Scar Tissue

by Judith Cutler

  Come on, Caffy – whoops! Come on, Lucy. Paint that window-frame. I looked at my hand. Some folk used masking tape to get a straight line. I’d prided myself on never needing to. Today, just in case, I sneaked a roll from the back of the van.

  It was I who, an hour or so later, spotted van der Poele’s car and knocked the window hard. I wasn’t surprised to see Taz and Paula emerging on to the scaffolding above me, though it wasn’t the wisest move. They were a bit obvious, and van der Poele knew we’d done that particular section. Paula was soon beside me, however, using the ladder as easily as if it were an escalator in a shopping mall. To my dour amusement, Taz was clearly uneasy, making sure he steadied himself before moving a foot or releasing a hand. There was a lot of ladder to go before he reached solid ground, though. Ground as solid as his feet. Feet of clay, eh? I had a nasty suspicion I was falling briskly out of love with our Taz. I didn’t need so much as an inch of the masking tape.

  Because the heat was still intense at five, Paula told us we could knock off if we wanted.

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘And what about your contract?’

  ‘You’ve done more than I expected already. Taz isn’t bad at rubbing down. But someone’ll have to repaint his window-frame tomorrow.’ She paused, presumably for him to hang his head and apologise, eventually resuming, ‘I’m going to stick it out a bit longer, but you could run the others back, Lucy, and then bring Trev – the van – back here for me.

  ‘It’d make more sense if Taz did that,’ I objected. ‘I could carry on painting.’

  ‘True. Will you start it for him?’

  Taz bustled forward, holding out his hand for the keys. So his deafness had been temporary and selective. ‘I can do that – no problem.’

  Winking at me with the eye Taz couldn’t see, Paula handed them over.

  ‘So long as he doesn’t flatten the battery,’ I cautioned, hearing the starter motor whine and cough over and over again.

  ‘I don’t think he’s that stupid. There you are. He’s given up. Go and show him, girl!’

  A triumphant moment later, and Paula and I were on our own. We worked on open windows, so we couldn’t say much. At last, both finished, we were putting away our brushes and making sure the lids were firmly on the paint tins when she said, ‘When Taz comes back, don’t forget that butter and milk.’ In exactly the same tone, she continued, ‘I had an idea you were sweet on him.’

  ‘You had the right idea,’ I admitted. ‘Once. I think absence must have made a fond heart wander, though. In his case, at least.’

  ‘His? What about yours? I mean, he’s very good-looking and he’s looked after his body very well. Very well indeed.’

  ‘I don’t know what I ever saw in him,’ I said honestly.

  For all that, we were to spend the evening together, weren’t we? And in any case, he had to drive me back, which he did in silence. The only time he uttered was when I let us into the caravan again and I handed him one of my towels.

  ‘You can’t manage a decent dress but you buy expensive things like this!’

  ‘Try drying yourself on a posh frock.’

  ‘I don’t remember your having a chip on your shoulder like this.’

  I curled up inside. Was that what it was? A spot of inverted snobbery? Resenting other people’s good fortune and sneering at them for better clothes and cars? Jesus. Not a good thing. There was only one thing worse in my social book than inverted snobbery and that was snobbery itself, people with money or birth judging people like me who had neither. Funny, I’d never suspected Taz of snobbery before. Surely he didn’t think that being a cokehead in designer jeans was better than being a decorator in jeans from the market. But the funny thing was, I really did resent his having money and being mean with it, and might be playing up my uncouth side a little more than usual. If I was, I certainly never felt tempted to do it to the Daweses, apart from that awful Little Nell moment, which made my toes curl just to think about it even now. They could have bought and sold Taz and not bothered with the small change, but I didn’t covet their money. Heavens, they were so generous with it I had to stop them overspending on me.

  Maybe I ought to have quipped with black humour that my old ones had come to a sticky end and turned the conversation that way. As it was, I said quietly, ‘I wrapped my last towels round Arthur, remember, the postie who died. I had to buy replacements. If that comes across as an inferiority complex, so be it. The shower’s there, remember. And make sure you shut the door properly.’

