Director's Cut (18 page)

Once the door had closed behind them and while Baxter considered
the situation he unwrapped silver paper and started on a thick
sandwich. Mature farmhouse cheddar all the way from Somerset and
beef tomato from the Canaries. A feast and what was more, Cole and
Maynard on the job again. The fat man shook his head in wonder. It
was like old times.

On the way through the IR Chas Walker stopped them. "Guv,” he
addressed Cole. “Rodney Grant has come up with the goods. We've
got Jason in IV one. But he's calling himself Brian Lara now, even
though he's white and blond.”

“Right,” Cole said. “I want you to look into this rumour about a
woman being involved. Find the hack responsible and sit on him till
you get an answer. Make him understand that ‘no comment’ is not an
option. Make him understand that he lives in a police state.”
If he was joking it didn’t show and Walker said, “Right, Guv, I can
do that.”

Cole turned to Donna. “You and Peter look after Brian. He'll know
the score. We want to know about everything that goes down in the
Square.”

Chas Walker cut in. “We're waiting for the duty social worker. He's
no more than fourteen. More like twelve.”

Cole said sharply, “You still here?”

Walker persisted, “An appropriate adult, Guv. Never mind Social
Services we’ll be starting a civil war with PPU.”

“PPU! FPU! CPU! They’re in the wrong job anyway.”

“We’re bending the rules, Guv?”

“Bend some more.”

Donna started toward the door. Peter Ward followed. And
Maynard, without invitation, followed him.

Brian, for want of a better name, was pale, smooth and blond, with
long eyelashes and a slim figure, and Walker had been right, he looked
no more than twelve or thirteen. He had big innocent eyes that were as
innocent as hell and a look that could lead you, if that was your bend,
to hell. There was a redness around his nose and eyes and he sniffed
the symptoms of a common cold.

Right away they knew it wouldn't be easy.

He was streetwise, as familiar with the police and police procedure
as was his punter, Rodney Grant. He'd wait for the duty social worker,
get an overnight accommodation and then leg it. He'd done it a dozen
times before. No big deal. When it came to kids the police were
helpless, strapped by so many rules it made it impossible. The system
helped them back on to the streets. Secure accommodation, even when
it was available, was a joke. Social Services were in the same boat as
the police. At the end of the day it came down to funding, or lack of it,
and the years of restraints or, more to the point, indifference, to the
street kids and a society in free fall, would take years to redress.
Donna placed a Coke on the table.

“Thanks,” he said and pulled the ring. He took a gulp as if it were
life or death.

Donna said, “Brian, we need your help.”

He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt.
“Remember the guy with the tattoo? The snake wrapped around the
dagger?”

He sniffed, “So what?”

“He's a regular. You should. You turned a little trick in the
supermarket car park, remember?”

He shrugged and slouched further into the chair.

“He picked you up in the Square, your usual patch outside the
fitness club.”

He remained blank.

“Can you remember what time it was? Or what day?”

Another shrug of his bony shoulders, then, “Eight, nine maybe.”
“What about the day?”

He shook his head.

“Was it last week?”

“Maybe.”

“What day?”

“Think it was the weekend.”

“Can you think of something you did before, or after, that might
help you remember exactly?”

Nothing.

“We're looking for someone who might have been acting
suspiciously, watching the members of the fitness club as they came
and went. Did you notice anyone at all?”

“Can't think. Might have done. It is the place.”

“Try to remember, Brian. Someone hanging around?”

He shook his head again and swallowed some more Coke. He
placed the can on the table and said, “Just the usual, the girls, you
know?”

“The girls? The prostitutes?”

“It's the place.”

“Do you know them?”

He pulled a face and shrugged again.

“Would you recognize them?”

“Maybe.”

Maynard couldn't resist it. He broke in. “Brian, it doesn’t suit you.
Jason’s better. Your real name would be better still. How long have
you been huffing, Jay?”

The lad shot him a frown. “It ain't Jay. It's Brian.”

“OK, my mistake, but you’re still taking it up the nose as well as up
the arse, aren’t you?”

