Director's Cut (41 page)

From the tiny porthole the lights of ships or oil platforms winked their
private message that life went on down there – and death, of course.
Paula was nervous, her body rigid, her head forced back and her
slender hands gripping both armrests. She trembled, as the more
attractive women often do. Only her eyes flicked from side to side.
One of the stewardesses kept a discreet eye on her, and smiled
sympathetically. Nowadays, quite rightly, they weren’t called
stewardesses. Now they were trolley dollies.

“Is it her first time, Father?”

“Like a virgin? Yes, it’s her very first time, but don’t worry, I’ll
take care of her.”

The trolley dolly, in an excellent thigh-hugging blue skirt tightened
her lips at his mention of the word virgin. She eyed the bandage. “Are
you all right? That looks nasty.”

“You wouldn’t believe what happened,” he said. “Caught my ring
finger in the confessional. All but tore it off.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t believe it.”

She went on her way, checking the other passengers, making sure
that their belts were clipped and their luggage was tucked away, noting
on the way, which passengers would buy her duty-free and which were
tight-arsed.

“Are we up yet?” Paula asked nervously.

“Dear girl, we’ve been up five minutes. We’re over the Channel,
somewhere, heading off to the Continent where Neanderthal man still
lives. In a few moments you will smell garlic and the fear of
subjugation, both of which have led to thriving industries in the
production of expensive perfume.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not going to leave you, Paula. Goodness me, I’d need a
parachute to leave you here. Or wings, maybe, and I’m no angel.”
“Please don’t leave me when we’re there, either…”

lace, you know? They have a population explosion there. Too many
babies being born. And, my goodness, we do know, don’t we, that this
world is no place for children?”

“Is it true what they say about Chinese women?”

“I’ve heard the rumours just like you, but honestly, I don’t know.
But we will find out. There is one thing, though, Paula, and take
careful note of this – write it down so you don’t forget, on the back of
your hand, if you like. It’s the salt in their cooking. We must remember
that no matter how much we enjoy sizzling king prawn Kung Po style
and duck and bean sprouts Cantonese style and crispy won ton with
sweet and sour and egg fried rice, we must watch out for the salt.”
Paula flicked him another nervous smile. But the smile held too the
look of a child who wasn’t old enough to understand. There was, about
it, the look of complete dependence. Mr Lawrence peered from the
porthole just as they broke through a dense layer of cloud and the
heavens stretched out before them, sparkling with riches, playgrounds
for the freed souls.

But Paula didn’t see the splendour; her eyes had closed and her
head tilted lifelessly forward. The black jacket had fallen open and just
below a neat tear across the breast of her blue dress, a patch of purple
spread out and resembled an opening bloom of a perfect welted thistle.
That strange sac that no one had ever heard of, had filled up and
overflowed, like the cup that had overflowed, and she was in her green
pastures, as she raced toward the glorious dawn of another Christmas
Eve.

And beamed across the universe from all those great dishes that could
be seen from space
,
perhaps catching up or even overtaking Paula’s freed
spirit, were the radio waves that carried the Christmas number one.
Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you

Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think we’re there…

“He won’t get far,” DI Rick Cole said to Sam Butler.

Butler’s wife and daughter were in the corridor and knowing how impatient Janet could be Cole was
keeping it short. She was one woman he didn’t want to upset.

Butler’s eyes sparkled. “He’s pretty bloody clever at keeping one step ahead.”

“Every exit and entry point in the known world is bottled up. He’ll surface.”

Butler nodded glumly, too wise to know that entry and exit points, particularly in the UK, didn’t mean a
damn, then grimaced and instinctively touched the thick swathe of bandages around his head as
if checking that they were still there. He asked, “What’s Marsh doing?”

“He’s doing what he always does. Hiding in his office and hoping it goes away. We’ve found the missing
women and there’ll be no more going missing, at least for a while. One way or another it’s a result.
And to Chief Superintendent Marsh that’s all that counts. That doesn’t mean you’re in for a citation, Sam.
It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to kick the shit out of you when you get out of here. You were well out
of order.” Cole relented and shrugged. “If Marsh could have us without any flak, then he would. But he
can’t. Wooderson’s on our side because he’s got nowhere to run and Baxter’s not going to say a word out
of turn. The official line is that you were both on official business. Surveillance, recommended by me and
approved by Baxter.”