  By the time I emerged, he’d ponced himself up in neatly-cut cotton trousers that flattered an already tight bum and an open-necked shirt. No jeans and T-shirt for him, then. To be honest, even without him pointing it out, I felt very dowdy beside him. Dowdy and a mess. My hair was drier and more brittle than ever. I grabbed a handful. When this was all over, I’d go to a barber – cheaper than any salon I knew, except Stell’s! – and have a short back and sides.

  Meanwhile, there was a short drive west to our rendezvous. I suppose I’d hoped for one of those converted country houses that this part of the world is rich in – pun intended. What I got was a rather anonymous modern place, one that wouldn’t have been out of place in the centre of Brum, for instance. The Mondiale Hotel and Golf Club. Hmm.

  Coughing awkwardly, Taz led me into the foyer and introduced me to our host. In tones more suited to a church, he said, ‘This is Assistant Chief Constable Moffatt, in charge of Crime for the Kent County Constabulary.’

  One of those things that could have been better expressed, I thought, refusing to giggle, even though I recalled a car park slot at a nick in Birmingham announcing it belonged to the ‘Crime Manager’. The police weren’t at their best when it came to titles, were they? At least, I hoped they weren’t.

  Moffatt at least didn’t seem to think there was any ambiguity. He bent over my hand (I noticed too late some paint under my cuticles) like an elderly courtier. ‘Miss Tyler.’

  ‘Ms Taylor. Lucy Taylor. I’d rather everyone used my new name until I get used to it,’ I said. ‘Like my new appearance.’

  He gave another half-bow. I had a nasty idea that he was the type to judge by appearances. Immaculate himself in a middle-aged version of Taz’s outfit, he might have shaken my hand with something like old-fashioned courtesy, but he swiftly ushered us to the far corner of the hotel bar where my appearance wouldn’t be so obvious. No, I was being paranoid. He wanted no one to overhear us. That was the reason. The main reason, anyway.

  He leant towards me, his grey eyes cold under salt and pepper eyebrows. ‘You realise, Ms Ty – Ms Taylor – what a serious allegation you’ve made against one of our officers?’

  ‘Dead serious, isn’t it?’ I agreed pertly. ‘Almost as dead as Arthur.’

  Taz would have preferred a little serious humility. Well, he was mixing with a very senior officer, and was presumably pretty well the lowest of the low himself. Not that he’d want anyone to think that. He’d insisted to me that he was on an accelerated promotion scheme. ‘I’m sure Ms Taylor realises that a man’s career is at stake here.’

  The trouble was, the more serious he wanted me to be, the more mouthy I wanted to be. ‘What’s a career compared with a life?’ I asked.

  To my surprise, the older bloke had to look down to hide a smile. Doing so revealed his growing bald spot, almost round like those tonsure things monks used to have. It was freckled with age spots.

  ‘By the way,’ I pursued, ‘have the robot and his hungry little human friends, Troilus and Cressida, drawn any conclusions about that package they took away?’

  He smiled, but with the air of someone fending off a tricky question – which was what I realised too late was what he was doing. ‘The main conclusion,’ he said, ‘is that you are a brave young woman.’

  Any compliments I’d had in the past tended to be about my anatomy. A couple of college tutors had said nice things about what lurked between my ears, but no one, fellow addicts in rehab. apart, had ev
er used the word brave. Not knowing how to respond, I just asked, the words coming out in a husky whisper, ‘It was a bomb, then?’

  ‘It was a bomb all right. More stable than the one that killed your poor postman. But just as powerful.’ He smiled again. Another digression coming, no doubt. ‘I hear you’ve been brave and resourceful throughout.’

  For the first time Taz smiled at me with the sort of warmth I’d been hoping for. But not a single frisson did it give me. I’d still have liked a frisson. It would have told me my years on the game hadn’t destroyed normal sexual desire.

  ‘What I’d like to ask is if you’ll carry on being brave and resourceful. You see, we’ve come to believe, as you do, that Marsh has illicit contacts with two major criminals.’

