Director's Cut (28 page)

“Tell me, if you can, what more than that can a schoolboy want?”
Another voice came in, male, gentle. “You've told us about your
parents. They forced you to go to church. Did that annoy you?”
Lawrence laughed. “Of course we were forced to go to church.
People in the fifties still believed in God. I collected the Sunday-school
cards like everyone else. Moses and David and Jesus, dished out by a
fat woman in flip-flops who had her eyes on the padre.”

“Did you have any friends in Cyprus? Did they cut the lizards as
well?”

“Friends?” Lawrence's chuckle went on for some moments. The
velvety tones of his voice sent a shiver down Anian’s back. She could
barely believe she was listening to the man she knew as Mr Lawrence,
the man whose knife and brush had so perfectly captured her image.
The stranger's voice came back. “You never thought that killing the
lizards was wrong?”

“Wrong? It didn't come in to it. At school we were dissecting mice
and frogs.”

Anian pressed stop and the room fell strangely silent. Police
officers – a couple of them old-timers waiting for their pensions, who
had seen and heard a few things in their time – shuffled in their seats
and exchanged uncomfortable glances. They were repelled, mostly, by
the matter-of-fact quality of Lawrence’s voice but also by its – almost

– patronizing tone.

Breaking the silence Sam Butler said softly, “One sick bastard. He's
killing these women, or he's got them bottled up someplace. I don't
know how or where, but it's him. We know it's him.”

One of the PCs said, “What about having the lodger in, Sarge?”
“Paul Knight? A waste of time. Let’s be kind and say that he is
mentally challenged. He won’t give us any more than he did at the
shop and that’s nothing. Lawrence is careful. He isn’t going to confide
in Paul Knight.”

“That’s a no then, Sarge?”

Butler went on, “Guy’s have come back with zilch, so he's not up to
his old tricks, at least not on the underground. So let's try it from
another angle.”

Guy's Hospital kept a comprehensive pathology database on
wounds to the person. There had been no unsolved attacks on pregnant
women.

“He meets them in the shop, through his art classes or, as

customers. Worse case scenario, he's killing them. Best, he's holding
them prisoner. We’ll leave the why for the psychologists. Either way,
it means there's another place where he does his business. How does he
get there? As far as we know he doesn't have transport. How does he
get the women there? Does he arrange to meet them, or does he take
them? Are they forced to go along?”

One of the PCs cut in, “There's another possibility.”

“Go on?”

“If he is involved then he might be helping them to get away
from…domestic violence, unhappy marriages. Maybe he's a selfappointed
marriage guidance counsellor.”

“If Margaret Domey wasn't in the frame I'd say you had a point.
But she wasn't running anywhere.”

The PC persisted. “Can we be sure of that? Who knows what goes
on in private? How many times have friends and family surprised us?
My brother was divorced. I hadn't got a clue until it was, basically, all
over. I thought they were happy as… you know?”

For a moment Butler thought about his own marriage and his wife's
affair, but time dulled the pain, turned it to something else.

“We'll keep it in mind, Joe, but for the moment we'll assume the
worst.”

In another office a phone was ringing. Eventually someone

answered.

DC Stanford suggested, “Maybe the women are driving him.”
“Forced?”

“Not necessarily. But does it matter if he's getting to where he
wants to go?”

“Fair point.”

“No it's not,” the plod interrupted again. “Linda Brookes didn't
drive.”

Anian Stanford turned on him. “OK, so they might have caught a
fucking bus.”

The copper shrugged. “Anian, it was just a suggestion. It wasn't to
win fucking Mastermind.”

She backed off and threw him a quick apologetic smile.

Butler put an end to it. “So he might be meeting them in this other
place. Let's widen the net. Use some initiative. Get your sources to ask
around. He's a regular at The British. Does he drink anywhere else? He
must have a warehouse or a lockup someplace. I know we’ve been
here before but let’s try it again. We must have missed it. Get back to
the friendly bank manager. Go through the statements again, line by
line.”

The plod said, “What about surveillance?”

