Director's Cut (3 page)

“Those cunts wouldn't recognize themselves in the mirror.”

The wind gusted again and more angry flames burst from the drums. In a few days the missions would
open and for a week at least, for the shadows, there'd be a mattress and a guaranteed dawn.
The cold smacked the DI’s face.

Seriousness crept into the villain’s tone, “The city’s a dangerous place, always has been, but not for us,
never was. Think about it. We're the dangerous fuckers around here and people know it.”
Cole grunted indifference.

“It's been a long time. So what’s happening?”

A pause, then Cole relented, “Shovelling the same shit. A city full of yobs and villains and now you can
add the fucking terrorists. We always had the micks but this is different. These fuckers don’t mind killing
themselves to make a point. The average man is in more danger now than he was during the war.”
“There’s a few dirty fuckers I know who wouldn’t mind topping themselves if they thought they could
shag a hundred and fifty virgins on the other side.”

“Ton and a half?”

“Inflation. Why should heaven be any fucking different?” Another pause sharpened the darkness, a
chuckle, then, “So, it was on the news. The bomb. Who'd want to bomb a deserted shed?”
“Maybe it was being kept there. Who knows?”

“The arse in the air brigade? Bastards get everywhere. That’s the trouble with this country Rick. I don’t
even understand some of the cunts on the BBC News nowadays, never mind the weather. Every fucking
arse is a potential launch pad, right?”

“Bomb Squad say not. This was amateur.”

“Another Nazi nail bomber, then. Maybe it was a test. Everyone's got to start somewhere.”
He was referring to the London bombing campaign against Asians, blacks and gays. The Admiral Duncan
pub explosion, as well as Brixton and Brick Lane, had used up a lot of man-hours. The older coppers
wouldn’t forget David Copeland in a hurry. The younger ones had probably never heard of him.
The villain rubbed his hands together. “So, your people killed any more innocent Brazilians lately? I
thought dumdums were illegal?”

He was referring this time to Jean Charles de Menezes.

“They were hollow point, not soft-headed. In any case, they’re only illegal in war, against the enemy. You
can still use them against civvies.”

“Yeah, well, that makes a lot of fucking sense, I’m sure. They must have taken his fucking head off. I
heard there were eleven shots but only eight hits. How could they miss three times from two feet? Even
my guys would manage to hit something from two feet away, especially if it was pinned to the fucking
floor!”

Cole wasn't drawn. He said, “So what do you want?”

“You ain't changed, Rick. You got no sense of small talk or self-preservation. People like you, people
who don't give a fuck, are the scariest people on earth. Go ask the psychiatrists, they should know. Even
I'm scared of you, and I'm the fucking crown jewels around here. One day I'll find out what turned you
against yourself.”

“You'll never come close.”

“Guarantee there was a woman involved.”

“Let's get on with it.”

“This is important, Rick. It upsets me to ask you for help.”

“Course it does.”

“Helen's done a runner.”

It didn’t show or, rather, it wasn’t heard, but Cole was surprised. He managed, “Go to relate.”
“This isn't funny. I can't have people taking the piss, understand?

It's hard enough running a business as it is. You people are not doing your jobs. I've got hassle with the
youngsters who believe in free enterprise, the Maltesers are playing up again – God knows why with that
shithouse of a fucking place they come from – and every black bastard in town is packing enough
hardware to start world war three.

And now the fucking Albanians are trying it on. They're into everything going and they're organized.
You've got to blame Blair for letting all these fuckers in. Talk about the blind leading the fucking blind.
Asylum seekers. These fuckers are controlling half of London's dope and they've only been in the country
two minutes. Even the Chinese are getting pissed off. And they're hurting me too. Passing off their toms
as Spanish and Italians. They need the fucking trade description act thrown at them. Pay up front for a
Latin quarter and find you've got two fingers up a Balkan arse, it ain't funny. It's like going to a Gordon
Ramsey and being dished up condemned meat. Well out of order. It's not right. There's no fucking respect
anymore. She's been gone a week.”

He slipped it in, out of the blue, and tightened Cole’s features.

“A week?”