  ‘Just the two?’ I asked tartly – if you’ll forgive the pun. ‘Still, I suppose when they’re the calibre of Granville and van der Poele that’s probably enough.’

  He was about to reply, but a barman with a swarthy complexion the texture of grapefruit skin brought over a dish of nuts, which he placed without speaking between the two men. Those sandwiches seemed a very long time ago. Didn’t I see a TV programme once, where they experimented on some rats, keeping them hungry and placing food just out of range? The idea was that the rats would use will power to bring the food nearer. Perhaps this was a rerun of the same experiment. Should I participate or not? Not. I reached for them. The will power I’d thus saved could be used to stop me from snaffling the lot.

  The waiter returned with leather-bound menus and a tentative smile. No wonder he tried not to open his lips: his teeth needed urgent attention. He asked, with a thick accent, ‘You like drink before meal?’

  Meal! That was just what I wanted to hear. I must go easy on the nuts, then, to save some space for what I hoped would be a real treat.

  ‘Oh, yes, a drink – but I don’t think we shall be eating –’ Moffatt began.

  I must have had some will power in reserve.

  ‘Or would you, er, Lucy –?’

  Yes! ‘I would, please,’ I said, quietly but firmly.

  ‘In that case, could you find us a table out on the terrace, perhaps? It’s such a lovely evening, isn’t it?’ he added, smiling at me. He seemed to be treating me as a niece he enjoyed indulging. Or was he softening me up for something? Just how long would he expect me to be brave and resourceful? Not to mention just how much Bravery and Resourcefulness might he require?

  The waiter distributed the menus, and hovered hopefully with his order pad.

  A little bit of B and R might be called for right now, come to think of it. I was used to a half, or at most a pint, of Bishop’s Finger at a session. If I started swigging alcohol now, on an almost empty stomach, I might be too tight to follow as closely as I ought what was going on. One of my old mates, in similar situations where she needed to keep one step ahead of a punter she didn’t quite trust, used to have a Bloody Mary – without the vodka. She’d bought me one a couple of times. I can’t say they’d have got the ducks off the water, but they were a damned sight safer than innocent-seeming alcopops.

  Moffatt went for sherry – I didn’t realise people still drank that – and Taz for a predictable half of lager. Moffatt seemed amused by my choice, but didn’t argue. Once we had drinks before us, the waiter seemed happy to wait till kingdom come for our order. Neither man opened his menu. God, I was so hungry. Instead of taking the edge off my hunger, the nuts seemed have sharpened it up. Perhaps if I went to the loo it’d stop me staring at the empty dish.

  It was so long since I’d used ladies’ rooms like this! The hotels I’d worked from weren’t this class. One or two nicer punters – or simply ones hoping to impress me with the size of their wallets, if not of what Paula would call their wedding-tackle – had booked into better places, ones like this where there were tissues free for the taking and good quality soap and towels, not stuff that dripped from a dispenser and hard paper. If I hadn’t had the run of the Dawses’ place I don’t know how I could have resisted nicking a bar – not until I saw the beady lens of a little CCTV camera. I smiled at it, and retired to a cubicle.

  Soap, no: that would be greedy and tempt that camera. But paper hankies, yes. I grabbed a fistful and shoved them in my bag. Why not? The hotel’s profit margin on the meal would no doubt be enough to pay for them twice over.

  Thank God the menus were open when I got back and the men were talking about starters. Again, I ought to go easy. I’d not eaten a three-course meal for several years now – what if I filled up too early? I certainly wouldn’t risk, as Taz was suggesting, a pint of mussels. Or homemade soup with a crusty roll. Especially in this weather. Would choosing smoked salmon be pushing my luck?

  Not if I didn’t have the expensive steak the men were ordering. But I had too much pride to ask for a smaller, cheaper one. I almost wished I hadn’t asked to eat. And then, relaxing my shoulders, I had a sudden rash of sanity. These men were only here because of me and my B and R. I deserved the best just as much as they did. Smoked salmon and steak it would be.

  And Moffatt turned not a single silvering hair. He didn’t even ask for house wine. He chose a bottle of white and red from the main selection. This was going to be an evening to remember. All I had to do was to stay sober enough to remember it. And remember what I was committing myself to.