Butler hesitated. Cole had been quite clear. He said, “I’m still
waiting for the green light on that. Let’s not jump the gun.”

Anian pulled her jacket from her chair and reached for her handbag.
She smiled sweetly at Butler. “Tell me what you decide in the
morning. I’m on an early night. A bath, a long one, then the theatre.”
Butler nodded. Even though she’d mentioned it a dozen times he’d
completely forgotten. “Bikini Line,” he acknowledged. “Anthea
Palmer. I used to like her on the weather.”

“You and half the male population.”

“One minute she’s standing in front of the British Isles telling us
it’s going to rain tomorrow, the next she’s cart-wheeling over
everything in sight. She was on the front page this week or, at least, her
knickers were. They snapped her getting into a car. A diabolical
liberty, really. Maybe there should be a law against it. Invasion of
private parts. Trespass by lens.”

“Schoolboys enjoyed the picture. I doubt that many men did.”
Butler pulled a face. “You know nothing about men, then, Anian.”
“What paper was it in? The Sun? The Mirror?”

“I don’t read crap.” Butler smiled. “The Sunday Sport!”

She smiled back and said, “It’s rare that a girl will show you her
knickers unless she wants you to see them. And that includes
photographers.”

His glance was a double take. She had surprised him.

A uniform poked his head around the door. “Sarge,” he addressed
Butler. “Just had CB3 on. They've found Helen Harrison's car. Two
roads up from the Gallery.”

Anian hesitated.

Butler said, “Get out of here. Go and enjoy yourself.”

She flashed him another sweet smile and let the door swing shut
behind her.

The phone went. Cole said, “Cole.”

“It's me.”

“Right.”

“Read between the lines.”

“Right.”

“You were right. He spilled the lot. Helen's got herself a
lover. My fucking wife has run off with another geezer. Can you believe that?
Even I don't believe that. She's shagging Jesus fucking Christ and she runs
off with John the fucking Baptist. That fucker's going to lose his fucking head.
She's carrying my fucking baby for fuck's sake. She's in the fucking Costas,
can you believe that? Soaking up the sun? I can't believe that. Treated this
Lawrence cunt as some kind of confidant. They got real fucking close during
the painting sessions. It ain't surprising, though, not really, considering
the pose. They say love is blind, don't they? Know what I mean? It takes a brain
dead, lungless fucker like Breathless to point it out. I should of seen it,
Rick. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she had one leg on each arm of the fucking sofa.
Anyway, she's still in contact. Going to ring him when she gets back. He'll
let me know. Then I'll be paying her a fucking visit.” “Does he have an address?”

“Spain, but Spain's a fucking big place. I mean, I take her on a
fucking boat to that other place. What was it again?”

“Greece.”

“Right. I take her there in a luxury boat and she settles for paella
and fucking chips.”

“When Lawrence gives you the nod, you let me know.”

“I'll think about that one.”

“Think about this. Is Lawrence OK?”

“Yeah, I'd say, given the circumstances. Unfortunately he had an
accident with his painting hand. Got a finger caught up in a guillotine.
He uses it to cut the prints to size. Told him it was fucking dangerous,
without a guard, but did he listen?”

“OK, take care of yourself.”

“Too fucking right. I owe you one now.” His emphasis was on the
you.

“Isn't that a treat?”

Cole hung up. For a moment he wondered how much of the call
was incriminating. All of it, he imagined. But it was too late to worry,
so he set it aside.

But Helen Harrison running off to Spain? Not a chance. Helen
Harrison was dead and John Lawrence had got her tucked up some
place, getting off on whatever he got off on. But it was coming to a
head.

It wasn’t often that Anian Stanford went out with her housemates.
Getting their shifts to coincide was almost impossible but somehow,
through luck and feminine wiles, they had managed it. The Royal Free
nurses had come by a box at the Carrington Theatre. A consultant from
Nigeria was making an impression on the youngest of them and Anian
guessed it wouldn’t be long before they’d be advertising an empty
room. But for the moment they made hay.

