Director's Cut (31 page)

She turned to Sid the Nerve. “And you?”

Nervous Sid said, “I didn't hear you say that.”

“There you are, then. What’s all this about? How could I know she was learning
to paint the pictures? You didn't tell me that. I thought she was in them filthy
pictures!”

“No. Good Lord, no. I wouldn't have her in the paintings, Mrs Puzey.”

“And why not? Are you telling me my little girl isn't good enough to be in them
pictures, just because she's black? Is that what you're telling me?”

She turned to Albert again. “Did he say that? Did he?”

Albert beamed and nodded. “It sounded like it.”

She turned back to Mr Lawrence and said, “I take you to Race Relations.” She
stormed to the door, muttering.

Mr Lawrence wiped perspiration from his forehead. Sid shook a large drink and
some of it made his lips.

Roger said, “Bloody hell.”

The salesman said, “Now, that is madness and not insanity. You see the difference?”

With no little endeavour Roger gained a little composure and addressed Mr Lawrence.
“Mr Lawrence,” he said. “You might think that on account that I have a couple
of South African wines on my wine list, that this place resembles that place
in South Africa where Michael Caine beat off the Zulus, but you would be mistaken.
You might think that VCs are easily earned in here. But you would be mistaken.
If I have any more trouble with the Zulus or anyone resembling a Zulu, then
you are banned along with Liverpool supporters and the singing of
Ferry Across
The Mersey.”

Mr Lawrence thought about an appeal but instead shook a defeated head.

er pants.

The mannequin in his shop window was different. She looked a little shop-worn.
A few black strands sprouted from her panty line. Mr Lawrence thought he was
seeing things and put it down to the drinks in The British and the cold night
air.

Susan, the freckle-faced girl from the art class, looked worried when she walked
into the shop shortly after it opened. It was drizzling and her fawn-coloured
raincoat was freckled too. With her was a muscular man in jeans and dust-covered
T-shirt. He looked like a builder. She looked worried and he looked angry.

“Mr Lawrence, you haven't seen Sandra, have you?”

“Not since the class, my dear. Why?”

“Sandra never came home.”

“My goodness. Have you seen her, Paul?”

From behind the counter Paul shook his head.

The man said, “Come on, we're wasting time.”

Susan explained, “This is Sandra's husband.”

Mr Lawrence thought about shaking hands. Instead he shook his head and offered
them a grave expression.

Sandra's husband said, “We'll have to report it to the police.” Paul grimaced.
“The police?”

“Got to. She's pregnant, you know?”

Mr Lawrence put in, “No, I didn't know until Paul told me, yesterday.”

All faces turned to Paul who shrugged, “She must have said.” “Bloody worry that
is. I've had to take time off work. Don't get paid for it. And my dinner wasn't
cooked three nights running.” The man shook his angry head. Leaning closer he
took them into his confidence and said in a whisper, “Last night was steak-and-chips
night. I ended up with Chinese – all that fucking salt. What do you think of
that?” “Not good. Between you and me I’ve been worried about the Chinese for
some time. But what about Sandra? You've left it this long?” Mr Lawrence raised
his eyebrows.

Sandra’s husband stepped back from the perceived rebuke. “I thought she might
have gone to her mum's.”

“Does she often do that?”

“Only on Saturday afternoons when she takes the kids. I meet her there, after
the racing. We all go for tea. Always have. Isn’t that right, Sue?”

Susan nodded.

“It’s not much,” he said gloomily. “Always the same – ham and salad, and the
bread’s always stale.”

Susan turned to the door and said, “C’mon, you’re right. We’re wasting time.”

Mr Lawrence wondered whether women with freckles knew just how attractive they
looked. He asked, “The last time you saw her, was it at the studio?”

They turned back from the door. Susan's eyes filled up as she nodded. “I was
meeting my husband. I left early, remember?” “I do, yes. Now I remember. You
didn't clean your brushes. I've told you about that before.”

Once they had gone Paul sidled across, a sideways crab-like movement. He picked
up a duster and began dab-dabbing. It wasn't necessary. Mrs Puzey and her gang
left the shop spotless. His mind was clearly on other things.

