men out for a bit on the side, for whatever reason. Certain public figures have made it almost fashionable, haven’t they?’ I pointed out brightly. ‘There’s only one I’d imagine capable of such psychotic behaviour. The man who did this.’ I lifted my shirt. To my horror the tan was as uneven as if I’d done it myself, but at least the scars glowed brightly. ‘CG. Clive Granville. He’s a big drugs baron in the Midlands. He caught sight of me in Tenterden on Tuesday. The bomb arrived on Thursday.’

  Taylor sucked in his cheeks, more like the model for the Jolly Roger than ever. He raised very bright, shrewd eyes. ‘Why didn’t you tell Sergeant Marsh this?’

  ‘My client’s discussion with Sergeant Marsh was interrupted,’ Jan put in smoothly. ‘In any case, she was very shocked – almost to the point of needing medical treatment. He’d tried to prevent her taking so much as a shower to wash off the deceased’s blood.’

  ‘You were…’ he gestured. ‘The blood sprayed on to you? I thought you were in a van.’

  ‘I was first on the scene. I tried to staunch the flow with my clean washing. I’d just returned from the launderette, you see.’

  ‘That was very –’ He seemed at a loss for words.

  Jan wasn’t. ‘My client is a brave young woman. After Granville mutilated her, she still managed to put herself through college and get a steady job.’ A nice bit of phrasing, there: no further mention of my drugs habit. Once a junkie always a junkie, you
see. And junkies aren’t the most reliable folk, as any neighbourhood cop trying to reduce the burglary rate will tell you.

  ‘You tried to save –’

  ‘Arthur. Arthur Mann. He always said he’d be a whole Mann when he’d got his new dentures.’

  ‘You tried to save Mr Mann. And Sergeant Marsh didn’t want you to clean up?’

  ‘One of his colleagues. A young man with ginger hair and white eyelashes. I’m sorry – I didn’t write down his number.’

  With a wonderful dry smile, Sergeant Taylor said, ‘I shouldn’t imagine that that was uppermost in your mind at the time. I shouldn’t imagine you’d have been the most coherent of witnesses at the time, so perhaps that’s why these points weren’t made at the initial interview.’

  Not a coherent witness? How dared he!

  But he was attempting another smile, which rather undercut what he’d said. ‘I’ll point our Ashford colleagues in the direction of Clive Granville. I should imagine we won’t have to trouble you any more. But in case we do, can I have a contact address for you?’

  Jan’s foot sprang into action. ‘You won’t have been surprised to learn that Caffy has left the Ashford area. You can contact her via me. You obviously have my phone number.’

  ‘And your address, Ms Dawes?’

  ‘Care of my Chambers.’ She produced a card, which he took.

  ‘I think we should have an address – we may need to put Ms Tyler under immediate protection,’ he insisted

  ‘I’m moving this evening to another friend’s,’ I said. ‘I don’t know their house number. But I’ll phone you to let you know as soon as I get there, shall I?’

  ‘Very well. Don’t leave it too late, though, will you? As soon as I get off duty I shall be going up to the Midlands. My son’s graduating from the University of Wolverhampton. Law,’ he added, glowing.

  I promised most earnestly, not intending to for one second, and we went on our way.

  ‘Where now?’ I asked, blinking in the vivid haze that passes in London for bright sunlight.

  ‘Home,’ she said warmly. ‘Once we’ve fought our way onto the train – have you ever been on one in the rush hour?’

  It must have been nearly nine o’clock by the time we got back to Fullers, but the Transit still lurked under a tree. The Pots rarely worked this late: were they expecting rain next week? Amazing how a couple of days without Rob McElwee could harm your professionalism.

  Paula flapped a hand as I walked over to apologise for a very poor working week and to offer to work over the weekend to make up. After all, I hadn’t anything else to do, and I needed my wages – but not so much that I could expect her to pay me if I hadn’t done the hours. After her brother’s mate’s activities this morning, I also wanted to ask her not to tell anyone else about my background – if I said nothing, the niggle would grow into a big rankle, and I liked her too much for that.

  Before I could say anything, she asked, ‘Got a moment? Or a spare hour or so?’

  ‘Plenty of spare hours. But Todd and Jan were expecting to feed me.’ I looked at her more closely – she was bubbling with something. ‘I’ll tell them not.’

  Jan went straight into mother-hen mode. ‘You sure you’ll be all right? I could leave something on a plate?’

  ‘We’re mates, Jan – we often go out for a drink. I’ll get something in the pub.’

  ‘Well, don’t be too late back. And bang on the door if you’re afraid of going in there on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be all right – don’t wait up for me!’

  My schoolmates had always moaned about their mums being like this, but I’d always thought they were secretly pleased as well as vastly irritated. Now I understood both emotions.

  ‘He did what?’ Paula exploded. ‘The bastard! The absolute bastard! And Derek’s a bastard, too, for not doing as he promised and ferrying you himself. But he didn’t get the idea from me, Caffy. I promise you that. Him or Derek or Mum. No one knows.’

  I’ve never known Paula so much as bend the truth, so I believed her. ‘It must have been the way I looked,’ I said sadly. ‘Just like a tart, Paula – funny, really, considering.’