“She's never left before. I put the word out, my own people, but they couldn't find a fucking nigger on the
North Pole. Kicking the shit out of someone they can do, but using their bonces… They ain't so hot on
subtlety, you know? Like fucking Barclays. Big doesn’t appeal if it’s out of the bedroom. The cunts think
pie and mash comes with an alcoholic beverage. What can I do? All the good guys have gone soft in
middle age or they're banged up. They talk about the old days, but the old days were never that tasty, we
know that. Those old bastards wouldn't make second division today. Not with the fuckers I’ve got to deal
with. These bastards today have got no style at all, Rick. You think you’ve cut a deal, they’ll go to the
shithouse, come back looking like they’ve stuck their hooters in a tray full of baking powder and start
blasting away. How can you do business like that? We need to build another iron curtain just to keep
these fuckers out and that includes the cunt who bought my football team.”

“I didn’t know you were a Chelsea fan.”

“It’s not something you spread around, Rick. Who admits to a sack-and-crack job?”

“This is important and you’re taking the piss. I can't afford a scene; not when I've got every fucker in
town trying to muscle in. This has come at a bad time for me. At the moment I'm talking, being very
reasonable, but these fucked-up foreigners aren't reasonable people. As for the youngsters, what the fuck
do they teach them nowadays? A month out of school and they think they can run a deal on my manor.
This country has gone to the fucking dogs, Rick. Fuck New Labour and all their fucking promises. These
little fucks are actually squatting in some of my properties while they deal and half the fuckers are on
benefits. Can you believe that? That's a fucking liberty.”

“You’re right.”

“Listen, Christmas is coming. I want my family back for Christmas.

I want us singing around a fucking tree. A real fucking tree. Not one of these fucked-up plastic ones.
Once in fucking David City. Right? I'm willing to forgive her. Whatever she's done.”

“Benevolent, you?”

“I'm serious. I've thought about it. We all make mistakes. This is the season of goodwill. Look at me. If it
wasn't dark you'd see the sincerity. I'm in love with her. Always was. Can't help it. Want to, but can't.”
“And?”

“I told you, I'm a reasonable man. I read about these other missing women; see the posters all over the
shop. Got me thinking, worrying. Know what I mean? Maybe she didn't do a runner. Maybe there is more
to it. Maybe that's why she didn't take her things with her.”

A ship's horn carried through space. A plane heading for Heathrow shone brighter than Venus. The
darkness deepened; even the fires seemed further away.

“She didn't take her things?”

“Not so you'd notice, but she's got so many clothes and drawers stuffed with crap, how am I to know?”
“What about cash?”

“Cash I do know.”

Cole sensed the shake of his head.

“You know Helen. She never wore a damned thing for more than

an hour.”

“I remember.”

It was true. Cole knew Helen. She had looks that would pull you over from a hundred yards in a room full
of beautiful people. But behind the feminine bit she was as cold as a Russian handshake. Even in those
days she had Ticker Harrison wrapped around her little finger, even if he didn't know it. Yes, Cole knew
Helen. More than Ticker would ever know.

“On the boat she monopolized you. Remember? We still got photos of the three of us on deck. What the
fuck was that place called?”

Cole remembered well and either the cold or the thought that Ticker had held on to the photographs made
him shiver. He remembered a white bikini and the top coming off and, later, after Ticker had gone ashore,
the bottom coming off too. At length he said, “Greece. And it was a long time ago.”

“It doesn't seem that long.”

“In this weather, right now, it does.”

“Will you help me out?”

After a pause Cole said, “It doesn't sound right. You're not leveling with me.”

A sigh came from the darkness. The river slapped some more, then, “We had an argument. I was never so
hot with words, the old fucking… GCE, eleven plus, you know that.”

“What was the argument about?”

Right? If you
don't you get problems. You get your toes sucked and your tits all over Fleet Street or some arsehole
creeping butler telling everyone your favourite position. I'm the bollocks around here. It was my dick that
fucking moaning tart was sitting on when her picture was painted. There was nothing enigmatic about that
expression, boy, that was fucking ecstasy.”

“That sounds pretty reasonable to me.”

“Well, anyway, I lost it for a moment. Slapped her. Aimed for the air, just to make a point, but got it
wrong. She went out like a fucking light. I get our own GP out. Cost don't come into it. She gets the
special treatment but does it make a difference? Does she care? Not a bit. When I come home two hours
later she's gone. Faster than a Jewish foreskin.”

“You left her with the doctor?”

