Director's Cut (32 page)

Baxter turned to Butler. “What happened at the shop?”

Butler said sheepishly, “Nothing new, Sir. We’ve taken statements from Lawrence
and his lodgers.”

“The lodger who was in prison at the time some of these women went missing and
the girl who’s off her trolley?”

“Yes Sir.” Butler stood his ground. Cole was impressed. The DS went on, “We
need to see the husband again and her sister, and we’re following up with the
members of the art class.”

Detective Superintendent Baxter nodded thoughtfully then said, “Right, follow
that up and then start again.” He glanced at Billingham. “Anything to add, John?”

“I’ve not seen anything from the hospital regarding Margaret’s visit. Are we
absolutely satisfied she never got there?”

Butler answered, “She didn’t show, Sir. We’re still checking CCTV footage of
the reception area and the car parks, but they are spread out.”

Billingham said, “Another missing car? Do my people know about it? Are they
actually looking for it?” He shook his head. “Sidetracked again, no doubt. Sam,
get your bloody act together.” He glanced at Wooderson. “John, I’m very disappointed.”

“So am I, Sir,” said Wooderson.

Billingham turned back to Baxter. “That covers it, I think.” “Good,” Baxter
nodded. “Right, twice daily updates to DI Cole who will personally brief us
at nine and six.”

Butler said, “I would like to put Lawrence under surveillance, Sir.” The senior
policemen shared a glance then Baxter said, “Not necessary. He’s not going anywhere.
And that reminds me, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton wants to know who
authorized those specialist shit-sniffers rather than the bog standard police
sniffer dogs. Apparently they cost a fortune and someone is going to pay for
it.” They all looked at Butler but he remained tight-lipped.

“Right,” Baxter said. “You all know what’s required. Let’s get on with it.”

The meeting was over.

In the corridor Cole said to DS Butler. “Don’t take it personally, Sam. They’re
just making sure they’re fireproof, that’s all. They like the sound of their
own voices. It’s what senior coppers do.” He left the detective sergeant staring
down at his own feet. Geoff Maynard spent most of his day revisiting the SOCs;
he needed to be there, away from the distractions of the office, absorbing every
detail of the surroundings, the hunting grounds, searching for the slightest
detail they might have missed, perhaps an indication of the assailant’s state
of mind, arousal, impulse, anything. The questions were endless but, like he’d
told Donna, even an empty road could give up some answers.

The youngster's voice brought him back.

“That's her,” Brian Lara said and pointed across the High Road toward a slim
woman with spiky blond hair. She wore a short burgundy shift – any year's colour
– and a black jacket. Not a lot for a freezing night. “That's the one. Classy,
like I said.”

“Classy,” Maynard agreed.

They'd left the car twenty minutes earlier to mingle with the toms, the punters,
the pissheads, and the passers-by who hadn’t got a clue what was going on. It
was close to closing so between the four pubs in the Square the drinkers hurried
to get in their last orders. A north-easterly scoured the road and sent plastic
bags and front pages demanding the return of the plod scudding past. It lifted
hemlines and drew tears from the eyes so that the light from shop windows seemed
oddly scattered. Overhead the festive lights swung on their cables. Higher still
the sky growled angrily and the ragged clouds were the colour of congealed blood.

The pavements were packed yet it was still a lonely place. Maynard said, “Are
you sure?”

“I'm sure. That's the one.”

“That's it, then. You've done your bit.” He stuffed a twenty in the lad's hand.
“Burger, right? Just remember what I told you. You can walk away. You do have
a choice.”

The score lit up Brian Lara’s eyes. “Right” he said.

He watched the big man cross the road then checked out the note again.

A youngster wearing a hood and oversized clothes appeared from the shadow of
a doorway.

“All right, Jay?”

“It's Brian.”

“Yeah, cool.”

“What you wearing that for?”

“It’s the thing, innit?”

“You look like a dickhead. It’ll never catch on.”

The youngster pulled a face and dropped the hood. He said, “What's happening?”

“Tick tock, dick dosh, dick, dick, dosh, dosh, you know?” “Yeah.”

“I fancy a burger, all of a sudden.”

