Director's Cut (19 page)

“Afraid not. Cash sale, I think. A print. Ducks flying from water.
Ducks are a best seller.” He shook a sad head. “While other men dream
of Doris Day, I dream of shooting ducks.”

Butler shook his head. Doris Day? Was she still alive? Were the
men who fancied her still alive? He asked, “Did anyone see Mrs
Domey leave your shop?”

“I’ve no idea. The pavement outside is always busy, particularly at
this time of year. Someone must have seen her. Maybe we can appeal
for witnesses. On the television.” His eyes widened at the thought and
he added, “Or maybe one of your CCTV cameras picked her up. With
the number of times we’re caught on CCTV – what is it, two hundred
times a day? – it is surprising that anyone could go missing. It is
astonishing, really, that with all the controls the government puts in, all
the checks and the listening and the spying – gosh, they even spy on
our dustbins – it is surprising that a crime can still be committed.”
Butler tried to ignore him. “What else did you notice?”

Lawrence offered a sly little smile. “That she was pregnant, you
mean?”

Butler said stonily, “I didn't think it was that noticeable.”

“Didn’t you? You have to know what to look for, of course, and it's
more than just the rounded belly. The skin takes on a radiance. The
eyes take on a secret sparkle as though no one else is suppose to know.
It is a woman thing, a thrill that we can only guess at. One needs to
play around with colour and oil to bring out the lustre.”

“Let's talk about Mrs Harrison.”

“Fine. I'd like that. I liked Mrs Harrison.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“She came in to pick up the painting about a week after the last
sitting. The paint needs time to dry. Do you know anything about art?”
“No.”

“I insist on a week, more if possible. But Mrs Harrison could be
very persuasive. Did you know her?”

“No.”

“She was a very beautiful woman. Stunning, I'd say. Not that I’m
anything of a judge. The date of her last sitting will be in one of my
diaries. I have two. They’re kept in the shop under the counter. Perhaps
one of your officers can collect them, unless, that is, you have already
confiscated them as evidence. It was about a month ago, no more than
that. But time is an oddity. A day is a week and a week is a day. But it
was about a week after her last sitting.”

“And has she been back since?”

“Mrs Domey hasn't. I don't think I'll see her again.”

“Mrs Harrison?”

“Oh, Mrs Harrison. I haven't seen her. I've taken on an assistant. He
might have seen her.”

“Paul Knight.”

“Yes, that's his name. He might have seen her. He has an eye for
the girls. Particularly the pretty ones.”

“Paul has a little form, as well, doesn't he?”

“Indeed he does. He will tell you it was a miscarriage of justice,
that it was down to corrupt policemen. I had no truck with that. I told
him that our policemen were the best. That in Britain we simply don't
have corrupt policemen. I don’t think he believed me.”

Butler looked for the sneer but if it was there he missed it. He
turned to his notes. “You were released on parole in 1984.”
“That's true. I had to attend a clinic. It will be in your records. It
seems a long time ago. My goodness, it is a long time ago.”
“Things have a way of coming round.”

“I think I know what you're suggesting, Mr Butler. But you're quite
wrong. I did have a problem. I was diagnosed schizophrenic but in
those days that covered a multitude of sins.”

“It’s the legal loophole, isn't it?”

“I see, the Hare Test, the accepted scientific proof of a

psychopathic personality disorder and that only people with treatable
disorders can be kept in hospital? For fifteen years I've been running
my shop. I spend my time either there or in the British. You can find
me in the British most lunchtimes and evenings and, if I'm not there,
I'll be at the shop. Everyone will tell you. That is my routine and it
hasn't changed in all that time. I was ill and I attacked those women on
the underground. But now everything is fine and I’m no more a danger
to the general public than you are.”

Butler’s smile was forced. He said, “That’s good, but unfortunately
we have some missing women and the thing they have in common is
that they're all pregnant.”

“All of them? I didn't know that. Goodness me. That is a

coincidence. But the women, before, they never went missing. I always
left them on the underground platforms. I agree that they weren't in,
you know, tiptop condition, but I always left them there. They were
never…missing. But I do get your point and I suppose that is why I am
here. I suppose your computer has thrown me up, as they do. I don't
understand them, myself, but perhaps that’s an age thing. They sound
absolutely marvellous.”

