Scar Tissue (7 page)

Envy? Did I say envy? Well, I wouldn’t have been human if I hadn’t felt a twinge. Although this was just a mobile home, it was fixed, and on a fairly level site. So it felt more like a well-planned bungalow. Since they’d just taken possession – I’d have loved to see the traffic jams its delivery caused – everything was brand new, and smelt that way. The lunch Jan had been offering was still in a hamper. Goodness knew how they’d accumulated so much so quickly, but perhaps it was something to do with having a great deal in your bank you were prepared to slosh around. I didn’t penetrate into the living area, of course, but I’d be ready to bet that everything was beautifully equipped.

Todd joined us in the kitchen, hefting a nice old-fashioned cardboard box, which proved to be full of books. ‘Just some of the collection without which Jan just won’t travel,’ he grunted, dropping it on to the work surface next to the bill. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Not the Peter Carey, if you don’t mind – I’m in the middle of that!’ Jan said, over her shoulder as she unpacked the hamper.

That was all right: I’d had enough of villains recently not to want to read about Ned Kelly. In fact I didn’t want to read about crime at all – not even fictional crime, which put about half the books out of court. I’d just finished
Persuasion
, you know, the one where the heroine claims that women
love longest even when all hope is gone, and these days couldn’t fancy the psychotic goings-on of Mr Rochester, so I was still picking round when Todd leaned over and pulled out
Dubliners
. ‘Have you ever read any Joyce?’

‘I couldn’t make head nor tail of
Finnegans Wake
,’ I said, without thinking. I prefer people not to know my love of books. I prefer people not to know of any of my loves, actually – it gives them power over me. But this was Todd, and the books Jan’s. I had to let them in, not fend them off. Wherever would I have been if they’d not been openness itself?

I felt rather than saw them exchange glances.

‘Try it, then. Unless you’d prefer a Fanny Burney?’

I took
Evelina
from his outstretched hand. In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘She was the one who had a breast removed without anaesthetic, wasn’t she? I’ve always meant to read her.’ So I took the two. And a plate that Jan presented me with. Smoked salmon. Green salad. Some of the best bread I’ve ever tasted. And a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

‘But we’d much rather you stayed and picnicked with us, in the cool of the van here, then went off and had a read afterwards, while we blitz the shops,’ Jan said. ‘Pillows, sheets, towels, china, saucepans, microwave – we’ve got to get busy the moment we’ve swallowed the last crumb. Come on, tuck in both of you.’

We did. ‘Tell me, Todd,’ I asked awkwardly at last, ‘it isn’t as if yours isn’t a pretty well-known face –’

‘To people Meg’s age, maybe! You didn’t recognise me, did you?’

‘Sorry.’

He slung an arm round me. Weird how physical he could be, but not in a predatory or even remotely sexual way. ‘No: don’t dare apologise. It’s great not being recognised. It used to be a problem, when my face was in the papers all the time: I even had to have a minder, then. But my fanbase has got older, and now I do hardly any live gigs, so generally we can be Mr and Ms Incognito. Jan’s kept her maiden name and if anyone looks as if they’ve clocked us, she pays with her card. Which I can see she’s dying to flex even as we speak. OK, love, I’m ready!’ And he was gone.

‘You ate with Todd? Again?’ Meg demanded, as I went to check in with Paula and collect sugar soap and sponge. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘This and that. Their plans for this place, mostly.’ I didn’t let on about the books, or the fact that he’d taken an Open University degree about ten years ago, just for interest’s sake. Just like that. Would I ever have the guts to try? Or the money, Caffy – even the OU has to charge fees. ‘But they’re off for the rest of the afternoon, and I’m reporting for duty.’ I’d save the books for this evening.

We all worked a bit late to make up for the time we’d lost during the day, but eventually the other Pots left for home. Todd and Jan hadn’t returned from their shopping trip – they must be shopping for England, for heaven’s sake – and for the first time in a few hours I felt scared. As well I might. I was totally vulnerable. The Daweses had locked their caravan and though I had the key to Fullers, anyone with a mind to getting in would have found the old and brittle glass a
cinch to smash their way through. I’d resolved not to use my phone, lest it give away my whereabouts. Of course, it was there for the direst of emergencies, but if I summoned the police, I might just get my old friend Sergeant Marsh. Better, then, to elude any predators than have to escape them.

The other thing I didn’t have, of course, was any supper. What if Jan and Todd did what they must think would be the obvious thing and ate out? I thought longingly of the choccie biccies we always kept in the van for dire emergencies like this. Even melted choccie biccies would have been nice.

