Director's Cut (34 page)

“It does stink down here,” Paul repeated.

“The damp has rotted everything. One day the foundations will give
up and the whole of the Gallery will fall into this place. Hopefully I
won’t be here then. That’s in the future and who knows about that?
Come on, let’s get the door closed and sealed before it pervades the
shop.”

“That’s a neat word, Mr Lawrence, pervades. What does it mean?”
“Permeate.”

“Oh, right, permeate. Hairstyles. Right?”

In the studio he told them, “While I finish in here clean up the shop
and for God’s sake hurry. Get rid of the blood, wash the knife and,
Paul, get out of those ridiculous clothes. Quickly now, put the models
back in the window before they’re missed. Dawn will be breaking soon
and the milkmen will be out.”

They were just completing their tasks when Mr Lawrence carried
the Santa outfit into the shop. Laura carried a bowl of pink water
through to the sink and Paul was dressing the model in the window. He
seemed to be enjoying himself. He needed reminding about the wig.
Together, they dressed Father Christmas and finished in time to
hear the faint rattle of the first milk floats.

“Come on, we need a few hours sleep. The shop might be a little
late opening. I’ll make an exception.”

“I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep,” Paul muttered. “I’m still
shaking.”

“Keep the light on. The demons don’t like the light.”

Laura seemed unconcerned. She handled it well. Or hid it. Women
were like that. Devious. And being a creature of the night, working the
night shift, she wasn’t tired. While their eyes stung hers remained
bright and alert.

She lay in his bed naked and cool. Later, with dawn creeping
slowly, Paul crept in and climbed into bed on Luscious Laura’s side.
“You’ll never guess, Mr Lawrence,” he murmured.

“I bet I can.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I went down the cellar to check he was dead
and…”

“What is it, Paul?”

“He’s gone, Mr Lawrence. He’s gone!”

“Don’t worry yourself. Cuddle up. Under this sheet you’re quite
safe.”

He cuddled up against Laura’s behind. She must have liked it
between the two of them for her breathing grew louder.

Sex and violence; sex and violence; they went together like a…
Paul lay still and frowned.

…silence? Absence?

Paul’s eyes became narrow slits.

…horse and cart. Yeah!

Laura fidgeted and Paul smiled, and moved again.

Laura whispered, “Oh, Mr Lawrence…”

But Mr Lawrence was sleeping like a baby who’d been fed a
teaspoon full of brandy.

But Paul was awake and he was enjoying himself. And Laura
responded and moved in time with Mr Lawrence’s snores. And as she
moved she whispered, “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you…”
But Mr Lawrence was out of it, somewhere else, somewhere where
faint hearts couldn’t follow, rattling like a rattler.

The man who looked like a doctor smiled wisely. “Mr Lawrence, isn’t
it?”

“I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”

“Sit down, you mean?”

“Yes. A few private moments.”

“I hope it won’t involve a prescription?”

“No, not at all.”

“It’s really not on. You could come to my office during office
hours. Oh, why not? Come on then. Over there. Does that look private
enough?”

“It’s good of you.”

“Yes, you’re right. How is Paul?”

“It’s Paul I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Thought it might be. Well, fire away?”

“His room is filled with baby things. Dolls, rattles, clothes.”
“What about the voice?”

“He’s often difficult to understand.”

“Gibberish?”

“Absolutely.”

“Let me give you some background. You need to understand what
you’re dealing with. In this country about one person in one
hundred…”

“One percent.”

“Exactly. One percent of the population is subject to schizophrenia
at some time in life. Loosely that means that in every street of about
fifty houses or so someone there suffers from schizophrenia.”
“Goodness me, that is surprising.”

“Now you’ll probably want to know exactly what it is. Well, no one
knows. If they tell you they do, they’re lying. That’s the top and
bottom of it. Opinion is divided. To the layperson it is madness, the
lunatic with the split personality. Norman Bates, Jekyll and Hyde. The
specialists are in two camps. Some see it as a biological illness and
others believe that external factors alone are the cause. In other words
no one is born with it. Most scientists believe in the biological
condition and indeed, they have a powerful argument. Twins, parted at
birth, both suffering from the same condition and so on. They,
therefore, are in favour of neuroleptic drugs – thioridazine, pimoxide,
orphenadrine, and these do have a calming influence. They certainly
silence the voices. As a matter of interest, have you ever considered
double glazing for your shop?”

