Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  ‘You can’t make me do that,’ he said, eyeing her directly.

  ‘I’m not making you do a thing,’ she stressed, ‘I’m offering you some good advice. Leave finding Jasmine to me, go back and tell Daryl the same thing.’

  Trojak shook his head.

  ‘Buddy,’ said Po, ‘you had a close call here. Could get closer.’

  Trojak turned slowly to stare at Po now.

  ‘That sounds awfully like a threat to me,’ he said.

  Po’s eyebrows rose marginally, but he left things at that.

  FOURTEEN

  He was in desperate need of a shower, a fresh set of clothes too. He’d been on the road, staying in fleapit motels and pay-by-the-hour hotels, for the best part of a week since leaving California, and stunk with every long mile and restless night of his journey. He’d hitched rides for the most part, only recently stealing the Chrysler while its owner was left bleeding in a ditch, and had made it to Portsmouth, New Hampshire where he swapped out the plates. He’d suspected that he’d have to dump the car but not as soon as this. He’d made a big mistake in getting too close to Teresa Grey like that, and who was the big guy who’d followed him here and watched him destroy his ride? There was something very familiar about the shape of the head he clubbed. Maybe he should have hit him again. He had slammed the guy’s head three times in total with a tyre iron, should have given him a fourth whack for good measure. He was confident that the guy couldn’t describe him, he’d got him from behind and he was definitely unconscious when he had hidden in the undergrowth alongside the creek. Covered in pluming smoke, trying not to cough and give away his hiding place, he’d watched the arrival of the first responders, and a pair of Sheriff’s deputies. He was in no fear of discovery from the lawmen: they made the assumption that he was long gone, and just stood around the fire probably wishing they had some marshmallows to toast. The fire crew was perfunctory in dealing with the flaming wreckage, as were the medics who worked on the guy he’d downed. He should have checked the man for keys, because he must have driven here – although taking the guy’s car might not be a good move, not while he still lived. He’d only be forced to dump it at first opportunity, before it became the subject of a search as part of a murder investigation.

  He waited and watched. Was intent on doing so until the emergency crews left and he was safe to emerge from concealment, all the while getting smellier and dirtier. He was wearing a suit and slip-on shoes, and neither were designed for crouching in bushes on a muddy riverbank. He still clutched the tyre iron, working his fingers along its haft, reminding himself to ditch it in the creek before leaving. For now he’d hang on to it, in case one of those deputies made a check of the area. A tyre iron was not much of a weapon against a pistol, but it was all he had. If one of the deputies did come snooping, he’d have to act fast and decisively, and maybe even liberate a sidearm in the process. He’d a feeling he was going to need a more dependable weapon before he was done, and his opinion was enforced after he watched three more people arrive at the scene. One was a cop, the others a mismatched couple. The tall guy concerned him, while the woman made the breath catch in his chest. The man was over six feet tall, built rangy, and his knuckles were pronounced: looked like a natural fighter if ever he’d seen one, and he’d seen a few in his time. The woman was Teresa Grey. There was no doubt about it; he’d recently seen her come out of the garage and look directly at him, and because he’d studied the photographs of her he’d found online after discovering she had been hired to find Jasmine Reed. They had a shared agenda, though Grey had no idea. The photos he’d studied were months old now, featured in news stories where she had helped save the life of a kidnapped woman, but she hadn’t changed any. Perhaps her fair hair was a little longer, styled differently, but she was as lovely as she had been when smiling shyly for the camera. Actually, here in the flesh, only a dozen yards from him, she was more beautiful again: he could almost imagine the silky touch of her skin under his fingertips, the delicate scent of her breath as his lips touched hers, the firm resilience of her body squirming under his as he bore into her.

  ‘Easy,’ he said under his breath and was unsure whether his warning was to curb his instincts, or if he was talking about how he could take her and do to her what went unfinished with Jasmine. He chose to believe it was the former. It was best that he pushed down any desire for her and concentrated on his task. Grey was a distraction he couldn’t allow his base desires to fixate on, not before he was done with Jasmine at any rate. Afterwards, well, that was another story.

