Director's Cut (4 page)

Good deeds bring bad fortune – an old Chinese proverb. He should have remembered.
He woke up suddenly and knew he'd been snoring. There was a handful of froth on his chin.
You could touch the Sunday dawn. You could walk through the grey light and feel its weight on your
shoulders.

The aftermath of the Saturday night war, the takeaway cartons and broken beer bottles, littered the road.
Puddles of vomit and urine were stirred by the weak vitamins of the winter sun to burst with an
occasional bubble of British gas.

One of his two bottles of milk had been stolen by a considerate thief or the milkman had short delivered
again.

Mrs Puzey waddled along in her Sunday blue suit and her Sunday hat. Her children followed; ducklings
following their mother to the water: in this case, blessed holy water. She saw him and hurried past
without acknowledgement. Only Laura, third in line, gave a half-smile of recognition. Laura, the black
vixen of The British.

He closed his door again and threw the bolts and was at the counter when the thumping began. Through
the glass, beyond the security bars, open-mouthed and puzzled at his inability to gain entry, the young
man peered in. His features were flattened grotesquely against the glass.

Mr Lawrence groaned. Oh God, it hadn't been a dream. He really had invited him
to stay. He threw back the bolts again and opened the door to the young man's
wide grin. The young man waited until the old bell finished and then quickly
moved forward as though afraid that Mr Lawrence might change his mind. His leading
foot skidded in a puddle, the plastic bag he carried was projected forward and
ended up in Mr Lawrence's arms and the young man, Paul, Paul Knight, ended up
sitting in the wet.

“Stone the crows, Mr Lawrence,” he said as his finger hovered just below his
nose. “Some dirty bastard's pissed in your doorway!” He paused, then: “There’s
a fire out there. The sky’s turning black. You

can smell the smoke. It might be the end of the world!”

“Hey! Like it! What's it do?” Paul reached up to a steel hook and chain that
extended from a ceiling runway.

“It carries the crates from the back of the shop. At one time we carried a range
of sculptures, some by Henry Moore…”

“I know. I Know. Don’t tell me! He was the geezer who had his head…You know,
by the king? Religion, innit?”

“I think that might have been Thomas More who wrote Utopia.”

Paul stuck out a wagging finger. “Utopia, yeah, that's the geezer.

These old sculptures then, they were pretty old, eh?”

Mr Lawrence raised a blown eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose so.

Anyway, they weighed a ton, hence the block and tackle.”

“Nice word, that, Mr Lawrence. Tackle. I like that.”

Mr Lawrence felt the plastic bag. “Is this all you've got?”

“Left some at the squat. I'll bring it round.”

“What about clothes?”

“Still got to go shopping, see? In the squat there's no point in
having anything. You have to sleep with your shoes on in there.”
“My goodness, it sounds like a dreadful place.”

“Yeah, that's it.”

Mr Lawrence led the way. Paul followed, unsticking his jeans as he
went.

“Like the Tate, innit?” He paused to admire one of the cast bronze
ballerinas and stooped slightly to check out her underwear. He showed
no sign of disappointment as he followed Mr Lawrence to the stairs.
“I’m a bit surprised, with respect of course, that you are acquainted
with the Tate Gallery.”

Paul threw him an off-the-shoulder look and a smile made his lips
flutter. “It is a bit surprising, I suppose. But me and the Tate, mate…”
“Through there is my studio."

Paul followed the line of the older man's finger to the closed door at
the bottom of the stairs.

“It's out of bounds. No entry. Strictly no entry!”

“No sweat. Perfectly understood. Don't come to you with the best
of references. I know that. We've got to learn to trust one another.
Right?”

On the stairs Mr Lawrence paused to consider the statement and
Paul stumbled against him.

“Trust, that's the main thing.” He stood on the stairs carrying his
Robot City plastic bag. “Don't nick nothing from no one who does you
a turn. Ain't that it?”

Mr Lawrence narrowed his eyes. Too many negatives, too many for
a Sunday morning, anyway. He went onward and led the youngster
through the flat.

In the sitting room Paul stood rooted, shocked.