“Not really.”

“You should. You should give it some serious thought. Prices are
bound to rise next year. And this year is nearly done. This government
is hell-bent on putting everything up.”

“Yes, you’re right. The Dome, the London Eye…”

“The other school considers that these psychological disorders have
their source in childhood, that the subject has adopted a behavioural
pattern in order to shield himself against family madness. Now this is
interesting. Part of the treatment is reparenting – the cathexis technique

– to take the patient back to the baby stage so that they can begin
again. You see the connection? Babies, dolls? This treatment is
controversial. Some would call it brainwashing, that it breeds
dependence and doesn’t get to the root cause which is biological. Both
camps are locked in this bitter dispute. The patient, of course, when
reason is lost to bitterness, is the loser. The truth, probably, almost
certainly, lies somewhere between both camps, as truth often does: that
it is biological, but that it is exacerbated by external influence. But
there you are. There is nothing on earth more dangerous than the
expert. If I were you I’d consider the new PVC lines. It saves an awful
lot of time in painting and varnishing and all those uncivilized chores.”
“What about the voices?”

“Ah, yes, the voices. They talk to you. Sometimes they call you
names, and not your own name. You fear them. They are generally
deep frightening voices, unless they are female. Not many are. They
are unfriendly and threatening and you can’t turn them off. Pain
silences them. That’s why a lot of patients hurt themselves. With
knives and razor-blades and matches and, sometimes less obviously,
with chicken vindaloo and jogging and visiting the gym. In older
people the voices lead to acute persecution complex – paranoia.”
“And the outlook?”

“Without help, things will only get worse. The voices, after all,
represent one’s own subconscious.”

“They told him he was an electrician and he blew up my shop.”
“Exactly.”

“They told him he was a salesman and he sells a lot of ducks.”
“Ducks?”

“Yes.”

“Ducks, flying? Yes, that makes sense. Do you have many
paintings of ducks in your gallery?”

“They do very well.”

“They’re obviously on his mind.”

“They’re on everyone’s mind, or so it seems. They fly up walls
over cheap and nasty gas fires.”

“I wonder if he dabbles with acid.”

“I could ask him.”

“It would explain a lot.”

“The police came. Talked to him. Apparently a girl he knew has
gone missing.”

“What was she like?”

“Average, slim. Her name is Sandra.”

“No! No! I mean interests. Do they have anything in common?”
“Badminton.”

“Shuttlecocks! Feathers! Ducks! Good grief man! Norman Bates
stuffed birds. He was a taxidermist!”

“I see.”

“You could recover your costs easily. Your heating bills would be
cut in half…”

“I’ll tell you what,” Mr Lawrence said in all sincerity. “I would like
you to come around and give me an estimate. You’ve talked me into it.
And when you come perhaps we could discuss Paul a little more.”
“Absolutely. Good idea.” He rubbed his red hands together. Mr
Lawrence noticed the red scaly patches of psoriasis.

“There is one thing…”

“Go on?” A slight look of concern wrinkled the brow.

“There’s a roof light in the cellar. One of those old pavement lights,
you know the sort of thing. You’d have to do something with that.”
“My dear Mr Lawrence that will be no problem at all. We’ll sort
something out. Would you like a drink? Exactly how many windows
and doors do you have in your shop?”

“Enough. A few. Enough to throw light on the subject. And then
you can measure up the cellar window for me. That’s always going to
be the tricky one for you.”

He stuck up a firm finger. “Don’t you worry about that. When it
comes to cellars I’m an expert.”

Mr Lawrence smiled a wicked little smile.

the villains never slept.

At Hinckley the depression was deep. Helen Harrison’s car had
produced a nil return and also, as expected but made all but irrelevant
by HQ’s visit, forensics confirmed that the swabbed, bagged, tweezercollected
and Hoover-sucked samples from the Gallery had produced

nothing new. The team, bleary-eyed from viewing footage from the
CCTVs covering the High Road and from the local shops and banks,
concentrated once again on the specialized charities and other outfits
that involved missing persons.

