Mark Sennen - BAD BLOOD - A DI Charlotte Savage Novel

To one side of the bed a tea chest appeared to function as a linen bin and was full to the brim with jogging bottoms, jeans, shirts and underwear. The stench from the unwashed clothes invaded Savage’s nostrils and she tried to breathe through her mouth, but that just meant she gagged on the smell instead.

Apart from the bed and tea chest the bedroom was bare like the living room. Either Franklin Owers hadn’t believed in having possessions or else he couldn’t afford them. All in all it seemed a depressing existence, and for a moment Savage sensed the man’s need for the uncritical type of companionship which perhaps might only come from a dog. Or a child. But then, for a man like Owers, mere companionship with a child wouldn’t be enough. Savage turned from the room and shook her head. Haunting wasn’t the half of it.

Ricky Budgeon stared out of the window to where a patch of late afternoon sunlight painted a nearby field, the warm glow in stark contrast to the dark patterns cast by the clouds. He guessed the harsh light presaged a bout of heavy rain. The stream which ran past the rear of the house would fill, bank-full, and gurgle through the night. If he left the window open the noise might help him sleep. Assuming the pain stayed away, that was.

The headaches had got worse in recent weeks and moments when he was free of worry were like the brush-strokes of gold on the field, either side of which were black shadows. One day those shadows would close in for good.

He reached out for the rough wall to the side of the window and touched the lacquered stonework. The barn conversion had been nicely done, the place luxurious. A rich man’s pad. Not home though. Never that.

From another room he could hear the sounds of the boy, gurgling like the stream, his mother clucking to him in Spanish as she prepared a meal. He should be in there with them, playing with the boy, pulling him close with one hand, the other reaching out for the girl. They were family after all, living with him, and Budgeon knew he should be trying to make the place more of a home. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to do that. They meant something to him, sure, but he knew the woman only hung around because of the money. An ugly mug like him with a pretty girl on his arm? He’d seen it often enough in his line of work. When she was on her knees in front of him, head bobbing, he didn’t kid himself that her actions were anything to do with love or attraction.

And the boy?

The boy was cute. Dark hair, dark skin, a real punchy little kid with an iron grip and eyes that promised an intelligence which Budgeon knew he himself lacked. The boy would be someone, wouldn’t spend half his life inside. Not if Budgeon had anything to do with it.

He wasn’t sure if the feeling he felt for the little lad was love or some kind of vicarious ambition. Still, the next week or so, if things went well, would see the kid sorted, the boy and his mother set up for life. One worry gone, one ache salved.

Budgeon sighed and then reached forward and picked up the local paper from the windowsill. The lead story was of a dead girl beneath a suburban patio, a paedophile missing, police doing all they could to find the man, confident they would be making an arrest soon.

Fat Frankie.

Budgeon had never liked him. He remembered an argument with Big K one night way back, must have been twenty years ago. The three of them in the little room Big K had above the offy. Handy for free takeouts. Round the corner from the massage parlour too, often a couple of girls spreading themselves over one of the sofas, lips pouting like fish in a tank wanting a mouthful of food.

‘It’s the figures.’ Big K looks up from the table, chucks his cards in. Folding. Nodding across to the third guy in the game. ‘Lexi, he’s canny with the politicos, you and me, we know the streets, and Frankie does the numbers.’

‘He’ll be on the numbers before long. Frankie Fiddler – and I ain’t talking an Irish jig.’

‘You’re right there, Ricky.’ Lexi this time. All too friendly. Collecting up the chips in the centre. ‘Trouser dance while watching the kiddies is the only rhythm he’s beating out. We still need him though.’

‘Look at it this way.’ Big K points to the pile of chips next to Lexi. ‘Tonight, you and me lost. Lexi’s taken me for a oner, you the same twice over. Tomorrow he’ll let us win it back because he knows if he doesn’t we’ll beat the shit out of him. But real life doesn’t work like that. The house never loses unless you’ve got an edge. Frankie is the edge.’

‘Still don’t like him.’

‘I’m not asking you to eat grapes from between his arse cheeks. All you’ve got to do is tolerate him.’

‘Think you can do that, Ricky?’ Lexi again. Smiling. Big K as well. Like they are sharing the punchline to some joke you don’t understand.

Lexi and Big K. Too close sometimes. All that talking and planning. Lexi in particular has a face with two sides. Trying to work him out is like trying to catch hold of a fart; for a moment there’s a stink but then comes a quick burst of air freshener and nobody is any the wiser.

‘The amount of money Frankie has saved us,’ Big K says, starting to laugh, ‘he’s worth his weight.’

‘Even if he is particular to kiddies?’

‘It’s a fuck or be fucked world, Ricky. You told me that.’

From the kitchen a clatter of pans brought Budgeon back to the present, the noise jarring through his head. He raised a hand and squeezed his temples to try and relieve the building pressure, then looked through the window where he could see the sun had been swallowed up by a mass of cloud which brooded on the horizon, far to the west.

Frankie should have stayed in Plymouth and not come west last summer. Once he’d been given a tour of the area, shown the tourist hotspots, he’d been gagging for it. Let loose for a few hours, the pervert had been in little-girl heaven.

‘ Urges, Ricky,’ Frankie said afterwards, eyes downcast, knowing he’d walked into a trap. ‘They’re prick-teasers. All of them. She was cute, so very cute. I couldn’t help myself.’

So Frankie had helped himself.

The pans clattered again and Budgeon closed his eyes. This time the noise caused white light to crackle across a grey background, and he balled his fists as needles of agony pierced his temples. He clenched his teeth and swallowed. He wanted to go into the kitchen and hit the woman. Slap her for being so clumsy. Instead he opened his eyes and lashed out with his arm, sweeping a vase of daffodils from a nearby table. The flowers fell in slow motion and then the vase exploded on the slate floor.

A second later and the girl was at the door with the child on her hips. A hand went to her mouth, lips quivering, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. The kid smiled across, for a split second his expression reminding Budgeon of someone from his past. He creased his forehead, willed the kid to repeat the smile, tried to recall the face again but the moment was gone. Then the boy sensed the tension and began to cry.

Budgeon nodded at the girl. Remembered to breathe. Said it was OK and then waved her away. He stepped from the window, crunched over the remains of the vase and eased himself down into the creaking leather of the big sofa. Tucked down behind a cushion he found his bottle of Scotch. He pulled the bottle out and fumbled with the screw top, necked a draught straight from the bottle. A burning sensation caressed the back of his throat and he felt the tension fall away. He cradled the bottle in his lap like a newborn and closed his eyes again.

Big K’s face floated in the grey mist, mouthing the words from all those years ago: fuck or be fucked. Well, what goes around comes around, Budgeon thought. Payback time; the stuff with Frankie only the start, an illustration that he was serious and a prelude to something much grander. Something to take away his final worry and which would bring his old pals a whole symphony of pain and misery and suffering.