“I'm worried. I don't mind telling you. Things seem to be ganging up on me.”

“Nothing's as bad as it seems.”

“But if Sandra's missing.”

“That's not a problem. We've got a waiting list for the club.” He shook his
head. “That's not what I meant. The police will be back, Mr Lawrence. The police!
What about the gear, the gear?” “Oh, don't worry about that. They won't be looking
for stolen property. Not now. They'll be looking for Sandra. You don't have
a problem.”

“I do have a problem. Friday is coming.”

“Oh yes, your gentleman friend.”

“He's not so gentle.”

“You're right. I can still see the fist marks from his last caress.” “And on
Friday he's coming back.”

“I told you before that I will think of something. Don't you worry about that
either.”

Paul nodded, more confident in the knowledge that Mr Lawrence had not forgotten
him.

“Now go and make some tea, and take a cup into Laura. She came in very late
last night.”

Paul tut-tutted the idea. “That girl will get herself into trouble one of these
days.”

“I think she's on the pill.”

“I didn't mean that, Mr Lawrence. I meant that she'll meet some nutter. A real…nutter!”

“No. She's very choosy. She doesn't sleep around. Or stand around either, come
to that.”

“I don't know. There's an awful lot of nutters out there.”

“So long as they're not in here. That's all that really matters.” “By the way,
Mr Lawrence, I heard the cats again last night and they were crying again, like
before.”

“Yes, something must have upset them.”

While the kettle boiled, Paul went back to his room and carefully, so they wouldn't
crease, he replaced the baby-growers on the hangars and placed them in the wardrobe.
They'd been left in a pile on his floor.

Cole dreamt of the past. He had arrived home late to find his
wife with suitcases pulling on her arms. She was ready to go out. “I’m leaving
you,” she had said. He discovered later that she was leaving him for someone
else and that his occupation was only a part of it. Morning broke with winter
sun slanting in through the slightly parted curtains. Donna Fitzgerald blinked
awake and once again recognized the strange surroundings of Rick Cole's bedroom
and said, “Oh shit!” She grabbed at the bedside cabinet for the time.

Breakfast TV led with a press conference given by Chief

Superintendent Marsh. “Given the length of time she has been missing…” The headline
was Margaret Domey, the missing psychologist.

They drank their coffee in silence. Maynard joined them in the kitchen but remained
noncommittal. If he was surprised at finding that Donna had become a fixture
it didn’t show. He concentrated on the TV.

“…None of her belongings are missing, her bank accounts remain untouched and
her mobile phone has not been used. The circumstances of her disappearance are
suspicious and we are exploring the possibility that she has been a victim of
crime.”

A BBC reporter pushed out a microphone. “Is there any connection with the other
missing women?”

As the chief noticed the face behind the question his thin lips tightened and
left his contempt in no doubt. He said, “We are exploring that possibility.”

In the hall, in the mirror, Donna added final touches to her makeup. She gave
up and said, “Fuck it!”

Cole caught Maynard's glance and shrugged. “Me too,” he said. Back at the office
something had broken. When Cole walked in with Donna and Maynard in tow he recognized
immediately that there had been a development and the stern expressions indicated
it wasn’t a good one.

“Hinckley have lost another woman,” someone said. “An art student. Any guesses
where her classes were held?”

Geoff Maynard left them to it; he knew exactly how it would go. Baxter and Cole
would be leaning on Hinckley and Wooderson in particular. In turn Wooderson
would take it out on DS Butler. DS Butler would use his only option, gather
his team and pay another visit to the Gallery where more statements would be
taken – either there or at the station and, if common sense prevailed, that
would be that. There would be no point at all in more white-suited experts with
their radar guns and tape-measures poking around the Gallery. Evidence of the
girl would be all over the shop, the studio and the pavement outside. She had
been going to classes for months. Lawrence was laughing at them, enjoying himself
immensely. He would be anticipating more interviews and another visit to the
station. There might be more gained by denying him that satisfaction, perhaps
even ignoring him completely. Rejection, like Maynard had said before, was a
potent brew. He smiled at the thought.

