Director's Cut (40 page)

He poured another drink and headed for the bathroom. A dozen
things went through his head and they were all to do with Chief
Superintendent Marsh. He’d had Cole in his sights for years and Sam
Butler might have given him the ammunition.

He turned the shower to hot until it hurt and washed away his
thoughts of Butler and Marsh. He emptied his glass and brought back
instead those last illusive impressions of Donna Fitzgerald.
On the High Road traffic was thin. The Carrington slid by. He slowed
by the shop, the Gallery, but it seemed as spent as the rest of the road
with no movement in the windows and just the dummies looking out,
Father Christmas and his assistant. But the assistant was naked. The
Christmas lights blinked on the mannequin and Cole looked twice.
He’d never known a shop-window mannequin to have hair before.
Christ, how thing changed. Forget the nipples that poked you in the
eye, they were really going for reality nowadays. He wondered,
fleetingly, whether it constituted an indecency charge.

He made a right and then another and passed the only shop in the
run-down street. The window was lit, but dimly, and the dolls in it
were the colour of snow. Dark round eyes stared out of anaemic faces.
A cat’s quivering tail caught his eye as it curled around one of the
heads.

Now there were offices on his left, abandoned, their windows
boarded, doors chained and padlocked. And then he saw the shadow of
Butler’s car and pulled up before it. His headlights blazed on the
windscreen.

“Jesus, Sam!”

DS Butler raised his hand and motioned toward the shop’s blistered
gate.

“What the hell happened?”

“Hit, through the window. Didn’t see it coming.”

“You need an ambulance.”

“What I need is for you to get in there. It’s been hours!”

“She’s in there?”

Again Butler attempted to point toward the gate but his hand fell
away. He was leaning forward, slumped against the wheel, his arm
hanging loose and useless. The hole in his head was dark. A swelling
had increased its depth. Blood seeped out, congealed in yellow fat. His
mobile lay in the passenger seat. He was holding on, hoping for a
reprieve. This business could end his career. He’d gone out on a limb,
compromised the entire operation and placed his colleague in danger.
Butler had his wife and baby on what was left of his mind, and
somewhere at the back of it, maybe, in an area more damaged than the
rest, was Anian Stanford.

“I’ll make the call,” the DS managed. “I just need a minute.”
Cole nodded. Despair and panic clawed at his gut and as he pushed
open the back gate he felt a cold sweat collect on his forehead. The
gate scraped loudly on the concrete path. He crossed the small garden
of bare dirt and reached the door, surprised to find it unlocked. He’d
been ready to kick his way in.

Behind him, in the car in the street, DS Sam Butler passed out
again.

The door opened on to a studio. The main lights were out but
illumination squeezed through a small kitchenette at the far end. There
were boxes of books and paintings on every available surface. There
was a sofa and an easel holding a large canvas and a box of paints
beside it. And in the tray was an oval palette with globules of paint
arranged around the edge and in the centre a mix of flesh tones.
Cole looked at Anian and she looked back, life-like, with that
familiar petulance in her eyes. But in her pose with one leg raised
against the other and her dress riding her thighs she looked special.
Whatever else Lawrence was, he was an artist.

At the side of the room was modern art. Suspended over a hole left
by a missing floorboard, secured by tackle and chain, was a wall of
bricks, the size of a door. It took Cole’s breath away and kicked him in
the midriff.

For a moment he was bent double.

Then he saw the open door only partially concealed by the curtain
and then he was falling down dangerously narrow steps, scuffing
against the rough walls until he was standing on dirt.

It was only then he noticed the foul air, as if he’d walked into a
cloud of stinking gas, and automatically he clamped a hand over his
nose and mouth, forcing back the bile that all but blocked his throat.
He careered through the room into the passage, knocking the single
bulb as he went, sending shadows slithering from floor to festering
ceiling. He’d come across the stink of putrescine before, many times,
so even before he reached the end room he was already bracing
himself. Even so, he was unprepared.

Helen Harrison was circled in the full intense beam of the spotlight.
For a ludicrous moment he wondered if she had been chosen for his
benefit.

Rick Cole said, “Holy shit!”