  Grey got into the ambulance. He wished he could hear what was said between her and the man he’d injured, but from his position he couldn’t even see inside. The tall guy had posted himself in the doorway, blocking the view even if he crept to another vantage point, and the cop stood by too, his thumb resting on his service pistol. It was too risky getting closer, so he’d just have to wait.

  His vigil didn’t last long.

  Grey climbed down from the ambulance, stood close to the tough-looking guy she’d been with at the garage, and he noticed that their closeness went beyond comradeship. At one point the tall guy snuck an arm around her waist and gave her a quick hug. She didn’t appear averse to the show of affection, even glanced up at him and pouted her bottom lip as she patted his taut backside. Next the injured guy stepped unsteadily from the rear of the ambulance, mopping his face with a wad of gauze as he struggled into his dirty suit jacket. Grey’s companion placed himself between the injured man and his woman, and it was immediately apparent that there was no love lost between the two posturing men. The plot thickens, he thought, as he watched the injured man walk away, hailed a few seconds later by the cop who’d been lurking nearby. Some words were exchanged, and details scribbled in the cop’s notebook, but then the injured man was allowed to leave on foot. It was the first clear look he’d gotten at the man’s face, and he was momentarily taken aback: John fucking Trojak? He knew him from back in the day. What was Trojak’s intention in following him? Not good. He was tempted to sneak after him, finish the job with the tyre iron, and take his car after all, but again he told himself to take it easy.

  He’d made enough mistakes already, and couldn’t afford to make any more based on his rash nature. In hindsight, going to Teresa Grey’s home had been a stupid move, especially allowing himself to be seen by the nosy old sow from the antiques shop downstairs. He’d been equally negligent observing Grey and her companion at the autoshop, getting far too close and allowing himself to be spotted, and forcing him into a speedy escape. That had encouraged Trojak to pursue him, and had brought them into conflict. In one damn evening he’d left behind a trail of witnesses, and now two reasons for the cops to hunt him. On its own, the burning of the stolen car would probably only generate paperwork, but the savage assault on Trojak might encourage a more proactive response. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  Keep your mind on what you came here to do, he silently chided. Think, consider the consequences before you make another move. Don’t do anything to jeopardize finding Jasmine.

  It was sensible advice.

  But how could he ignore the smooth, swaying motion of Grey’s hips as she walked alongside her companion towards their souped-up muscle car? He had unfinished business with Jasmine Reed, and fresh business to start with this latest rare beauty to catch his attention. Briefly he was torn between which woman he wanted to take most.

  FIFTEEN

  Worry, relief, shock and confusion were the most obvious emotions that played across Margaret Norris’s face in the few seconds after answering her door. It was late, and she’d dressed for bed, appearing in the gap below the security chain in the partially opened door clutching at the neck of a towelling dressing gown. She wore spectacles, but she’d doffed them in anticipation of retiring to bed, so her features screwed around her nipped eyelids as she peeked up at Tess.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Mrs Norris, it’s me. Tess. Teresa Grey.’

  ‘Oh, Te
ss!’ Margaret nodded but made no move to unlatch the chain. ‘Who’s that with you?’

  ‘This is my associate, Nicolas Villere. You’ve met before, but if you’d rather he waited while you—’

  ‘It’s fine, I’m decent,’ Margaret cut in. ‘But why are you here so late? Oh, don’t tell me—’ Her face crumpled, fearing that Tess had arrived with the worst news possible.

  ‘We haven’t found Jasmine yet, but there are some things I need to speak with you about. I hope you can help, it will speed up the search for your granddaughter.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. Anything I can do to help.’ She fumbled with the security chain, realized it was impossible to open while the door was ajar, so made apologies and closed the door. She again rattled at the chain.

  ‘I can wait at the car if you prefer,’ Po offered. ‘She might be uncomfortable speaking to you with a man present.’

  ‘She said she was decent, no worries.’

  There was another clunk, and a soft muttering from beyond the door.

  ‘Just thought that the subject might be a tad sensitive for her to discuss while I’m there.’ Po shrugged.