Enough, already! I was alive. I’d had the best lunch for years. I was cared for. And the sun was shining. I could bask in the garden completely for free.

The trouble is that basking, unlike painting, leaves the mind free to wander. What I’d have liked was a long drink, a long bath and maybe even quite a long cry. I sat up quickly. Well, I might not have those, but before the two best people in the world returned I had ahead of me a lovely long summer’s evening and, in
Evelina
, a lovely long book.

The evening light was just getting too weak to read by when Todd and Jan returned, the car laden with shopping but also aromatic with the smell of curry.

Singing for my supper was beyond me, but the very least I could do was help in any way that seemed best. When Jan started wringing her hands over the unwashed state of the new china – a complete set, as if they were planning to feed the five thousand – I simply took it and washed it, stacking it on the brand new drainer until she could find tea-towels. Bedmaking, unpacking their cases; we did everything together. Todd produced a powerful lantern torch for me, with enough life in the battery, he promised, for me to read in bed. They’d also run to earth an electronic whistle in case I was scared in the night and, as if he was playing the lead in some Secret Seven book, a reel of black thread which he promised to tie between their front door and mine. There was also an inflatable mattress. It was probably too hot for the sleeping bag they presented me with, but there was a blanket, too. Luxury. The only thing they didn’t offer – never had, come to think of it – was a place for my airbed in their caravan. But the glances I intercepted from time to time over the curry reheated in their state-of-the-art microwave implied nocturnal activities that the presence of a spare pair of ears might inhibit. And with all their precautions, including the thread, I felt quite safe and happy when at last I collapsed in my new bedroom. And very tired. Tired enough – despite all the things I ought to be worrying about, not least
how I could ever possibly repay them for everything – to fall asleep almost immediately, lulled by the creaks of the old house settling around me.

One thing people never tell you about the country is how noisy it is. It was far quieter in suburban Ashford than here. The birds set their alarm clocks remarkably early, and they weren’t the sort that turn off when you slam them, either. I’m a great one for early morning stretches – with a job like mine you can’t let your muscles even dream of going stiff – but my avian friends went in for clog-dancing on the roof just above me. So I woke when they did. And started to think, something I’d tried to avoid the previous day. But even that little hamster of worry that twirls its wheel relentlessly in the grey early hours accepted as a given that I’d be staying here, not bolting to the coast or anywhere else.

In the midst of all the Arthur business – and how was he? Had he survived? – I’d forgotten the little matter of my Crabton Manor corpse. Mr van der Poele’s visitor’s corpse. It seemed that Paula might have done, too – but knowing her, she’d have stashed the blue fibres we found in the bedroom there as safely as she’d stashed the photos she’d had developed. She’d be waiting for a suitable opportunity to discuss our next move with me. Which would, come to think of it, be a real act of bravery on my part – a visit to her mother’s hairdressing salon. The great and good around here might never venture into it – I should imagine Jan went to a very nifty cutter indeed – but its very awfulness made it the place for me. A poor perm turning my mop to frizz was just what I needed, though I hoped Paula’s mum would do a good
colour. I’d also get hold of some self-tanning stuff and hope it made my already deep tan even darker. Then I could get out and about if I needed to. As for clothes, I was down by one outfit, but as long as the weather lasted I could wash out and wear. Of course, I was as sure as I was breathing that if I asked Jan or Todd for a loan to buy more they’d press fistfuls of fivers on me. But they’d done so much for me already I’d be embarrassed to do an Oliver Twist – even if I knew they wouldn’t do a Beadle back.

Hmm. Van der Poele and Granville, both in the same area. Two villains too many. And Marsh certainly in van der Poele’s pocket, and probably in Granville’s. Did they know they shared a bent policeman? And would they be happy if they did? It depended whether they were rivals or complemented each other. I’d give my teeth to find out. Unbidden, a grin crept across my face. I’d once read a play where these three vile people had to share a tiny room together forever. It seemed hell wasn’t a matter of toasting forks and devils but of other people. Wouldn’t it be nice to have all three villains banged up in the same cell for the rest of their natural lives?

The thought got me off the airbed and doing my stretches. It was still cool enough to warrant a few clothes so I slipped on a tracksuit. I needed that anyway – and the
guarantee
of a towel – before I headed for what I thought was the nearest shower. We knew there was still running water. OK, it would be cold, but that was life.