“There’s no streamers, Mr Lawrence, and no Christmas cards!”
“I didn’t get any cards this year. A couple came addressed to the
shop but they weren’t personal, simply prints of old favourites and
nothing to do with Christmas or the birth of Christ. One had little girls
in tutus and the other was a scene of the Thames before the London
Eye. It might even have been before the fire of London.”

“There’s no glittering balls and no fairy on top of your Christmas
tree. Oh, Mr Lawrence, you haven’t even got a tree!”

“No, no tree and no…fairy.”

“But everyone has a tree. It isn’t Christmas without a tree.”
“I like to paint trees, but not in the parlour, and certainly not
coniferous trees. The dreaded fir has become a dividing line between
council-house back gardens. They are not real trees. They don’t shut
down in autumn like real trees. There is no decay and death, nothing to
stimulate the artist.”

Paul gave him an exaggerated frown, as children do, and said, “We
even had a Christmas tree in the…”

“Prison?”

“That’s it. But there were no pressies under it.” He explored further,
then, “There’s no TV?”

“You’re right. No TV.”

“In for repair, is it?”

“No .”

“How can you live without a TV?”

“I manage.”

“Grief!” The thought shook Paul's head. “Still, it's a big place, I'll
give you that. You could put up four people here, without bother.”
Mr Lawrence put in quickly, “It's a small flat, suitable for one.”
“Absolutely,” Paul agreed and offered a winning smile. “One and a
lodger.”

They moved into the smaller of two bedrooms.

“This is it,” Mr Lawrence said as Paul bounced on the bed.
“There's a walk-in wardrobe here where you can hide, if you like.
The airing cupboard is outside your door. Blankets, pillows and sheets
in there.”

“Brilliant. This is the first time I've had a room to myself in months.
Not since I did a month in solitary.” He continued to bounce.
“Solitary?”

“I put some bleach in the screw's coffee. He wasn't a happy screw
after that.”

“Goodness me. What happened to him?”

“Well, screw became screwed. He went to see the doctor, Mr
Lawrence, with a bit of a tummy upset.”

Paul noticed the older man's concern. He stopped bouncing and
said, “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll make myself useful, you'll see.
Anything you want doing… Electrics, cooking, you name it. I'm the
man. I'll be out most evenings. Chess, go to the chess club, see?”
Mr Lawrence backed out.

“Just one thing,” Paul continued. “I'm back late. How about a key?”
“Yes. If it's late you'll need a key.”

“It is late. Wouldn't want to disturb you.”

“No noise.”

“No noise,” he agreed. “Quiet as a…lamb, innit? Baby, sleeping
baby! You won't even know I'm here.”

Mr Lawrence closed the door and reached the kitchen when the
sounds of Madonna's Like a Virgin rattled the dishes. The noise came
from one of the two items held in the Robot City plastic carrier bag.
The other item was a toothbrush.

Mr Lawrence hated Sundays.

DS Sam Butler thought that Cole was a workaholic, perhaps an
alcoholic too. A man full of bitter memories of a wife who'd gone off
with another man. The thought was painful. He’d gone through a
similar state of
affairs
but his wife hadn’t gone off. Instead she had
presented him with a daughter. His, so she said, and he believed her or,
rather, wanted to. It seemed a long time ago but it never went away,
not completely, and you could never forgive, not entirely, but if you
cared enough, then you could live with it. It was more of a strength
than a weakness.

Butler was part of Inspector Jack Wooderson's team at Hinckley
nick, transferred from Sheerham when sleepless nights had arrived
with his daughter. Every minute in bed counted and Hinckley was five
minutes closer to home. Lately he'd seen little of Cole and it came as a
surprise when the DI asked him to call into HQ, off the record. They'd
worked together in the past but they'd never been close. No one ever
got close to Rick Cole.

The office brought back memories, serious incidents. A copper's
mind was notched with memories of results, good and bad. Putting
them aside was the difficult bit. It was too easy to lie there and get off
on them again. You could never get away from the job. It followed you
around like a shadow and it threw a shadow over everything else too.
Butler said, “Heard about the bomb.”

Cole tried a smile. “You're lucky. It rattled our windows. Marsh has
taken it very personally.”

Marsh was the chief superintendent who took everything
personally.

The DS grinned. “A garden shed?”

“On the allotments.”