For a moment Donna was stunned. She gave Maynard a dark backoff
look.

Peter Ward turned in his seat, uncertainty in his eyes, checking that
the tape was off.

This was going pear-shaped.

Not at all perturbed Maynard went on, “You heard about these
women who've been attacked?”

The lad's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“One of these women was a member of the fitness club. We think
that the person who attacked her followed her from the club. That
person has probably been hanging around for some time, waiting for a
likely customer. Get the picture? It's your patch. You know what goes
on down there. Women are getting hurt, big time. The next one might
be someone you know and care about. This bastard is cutting them to
bits. Before long, a woman is going to get killed. It’s only luck that it
hasn’t happened already.” He threw up his hands to emphasize the
point. “Maybe you can help us, maybe not. If you can give us some
faces, anyone, then maybe we can stop it happening. That's why we
need your help. This isn't about you. You go your own way, if that's
what you want. Do a bunk like you've done before. Go and get mashed
again. Why should we care? Think about it. If you stay with Social
overnight you’ll still be rattling for a huff by the time you can leg it.”
The youngster's mouth dropped open.

Maynard said, “Talk to me, Brian. Don’t worry about them.”
Keeping his eyes on Brian he threw a little nod toward the police
officers.

“What about my punter?”

“He's a nobody, right? You don't owe him a thing. Men like that
should be put out with the rubbish. Wouldn’t know which bin to use
though. It wouldn’t be glass or plastic, would it? Probably dog shit.”
The lad grinned.

“What about these other girls? Can you help me out?” Maynard
made it personal. ‘Me’ left the others out of it.

“I know them all, and so do your lot. Go ask Sergeant Wilson. He
knows them.” He frowned and raised a finger. “But there was one I
hadn't seen before and the others didn't like it.”

Maynard smiled. “Now that's the one I'm interested in.”

“She was different.”

“How come?”

“Classy, if you know what I mean. Sort of. My mates even fancied
her. It was like, she wasn't, you know, playing the game. I don't know.
It didn't look right. Maybe in a hotel. Not on the streets. I hadn't seen
her before.”

“Could you point her out?”

“Maybe. She was different.”

“But you'd recognize her again?”

“Maybe.”

“What about men? Did you see any men?”

“Only punters. Nothing special.”

“Did she go off with any?”

“Not that I saw. I could ask around.”

“We can’t ask you to do that. If we did we’d all be in trouble. But
you could point out this woman for me. There's got to be the price of a
burger in it, right?”

He looked at Donna for confirmation. She shrugged and nodded.
And Brian, or Jason, said, “OK.”

In the corridor something rather nasty was heading toward Sergeant
Mike Wilson, eating up the distance between them. The duty social
worker, incandescent, was firing threats loud enough for him to hear.
‘Juvenile’, ‘presence’ and ‘appropriate adult’ were just some of the
words he snatched from the vibrating air.

He thought on his feet. Fuck that, he thought and, without losing
momentum, as though he’d remembered something urgent and hadn’t
noticed her frantic bid for his attention, performed a sudden about-turn
and hurried toward the exit to the car park and garages.

For the copper, like the married man, the garage, like the garden
shed, was a refuge, perhaps not consecrated, but as holy as any church.
As Rodney Grant was led out of the building, released from police
custody, he saw the social worker’s angry face and said to the uniform
beside him, “Blacks, mate, all the same. And black dykes, fucking
nightmare time! We should send them back to Wolverhampton or
wherever the fuck they come from.”

The kozzer agreed.

The six o’clock news had just begun when Jack Wooderson caught up
with Butler in Hinckley’s tiny canteen. The headlines were depressing,
as grey as the December sky. The flickering lights in the shop windows
had not done the trick. People did not believe the government's feelgood
rhetoric. Plastic stayed in their pockets. And the shopkeepers
were nervous. The street traders selling cheap wrapping paper, ten for
a quid, were on a roll.