“The missing women visited your shop.”

“Did the computer throw that up too?”

“Forget the computer.”

“I'd like to but, unfortunately, they won’t allow us that luxury. They
put us on to a spreadsheet, they give us credit or they don’t, and what
is more, when you speak to them on the phone, they speak in Indian
accents. But, yes, you’re right, two of the women did visit my shop.”
“I think you've got them somewhere. Not on your premises, but
somewhere else.”

“Do you really think so? I hope you’re not going to fit me up like
those other policemen did to young Paul.”

“I'm not going to charge you at the moment, Mr Lawrence, but I
will get the proof and you will be back.”

“Does that mean I can go? Will I get a lift back to the shop? I do so
enjoy being taken for a ride. Do you?”

“He's as mad as a fucking hatter,” Butler said down the line. He was
angry with himself. He had let Lawrence get to him.

Cole answered, “Bailed?”

“Could have kept him overnight but what's the point? He isn’t
going anywhere. He's enjoying himself too much.”

“Is he the one, Sam?”

“I've never been so certain of anything.”

“That's good enough for me. What now?”

“We’ll continue to dig. I want to know about everything since his
release. I’ve asked for a search of the warehouses and garages at the
back of his gaff even though I’ll guarantee they’ll be as clean as the
shop. All we’ll find over there are smackheads and their cooking
equipment.”

“The plods are going to love you.”

“One way or another we'll get him.” Butler’s sigh carried down the
line. He said, "Unfortunately we still haven't got a crime. You said it
yourself. If it wasn't for Margaret we wouldn't have got the warrant to
search the shop. And we certainly haven't got enough to take it to
pieces. Not that it matters. The prelims suggest it’s hopeless. They had
the dogs in there. Apparently, in the cellar they got so excited they
were performing back flips. It turned out to be decomposing rats and a
couple of dead cats.”

Cole didn’t need telling. He had already heard.

“I was thinking about surveillance.”

Cole's pause went on too long.

“Guv?”

“Yes, sorry. I'll get back to you on that. It'll be down to the super.
Don't count on it.”

Butler frowned into the phone. That wasn't like Cole at all. He was
up to something. Surveillance would bugger his pitch. He knew the DI
from old.

“OK, Sam. Fuck knows what I’ll tell the super. I promised him a
result.”

The DS sighed. He said, “I'll see you in the morning.” Then hung
up.

Rick Cole toyed with the handset for a moment. The DS had been
right. He did have an idea. He left the building and drove to a public telephone.
His mobile was out of the question. You couldn't be too careful lately. The
Yard was spending twenty million a year investigating its own. CIB3 was now
the biggest single-purpose investigative unit in the Met. Add that to CIB2 and
you could see why there were so few coppers on the street. What was more, since
the Investigatory Procedures Act 2,000 police officers were regularly bugged,
more to discover whether they were racist or sexist rather than bent.

“It's me.”

Ticker Harrison responded, “Yeah, recognize those London tones
anywhere. You got something for me?”

“The art shop in the High Road, guy named Lawrence.”

“I've heard of him. He painted Helen. Got it hanging in the sitting
room. Good painter. Caught her just right.”

“I think he knows something. More than he's telling us.”

“Leave it to me, my son.”

“Let me know.”

“Fucking right.”

Cole sat in the car for some minutes, filling it with JPS smoke. Now
it was a matter of waiting. If the old man did know something then
Ticker would get it out of him. One way or the other.

Ticker Harrison had known for some time that if you wanted
something doing well then you had to do it yourself, that accountability was
something of the past. He blamed the politicians for trashing the old-fashioned
values, loyalty in particular, and it came down to them letting in the foreigners
so that national identity was lost. For fuck’s sake, there were places in England
where you’d be hardpressed to find an Englishman.

Ticker Harrison sighed and said reflectively, “Maybe I should take
up politics.”

“I don't see any point, Boss. You already make up the rules around
here. We got our own laws and, come to think of it, taxes too. Some
people might call it protection, but it's the same, ain’t it? No different.
And they get more for their money from us than they do from that
fucking Brown cunt. He ain’t fucking human, Boss.”