“Strange.”

“Schoolboys. A chemistry set for Christmas or, more likely, leftover
fireworks; broke them open and put all the powder together in a
bog roll or, in this case, some steel tubing. We've all been there.”
“Still…"

"Barry Scot's looking after it. He'll be pleased to see you.”
Butler nodded and said, “I thought there was another one yesterday.
Another seven-seven.”

“Didn’t we all. Half the plods are still over at Buncefield. It doesn’t
help when you close the M1.”

“Shame it can’t be permanent.”

“I know what you mean.” Cole paused. The informalities were
over. “Are you getting anywhere with these missing women?”
Butler's hesitation went on too long. Between the detectives there
were boundaries you didn't cross. Guarding your own investigations
became a way of life.

“Jesus, Sam. We know each other better than this.”

Butler relaxed. His shoulders fell. He threw Cole a careless wave.
“You're right. I don't know what the hell's the matter with me lately.
Put it down to lack of sleep.”

Without saying so they both knew the problem. Left behind at
Hinckley Inspector Jack Wooderson had turned resentment into an art
form.

Butler concentrated on the subject. “Frankly, we've got zilch. You
know Jack. He gets one idea in his head and we're despatched to all
parts of the country. I was in Worthing. Have you ever been to
Worthing in the winter?”

Cole shook his head. “Not even the summer.”

“It's not a place I'd recommend.”

“So what's in Worthing?”

“They’ve got ten missing women. Teenagers, mostly black, all
vanished in the last eighteen months. It sounds like the skin trade.
They’re convinced they'll surface in northern Italy. Most of them come
from Nigeria, Liberia and every other messed up African country.
Interpol, the Refugee Council and Immigration are all involved. It's not
for us. I could have told him the MO was different without the pleasure
of seeing the place.”

“Have you got anything at all?”

Butler shrugged weakly. “I’ve had my fill of MPS if that’s what
you mean. People end up there when no one else wants them. The joke
in the office is that half the missing people we’re looking for are
probably hiding on the Victoria Embankment…”

He was referring to the location of the Territorial Policing
Headquarters where Operation Compass – the MPS Central Missing
Persons Unit – was set up to coordinate the investigations of missing
people across London.

He continued, “We haven't found a single connection. Credit cards
not maxed, no apparent debts, no life insurance worth mentioning, no
affairs as far as we can tell, no suspicion of crime. To be honest, Guv,
unless something breaks very soon it'll be scaled down. The official
line is no interest. Jack doesn’t actually live the ACPO values. CID
only investigate crimes that have already been committed, not those
that might be committed, or incidents that might not even be a crime –
which is what we’ve got here. Prevention is for someone else and
suspicion isn’t even logged. Missing persons are way down his list.”
“Hate to say it but he’s got a point. Has Margaret had a look?”
Margaret Domey was the resident psychologist based at Sheerham
but her remit covered the substations.

“For a connection, you mean?” Butler shook his head again but this
time resignation was mixed with curiosity. “You haven't heard?”
Cole frowned.

“Margaret's at home with her head down the pan. Morning
sickness.”

That he hadn’t heard shouldn’t have surprised Cole. He kept out of
her way. He said, “I didn’t know.”

Butler grinned. Not many people would miss the psychologist. Not
unless she'd changed a lot since his transfer. Margaret Domey didn't
use ice in her drinks. She just breathed on them.

Cole said, “It must be catching.”

“What's that, Guv?”

“It's the second pregnancy I've heard about in as many days. The
first belonged to Mrs Ticker Harrison.”

Butler's features firmed up.

“And unless there's been a change of circumstances you can add her
name to your list of missing women.”

“Helen Harrison is missing?”

Cole nodded. “Unless she’s turned up since last night.”

“Did Ticker report it? Christ, I’d like to have been a fly on the
wall.”

“It's all unofficial, you understand?”

Butler pulled an unkind face. Most of the kozzers would have given
a month's pay to nick Ticker Harrison.

“It might be worth checking out with a quiet visit. Probably a waste
of time but it might throw up a connection.”

Butler nodded thoughtfully.

“It was a whisper, nothing more.”

“Right.”

He got up to leave.

“You don't need an invitation to call in, Sam.”