“Prelims in,” Wooderson said. “Nothing. The garden hasn’t been
touched this century and the cellar’s clean. They’ve found cobwebs
down there that are older than the missing women. Dig up the floor
and the only things you’ll find are prehistoric. Their words, not mine.
All the walls are solid, crumbling but solid. They've sent some samples
to the lab, but don't expect a return. If we want excavation we'll need
the chief's OK. But it will be a waste of time.”

DS Butler groaned. They'd been counting on the shop, certain that
evidence would be found.

“So what have we got?” The inspector asked, then answered his
own question. “He's got form, fancies himself with a knife and was
once known as the Underground Slasher. We can place two of the
women in his shop. Truth be known, in just about every shop in the
High Road. That's it. It's not half enough. Fact is, Sam, you’re sitting
on fuck all.”

Butler didn't need telling. “Let's see what he's got to say.”

Wooderson glanced at the television and saw that it was after six.
He said, “You’ll have to manage. I have a meeting.”

Butler wondered what boozer the inspector used. He hadn't seen
him in the locals.

As he made his way to Hinckley's only interview room, Sam Butler
picked up on DC Stanford’s questioning expression and paused by her
desk. “The shop's as clean as… It's clean.”

“What were you going to say?”

“A whistle.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It sounds old-fashioned.”

“Sam, you are old-fashioned.”

Anian had seen the shop and the studio behind with its little
kitchenette, but she was surprised that the cellar hadn't produced a
return.

“They're bringing him up now. Stay out of the way.”

She didn’t need reminding.

He turned to a DC sitting in front of a screen. The indexers called it
a day at five. No commitment. They weren't in the job. “Rob, you're
with me.”

DC Robert Foster jumped to his feet, eager to have a go at the
Underground Slasher, and followed DS Butler into the corridor.
John Lawrence sat at the table relaxed and concentrating on his
polished brogues. He looked up as the two detectives walked in. They
sat down and went through the preliminaries. DC Foster busied
himself with the machine while Butler arranged some papers on the
table. Butler gave the recorder their names, time and date and then:
“Mr Lawrence.”

“Good afternoon, Mr Butler. Or is it evening yet? One does lose
track of time in here.”

“You know why you're here?”

“Indeed. The other officer, what was he called? The custody
officer, he explained.”

Carefully, Butler spread four photographs on the desk.

“I'm showing Mr Lawrence the photographs of Margaret Domey,
Helen Harrison, Linda Brookes and Jenny Fielding. Do you recognize
these women?”

He was holding back the photograph of Imelda Cooke. She was the
odd one out, on two counts. She wasn't pregnant and she had two
children.

Lawrence leant forward to examine the photographs. He took his
time, concentrating on each in turn. Eventually he said, “Yes, I think
so. I painted Mrs Harrison's portrait, and this one called into the shop
yesterday. The others I'm not sure about. Their photographs, these
photographs, are stuck to every shop window in the High Road. Mine
included. But they may well have been in the shop.” His voice was
calm and slightly seductive. It put you to sleep, almost, just like his
eyes, unless you had a question, and knew he was guilty as hell.
Butler tapped Margaret Domey's coloured image, an enlargement of
her PIT. “Did Mrs Domey purchase anything?”

“She was interested in an antique cooking pot, but it was out of her
price range. She wanted to haggle. I explained that my shop was not a
souk in the middle of Tunisia and she left. Fortunately, that was the
last I saw of her.”

“Did you notice anything about her?”

“I noticed everything about her. You'll have to be more specific.”
“Was she agitated or upset in any way?”

“Agitated? That’s a curious word. After her wrangling and when
she left without the cooking pot she was. Does that have a bearing?”
“What about when she arrived?”

“Ah, I see. You didn’t say that. But no, I don’t think so. On the
other hand, with a woman like that it is difficult to gauge a mood. I
imagine that to most people she would appear to be agitated all of the
time.”

“What time was that?”

“Well, I'm not sure really. Before lunch, certainly.”

“How long was she in the shop?”

“Ten minutes, no more. I was serving another customer so she had
to wait. She was rather impatient. No, even more than that, I'd say. She
wasn't happy about being kept waiting. I thought she was an abrasive
woman. I remember thinking that. I took an instant dislike to her.”
“Do you have the name of this other customer?”