Not many of them believed that Lawrence was still in the frame and
even DS Butler was having doubts. Only DC Anian Stanford remained
convinced, but then, she knew him more than most and she had what
the others did not – a woman’s intuition.

The DC didn’t need an A-level to work out what was wrong with
Sam Butler. Apart from the dressing-down he’d received from
Wooderson and the criticism from Detective Superintendent Baxter
which had upset him even more, confiding in him about her feelings
toward Rick Cole had been a big mistake. Even so his reaction had still
come as a surprise. And it should not have done. She was old enough
to know about men by now, and when it came to women they were all
the same.

So much for his wife and kid, Janet and Lucy. So much for the
doting dad!

Plato eat your heart out. You got it wrong again.

But what of Cole himself? Anian had picked up a rumour that he
was more than friendly with a certain PC who’d been seconded to his
team. She wondered if it was the PC who’d taken her own place. Now
that would be ironic.

She sat in her car thinking about it all, Cole included, aware that
she was running out of time and options. The final session with
Lawrence was on her. It was her last shot and she hadn’t got a plan to
take it forward.

What was it Geoff Maynard had said? Use the religious card? She
shook her head. Religion wasn’t going to excite Lawrence, not any
more. Even if it had figured in his past he’d got it under control.
And that left the other option, every girl’s secret weapon. And there
was something inevitable about the way it had panned out, that sooner
or later she had always intended using it.

In the office she caught up with DS Butler.

“Sam, I have a confession to make.”

He was still smarting and almost said, ‘Another one’, but that
would have been too churlish and she didn’t deserve it. Instead he tried
a conciliatory smile that wasn’t too convincing and ended up more like
a grimace.

She made sure they were out of earshot and said hurriedly, “I went
for another session with Lawrence. He’s still painting me.”
Butler sat down heavily. His face darkened as he waited for more
and she worried that the others in the room would pick up on it.
“I couldn’t give up,” she insisted.

“You were told…” His voice sounded oddly broken.

“I know. And it’s down to me.”

“It was a formal instruction, Anian, and it wasn’t mine. You’ll lose
your job here.”

“I know.”

“I’ll have to report it.”

“I know that too.”

“For Christ sake, why?”

“Because we’re that close and because we know he’s guilty.”
Butler swallowed air.

“The thing is, it’s my last session with him tomorrow and things are
coming to a head…”

“Wrong! It was going to be your last session.”

“Sam…”

“Sam nothing. We’re on the line here, right out on a limb. Do you
think they’ll believe I had no knowledge of all this? Everyone knows,
or they think they do, how close we are. Partners, isn’t that the word?”
“It’s too late now. We can’t stop now.”

“Yes we can. And we will. You will!”

“Then I’ll do it without you, Sam, and if it goes pear-shaped I’ll
deny you had any involvement.”

“Like I said, you think they’ll believe you?”

“You can’t stop me. Not now.”

“Don’t call me Sam,” he said without a smile, playing for time.
He was in a corner and he knew it. All he wanted was out. A result
was no longer a priority. Survival and a pension came first.
He said, “I don’t like it, Anian. We’re way out of our depth.”
“It’s our last shot. If this fails we’ve got nothing, not a thing.
Nothing will go wrong. He doesn’t take chances. He’s not going to tip
Rohypnol or anything else into the wine. Somehow he’s got to get me
out of there to wherever it is he takes them. Whatever happens it won’t
be in the shop. He’s not going to carry me, is he?”

“He could use a threat, a knife – maybe we missed a firearm.”
“Sam, nothing was missed. Sure he could use a knife, but he’s not
going to frogmarch me along the High Road and if he comes out back,
you’ll be there.”

“Will I?” he said. “Someone should be out front. What if his
lodgers help?”

“He won’t involve them. John Lawrence is a loner. And who else
would you get?”

He nodded reluctantly. “No one.”

She threw him a tentative smile. “But you will help me?”
“You’re not giving me a choice. I can’t let you do it alone.”
“That’s what I’d hope you’d say.” She reached forward and
touched his sleeve. “Don’t worry.”