DS Sam Butler led the way into the Gallery and while Laura went to find Mr Lawrence
and Paul stood statue-like at the counter, he studied the large painting of
the bricks and wondered how on earth it could justify the price. A DC beside
him said, “
Brick in the Wall
, Pink Floyd.”

Butler nodded. “An old rocker, then.”

Disappointment marked the detective’s face. “Heavy metal, actually.”

Butler said, “Really.”

Mr Lawrence appeared at the stairs with Laura behind. He made it a grand entrance
but the coppers didn’t notice. They noticed instead how short Laura’s skirt
was as she negotiated the remaining steps and their knees bent in Dock-Green
fashion.

Mr Lawrence said to DS Butler, “I know you said you’d see me again, but I didn’t
expect it to be so soon. As much as I like to help the police, you are starting
to get in the way of business. Customers don’t come in when the police are here.
People have a natural aversion to the police. And can you blame them? Something
to do with them shooting innocent people, I imagine, and the uniforms. Think
of the staff behind the counters of the big banks with their spotted skirts
and croupier fingers. You see what I mean?”

Butler glanced at his hand. “You hurt yourself?”

“A little accident with the guillotine, nothing much.”

“Well, it’s starting to bleed again. You should get it seen to.” “My goodness,
you’re right.”

“Did you talk to Sandra, Sir?”

“Of course I did, and more than once. Her palette was entirely wrong for the
subject. To be honest, I think the twins should think about another pastime.
Art is not for them. It never has been. They should be out enjoying themselves
in clubs with loud music and class A drugs.”

They used the studio to take their statements. Finally, Mr Lawrence said, “That’s
my blood on the table, by the way. Not Sandra’s. To my knowledge Sandra never
cut herself here. I’d like to make that quite clear. Perhaps you could write
that down in one of your pocketbooks. Those little books that you people always
refer to in court. The books that are filled with your little white lies.”

“I think I can remember the notebooks that you’re referring to, Sir.” Butler
threw him a tight smile. “But I’m not sure about your little white lies. In
the notebooks that I have seen there has been nothing little or white about
them.”

“I like you, Mr Butler. You have a stripe or two. You’re a professional. It’s
your average plod that I’m concerned about, and they’re really not very good,
are they?”

Butler smiled. “You worry about the coppers like me, Sir. Not the others.”

Mr Lawrence nodded and smiled back. “In that case I shall look forward to seeing
you again. It has always been a pleasure.” Superintendents Baxter and Billingham
shared a car to Hinckley. Given their uneasy relationship it was a measure of
the heat they were feeling from the top floor. There was nothing like a common
enemy in the building of a united front.

Cole was already there. He had left early to give Wooderson the nod and provide
a few precious minutes to tidy the office. In the CID office and with Billingham
at his side, Baxter addressed the small team. “You’ve narrowed the field. You’ve
made up your minds and you’ve broken the first rule in good detective work and
that is to keep an open mind.”

Billingham nodded his agreement, his sharp eyes shifting from Wooderson to Butler
and lingering on Anian Stanford who sat at her desk looking dark and uncomfortable.

“You’ve made this personal,” Baxter went on. “Every woman on your list will
have visited every shop in the High Road. They will have visited the supermarket
every week, if not twice a week, since it was opened. So what makes Lawrence
your prime suspect? What makes him so special? His previous? That was over thirty
years ago. I’ve seen your reports. The guy lives between his shop and The British
and he has done for years. He visits the barbers once a month and the supermarket
once a week.”

Billingham couldn’t help himself. “Consider the form for a moment. It never
involved missing women. Yes, back in seventy-six he attacked them and, yes,
they were pregnant, but as Lawrence has pointed out, he never hid his handiwork!”

at might give you a lead. Do not even think about a
tea break unless you take it on the job.” Although their faces hid it well,
the members of the team knew that everything the super had mentioned had already
been covered. They were still working through the CCTV images for Sandra, and
that would take them another day at least, but they were on top of it. The prospect
of starting over sank whatever enthusiasm they might have had and they didn’t
have much to start with.