Skin

18

Flea did the paperwork for the dive, packed away the equipment and pulled on a fleece. She checked her phone – nothing from Thom. She helped the boys secure the dive truck, patted it on the back and watched it trundle away through the mud. It was mid-afternoon and the clouds over the quarry were moving now. In the lane the marked traffic BMW was still parked – the cop inside was having coffee out of a Thermos. About twenty feet on the slope above it, Jack Caffery was outlined against the clouds. He seemed to be looking out across the quarry as if he was concentrating on something in the sky.

‘You done?’ he said, when he saw her scrambling up the slope towards him. ‘Bit warmer now?’

‘Here.’ She handed him a business card. ‘It’s the CSI’s number. For the dog. They’re taking it to a vet’s to have it scanned, see if there’s a chip. Still want it?’

‘Sure. Thanks.’

‘Jack. I’ve been meaning to-’

‘Yes?’

She hesitated. She still hadn’t quite worked him out. Still hadn’t decided which side of the line he was on. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. About the Kitson case.’

‘The Kitson case?’ He frowned. She knew it wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘What about it?’

‘Just polite interest. Y’know – I was thinking about the bollocking Pearce gave me. Sounded like maybe I should have been paying more attention.’

‘Pearce? The combed-over old twonk?’

She half smiled and rubbed her nose. ‘It’s just I get accused of being unprofessional and it starts to -’ she made a gesture with her shoulders ‘- make you uncomfortable. That sort of thing.’

‘I can’t see how you’ve done anything wrong. Your team searched a lake. You didn’t think you’d find her but you still searched the lake. It’s not your fault she’s gone alien-abduction style.’

A few drops of rain fell and Flea zipped up her fleece. The cop in the traffic car opened the door and tipped the remains of the coffee from the Thermos cup on to the ground.

‘You haven’t a clue, then. No idea where she went?’

‘Ha.’ He put his hands into his pockets. Looked at the clouds. ‘Nothing. And sorry to sound cynical but the truth is I don’t give a stuff what happened to her. She’ll probably turn up in some Soho studio coked out of her gourd. Or in a beach hut in Antigua.’

Below them in the lane the traffic cop got out of the car, stood and brushed crumbs off his trousers. Flea watched him suck in his stomach and tuck his shirt into his trousers. ‘That’s not the official line, is it? That you don’t think she’s dead.’

‘I don’t think anything. Never have done. I’m not working her case.’

She was following the cop carefully now. There was something about his appearance, the top of his head, the widow’s peak in his tightly shaved hair. Then she got it. It was PC Prody. The traffic cop who’d followed Thom home and breathalysed her. He began to climb the slope towards them. Came four, maybe five, steps. It was enough.

‘’Scuse me,’ she muttered. ‘Something I forgot to do.’

She pulled out her car keys and slithered down the slope away from him. She got into the Clio, slammed the door and was reaching for the ignition when Caffery caught up with her. He put his head in through the open window. ‘You didn’t answer my calls.’

‘I’ve been busy.’

‘I called three times.’

‘I know.’ She fumbled with the keys. Her fingers were trembling. ‘I’ve been busy.’

‘Too busy to acknowledge a phone call?’

‘Yes.’

‘I only wanted to ask you something.’

‘I told you, I’ve been busy.’

‘Hey!’ He leant through the window suddenly. ‘Hey. What’s the matter with you? What the hell is wrong?’

She stopped fumbling with the keys and looked over at Prody. He’d stopped halfway up the slope and was staring at her, puzzled. She rested her hands on the steering-wheel and fixed her eyes on a point in the windscreen. Took five deep breaths. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had a lot on my mind.’

There was a pause, then Caffery sighed and pulled back a bit, resting one elbow on the door, running his hand through his hair as if he was tired. ‘Christ. Me too. I’m sorry.’

‘Truce?’

‘Truce.’

He smiled. He looked at the car, at the wheels, the back seats, the upholstery, casually, as if he was thinking of buying it. ‘New car?’

‘Yes.’

‘Very nice. Smells new.’

Twin lines of sweat broke under her arms and ran down her sides. ‘Smells new?’

‘Yes. What happened to the old one?’

‘The old one?’ On the slope Prody had his hand up, smiling uncertainly. As if to say ‘Hi. No bad feelings, eh?’ The lines of sweat on her back converged and thickened into one. ‘I’m thinking of selling it.’

‘Shame. A good car, the Focus, so they tell me. More Focuses in the UK than sheep. Or something like that. Not that I know much about cars.’

A couple of drops of rain fell and Prody took a step forward. She turned the keys and put the gear lever into reverse. Caffery held on to the door as if he might be able to stop her leaving. ‘When you’re ready to talk, you know where I am.’

‘When I’m ready.’ She glanced again at Prody, released the handbrake and reversed out of the space. She was going so fast that Caffery had to take a step back to avoid getting his feet run over.