Director's Cut (29 page)

A car rolled to a slow stop at the end of his drive. He recognized it
and checked his watch. It had turned eleven. He watched her lock the
car and start up his path. She was biting her lower lip, ready to turn and
run, searching for a light in the house and frowning at the darkness.
Maybe she'd already checked out the White Horse and drawn a blank.
She wore a grey jacket and a short navy-blue skirt that fanned in the
wind. A sudden gust gave him even more of her legs. Almost casually,
she reached down and held on to the hemline. He turned on the porch
light and opened the door as she was about to ring.

For a few moments they stood in silence.

She levelled her gaze.

With a slight tilt of the head he beckoned her inside.

She hesitated for a second more then stepped over the threshold.
In the bedroom window the stars dissolved in the condensation. In the
volcanic light the hard-edged trees rounded like candle wax under a
flame.

“You take them off,” she said as she plucked the elastic below her
navel.

He did and, some time later, lay back nursing a semi-skimmed dick.
In the morning the night was just a blur. Teacher's, before and after,
got in the way of clarity. He remembered the stars as they found their
cruel brilliance again as the condensation wept away.

During the night there had been an explosion and it wasn't an allotment
shed or children with reconstructed fireworks. It had brought down the
roof of a house in a terraced row. An old exhausted run-down place
that needed demolishing anyway. According to initial reports the cause
was a gas leak. It happened, more than people knew. The Fire Brigade
was out in force and uniforms were cordoning the area. Safety experts
were examining the scene. Two men had died. Blown to bits and the
bits burned beyond recognition. In time there would be neighbours and
scraps of documentation and dental records and reconstruction and
numerous items that would give them the background, but for the
moment they were just casualties of the night, written off as accidental
deaths. It meant paperwork and time they didn’t have and, hopefully,
an uncomplicated transfer to the coroner.

In the car, in the morning, as they passed what was left of the house
and skirted the flapping police tape, DS Sam Butler said, “With a bit of
luck forensics will have something for us on Helen Harrison's car. And
we do need something.” He paused, then: “Did you enjoy the show?”
If Anian heard it didn't register. She said, “I almost went round to
Rick Cole's last night.”

Sam Butler was staggered, speechless. All he could do was shake
his head in disbelief and keep the car from veering.

“Did you hear me?”

Eventually he found his voice, but it still came out sounding like
someone else. “I'm having trouble with it. Tell me again.”
“It's true. I was a bit pissed after the show. Couldn't help it. Wanted
to. Couldn't. Stupid, isn't it?”

“Why?”

He sensed her shrug. “I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore.
He made it quite clear the other night that he’s not interested. Maybe
that was it. The challenge. The old behavioural protocol becomes
activated, doesn’t it? Pride, anger, you name it. In a negative way it’s
still intoxicating. I'm getting hurt here, but I can't help myself.”
“Back off, for Christ sake. I thought you'd had your fill of office
romances. Think about it.”

She sighed. “You're right. But that's not me, is it? All my life I've
jumped in head first and lived to regret it. I wish I hadn't told you.”
He nodded reluctantly, unable to make sense of what he'd heard. He
said, “So do I.”

“You're angry?”

“Leave it alone, Anian. I was surprised, that's all.”

After a moment he added, “For a while back there I forgot I was
married with a little girl that's keeping me up all night. All right?”
“That's fine. I understand.”

He shot her a glance. Her dark eyes were on the road. He wondered
whether she did understand, that back there, for a moment, jealousy –
pure, irrational, blood-rushing jealousy – had got the better of him.
He drove in uncomfortable silence for five minutes then pulled up
in a wide, well-maintained street the other side of the park. No line of
parked cars here, just clean pavements and drives to every door.
“St George’s Way,” Anian said quietly. “Imelda Cooke?”
“Right,” Butler said and climbed out of the car.

She followed him up the drive toward a two-storey detached.
Joseph Cooke had reported his wife missing three months ago. He
had given up his job in the city to take care of the children. When he
opened the door and recognized the police officers, the expectation of
the bad news he’d been dreading drained his features and left a terrible
stain in his eyes.