Life was also a dead mouse and a variety of defunct insects and no sign of a towel: perhaps personal cleanliness could wait till I’d cleaned the room thoroughly. Or perhaps other bathrooms would be in a better state – when I’d looked at
them I’d appraised them with a decorator’s eye, not a potential bather’s. Yes, I remembered the mahogany fittings and the huge expanses of white enamel, many ruined by limescale, Kent having the hardest water I’d ever come across – a particular shock after dear old Brum’s soft stuff. And no, I’d forgotten the collections of dead bugs.

It was still only six. If I started work it might disturb my hosts. I’d find a windowsill in the sun and do a bit more thinking.

One thing I’d have to acquire was a new mobile phone, since my existing one could be traced. But agreements for those involve all sorts of embarrassing details like ID and proof of residence using utility bills. Provided I did the paying, however, I was sure one of the Pots would sort that for me. Helen, perhaps – it wasn’t dangerous, and she might even enjoy it. So long as she didn’t offer to do it in her lunchtime…

Once I was back on the airwaves then I’d have a little talk with Messy Mascara. She’d given me the idea that she didn’t like Marsh any more than I did. But splitting on him – even spying on him – was another matter altogether. I’d have to play it by ear – literally – since I wouldn’t be able to see her face. I wasn’t going to indulge in one of those clever phones sending pictures!

Except – my God! – I’d give my teeth for one right now. The window I’d chosen didn’t face due east, but more southeast, so I had a lovely view across the Marsh – Romney, not Sergeant. The trees, the sheep, cast long shadows. So did a little band of men working their way surreptitiously amongst the reeds on the far side of what looked like a canal, though
not the sort we get in the Midlands, with their built-up towpaths. Perhaps this was just a river, with its steep sides. Whatever it was, my first thought was that they were Granville’s men, hunting me. My paranoia – yes, I really was about to bolt downstairs to yell to Jan and Todd for help – was soon replaced by simple interest. The men didn’t want to be seen, not because they were heading towards Fullers, but because they were heading inland via the least populous route. Over to the west – I could just pick it out between the trees – was a removal van. As they saw it, they broke into a ragged run. Many seemed too weak to manage more than a stagger.

Kent used to be famous for its Free Traders, the glamorous name for smugglers of wine and spirits. Now it has a name as an access point for the worst sort of smugglers – traders in people. Call them refugees or asylum seekers or economic migrants, those poor devils didn’t look as if they were heading for a New Jerusalem. They looked cold and tired and hungry. Terrified, not terrorists. But someone ought to do something about them. Someone like me, on the run herself? Half of me wanted to turn the blindest of eyes – people who’ve been at the bottom end of society ought to stick together, Robin Hood stealing from only the rich, that sort of thing. But the other half was revolted by the thought that unscrupulous people should make money out of bringing them in and probably out of any wages they managed to scrape; pimping not prostitutes, but the poorest of the poor.

Seething, I ran downstairs – yes, I marked which room I’d been using, since there were so many and when the police
came I wanted them to see exactly the same view as I’d seen – and despite the hour banged on the caravan door. I was
gobsmacked
to have it opened by Jan, swathed in a towel and rubbing her hair dry.

‘Damned birds,’ she said by way of a greeting.

Todd, sporting a towel and an excellent torso for a man of his age, peered over her shoulder. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘Illegal immigrants – I think. Trailing across the Marsh, just over there.’ I pointed in the vague direction of the sun. ‘I saw them from up there.’ Another point.

Managing an ungainly run in his towelling flip-flops, Todd headed for the house. Jan called me back, thrusting her mobile phone into my hands, before pushing me gently off after Todd. I overtook him on the stairs. ‘Third door on your left,’ I yelled. As I reached the window and pointed, the back of the removal van was just being raised. ‘They came from those reeds. Along that canal thing.’

‘That’ll be the Royal Military Canal,’ Todd said. ‘Built to protect us from a more organised form of invasion. Napoleon’s.’

I’d ask him all about it another day. ‘I’m afraid we’ve missed them.’

‘That might be a good thing,’ Jan observed, coming up behind us in a gorgeous wrap, black silk embroidered with gold birds. ‘Unless you really want to talk to the police again?’

‘It would probably be the Immigration people,’ Todd observed. ‘And in any case it wouldn’t be the same policeman. I still cling to the belief,’ he said, grinning ruefully, ‘that the vast majority of the police force –’

‘Police service,’ Jan corrected him.