  She didn’t laugh.

  ‘At least I don’t look so bad now my nails are back to normal,’ I suggested.

  Silence.

  ‘Where are we going, by the way? This isn’t the road to the Hop Vine.’

  ‘It’s the road to Crabton Manor. I’ve got the keys. The dogs are locked up. We’re going to have another look round.’

  ‘How?’ I meant the question to apply to everything; she took it that way.

  ‘Tomorrow we’re painting lower level windows – I need to be able to open them and close them afterwards.’

  ‘What about the agent?’

  ‘William Harvey Hospital – peritonitis.’

  ‘Who’s feeding the dogs and letting them out and getting them back in?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘No need to screech – it puts me off my driving. They are, I have to say, being given doggy Prozac.’

  ‘So long as it’s not doggy Viagra. And since when did Paula’s Pots work weekends?’

  ‘Since they were offered double-time for Saturday and triple for Sunday. Van der Poele’s hosting a big party soon and he wants the place looking good. He’s having one of those garden make-over jobs – my cousin Tina’s husband’s got the contract. Lots of tidy bay trees – you know the sort of thing. Apart from the money, it’ll give us the chance to look round – that’s what really clinched it for me.

  I shook my head. ‘A professional villain wouldn’t leave stuff lying around.’

  ‘You’re sure he’s a professional villain?’

  ‘Aren’t you? No one less than a pro would have a police sergeant in his pocket – unless they were particularly dedicated Freemasons. In any case, it feels too pat. Too easy. I’ve got these vibes.’

  She pulled into a lay-by and cut the engine. Switching on the interior light she turned to face me. ‘Your vibes? You’ve only ever had them once before and that was when you said those joists were rotten and I took no notice and landed in the bathroom below.’

  I nodded. She’d come mighty close to breaking a lot of bones – though the sight of her descending slowly and inexorably had brought the rest of us to hysterical tears. ‘Same vibes,’ I said. ‘You see, the doggy Prozac could be a two-edged sword. The dogs won’t bark and snarl at us, but they wouldn’t bark at anyone else, either. So van der Poele could get into the house without the Herald Angels singing.’

  ‘But why should he suspect anything?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ And then I had. ‘Has he missed me?’

  ‘As a matter of fact he did ask about you. “That blonde tart.”’

  ‘Those were his actual words?’

  ‘A manner of speaking, Caffy. I didn’t tell him about your past, either.’

  ‘I’m sure you didn’t. But he might have heard the exact words from someone else, mightn’t he?’ I let that sink in, then asked, ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Family bereavement. It’s what we all agreed. That you’d dashed off to see your nan in Manchester.’

  ‘Not Brum? Brilliant. Well done, all of you. Did he believe you?’

  ‘Don’t see why he shouldn’t. I was saying how short-handed I was and how we had two big jobs on and he moaned about painters and builders never sticking to just the one job and that’s when he offered the double overtime. Actually, I said I was interviewing your replacement – I wondered if you’d want to come and help tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m ever so tempted,’ I said. All that lovely overtime. ‘But I think I may have another vibe coming on. You couldn’t get someone else to come along, could you? Just to double-bluff him?’

  Now she sounded exasperated. ‘Such as who? At this sort of notice?’

  ‘Have you got any really basic, nasty work to be done? How about young Dean, then? I reckon he owes you one.’

&n
bsp; One job I’ve never envied coppers – well, there are quite a lot I’ve never envied them, actually, including arresting junkies with active needles – is staking out premises. Sitting slumped out of sight in cold cars with nothing for company except a cup of take-out coffee and a full bladder. Well, the Transit wasn’t cold, and we didn’t have any coffee, just a couple of hefty bars of chocolate. And since we didn’t have any coffee, our bladders weren’t full. Or shouldn’t have been. Except being nervous always makes me want to pee. In fact, I’d just slipped out and had a wee behind the van when I heard a car. Knickers still at half mast, I was back in before you could say ‘obbo.’

  Lights out and hidden well under trees nearly two hundred yards from the house, the van was surely undetectable. All the same, I had one hand on the ignition key, the other on the gear stick: that was what we’d agreed. Anyone approaching the house and we’d beat it, fast. And that meant me driving – the Transit usually started first pull for me, remember, and rarely for the others, even Paula.

  Yes, the car was slowing. And coming to a halt. No, the dogs didn’t bark, dreaming their sweet Prozac dreams. There was the light crunch of gravel – I thought I made out two pairs of feet. I might have made out the glint of a gun – but I was dead fanciful by then.

  I looked at Paula; eyes so wide I could see the whites, she nodded. The van rose to the occasion and away we slipped. Perfectly safely. There. We breathed again.

  And then I had another vibe.

  Chapter Ten

  Believe me, it has to be a pretty strong vibe to get me to disturb someone at well past midnight, at least when their blinds were tight down, with no sign of any light. But that was what I had to do. I meant, of course, to knock firmly, but not obtrusively, and to greet Jan or Todd with a rational and well-expressed set of reasons why they shouldn’t open any packages sent to them. And why they should take the mobile phone back to London and drive round using it all over the place before ditching it.

  That was the plan. I even rehearsed under my breath what I should say.