Butler had seen the look many times before – the certainty, the
disbelief, the helplessness, the realization of all those nightmares, and
he was quick to reassure him. “It's all right, Joe. There’s been no
development.”

Relief flooded back. “Thank God for that. I thought...”

“I know. There should be a way of ringing you first to let you know
that nothing's happened. I'm sorry. Are the kids at home?”
“No. They're staying with their nan. I get a break from time to time.
Come on in.”

They followed him into the hall.

“Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“No, no, thank you,” Butler said. “Listen, Joe, this is a bit delicate,”
Joseph Cooke looked puzzled.

“You remember we asked you whether Imelda was pregnant, or
not?”

“I remember. She wasn't.”

“Well, we have a number of missing women in the area and, with
the exception of Imelda, the others are pregnant. I don't know what it
means, exactly. I don't know why we're here, exactly.”

Joseph Cooke smiled sadly, “Clutching at straws?”

"Yes, that's it exactly.”

Anian stood aside, watching the detective sergeant as he skirted the
issue, and the man beside him whose life had been shattered.
Cooke offered, “You want to look at her things again? I've already
done it a thousand times, but I don't mind. They're just as she left them.
Nothing's been moved.”

“Yes, Sir,” Butler stammered. “That's what I really came for.”
Cooke waved towards the stairs. “Help yourself. I'll be in the sitting
room. Are you sure about the drink? I'm having one. And it's stronger
than coffee.”

“In that case, Sir, scotch will do nicely. What about you Anian?”
“Nothing for me, thanks. It’s a bit early.”

Cooke glanced at his watch and nodded. “So it is,” he said and left
them to it.

As they climbed the stairs Anian asked, “What are we looking for,
Sam?”

“Anything. Something we missed. A letter maybe, an appointment
to a private clinic. If she kept it from him, it's hidden. Think about it.”
“Kept the pregnancy from him?”

“Something like that.”

Anian shook her head and murmured, “In that case I hope we don't
find it.”

They didn't. They went through the bedroom methodically but
found nothing of interest. It was always difficult for coppers invading
the privacy of innocent parties and they felt embarrassed going through
the drawers, particularly those containing underclothes.

They hit the landing again, ready for the stairs, when a little tug of
memory caught Butler between steps.

“What is it?”

“Just a thought. When Janet did her test, she left the box and
instructions on top of the bathroom cabinet. We hadn't got Lucy at the
time but maybe it was instinctive, you know, a place where the kids
couldn't get to it, out of the way. Every time I had a shave I noticed it.
The bloody thing became a fixture. You never throw away old pills
and medicine bottles, do you? I’ve got some chilblain ointment I used
the other day then noticed the use-by date was November ninety-four.
Seemed to work though.”

“Too much information, Sam. You’re spoiling the image.”
Together they moved into the bathroom, a green-tiled bathroom
complete with avocado bidet and shower cubicle and double-door
bathroom cabinet. And on top of the cabinet, where it had lain for over
three months, disturbed only occasionally by a Maltese cleaner, hidden
by familiarity and a pink plastic bottle of baby lotion, was a white
oblong box.

The detectives shared a look of amazement.

“There's no kit here,” Anian said. “Just the box.”

“In this case an empty box is good enough,” Butler said and shook
his head in disbelief. “And it makes five out of five.”

In Paul’s bedroom there were six TVs in two stacks of three and he
was back watching them. He sat cross-legged on the end of his bed.
Sky News and ITV and BBC covered the same story. Paul's eyes were
wide, his mouth open, his attention held by the six screens. There was
no sound. He had the sound turned down. The colours of east Africa
slid across the cuts and bruises on his face. His ear was torn and his
clothes were stained red in various places.

On the six screens a migration had begun. Women carried dead
babies and babies that were dying. Men staggered on makeshift
crutches. Children held their extended bellies. Flies crawled into eyes.
Behind them a war continued. Ahead of them was another African
border with trenches and mines and guns. The Dark Continent had
never looked so cruel. There was no oil in this African country. It
didn’t even have a name that anyone could remember.