And given the time of year he was probably right.

“This is well out of order!”

At his side, away from the beam and just another shadow among
many, something stirred. And behind him, wrapped in a white sheet,
negotiating the passage and still slowed by her drugged sleep, Laura
approached. The room opened before her just moments after Cole had
entered. She saw what Cole had seen and screamed.

It wasn’t just an ordinary scream for, as with everything else about
Luscious Laura, it was outstanding, and woke up a number of residents
on the Richmond Park Estate.

Rick Cole turned and took her in and noticed that even in her
crumpled style she had definite possibilities. He said, “I’m at a loose
end, sweetheart. Play your cards right you could be the next Mrs
Cole!”

The double-glazing salesman might have said that there is a condition where a wound to the chest does
not necessarily cause much bleeding, not on the outside. The bleeding takes place in a sac that the heart
sits in and eventually it constricts the heart and stops it altogether. It is known in the trade as a pericardial
tamponade.

Heathrow was busy with the last rush of Christmas and the security arrangements didn’t help.
Paul’s face appeared out of the crowd. A painted face, not unattractive, with cherry-red lips and pencilled
eyes and sky-blue eye shadow and cheeks that blushed with the hint of rosehips. He recognized Mr
Lawrence.

“Mr Lawrence,” he shouted excitedly and people nearby turned to look.

“Hello Paul. Oops! Paula, I mean.”

“Oh, Mr Lawrence.”

“It’s not Mr Lawrence now, Paula.” And in his best Irish accent that wasn’t very good, he added, “It’s
Father or, rather, Father Kerry from Kerry in County Kerry.”

“I didn’t know there was a Kerry in County Kerry.”

“Did you not? Well, there you are then, you learn something every day. I bet you didn’t even know that it
was a girl’s name, either? Now, tell me this if you will, is it the time to check in?”

Paul shook his head. “There’s still half an hour before the check-in opens and I needed the loo,” he
explained. “Nerves. Never been on a plane before. I used the ladies. Never used the ladies before. They
smell different, sweeter, and there’s no piss all over the floor.” His balance on the heels was more
confident and as he walked his hips swayed. But there was something else about him. He seemed in pain.
Mr Lawrence let it go. The beating he’d taken had been severe. Perhaps he was still troubled by that.
Perhaps that was it. Paul looked him up and down. “Mr Lawrence, Father Kerry, you look wonderful.
Give us a twirl.”

“Not here, for goodness sake.”

“Only joking, Mr Lawrence.”

“That’s a nice jacket, Paula.”

“I’ve had to clean it up, Mr Lawrence. There was dirt and…blood on it. I’ve had to soak some bits. Does
it show?”

“The policeman’s blood? No, Paul, it’s fine.”

“It’s a Paul Smith, Mr Lawrence, says so on the label. My name,

innit? And my size.”

“I’ve heard of Paul Smith, but that was many years ago. My
goodness, thirty years ago, I’d say. But it looks expensive. Where did
you get it? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

“Get you, Mr Lawrence. That’s one of your jokes, isn’t it?”
“Have you got everything?”

Paul patted his bulging handbag then grimaced again. “Passports,
tickets, bottled water, everything. And some other things. Women’s
things. You wouldn’t believe the things that women keep in their
handbags. No wonder they’re always so heavy. Maybe that’s also why
they need so many.”

“Well, dear girl, I’m not going to ask.”

“Good thinking, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry – you don’t want to
know.”

Paul’s rich-blue dress was figure hugging and presented the outline
of underwear including suspenders. One or two men nearby offered
him admiring glances and a couple of coppers armed with machineguns
and Glocks looked him up and down and thought they’d like to
give him one.

The coppers reminded Mr Lawrence of another copper. He asked,
“What about the policeman?”

“You were right, Mr Lawrence. Absolutely. He was parked just
outside the gate. Listening to you both. You were right. They were on
to me without a doubt. What about you? Did you finish the painting?”
“Yes. But tell me what happened?”

“He had the window down. I could hear you. Jesus, am I lucky.” He
paused and said regretfully, “But I made a mistake. A bad one.”
“We all make mistakes. What was yours?”