‘– are decent men and women doing the best they can.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agreed, though with less conviction. ‘Trouble is, I’ve got no evidence. If I’d only had a film in my camera!’ I couldn’t afford one, which is why I hadn’t made a mad dash for the camera, but he didn’t need to know that.

‘You’d need something with a powerful lens to do any real good,’ he said. I knew as clearly as if he’d said it aloud that as soon as the shops opened he’d be banging on the doors of the nearest photographic shop.

So did Jan. She and I exchanged the sort of tolerant,
conspiratorial
look I’d seen mothers and daughters give when Dad found a need for some new toy.

‘They might have been some farm workers waiting for a lift to pick more fruit or vegetables,’ Jan said, the words meaning one thing, the tone telling him not to waste his money.

What would he say next? ‘But I’ve always wanted a telephoto lens?’ or ‘I’ve always meant to get one of these digital jobs?’

No; he was a bit more sophisticated than that. And a bit more truthful. ‘Pity we’ve left the bird-spotting gear back in the West Indies. We could have used the binoculars, too.’

As one, we turned from the window, and headed for the stairs. It was only then that Jan broke away, peering into one room after another. Exchanging a tolerant father/daughter shrug, we pulled twin puzzled faces as we heard water running.

‘Fancied another shower, did you?’ Todd asked as she returned, shaking water from her hand.

‘You didn’t tell me the bathrooms were as filthy as that. And I’d forgotten there was no hot water. Get your towel, Caffy – we’ve got no bugs and the dearest little shower you’ve ever seen. What have I said?’

Hell, why did this keep happening? I’d always tried to keep my upper lip pretty ever since I’d learnt that my parents didn’t like crying, and here it was, wobbling away, almost as uncontrollably as the lower one. ‘I was just thinking about Arthur,’ I said, not untruthfully, the memory of what had happened to my only towels bringing the emotions I’d been trying to suppress surging to the surface.

‘Well, as soon as you’ve had a shower and some breakfast, we’ll phone the hospital. No reason why Jan shouldn’t be his legal adviser as well,’ Todd observed.

We were now by their caravan door, and I was back in control of myself. More or less. Until Jan’s shrewd look and the pressure into my hand of the fattest, fluffiest towel I’d ever held, set my lips trembling again. At least I made it into the shower before I had my blub.

‘It’s as good as France,’ Todd observed, spreading apricot conserve on his toast. They’d put up a picnic table between the caravan and the house and we were basking in the already warm sun.

‘Which is why we bought Fullers,’ Jan said. ‘So we could do this whenever we wanted. A nice quiet retirement.’ She smiled, without any irony that I could see.

Instead of which they’d got me and my adventures. ‘I’m sorry.’ I hung my head.

‘Don’t be. Everyone should do their bit for society,’ Jan
said, ‘and this beats working in a charity shop.’ She took my hand and seemed about to say something else. In the end, she compromised and gave a kind smile. ‘Ah! Is that your van?’

It was. Rob McElwee and his weather forecast must have encouraged them to make an early start in case it got too hot later. Paula pulled it over into the shade and they all got out. Todd waved them over. Meg lagged behind till her brilliant blush had subsided.

‘Time,’ he announced, ‘for your second breakfast and a council of war.’

‘In conclusion,’ Jan said, some half an hour later, ‘we all agree that we need a straight policeman.’

‘And we’re not talking sexuality here,’ Todd added impishly.

‘So where do we find one?’

I’d not mentioned him to anyone for four? – five? – years. I’d buried him so deep in my heart I scarcely thought about him. What I wanted to say was, ‘I know one. His name’s Taz. He’s with the Met.’ He was the social worker to whom I owed everything. The ex-social worker. The pay and conditions and public hostility had at last got to him so badly he’d gone off to university with the avowed aim of making some money, but student loans and a lingering need to interfere in people’s lives had driven him to the police, where he was now one of those fast-tracked cops. He’d known I’d been head over heels in love with him, of course, and had gently but firmly backed out of my life. He’d not been able to breach his professional code when I was his client; but, even if he had, I
don’t think that deep down he’d ever come to terms with my previous lifestyle. Much as I knew he was attracted to me, he saw me as a car with a dreadful track record, far too many previous owners, and a rather battered logbook. The only way he showed any feelings at all was with Christmas and birthday cards, which always carried his latest address and his phone number. Oh, yes, each year I memorised that number. I could do it now, leave a message saying, ‘I’m in deep trouble: come and help.’