“Good idea. That'll do. Bit of huff later, yeah?”

Geoff Maynard tucked behind and kept a distance of some twenty yards. The last
bell meant the pavements were full and he had to weave his way through the celebratory
crush. One face looked like another. One street looked like another. Maynard
was sober but in this bash of false festivity he seemed to be the only one.

He didn’t know the streets and even in the crowd he felt suddenly exposed. He
followed her into a less crowded area away from the shops and boozers and found
himself in bedsit land and student territory.

Geoff Maynard was a psychologist, a hands-on mechanic who delved into the cold,
unconscious machinery of the criminal mind. He knew what made them tick and
slash and kill. He’d spent his days wallowing in their fantasies, his nights
sharing their dreams. He knew the dangers and the warning signs.

She had stopped and was looking back at him. She smiled an acknowledgement,
a promise of the world and everything in it. Without making it obvious there
was no turning he could make, nothing he could do but continue on towards her.

“Hello,” she said, flashing some perfect teeth and a tricky smile that reminded
him of something from the distant past.

They met in the corridor late afternoon, soon after Cole had returned
from Hinckley. Donna had spent two hours at the North Mid but it had
proved a waste of time. There was nothing to add to her original
reports.

She said, “If we do it again it will start to get serious, won’t it?
Three times makes it serious. It won’t be an aberration, or a
requirement, or a wartime thing, or fling. It will be something else and
we’ll be looking for excuses and all that shit.”

He smiled.

She softened.

He smiled again and she gave up altogether.

“Ten?”

That would give her time to get home to change and back again.
Not that changing usually mattered. She nodded. She knew the place.
The White Horse was the kozzer’s boozer and any other in the area
could lead to trouble and indiscretion. It went with the territory. There
was no point at all in inviting trouble, particularly on a wind-down.
Chas Walker was half-cut and the stanchions weren’t wide enough.
“Guv,” he said and looked from Cole to Donna.

“We’re just leaving,” Cole said and turned to Donna. “I’ll run you
home.”

Donna smiled, sharing it.

Chas Walker nodded, guessing it.

And yet Donna looked decidedly flushed, almost embarrassed by
the proposal. Chas Walker was confused and decided that maybe the
DI was not nailing the seconded PC after all.

Donna Fitzgerald finished her drink and got to her feet too quickly.
Over his slopping pint Chas Walker gave her a knowing look. Her
look back told him that he was right the first time.

Then Cole’s mobile went and ruined it and Donna’s shoulders
sagged.

Cole listened, asked a few questions then turned to the others.
“Geoff Maynard’s been stabbed. He’s in the North Mid. The plods
are roping the scene, taking statements.” He looked at Donna, saw the
concern mixed with disappointment. “I’ve got to get over there. I’ll
drop you on the way.”

Deflated she said, “I’ll come.”

He glanced at Chas Walker.

Walker lifted his hands. “I’m with you, Guv.”

In A&E a uniform told them, “A Stanley knife or something like it,
across the face, cut his ear in two then right across the cheek to his
mouth.” To elaborate he used his finger and traced a line on his own
cheek.

Cole said, “Shit.”

“Agreed. It was a woman. We’ve got a description. A blonde, two
legs, good looking.” He shook his head and added, “I’ve never seen so
much claret. We got him here with about three minutes to spare. Didn’t
wait for an ambulance.”

“What’s happening now?”

“They’ve stopped the bleeding. Surgery later on. It’s going to take
some needlework, believe me.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Ouch, or something like that. He’s not saying anything else till the
stitches are in. Conversation was not on his mind.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kershaw.”

“You should be in plain clothes.”

“CID?”

“No! Out of the fucking job, son. We’ve got enough comedians in
CID as it is.”

They hung around while the surgeons did their bit then Cole dropped
her back at the smart terraced home she shared with her fiancé. He was
a buyer for a civil engineering company in Victoria.

“Thanks for coming to the hospital,” he said. “Sorry it didn’t work
out.”

“Shame.”

“Maybe next time.”

“Next time leave your phone at home. It’s got to be the worst
invention ever.”

“Will you be all right? It’s late.”