At the door Mr Lawrence coughed to attract his attention.
“Mr Lawrence,” Paul said and a shudder worked through his body.
“What the devil's happened?”

“Oh, Mr Lawrence.”

Paul's eyes filled with tears that refused to roll. His hands were
clenched in front of him. A vein on his forehead throbbed. “Oh, Mr
Lawrence, I've been hurt a bit.”

“Come on, Paul, try to lie back.”

“I would, but the pain in my side…”

“Lie on the other side.”

“Both sides, Mr Lawrence.”

With his good hand Mr Lawrence pulled a plug and the irritating
screens blanked out.

“That's better. Can't do with all that flickering. What is it? A Tarzan
film?” Mr Lawrence sighed. “Goodness me. You've been gone… How
long? Two Days? And look at you. What on earth shall I do with you?
Now try to relax and lie back.”

Slowly, painfully, he eased back. Mr Lawrence undid the three
remaining buttons on his shirt. Deep bruises patterned his left side.
Around his kidneys the skin was red and swollen and his groin was
caked in dried blood.

“You need a doctor, dear boy, the A and E or casualty. You need
checking over. X-rays and a thermometer.”

"No! No! No doctors. They'll call the police. They always do. I
can't get away with walking into a lamppost, not this time.”
“You're right. Being run over by a bus would be more like it.”
Using his good hand Mr Lawrence cleaned him up with a sponge
and a bowl of warm water turned pink. He dried him off and dabbed
Germolene antiseptic cream onto the cuts and covered him with a
single sheet. He had tried the ointment on the stub of his own finger
but it hadn’t stopped the bleeding.

“Thank you,” Paul said before sleeping.

Like a baby.

Mr Lawrence watched him for a few moments. The boy really
needed pyjamas but his wardrobe was full of baby things. His own
clothes were in a heap on the floor. On the hangers tiny one-piece
baby-growers in five bright colours were packed in. On the shelf
above, two cellophane cartons of disposables were packed next to a
selection of bottles and sterilization equipment.

Mr Lawrence went down to the shop, his head still shaking in
puzzlement. He was not the worrying kind but he was worried and it
showed in the deepening lines on his forehead. Somehow he had
allowed other people to creep into his life and things were getting out
of hand, spiralling out of his control, and something else was on its
way.

She arrived with a small battered green suitcase that had travelled.
She shrugged her luscious brown shoulders and raised her eyebrows
and threw him a wicked smile from cherry-red lips.

“Me mum's kicked me out! She said she would and she did.”
He sighed his resignation. “Well, we don't choose our parents. If we
did the majority of us would have different parents.”

“He's given me a week. I told him I needed time. Told him I was
confused by the electric, see? Confused, innI? Told him.”
“Why did he hit you?”

“He's like that. He likes that. He hits everything, even the wall
when he's really angry. Even the screws were frightened of him.”
“We'll go to the police. That's what they're there for. Protecting the
innocent.”

“You don't understand, Mr Lawrence. The filth won't help. They're
not interested. It was probably them that told him where I was in the
first place.”

“You said he loved you?”

“I did. I know. I said that. You hurt the things you love. You know
that. He was just trying to straighten me out.”

“And are you straightened?”

“I don't feel straight. To tell the truth, I feel pretty well bent right
now.”

“I've seen you looking better, Paul, that's true. But that’s not the
word I would have chosen. So, you've got a week?”

“Yes. Then I've got to give him my answer.”

“And if it's no?”

“He'll kill me. I think he'll kill me. And if you interfere he'll kill you
too. It'll be a crime of passion. I think I'll have to take off for good.
Disappear. Trouble is, he's good at finding things, people. He found
me in the squat.”

Laura's voice travelled up the stairs.

“Mr Lawrence – customers!”

A middle-aged couple admired a canvas. He was short and squat
and sourly. His banker’s eyes focused on the painting. His wife was
heavier and taller. They wanted the painting but they wanted a
discount too.

“Mallards,” he muttered and nodded to confirm it.

“Indeed. Notice how the artist has used the same colouring of the
ducks in flight on the rich foliage in the foreground.”