In the bath she drank some wine – why did it always seem so
wickedly indulgent? – and getting ready she drank some more and
perhaps that was why, as they settled in their box seats, she was less
than discreet.

She said, “Five rows in, three from the centre aisle, see him? Next
to the black girl.”

As Anian held back, the other girls eased forward.

“Mr John bloody Lawrence. He’s got those women somewhere.”
“Oh my God! The missing women?” The youngest of them, the
consultant’s target, spoke with that feigned enthusiasm at which all
young nurses – perhaps young women in general – were adept.
Anian nodded. “He’s got a poster in his shop window. Maybe a
couple of freebee tickets came with it.”

“Like us then,” the nurse giggled. “But the girl – the black girl –
must be thirty or forty years younger.”

“She's a tom, works out of The British. A tart with a heart. She even
gives discounts to pensioners.”

“Oh my God,” the nurse said then, more seriously, “Why take a
prostitute to the theatre? If you're paying for it you should be on the
job.”

Anian laughed out loud. “I don't know. You tell me about men and
what they've got to prove?”

The nurse leant forward for another look. “What’s he got on his
hand? It looks like a glove puppet.”

Anian took another peep. “It is a glove puppet. It’s got red lips.”
The nurse shrugged and shook her head. “This is not normal
behaviour.”

Anian searched for Chief Superintendent Marsh but couldn't find
him. Had she glanced at the other boxes she would have seen him
sitting comfortably next to the Mayor. Gilly Brown had gold hanging
from his neck. And at the back of the theatre, in the deep shadows,
Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton and his wife were finding
their seats along with the councillors.

The nurse beside her touched her arm and pointed to the stage. The
curtain was going up.

The curtain went up to reveal a street scene and a gang of youngsters,
dancing to the right or left and pushing the passers-by aside. They
shouted abuse across the steaming road. One of them daubed paint on a
brick wall: Kill the Bill. And the gang began to sing:

There were a few skirmishes last night

but nothing much

Just a few friendly little fights

but nothing much

We gave the residents a fright

but nothing much...

The passers-by joined in. First the Politician as he introduced
the others:

He's a criminologist and she's a sociologist

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

He's a police-inspector and she's a social worker

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

I'm into crime prevention, stop the windows being broken

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

And with that slimy offering the politician flashed white teeth
and produced a red, white and blue banner which read: Vote for me! And the gang
sang:

We're the pill-popping,

heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.

The gang's all here, born out of fear, you see...

Passer-by:
Alienated youth, violence on TV, poverty, bad-housing,
boredom and page three...

Politician:
And I'm a politician, vote for me...

Street Cleaner:
I'm a street cleaner and I hose away the blood

Council Worker:
I’m a council worker and I make the windows good

Vicar:
I'm the local vicar and I'm mis-under-stood

Politician:
And I'm a politician, vote for me.

And the gang sang:

We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.

The stage was a frenzy of movement and colour. The first half-dozen
rows were all but hidden by smoke. Anian Stanford didn’t really
notice. She was watching Lawrence, trying to make out his features in
the dimmed lighting and wondering if the girl hugging his arm was
aware of the danger she was in.

Geoff Maynard was still out and the house was strangely silent. He’d
mentioned earlier that Donna had come back with a nil return on the
CCTV images and Cole guessed he was in the Square again, checking
out the faces.

In just a few days the psychologist’s domesticity had left a mark;
silly things, like the dishcloth left hanging to dry instead of squeezed
and left on the drainer, the Teacher's safely tucked away in the cabinet
instead of its usual place at the foot of Cole's armchair. Cole switched
off the light and carried a glass to the bay window. The lawn, in its
winter coat and orange wash, looked thick and spongy. The wind was
up, sweeping through the volcanic light from the street lamps, rushing
through the trees and beating the fluttering, flame-like winter shrubs
into submission. He felt the familiar bite of the Teacher's and shivered,
waiting for it to lift his mood. This was no life, annihilated every night,
dealing with filth every day. No intermission. Another day, another
meeting, another seeing, speaking, sleeping. Just going through the
motions without a purpose, apart from one, waking up to do it all
again.