They'd cut up cars like abattoir animals using every spare piece. Carl really had a way with him the only thing he hadn't been able to out-think was the cancer. He got it, like a present, for his forty-eighth birthday.
"It's cancer of the sixty Capstan a day, love. It's the same way your mother went it'll be the way you'll go too. Family tradition." He'd always been rat-thin, but when he died Carl was even thinner like something from a concentration camp, she thought. And as soon as he'd gone the others lost interest and drifted away, and the wind came in off the fens and blew through the garage at night and made the corrugated iron rattle.
Now Tracey found her keys and got back into the old Datsun. She was hot in spite of the rain and immediately the windows steamed up. She put the radio on, turned the car round and drove off along the top of the quarry, the car jerking and lurching in the potholes. Wet ferns and nettles slapped down on the windscreen and behind her the caravan's little curtained window got smaller and smaller until it had disappeared in the dripping forest.
She had a plan, and had just taken the first steps towards making it a reality. She knew that there was nothing left for her here Carl's death had left her high and dry: she didn't know how she was going to make next month's rent she didn't even know how much it was, or whether Carl had a deal with the landlord. Christ, she didn't even know who the landlord was. You always kept me away from the money, Carl, didn't you? But she had some ideas. Once, twenty years ago, Carl had gone to Fuengirola he knew people out there and had some business to deal with. It was the only time he'd been out of England, and he'd come back with stories of drinking cocktails on yachts and a postcard of a little village that looked in the sun like sugar cubes stuck to the edge of the mountain. It looked like heaven up there so close to the sky, and the olive trees and the bright flowers hanging over the walls, blazing like gypsy scarves. Tracey Lamb felt sure she could be happy there. And she thought that the key to that happiness, the money to make it a reality, might come from DI Caffery's need to discover what had happened to Penderecki's boy.
Ayo came out from the curtains holding a bedpan full of plastic line clamps and bloodied towels.
"Oh!" She put her hand on her chest. "You made me jump."
The good-looking detective again the one she'd imagined blabbing her mad ideas to. About Ben and Hal and how Josh was peeing on things. Maybe she'd tell him, make him laugh, show him there were no hard feelings.
"What's happened? What's going on?"
"Eh? Oh…" She looked back to where Alek Peach lay groaning softly. "He got agitated, coming out of sedation. Pulled his radial artery line out it looks worse than it is."
"The blood?"
"We were giving him blood when he pulled it out. Most of that," she nodded to the floor, 'is from the bag, not from him. He's in no danger."
"Right." He started towards the bed. "I'll talk to him now."
"Uh Ayo skilfully put herself in his way. "I'm sorry. Mr. Friendship still hasn't given me the all-clear."
"Mr. Friendship is more interested in pissing me off than anything."
"Maybe you should talk to him about that." She held up her hand to guide him out of the door. When he didn't move she dropped her head to one side. "Look, I'm sorry, and I really mean that. I'm sorry. If it was up to me…"
"Ayo, listen," he hissed. "It was him. He did it. He killed his son."
Ayo closed her mouth. So he is a suspect they should have warned us.
"Come on, Ayo…"
"Look." She closed her eyes and held up her hand. "Thank you for telling me, but I'm sorry, you know, I have to not care what you think he's done."
"Oh, for Christ's sake. You crappy fucking do-gooders."
Her eyes snapped open. "There's no need for that."
"I know." He looked around the room, helpless, frustrated. "But you're just proving that really you don't give a shit. I mean, did you read the newspapers about Rory? Did you read what that man in there did} To his own son?"
Ayo swallowed, her blood pressure rising. "I've already explained my our position, so…" She pressed her hand to her belly. The baby was kicking, as if it was angry on her behalf. '… so if you'd be good enough to leave now, please please just respect us, OK? Or I'll have to call Security."
"Thanks, Ayo," he said. "Thanks for the generosity of spirit." He opened the door to leave. "I'll remember it."
"And don't come back until we call you," she yelled down the ward after him, 'which could be several days."
Afterwards her hands were trembling. She put down the bedpan and went into the nurses' station where she sat, breathing carefully, waiting for her heart to stop thumping. One of the junior nurses was concerned. "Hey? You OK?"
"God I dunno. I think so." Ayo put her head back and breathed in through her nose. Her pulse was racing, she felt nauseous she supposed it must be some form of panic-attack. The nurse, seeing her clammy face, her shaking hands, came in and put the kettle on.
"I'm going to make you some camomile tea. Can't have you stressed in your condition, can we, Mother?"
"God, thanks you're a lamb." Ayo settled back, rolling the top of her tights down and cupping her hands around her stomach. A Braxton Hicks came and went, but she breathed her way through it. For God's sake he only raised his voice to you and look at the state you're in you're all set to go into premature labour over it. This poor, poor child, she thought for the thousandth time, a neurotic for a mother how will it cope?
"I'm sorry if I jumped the gun." The armed guard stood a little outside the I.C.U, embarrassed, shuffling from foot to foot. "All we heard were the alarms, and the nurses getting aerated thought you should be here."
"It's OK." Caffery's mobile was ringing. "Really -call me any time. Especially call me' he fished in his pocket for the phone, hit the OK button, and used his thumb to cover the speaker 'especially call me when the lovely Mr. Friendship gives us a clear, OK?" He nodded briefly, and turned away, speaking into the phone. "Yeah? DI?"
"It's me. I've heard something."
He hesitated, trying to place the voice. When he had it he raised his hand to the armed officer and headed off down the corridor. "Tracey," he said, as soon as he was out of earshot. "Say that again."
"I heard something that might be useful to you. Something about what we talked about."
"Nah that's OK, we managed on our own, after all."
At the other end Tracey paused for a moment. "I'm not talking about Brixton," she said. "I'm talking about that boy of Penderecki's."
Benedicte remained where she had shrunk, eyes pricking and bright with fear. She had meant to be a warrior, meant to save her family. Instead she had scuttled back and lain on the floor, panting, weeping in the sour darkness, a hopeless lump bubbling away. A shitty little curled-up coward on the floor. If she was rolled on to her back she would remain locked in this position, like a brittle bluebottle, dead from terror. Pathetic.
And all she could think was: He is a monster. Josh was right a monster.
Thick red lips, white hairless skin. Like Snow White, his dark hair was so luxuriant and shiny it almost didn't look real like a shampoo advert. His trainers were scuffed and dirty and the red nylon Adidas sweatpants were stained. She could imagine cloven hoofs and thick-haired legs under those trousers. And he was wearing pink rubber gloves.