Relieved, Butler asked, “And Anian?”

“She’s all right. She’s going to be fine. She was pretty well out of it. The wonders of Rohypnol or GHB
and whatever else he used. She can’t remember much at all, which is probably a good thing. She’s up
and about already and a hangover from hell isn’t stopping her.”

“She’s got some bottle, I’ll give her that, but she’s the luckiest girl in the world.”

“She passed out so didn’t see him leave. Geoff reckons that once Lawrence realized she wasn’t pregnant
that was the end of it. He never killed for killing’s sake.”

“Very considerate of him. But how could he tell?”

Cole shrugged again. “I think he knew all along. This was just an ego trip or to teach her a lesson.”
“I’ll go for the ego trip. He was taking the piss from the start. I can’t imagine he’d waste much effort on a
DC, a slip of a girl. This has all been a fucking joke and, somewhere, he’s laughing out loud. At us,
at me in particular.”

“The final count was two men, unidentified, and six women he’d operated on. Cause of death almost
certainly blood loss or physiological shock.”

“Why didn’t the radar handsets find the cellar?”

“Good question and it’s already been asked. There’s a few red faces in Tech Support but apparently they
don’t penetrate areas they’re not pointed at. The operating theatre was twenty feet away from the
Gallery’s own cellar accessed by a narrow corridor that was bricked up.”

Butler nodded again and flinched again.

“Well, anyway, that’s about it. There’s someone in the corridor that wants to say hello.”
“Janet?”

“And Lucy, of course.”

Sam Butler smiled. He watched Cole move to the door then said, “Rick.”

With the door half-open Cole hesitated and turned to face his old colleague. “Forget it, Sam.”
Butler nodded.

“We need you back. There’s been a whole bunch of shit come in.”

“Like?”

“Like our slasher’s had another go. Big time. This time she killed someone in the underpass. Cut him to
bits. I say him, but he was dressed as a woman, a fucking cross-dresser would you believe. We’re
working on the theory that she got a bit pissed-off when she discovered it wasn’t a woman and really
went to town.”

“What else?”

“The gas explosion.”

“Go on?”

“It wasn’t. Or rather, it was, but detonated with an explosive charge made of aspirin.”
Butler whistled. “Jesus, that’s a big step from allotment sheds. A double murder. What’s happening to
Sheerham? Cross-dressing, transvestites coming out the woodwork, bombings, slashers, murders. It’s
becoming a dangerous place to live.”

“Yep. That’s what comes from taking the plods off the street.”

The DS grinned. “Have there been any results at all?”

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“Remember the mannequin nicked from the supermarket? Found her. Took her back. The manager had to
give her a bath to get rid of some unwanted hair.”

Butler frowned, wanting more.

Cole smiled, not giving any.

And the white door with its square window swung shut.

He’d been dying.

He’d given up without a fight.
He’d watched his blood spreading out and he just lay there, not caring one way or the other.
He needed help. He needed someone like himself to help him.

He was giving in too easily.

The midnight light caught the boy’s face and turned it as smooth as ivory. His eyes had darkened and his
eyelashes seemed incredibly long. His slim frame leant toward the window.

“I know you, don’t I? Yeah, yeah. It’s you. I thought you might be back, some day. One day. Like, you
know, don’t you? Dosh, dosh, dick, dick. Gotta be it. Can’t hide it. Not really. But you don’t hang around
here, do you? Or didn’t you know?” The voice was confident, older, and faintly taunting. This was his
turf, after all, and there was someone in the shadows listening in. “What happened to your face?”
“Doesn’t matter.”

“Nice one. Bet it wasn’t shaving. Well, shall I get in, or what?

Dick, dick. Make up your mind?”

“You’ve got the wrong idea, just like before.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Honest I do. Well, time’s ticking. Time is dosh. Dosh, right? Dick dosh, dick dosh.
No time to chat, right?”

The street was surprisingly busy. But maybe not that surprising. Revellers staggered from the boozers
toward the clubs, green bottles swinging. It was party night and it had to last until New Year’s Eve.
“Get in.”