  He had a point.

  ‘Maybe it would be best.’

  ‘Could do with a smoke, at any rate.’

  Without waiting for an answer, Po turned and wandered down the porch steps towards the small front garden. Before he was off the bottom step he plucked a pack of Marlboros from his shirt pocket, then delved again for his Zippo. He was sparking up before Margaret finally got the door open. She looked expectantly at Tess, then for where Po was.

  ‘My friend is going to wait with our car,’ Tess said by way of explanation.

  ‘He can smoke inside,’ Margaret assured her.

  ‘He won’t,’ Tess said.

  ‘I will,’ Margaret stated. ‘You mind?’

  ‘It’s your home, Mrs Norris.’

  ‘Not all of you young kids think like that these days; had a fella round fixing my shower threatened to leave if I didn’t cease and desist immediately. Jeez, not as if I had the right to complain about the halitosis he was breathing in my face.’

  ‘Smoking doesn’t bother me,’ Tess reassured her. Not that she enjoyed the odour that clung to the place when she stepped inside the house. Opening a window or two wouldn’t go amiss if Margaret was going to continue chain-smoking. The walls were coated in a thin film of tar, the same colour as caramel up near the highest corners. It was a sepia canvas so unlike the colourful flowers outside.

  ‘Come sit,’ said Margaret after closing the door. She led Tess to a small sitting room, neat despite the acrid aroma and blue pall hanging in the atmosphere. Tess sat on a small flower-patterned settee while Margaret took an easy chair opposite her.

  ‘So no news on Jasmine yet?’

  ‘Nothing definite,’ said Tess so she didn’t take away all hope of finding the young woman. ‘But there have been a couple of developments I’d like to talk with you about.’

  ‘Like I said, if there’s anything I can do to help, you only have to ask.’

  ‘OK. But I must warn you, Margaret: I don’t intend on beating about the bush. Some things I’m going to ask you are going to be blunt, and it will help if you give me an equally straight answer.’

  ‘Be as blunt as it takes, but just give me a second or two.’ Margaret lit up a cigarette, perched a glass ashtray on her thighs. Her spindly little legs stuck out from below the hem of her dressing gown like struck matchsticks, her black fluffy slippers forming the burnt heads. She settled back, cigarette held aloft alongside her right ear, and a ribbon of smoke curled through her grey locks. As an afterthought she reached for a pair of glasses from a side table and fed them on with her left hand. ‘OK. I can see you now. Go for it.’

  ‘Do you know Daryl Bruin?’

  ‘Sure I do. He’s an ass.’

  Tess wasn’t the only one who intended being blunt. She smiled. ‘You know him personally, then?’

  ‘Known him since he was yay high.’ The cigarette was used as a pointer level with Margaret’s chin. ‘Of course he was still Daryl Trojak back then. Just a boy. He came up in some of the same foster homes as my Jasmine did.’

  ‘He’s older than Jasmine, though,’ Tess pointed out.

  ‘He was one of the older kids at one home Jasmine was sent to. She was the youngest out of four foster kids, Daryl the eldest.’ Margaret snorted. ‘Didn’t like him as a boy and I haven’t changed my opinion since he grew up.’

  ‘Has he been to see you, to ask about Jasmine since she disappeared?’

  ‘No. But his weird cousin has on his behalf.’

  ‘John Trojak?’

  ‘Yep. The henpecked one. That simpleton has issues, you know? Doesn’t like cursing, doesn’t like dirt, doesn’t like much other than pleasing that bitch of a wife of his. He was another who asked me to douse my cigarette. I told him to go fuck himself.’

  In the time since she’d lit up she’d never taken a draw on her cigarette, and Tess was beginning to believe her smoking was more habitual than through addiction: it explained why more of the smoke was on the walls and furnishings than was ever inhaled. It was an expensive habit, when Margaret could achieve the same pleasure from twiddling a pencil between her stained fingers.

  ‘What did Trojak want?’

  ‘Clues where he could find Jasmine. I told him, if I had any clues would there be any need to hire a private investigator.’