“No. He'd gone by then. Left her having a lie-down. Just popped out; a bit of business. Even cut that short
to get back to her and that cost me fucking money. That's love for you.”

“But nothing went with her?”

“That's what I said. Can you help me out? I want to know about these other missing women. It's stupid, I
know, and she'll turn up having taught me a right old lesson, but I can't help worrying. I got to point my
people in the right direction.”

After a long silence Cole said, “I'll poke around but they're dealing with it over at Hinckley. They won't
like interference. You understand I can't make it official unless you do.”

“Me, go to the kozzers? Do you want me to lose all credibility?”

“She's a missing person; you should report it.”

Ticker Harrison drew a long breath and said quietly, so the night wouldn't hear, “You do it for me. Put the
word out. Let's do it on the quiet. Get someone to call over, discreetly. Make out it's a speeding ticket or
something. If you can find her tell her I love her, that I love kids. I've changed my fucking mind. There's
nothing I'd like more than kick a fucking ball on the park, diving into dog shit, that sort of thing. Tell her
any fucking thing she wants to hear. I'm relying on you, Rick.”

“Let's find her first, worry about the rest later.”

“That's all I'm asking. She'll trust you. After all, you're a fucking kozzer. And I know she liked you. She's
often mentioned the boat and what a great time we had. She's often asked about you. Unfortunately these
girls don't grasp the reality. You and me. Know what I mean?

That we can't have Sunday dinner together.”

The gangster, Ticker Harrison, was even more concerned than he made out. He wouldn't have involved
Cole unless he was really worried. He'd read about the missing women. It was hard to miss them. They'd
been all over the papers these last few months. There were photographs of them in shop windows and
stuck to bus shelters. Have you seen this person, they asked. They meant the police hadn't got a clue.
The Helen Harrison that Cole remembered might well have run away, but not for a slap in the mouth, and
even then she would have taken with her everything she could have carried. Helen was thirty-six and
she'd been around. For a slap in the mouth she'd have just gone out the next day and spent five grand on
his credit card. They parted, strangers again, as far apart as men could be but in the same business, on the
same ladder. Lie some ladders on the ground it’s difficult to tell top from bottom.

But the villain had got it right. Cole had turned against himself and there had been a woman involved.
The memory of it was bitter; it ground his edge, sharpened his indifference, increased the force he used
when digging low-life in the kidneys.

Sunday morning started early.

Just a few minutes after the bells chimed six and still an hour before the break of a cold dawn, another
explosion shook the capital and could be heard as far away as Calais. But this wasn’t another garden shed.
The oil storage terminal at Buncefield in Hertfordshire went up in the UK’s biggest peacetime fire and a
plume of black smoke began to fill the north-western sky. Although the authorities were shaken from
their beds to begin an emergency evacuation of the surrounding area, it was quickly established that the
cause of the blaze was down to the failure of a number of safety features and not more terrorist activity.
In Sheerham, under the darkening smoke-filled sky, life went on. And death.

Outside his window a heavily pregnant woman paused to search in her handbag and in his shop doorway
a man sheltered from a sharp December wind to light a cigarette.

ront gardens.

Above the shop and the studio was the flat where he lived. Mrs Puzey cleaned the shop and the flat above;
she was barred from the studio. Mrs Puzey and her tribe of five children. She was a Caribbean lady of
huge proportions, quite frightening, really. She and her children made a living cleaning five or six shops
in the High Road.

Her husband was a jazz musician who had disappeared along with his sax about five or six years ago.
They arrived daily brandishing Hoovers and feather-dusters and black bin-liners. They arrived in a fit of
laughter and chatter and for an hour there was bustle and chaos and when they had gone the silence was
wonderful and the place was clean. Mrs Puzey's eldest daughter, Laura, supplemented her income with a
little night work. She worked out of the endless bar of The British. Her clientele was small, restricted to
married men who remained faithful to her. Mrs Puzey and her brood didn't clean on Sundays. On Sundays
they went to the Pentecostal church. They marched past the shop in their Sunday clothes with Mrs Puzey
in front and the children behind in descending order of height. On Sunday they prayed.
On Saturday night, against his better judgement and because he needed some Christmas help, Mr
Lawrence said, “You can stay until next weekend, no longer, and only if you make yourself useful in the
shop.”