She glanced at the quiet house. “By now he’s got used to a copper’s
hours. He’d have hit the sack hours ago.”

He nodded. “That’s what I had in mind.”

“Yeah, me too.”

The door slammed between them. He checked the dash clock. It
was after four. He watched her move to the front door, concentrated on
her behind. She’d been right. The call had finished it, he hadn’t. Not
this time.

In these early hours with the silent streets all but empty, he was
about fifteen minutes away from the White Horse. Or he could go
home and grab something to eat, something from the freezer,
something he could nuke.

No contest, not really. Nuked food was not like the real thing.
Morning was the colour of the concrete tunnel linings that Donna’s
fiancé bought. He felt like shit. He shaved with Gillette’s three blades
then, while the coffee dribbled from top to bottom of the Kenwood he
checked with the hospital. Maynard was comfortable – their favourite
word. They suggested he ring back after lunch.

Cole reached the office just as Detective Superintendent Baxter
walked in. The Super was chewing on a king sized sausage roll, one
hand under his chin to collect the crumbs. Through a full mouth he
said, “Been talking to Billingham. His plods are interviewing
witnesses. We should be over there. This woman, we’ve got a good
description. When can you speak to Geoff?”

“Late afternoon. And we are over there. Chas Walker is leading the
team. I’ve pulled everyone available.”

“Good.” He finished his roll, dusted the crumbs from his hands and
trod them into the carpet. “What about Hinckley?”

“Nothing on the new girl. They’re checking out the members of the
art class and, as you instructed, they’re starting over with the CCTV.
That will keep them busy. I’m pulling in some spare from Tottenham
to help out.”

“Good. Keep on top of it, Rick. It’s still our number one. But both
our psychologists out of action? Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Geoff Maynard sat up in bed, tried a smile using the half of his face
that wasn’t bandaged and failed. He said awkwardly, “They tell me
that in a few days you won’t notice the difference. I was lucky.”
“They’re letting you out in the morning. I’ll pick you up.”
Maynard nodded.

“We’ve pulled some good witnesses. We’ll nail her.”

“I hope it’s soon. She isn’t going to stop. She’s on a mission. I
caught up with her, she turned, and that was it.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. You made a mistake. You should
never get close enough to be taken with a knife. You wrote the fucking
manual.”

Cole turned and the white door swung shut and Maynard said to the
empty room, “Yeah.”

It didn’t help to know that the DI was spot on.

It had been a most satisfying day. The police had surprised him by not
requesting his presence at the station again, he had sold six paintings
and two Italian vases and the woman was still to come.

Once the police had left Mr Lawrence said, “So, it’s official.
Another missing woman.”

Paul, still trembling, said, “I was so nervous. I’m sure they
noticed.”

“I doubt it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We could advertise, I suppose.”

“For Sandra?”

“No, to fill her space. There is now a vacancy.”

“Not that, Mr Lawrence. The plan. Friday! The plan?”

“Oh that. It’s not been easy. They say that love is blind and that
might be so, but it is also a primitive, dangerous emotion. It is a time
when even your average man crosses the line.”

“I know that. He is dangerous.”

“In this case it is even worse. It has more to do with lust than love, I
fear. And lust is a deadly sin that can lead to the breaking of at least
half the Commandments in one go. What is more, this passion
overrides reason. It cannot be reasonably discussed. So what we have
to do…”

Paul edged closed.

“We have to shock him into reason.”

Paul frowned. “That won’t be easy.”

“Difficult things seldom are.”

Paul nodded but his expression remained blank.

“Fear, Paul, that’s the thing.”

“That’s what Powder Pete said. But how are we going to do it?”
“Tell him to come here, to the shop.”

“He’ll suspect something.”

“No, he won’t. Tell him that you’re going to run away with him, do
a disappearing act just like Sandra. Tell him that you’re going to have
my money box away along with a few of the more valuable paintings.
He’ll understand that. Tell him to meet you here tonight. That sounds
good. By all accounts it’s going to be a dark night. Two o’clock.”
“It doesn’t sound good.”

“I know. Clock is an ugly word. I think it’s to do with the cl