  I was happy to let the men talk about cricket and the forthcoming football season: I quite like both, but top class sport had long since priced itself out of my range, so all I knew was what I gleaned from the newspapers or Meg’s radio programmes. The conversation turned to a leading footballer who was in the media spotlight after being caught betting.

  To my surprise, Moffatt turned to me. ‘Are you a betting woman, Lucy?’

  ‘Can’t afford to be. I used to do Lotto if we got a bonus, but then Meg told us the odds against actually winning anything. By the way, what do I call you? I make a point of never accepting a meal from a man whose name I don’t know.’

  Taz coughed.

  ‘John,’ Moffatt said, apparently unfazed. ‘I have an idea, though, that even if you could afford an account at a bookie’s, you’d still prefer money you earned to that you got in a windfall.’

  I reflected. There was plenty of time. The waiter wanted to show us to our table. It was hard not to gasp with pleasure. The terrace overlooked what was obviously a golf course, but in the evening light looked just like a park with a beautiful lake. Magic. The waiter pulled back my chair for me and then for the men. When he’d flapped open starched linen serviettes – or were they napkins in these surroundings? – and laid them on our laps, he left us to it.

  ‘All circumstances being equal,’ I said, ‘I think you’re right, John. Much as I’d like a fairy-godmother, I like earning my money with the toil of my hands.’ I spread them out. There was still paint under some of the nails, too. ‘But I’ve an idea that you’re not introducing this simply as a theory.’

  ‘You’re right. Basically I’m asking you to make a choice – not now, but in the course of the evening – whether you want us to spirit you away to a safe house or whether you’re content to continue as you are. You know you’re at great risk if Marsh discovers you and tells his friends. But you might be very useful to us if you stayed out in the open.’

  Before I could say anything a waitress had appeared, offering bread rolls. We all chose wholemeal. They were rounder than the white and she had a terrible job picking them up with a pair of tongs. It was all I could do not simply to grab one to put her out of her misery.

  But there were more urgent things to think about than rookie waitresses. My life, for a start.

  ‘I saw a TV programme once,’ I said at last. ‘One of these nature documentaries. About great big lizards on some idyllic island. Tourists pay a lot of money to see these lizards, and get stroppy if they don’t. So to make sure the main act turns up, the locals tether a live goat where the lizards will hear it bleating. A sort of living dinner gong. Except the goat then become
s the dinner. Is this what you want me to be?’

  ‘Exactly. Except we shall do our utmost to see you don’t get eaten.’

  I nodded slowly. Not quite irrelevantly, I asked, ‘When the first parcel bomb arrived, I’m sure that there was a lot of publicity and Granville –’

  ‘We don’t know for sure it was Granville,’ Taz interrupted.

  ‘Granville or whoever would have known he’d missed his target. What about publicity for today’s? He’d know it had arrived: I’d bet my boots that it was one of his men that delivered it.’ I was about to spout my theory when Moffatt interrupted.

  ‘None – yet. That’s another thing we need to discuss. We’ve given a lot of thought to this.’

  ‘“We” being?’

  ‘Quite a lot of people. The police have their own team to investigate internal corruption. A couple of them. Then,’ he continued, counting on his fingers, ‘the National Crime Squad, since Granville’s attracted the notice of a lot of forces all over the country, Kent County Constabulary – that’s me and some colleagues, and, since you’ve invited Taz to help, the Met. Is that enough? Oh, I’d forgotten the Immigration people and the Human Smuggling Unit given what’s in your photos.’

  ‘Plus MIS for the bomb.’

  ‘Quite a party,’ Taz said dryly.

  ‘If it’s mine, does that mean I can cry off if I want to?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Moffatt smiled. ‘But I rather hope you won’t.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  To do John Moffatt justice, he stuck to his promise that I need make no decisions till the end of the meal and didn’t press me at any point. The conversation turned to the food, which was so good I almost wished I hadn’t nicked those paper hankies. The wine made me forget I had. But there were some things I hadn’t forgotten.