  So it was from Margaret that Bruin had learned of Tess’s involvement, by way of his cousin. ‘What’s his interest?’

  ‘Daryl told him to look for Jasmine.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Didn’t say. At least he didn’t tell the truth. Just said that Daryl was annoyed that nobody else was taking her disappearance seriously and he wanted to help.’ Margaret laughed scornfully to show her disdain for that explanation. It matched Tess’s opinion of Bruin’s claim. ‘You ask me, Jasmine flitted while owing him money, or she knows something that asshole doesn’t want made public.’

  Tess had considered the former, but not the latter. She made a mental note to check on the first, but now was the time to push Margaret on what she meant. ‘You’re talking about her knowing something harmful to Daryl?’

  ‘Why else would he bother looking for her, if not to shut her up?’

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about what Jasmine might know?’

  ‘If there’s anything, she didn’t tell me. Don’t forget. We weren’t close. After her mom Ellie died, I guess Jasmine expected me to take her in. When I couldn’t she held it against me. We talk now, but, well, it’s not as grandma to granddaughter.’ Margaret flicked ash, held the cigarette aloft again. ‘At least, we did, up until a few weeks ago.’

  When Margaret first hired Tess to find Jasmine she’d mentioned she hadn’t seen or heard from the young woman for at least a week before she went missing, but hadn’t explained why. ‘Did you argue?’

  ‘All the time.’ The old woman looked at Tess sharply. ‘Doesn’t stop me from caring about her, though.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Tess argued incessantly with her own mother, but she’d still die for the old harridan if it came to it. Hell, if she didn’t bicker with her mom they wouldn’t have a thing to say to each other. ‘I meant about anything in particular.’

  ‘Sadly we don’t need a good reason,’ Margaret said.

  Amen to that, Tess thought.

  ‘I hear that Jasmine was once subject to a violent assault …’ Tess allowed Margaret to absorb her words, and to fill the following silence.

  ‘What has that to do with her disappearing now?’ Margaret asked blunter than any question Tess had posed.

  ‘Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything. I hear she was stabbed and yet there’s no police report about her attack.’

  The old woman shook her head dismissively. ‘It happened a long time ago. I don’t see why it would have any relevance to the here and now.’

  ‘You agreed to tell me anything I asked
…’

  ‘I just don’t see how going over old ground can help find Jasmine now.’

  Tess held the old woman’s gaze. Through the lenses of her spectacles the sharpness of Margaret’s gaze clouded over. There were subjects she didn’t care to come clean about. ‘I’m guessing you find the entire episode shameful, Margaret. I understand, but you needn’t be ashamed. If Jasmine was a victim then …’

  ‘If you ask me she led that boy on.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Jasmine. She brought that trouble on herself. The way she was back then, she was, y’know, loose.’

  ‘Are you suggesting she deserved to be stabbed?’ Tess asked, incredulous.

  Margaret’s eyebrows danced, and the cigarette that had burned down to the stub dropped a teetering column of ash on her shoulder. Tess neglected to tell her, irked by the woman’s attitude to her own grandchild.

  ‘Who was the boy?’

  Tess anticipated hearing Daryl Bruin’s name. But that wasn’t it.

  ‘Put it this way, Jasmine’s lies would have ruined that boy. Nasty lies tend to hang over anyone’s head. Y’know what people say: there’s no smoke without fire.’

  ‘Jasmine’s assault was covered up to protect her attacker’s reputation?’

  ‘You didn’t know Jasmine then. She was, well, she was troubled.’

  It’s hardly surprising if that’s the attitude of her nearest and dearest, Tess thought. She could feel herself bristling. Hell, if this wasn’t about a wronged girl possibly in desperate need of help, she would tell Margaret Norris to shove her paycheque where the sun didn’t shine. As it was, she needn’t be secretive about her displeasure. If Margaret chose to sever their agreement, then so be it: Tess would work the case pro bono on Jasmine’s behalf and to hell with the sour old trout’s money.

  ‘You believed her attacker over your own flesh and blood?’