He pulled open the door, waved to the shadow who watched from a shop doorway then slid into the
passenger seat. Closer, lost in the leather, he seemed even slimmer than before. The sweet scent of weed
filled the car. Female leaf or maybe pollen. It was strong. It was on his hands and in his clothes.
The car pulled out into traffic and neon strip washed the windscreen. In the car the lights slid across their
faces. The boy stirred nervously, his feet tapping the devil’s dance, his laced fingers opening and closing.
It was always a gamble. You could never tell. Psychos

looked like the man next door. This one worked with the coppers but that didn’t mean a thing. He knew
this one, but you never knew, not really.

“Tick tock, dick dosh.”

“What do they call you now? Has it changed?”

“Anything you like.”

“You choose?”

“Noel then. I like Noel.”

“Christmas?”

“Oasis. Noel Gallagher.”

Maynard smiled into the darkness. Another strip blinked red as they passed a fried chicken takeaway. It
flared on his stitches. He asked, “How old are you?” The red went out and left him in green from the
dash.

“Thirteen if you like. Or sixteen. Or eighteen if it bothers you. I’m easy. I know a place. Supermarket car
park is good, at the back. Empty at this time. Dick, dick. That’s the place. The barrier’s always up.”
Maynard shook his head. He skirted Lover’s Wood and pulled in at the back, beyond a line of shivering
firs. The floor beneath was thick with needles and cones that crunched under the wheels. The car pushed
through grass and bramble that swiped at the windows and sprang up behind them. He turned off the
engine and they sat in the dark listening to the wind. The woods creaked and the grass brushed against the
car.

Patches of night sky freed itself from the rushing clouds and glistened enough to glow on the boy’s
delicate features.

Maynard said quietly, “It’s almost Christmas Day.”

The boy glanced at the dash clock. “Yeah, that’s a thing, innit? I’m going to be your Christmas present.”

They had cleared out the Warren.

The kids had gone along with the weird bastard who looked out for them. When Ticker Harrison and his
men arrived it was silent.

There was no peace on earth and goodwill – and definitely no rest – for Ticker Harrison’s merry men.
They knew who paid the bills and for this year at least the herald-angels kept their hallelujahs in check.
They broke open a door and marched in, ready to knock the shit out of anything that moved. But they’d
gone.

Breathless Billy said, “Told you I had it all in hand, Boss. We didn’t need to check, not on a night like
this. For fuck sake, I can take care of a bunch of fucking…kids!”

“Yeah, you’re right Breath, but the cunt that was with them, there was something about him I didn’t like.
He was a fucking nutter and you never know what’s going on in a nutter’s head.”

Ticker had coped with the news of his wife’s death better than anyone expected. There had been no
mourning, not that they had seen.

As far as Ticker was concerned, she’d had an affair with some fucker in Spain, more likely than not a
greasy fucked-up paella type with a mouth from here to Barcelona. She’d had her affair, come back, gone
to the shop, and that’s where Lawrence had gutted her. Lawrence, that old fucker, had saved him the
bother. He would have shaken his hand, the one with the missing finger. He had even taken down her
picture from that place above the fireplace. Given it to a charity shop. They had sold it the same day to a
man in brown shoes, for two pounds and fifty pence.

“But I do know where you’re coming from, Breathless Billy. I’ve learned a few important lessons in the
last few weeks. And one of them is you can’t trust anyone. Fuck me, if you can’t trust your own wife,
who the fuck can you trust?”

“I know that, Boss. I know that. But women is different. You learn in fucking junior school that you can’t
trust them. Even then they’re nicking your fags, ain’t they? Think of that fucking, you know, what’s her
fucking name?”

“Eh?”

“Mata Hairy or something.”

“Never heard of her.”

“Then there was fucking Eve, right? Read between the lines and she shoved a fucking apple up her
muffta.”

“Since when have you read the fucking bible?”

Breathless Billy shook a sad head. “You can’t fucking trust them. But men are different. Some of us.
Some of us is trustworthy. Like your brother, maybe, or your fucking priest. Or, and this is the point,
Boss, your fucking right-hand man. Namely me.”