Skin (30 page)

‘That you’ve got a stick up your arse so high it’ll choke you. That you left her. But not because you didn’t love her any more. Because you couldn’t handle what she was doing. Collecting all that stuff in there. Doing those paintings. Why didn’t you tell me about it?’

‘I didn’t think it was appropriate.’

‘Not appropriate – not
appropriate
? Stop using that expression, you pompous git. Don’t you know how important something like this could be?’

‘How could it be important? It was just her hobby. Just another of the things she collected. Frankly, it’s embarrassing.’

‘She could have been a prostitute. Don’t you know how often hookers get killed?

Mahoney’s face went a hard red. ‘She wasn’t a prostitute. She wasn’t like that. This is just a hobby.’

Caffery put his hands on the windowsill and stood for a moment, getting his temper back. Out of the window the clouds and mists swirled around the base of Glastonbury Tor, a lonely island on the drained Somerset levels, like an upturned pudding on the horizon. ‘You’re right. She wasn’t a hooker. But that’s not the point. You should have told me. She could have got involved with someone and they might be the one she was blackmailing.’ He gestured to the other side of the screen. ‘Is that why you got custody of Daisy? Did you use all that against her? See, I look at you and I can just picture the words “gross moral turpitude, your honour” coming out of your mouth. You’re the type.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. There was never any argument about where Daisy would go. None whatsoever.’

‘Seems strange for the mother not to get custody.’

‘It’s not strange at all. I’m her father. I let Lucy see her, but she had no legal rights. She’d never adopted Daisy. Lucy was completely reasonable about it.’

Caffery glanced sharply at Mahoney. ‘What did you say?’

‘Lucy was completely reasonable about it.’

‘No – before that. That she didn’t adopt her.’

‘Well, she didn’t. Not officially.’

‘She wasn’t her real mother?’

‘She was her stepmother. Daisy’s real mother’s dead.’

Caffery stared at him hard. ‘No one mentioned she was her stepdaughter.’

‘We didn’t advertise it. For Daisy more than anything. She always thought of Lucy as her mum.’

‘So what happened to . . .’ He hesitated. He was thinking about the Caesarean scar – the botched one. Something was missing here. ‘What about Lucy’s other child?’

‘Lucy’s other child? There wasn’t one.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Perfectly sure. She never had children. Never wanted them.’

‘And never lost a child?’

‘No. I just said, there were no children. Only Daisy.’

Caffery opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. He could see from Mahoney’s face that he really didn’t know there had been a child. He returned to the window and stood for a while, pinching his nose, his eyes on the tor, letting his thoughts settle in the right places. If Lucy’s Caesarean hadn’t been for Daisy, it must have been
after
they’d separated. There
was
a child. But Mahoney didn’t know anything about it.

‘When you separated . . .’ he said, eventually, ‘Lucy wasn’t pregnant, was she?’

‘
Pregnant?
Good God, what are you saying?’

‘I’m not “saying”, I’m
wondering
. Just wondering. That’s all. Did you tell me you didn’t see her for a long time after the separation? Almost a year?’

Mahoney put his thumb to his right eye and pressed in the corner. He did the same with the left. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to tell me.’

Caffery didn’t answer. He looked out of the window at the tor, his mind floating away. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure it was the right way through this, but it was something. Something big. Lucy had had a child that no one knew about – none of the friends, and not even her ex-husband. She’d had a child. It had disappeared. And maybe, just maybe, that was why she was blackmailing someone.

Now all he had to do was find out who she was seeing after she’d left Mahoney.

46

The bank had carved itself offices out of a listed Georgian building in the centre of Bath. Frosted glass and fibreboard cubicles were crammed against the walls, a gap of almost eight feet between their tops and the corniced ceilings. At eleven a.m. the bank assistant found Flea a cubicle and they sat at opposite sides of a modern laminate desk, a computer screen between them, trading inconsequentials for a while and filling in forms.

‘So you’re police?’ He looked at the badge on her polo shirt. ‘Underwater search? What’s that? Like the coastguard?’

‘Not really.’ She’d learnt a long time ago there were only two responses to what she did for a living. Either a fascination that bordered on weird, or disgust. And usually the first thing anyone did was look at her hands and her clothing. In some countries jobs that connected you with death – undertaker, slaughterhouse worker – made you untouchable. As if death could rub off on you. ‘What’s that thing for?’ she said.

‘Hmmm? Oh, that. Panic button.’

‘In case what?’

‘You know.’ He moved his tie knot. ‘Sometimes customers get upset.’

‘About?’

‘Whether we’ll give them a loan or not.’

‘Do you think that’s going to happen to me?’

He coughed and tapped a few more keys, studying the screen. Then he got to his feet and held up the folder he’d started. ‘Will you excuse me? I’m going to have a word with my line manager.’

When he was gone Flea got up and went to his side of the desk to look at the computer screen. He’d logged out. The words ‘Just 8% APR’ flashed in blue on the screensaver and when she shook the mouse a log-on box came up. She wandered around the room, looking at the leaflets, the lifestyles you could buy for just eight per cent APR. Her head still ached. The polymer Elastoplast itched where it held together the edges of the wound on her cheek. She went to the frosted-glass doors and peered out at the people coming and going. At the door he’d gone through. He was taking a long time. She went to sit down again and tried not to fidget. Put her fingers to her temples and pressed hard to hold the headache in.

‘Hello.’

He was standing in the doorway. He gave her a brief smile and shut the door behind him. Not so friendly now. He put down the folder, sat at the desk, got himself comfortable and logged on. The computer came to life, lighting up his face. He began tapping in numbers.

‘You going to torture me?’

He glanced up. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Please don’t torture me. If the answer’s no, just say it. Have I got the loan?’