“He comes from fucking Scotland, that’s why. But since when have
you paid any fucking taxes?”

“It's the principle, Boss, the fucking principle.”

“But I'd take up fucking politics, Breath, to get some accountability
back into life, not because of the fucking taxes.”

“I don't see where you're coming from, Boss.”

“I told you I wanted her found. I didn't give a fuck what it cost or
how many people got hurt. Take out half of Sheerham if you had to, I
said, but find my fucking wife. I am fucking suffering here. I can't
sleep, I can't eat and, sooner or later, maybe sooner, some fucker is
going to get fucking hurt. You hearing me now? Is that fucking clear
enough? You remember me telling you that?”

Breathless Billy's expression was shaped by painful haemorrhoids;
a permanent grimace, even when he smiled, and that wasn't often. He
said in a voice cut by emphysema and chastisement in equal measure,
“Right, Boss. I think I get the message. I've got faces on the street. I've
got faces in every fucking…you know, wherever they can fucking get,
and we'll find her. But it takes time. And we got other things going on.
This business is getting in the way of…business. What shall I do about
the kids? You know what's going on in there. I'm telling you, Boss,
Gilly will pull out and we'll be fucked. I've got major problems here.
And you won't thank me for them! In case you hadn’t realized, Boss,
Christmas is coming and we said we’d have the place cleared by
Christmas.”

“Kids! Squatters! How can I think about kids when my wife is
missing? It's all right for you, you ain't got a fucking wife. You don't
know what I'm going through. Look!” Ticker pointed toward the
painting of Helen. “Let's have some fucking priorities around here, eh?
You're trying to change the subject. I ask you to do one simple thing,
find Helen, and nothing. It's left to me to come up with something.”
Breathless Billy checked out the painting and shook a sad head.
What had Helen been thinking of to pose like that? And what was
Ticker thinking of putting it on public display?

Ticker noticed his right-hand man's uneasiness and relented. “I'm
sorry, Breathless, but this shit is getting to me. I never realized how
much I'd miss her. Christ, I feel like someone's gutted me. Look, take a
couple of guys and throw some weight about in Avenue Road. Let
them know we're serious.”

Breathless Billy nodded. “OK, Boss, I'll do that. But what you said
there, before, you heard something?”

Ticker said slyly, “Maybe, maybe I have. It's more than you lot
have. You and me, we're going to have a look around an art gallery.
You in to art? Picasso, Raphael, Flaubert? Flaubert said that one must
sense the artist everywhere, but never see him.”

“Fuck me, Boss, I didn't know that. I thought Flaubert was a writer.
You know, that Bovary tart. Just shows you, doesn’t it? Never see him,
eh? That is interesting. They probably hide behind the fucking screen,
the easel, when they're fucking, you know, doing the business, with the
paint.”

“Well, do you like the paintings?”

Breathless pulled a face. “I can take it, you know? The Tate. Never
been there, mind. Fucking don't, do you? Fuck that. Walking around
with a stiff neck. Pay to get in. Half the cunts don't make fucking
sense. I can't see it. Painting half black, half white, call it black and
white and bung a fifty-grand tag on it. And the women in the pictures.
Fattest fucking tarts I've ever seen. And they're floating, right? In
fucking heaven or some place, with fucking angels. Little fat fucking
kids with wings that wouldn’t hold up a fart-filled balloon, right? I'm
telling you, Boss, these artist people have got their brushes up their
own arseholes. Sooner have a dead fish stuck on the wall.”
“That's art!” Ticker pointed to the painting of Helen.

“Yeah, it's something. That's for sure. This ain't a criticism, Boss,
no fucking way, but no way would I have my missus on show like that.
Not so's anyone else would get to see it anyway. I mean, that's real.
Any closer and you'd be giving it a tongue job. With respect, that is.”
“I ain't got a problem with that. Helen didn't either. If you've got a
problem then it's your fucking problem.”

“Right. I was just saying – ”

“No! No you weren't.”

“Boss, it's a fucking turn-on. Do you want other geezers walking
out of here with a fucking cruise missile sticking out in front of them?
That's the question. If it was me, I'd want to keep it all to myself. For
fuck's sake, I mean, the cunt's either made a smudge or that's the clit
hanging from here to Southend.”