“I didn’t just knock him out, Mr Lawrence, like you said. The
hammer went right in, right through the side of his head. I didn’t mean
it.”

“Accidents happen.”

“I’m so grateful to you, Mr Lawrence. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be…
I’d be check-mated.”

“Good. Come on, brighten up. But do remember it’s Father Kerry
and not Mr Lawrence. We’ve got time to grab a cup of airport coffee.
I’ve heard it isn’t the best but we’ll see. Have coffee. I don’t want you
drinking orange juice anymore.”

“What’s wrong with orange juice, Mr Lawrence?”

“Well, far be it from me to distress you for I know you’re partial
toward it, but according to the late colonel orange juice is full of
something called E-numbers and they have a strange pull on a young
girl’s fancy.”

“Getya, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry. Bit like the pull of weed, you
mean? Understand that. So, coffee it is, then. I’ll have mine with lots
of sugar and a Coke on the side.” Paul paused in his step. “But I do
have a problem.”

Mr Lawrence hesitated. “Go on?”

“They won’t let us take the water through so we’ll have to drink
that as well.”

“You’re right, it is a dilemma.”

“And there’s something else.”

“I hope it’s not as serious.”

“It’s the security check, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry – the security
check. We’ve got to take our jackets off at the security check and I’ve
got a tear in my dress.”

Mr Lawrence tut-tutted and continued on his way. “Don’t worry,
Paul-a, all of the men and some of the women in uniform, will be
looking at your arse. Most people in uniform are obsessed with arses.
The older you get the more apparent that will become. They won’t
notice a tiny tear like that.”

And Mr Lawrence was right, as was usually the case. They didn’t.
All of the men and some of the women in uniform looked at her
behind. And
her
behind was right. Paul no longer existed. She was
Paula now. So to hell with him.

They moved unobtrusively forward in a queue toward the counter, a
tall slim fairly attractive girl named Paula and her travelling

companion, canonical dress in perfect order, cassock freshly pressed
and heavy cross swinging gently across his chest.

“Milk or cream, Father?” An assistant asked from behind her

steaming silver counter. “Ooooh, you’ve had an accident?”

Mr Lawrence said in Irish that was getting better for he was

growing accustomed to squeezing the vowels, “You’re very observant,
my dear. Indeed I have, but it’s nothing much, wouldn’t you know, just
a septic quick.”

“Such a big bandage. Wouldn’t a plaster have done?”

“It’s turned nasty, as things often do.” He sighed and was about to
offer her his best shot at a condescending Church-of-England smile
before remembering he was in Catholic garb and changed it to a
boozer’s stupid grin with a bit of perve thrown in. “I’m going to overindulge,
just this once. Cream please.”

She served him, feigning that unlikely affection shown toward
people who talk to God.

“Bless you, child,” he said to her and, one-handed, picked up his
tray.

The assistant turned to Paula at his side and her attitude hardened.
In Paula the assistant saw a threat. Paula noticed and lifted her head
defiantly as women do when confronted with their own kind. She
remained cool and aloof and hopelessly, adorably self-assured. A
couple of men in the queue behind instinctively glanced at her behind.
It was questionable who would be the first to the cellar. He hoped that
it was Laura. It would be a lesson for her: never trust men who wear
brown shoes. But it might be the policeman. If Paul had been mistaken
and he was still alive then he would come round and panic and then
reach for the radio. Or he might be found in the car. That was unlikely
for the road at the back of the shop was quiet. In the evening it was a
parking place for wrecks and courting couples, usually one and the
same.

But he hoped that Laura got there first.

It would be the making of her.

In the small hours she would stir, waking from her drugged sleep.
She might check the time first and then move – stumble – to the
window. The drug would take a little time to wear off. Her head would
be heavy. Holding her heavy head she would make her way down the
stairs and see the light coming from the kitchenette.

And once in the studio she would utter, “Crikeeey! Shiiit! There’s a
fucking wall growing out of the floorboards and…the cellar door is
open!”

My goodness, Laura’s scream would be heard three streets away.
But it would teach her an invaluable lesson, that shoes can tell you
everything you need to know about the man.