‘Of course you have.’

‘Of course I have?’

‘In spite of the horror stories, we do still give out loans, you know. And you’ve got good collateral in your property, a good job, you’ve been a customer for twelve years. In fact, there was never any question you would get it.’

‘You mean you always knew I’d get it?’

He squinted at her over his spectacles, as if he hadn’t properly looked at her before, then went back to the computer: hitting a button, firing off a sheet on the printer. He made a couple of crosses on the paper and passed it to her. ‘Sign here and here.’

She signed, pushed it back.

‘Simple as that.’ He recapped the pen. ‘The funds will be ready for withdrawal in twenty-four hours.’

‘Twenty-four—’

‘Yes.’

‘But that’s a day.’

He looked at his watch. ‘Tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘That’s no good. I need to be able to walk out with the cash.’ She paused. ‘OK, let’s go for a different loan. One I can take out now. We can do the forms quickly.’

‘There isn’t a loan on offer you can walk out with today.’

‘There has to be. Look at all these products. I don’t care what interest you charge – I just don’t care. Like you said, I’ve been a customer for twelve years. I’ve got good collateral. There must be a loan I can . . .’ She trailed off. He was looking at her pointedly, his eyes going from the scar on her cheek, to her police badge, to her hands. She realized she was half standing, hands on the arms of her chair. He raised his eyebrows, then glanced down at the panic button.

‘Just testing.’ She sighed and sat down. Forced a tired smile. ‘Just testing.’

47

‘Well?’ Steve Lindermilk is sitting on the sofa. The french windows are open. It’s a nice afternoon, and in the garden the pink azaleas are out. There’s a rum and Coke at his elbow but he hasn’t touched it. ‘What did you want to see me about?’

Ruth smiles at her son. He’s wearing jeans and trainers. An Umbro top with piping down the sleeves. He’s got her legs: strong. And her nose. Not too much of the Lindermilk side in Stevie. None of that pushed-in face like with Sue. ‘There was a question, darling. But there isn’t any more. I just wanted to see you.’ She raises her glass to him. Like it’s his christening or a special event and she wants to toast how wonderful he is. She’s feeling good this afternoon: only an hour ago she put the phone down to Little Miss PI. Little Miss PI who might not know how to dress like a girl but at least has a sensible head on her shoulders. She’s come up with the money. It’ll be delivered tomorrow afternoon. ‘I just wanted to see my lovely boy. My lovely, lovely boy.’

He gives a weak smile. Crosses and uncrosses his legs. Looks at the drink in her hand. Looks at the calico cat lying on its back at her feet.

‘See you’ve got another cat.’

‘Two, darling.’

Steve sighs. ‘Two more?’

‘Don’t be like that. They were going into a rescue centre. What was I supposed to do?’

‘You could always say no.’

‘
You
might be able to harden your heart, Stevie, but I can’t. Not ever.’ She taps her glass. ‘You don’t want to start sounding like them out there, do you? Don’t want to be one of those who hassles me?’

‘Mum, there’s a simple way round this. Put the telescope away. That’s what’s pissing them off.’

‘No. I’m not taking it in. If they know I’m watching they might drive a bit slower.’

‘Give it to me. I’ll keep it safe.’

‘It’s not worth anything, Stevie.’

‘I’m not interested in what it’s worth, I’m interested in what they think. And for God’s sake, Mum, stop taking photos. We don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.’ His eyes run over the photos of the seagulls and the cats and the guillemots. The dolphins. The beautiful creatures of this planet. He gets up and goes to the computer table. Leafs through the pictures she’s taken of the neighbours in their cars in the mornings. ‘I mean, look at this. They think you’re spying on them.’

‘Well, I am. And I need to. These are the innocents of the world I’m trying to protect, Stevie. The ones that never did anyone any harm. Whose side are you on, anyway?’

‘Yours. Of course I’m on your side, always will be. But, Mum, the place looks nuts. And the more photos you take, the more rubbish you pile up, the more people think you’re tapped. Just do me a favour. Stop taking photos, Mum. Bring the telescope in. And those stone cats on the roof have got to come down. They’re embarrassing.’

‘I like them.’

‘
You
do but the rest of the village doesn’t, does it? Looks like Hansel and fuckin’ Gretel’s gingerbread house. Just stop taking the photos. And get rid of the ones you’ve got.’

Ruth taps her tooth. The chipped one. Regards him thoughtfully. ‘Do I embarrass you too, Stevie? Do I?’

Steve pushes away his drink. He looks uncomfortable. ‘Of course you don’t,’ he mumbles.

‘What’s wrong with your drink, poppet? Don’t you want it?’

‘Nah. I’m driving.’

‘One little drink won’t do any harm. When your uncle got stopped he had three pints and half a bottle of wine down his throat and he still came up negative.’

‘Thanks, Mum, but no.’

‘You’re a good boy, Stevie. A good boy.’

‘Yeah.’

She chews her nails. Looks at the TV.
EastEnders
. Sound down. The drinks are making her warm. It’s interesting how the private investigator found the money so quickly, she thinks. No quibbles. The full amount. It makes her wonder who the client is, because she’s sure she can smell a little more money loitering around that particular honey-pot. Her appointment with the consultant is tomorrow morning. First thing. If he wants the money for the operation up front she’ll take the fifteen K off the private eye and be happy with it. If he’s prepared to wait for it, she’ll have time to move the goalposts. Refuse the fifteen K when Little Miss PI comes at lunchtime. Ask for a bit more.

She studies her nails where she’s chewed them. Pushes back the cuticle on one and holds out her hand to check the light bouncing off the varnish. ‘Stevie? Do you want to know why I asked you here today?’

‘I didn’t think it was just because you wanted to see me.’