Mo Hayder - Skin

‘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.’

‘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.’

‘You’re right. I asked you here cos I wanted to give you a really nice present.’ She smiles coyly at him. ‘Something beautiful, Stevie. Very soon. I’m going to get you a – a Porsche. No – how much does a Porsche cost? Maybe something…’ She blinks.

‘How much does a Porsche cost?’

‘Dunno. Eighty grand, should think. If you get it new.’

‘Something like a Porsche. As good as a Porsche. Something black. Tinted windows. One of those SUVs you like.’

‘Nah. You’re all right, Mum. You save your money. Spend it on yourself.’

She leans across and presses her fingernails lightly into his arm. ‘I’m in a comfortable position with money. You’re going to see me, Stevie, one day not very far away, you’re going to see me and you’re going to be very, very proud.’

It was a cool evening with no hint of the heat from earlier in the day. Flea wore a Powerlite tank and shorts set and ran a two-hour circuit along the lanes that meandered lazily through the hills north of Bath. Years ago, before Mum and Dad’s accident, she’d had boyfriends. Lots of them. One had been an ex-marine who’d trained in Quantico – they used to run together. He taught her the Fartlek technique, and she still used it: two-kilometre sprint, five-minute walk, then a long, loping run, extended stride, comfortable pace, interspersed every three hundred metres with sixty-metre sprints. Every ten sprints she checked her heart rate: average 173. Way further into the cardio range than usual. But it was what she needed today.