But Fraser’s reply had died in his throat.
47
The Larches
Cowslip Close
Little Bidding
Wed. 15th January 014
Dear Graham,
You may have guessed the past few months haven't been easy here, with Ronan away more with his work and the boys growing up so fast. Why I never replied to your last letter which hoped we could regularly meet up in London. I need to be here to cement things together, because our Charlie was found smoking cannabis in the school grounds and been threatened with expulsion, while Toby has become distant and introverted, I'm seriously considering going part-time at Westcotts. Of course the money's useful what with the pool and new extension to pay for, but there’s also something else you should know.
I’m seventeen weeks pregnant. Strangely, I feel that after everything which happened between us all those years ago, that lost baby has somehow returned to me. You may think I'm mad, but it's how I feel. Ronan is over the moon of course, but worried that at thirty-nine, the birth may be tricky.
He’s in Milan until Monday, but I'm around on Saturday if you can get down here. We do need to talk.
Tina. X
48
Rita heard the result of Toby Lake’s Post Mortem examination in her car at 10 a.m. on the Wednesday morning as she turned off the ring road on to the A45, avoiding the crowded M6 for Birmingham.
‘Sadly, a tragic slip of the feet at a particularly treacherous part of Wrecker's Brook, with no certain evidence of assault,’ were the police Pathologist’s very words.
Rubbish.
She switched off the radio, telling herself she must keep taking the initiative or despair could drag her too far down, just when life was materially improving. Nevertheless, the kids each had her mobile number, and she’d warned them to avoid the Molloys. Although Freddie had protested, Kayleigh’s death stare had soon shut him up. “It’s a work trip,” Rita had explained. “And I’ll be back to pick you both up. OK?” Then, having kissed them goodbye at their school’s gates, she’d driven away from Scrub Lane.
*
Without a Satnav, the UK’s second city seemed a foreign country. Its complex loops of roads with juggernauts swerving in and out to gain a few inches, made her want to turn back. But Jez somehow kept her going -
"City Centre. Thank you, God," she muttered, hugging the inside lane until after turning off, she found herself among shops and offices with signs for NCP car parking. She pulled into one which still had spaces, and having paid too much, began her search.
She soon found herself outside a modern, mirror-fronted building whose foyer doors carried the kind of promotional posters she’d seen in Mike Hayman's office. One in particular caught her eye.
CBSO New Talent 2014.
Carla Kennedy no less, posing against an outdoor
jardinière
brimming with summer flowers. Her flute sweetly at her lips. ‘Beautiful’ had indeed been the right word, and in a more muted light, accompanied by faint sounds of music, Rita approached some nearby double doors.
REHEARSAL IN PROGRSS. STRICTLY NO ENTRY TO THE AUDITORIUM.
By order of the
Management.
How long for? she wondered irritably, then headed for another door marked LADIES to revise her strategy. She had to see the flautist, whatever it took.
A fresh coat of lipstick, a primp of her hair, and she emerged the smart woman about town, attracting one or two admiring glances on her way back to the auditorium.
She'd just have to bluff her way in.
Suddenly, came a rough tap on her shoulder. She turned to see a youngish, stubble-chinned security guard in a dark green uniform. The name, GREG WILLIS, SECURITY below an unattractive identity photograph.
"Can't you read'?" He growled.
"I have to see one of the orchestra players. It’s urgent."
"No exceptions, or the whole world'd be in there."
Rita took a deep breath. "I'm Carla Kennedy's mother if you must know. Now, let me in."
The official frowned.
"She's dead. What’s going on'?"
Rita cursed inwardly. Of all the dumb lies to dream up...
The music came to an end and Willis checked his watch. "Toilet break," he said, and once the auditorium doors were pushed open, a leggy young woman in frayed jeans and a baggy jumper stopped short when she saw the two people in front of her. Rita recognised her from the poster, and although her long hair was as short as a boy's, she was still radiant.
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 her 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.