Cutter's Firm

by Julie Morrigan

  ‘We don’t have anywhere existing that’s suitable, I don’t think,’ says Tommy slowly. I can see him mentally checking off the gym, the arcade, the car showroom and the nightclub.

  ‘Actually, we might have,’ says Liam. I look at him, hard. ‘There’s the basement at the nightclub.’

  I look at him. ‘Basement?’

  ‘The area behind the drinks cellar runs all the way under the building. It’s massive. Mr Mackintosh used to run a … personal service for favoured clients down there, back in the eighties. It had been out of use for some years when he died, but it would be easy enough to fit it out again.’

  The nightclub, Gold, was part of Mac’s domain when I took it over; now it’s the jewel in the crown of my business empire.

  ‘We’ll have to go and have a look,’ I say. I must admit, I’ve never ventured beyond the drinks cellar. I didn’t think there was anything else down there to see.

  ‘Shall we go now?’ Wayne says, looking keen.

  ‘There’s no need for us all to go,’ I say. ‘Me, Liam and Tommy should be enough. You stay and keep an eye on Doc.’

  Wayne looks unhappy but he says nothing. I finish my whisky and nod at the other two. ‘Ready?’

  We walk out and I can feel Wayne’s eyes on me; there’ll be a head-to-head with that fucker one day soon; I can feel it coming.

  5: Jack

  The journey from reception to outside passes like I’m in a dream. I’m given back the things I had on me when I arrived three years ago and I hardly recognise them; I stare at them like they’re someone else’s possessions, which in some ways they are. I’m not the same person I was then, nothing like. I have to check them off against a list, then sign something and then – finally – doors are opened and I step outside.

  It’s morning, but it’s dull and overcast, barely light. I don’t care, though; I’m out, I’m free. Not that you’d think it the way my feet are suddenly rooted to the spot. Outside seems so … big.

  ‘Come on, son,’ says Mam and she urges me onward. I’m expecting a long walk followed by a long bus journey – the YOI is out in the sticks and a good distance from home – but she guides me towards a car.

  I don’t recognise the vehicle and I don’t know the bloke behind the wheel. Mam sits in the back with me and I wonder whether she’s hired him, wonder if, even though there’s no sign on the top, it’s actually a taxi, but then she says, ‘Jack, this is Ian, he’s my boss.’

  The bloke turns in his seat and I nod at him. ‘Hi,’ I say, then I don’t know what to say next.

  ‘This is our Jack,’ Mam says to him. ‘I hope you don’t mind us both sitting in the back.’

  ‘Of course not,’ he says, ‘you’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Put your seat belts on and I’ll have you home in no time.’

  ‘I wanted this to be a surprise,’ Mam’s saying to me. ‘I just wanted to get you home safe and in comfort.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ I tell her. ‘Thanks, Mr … Ian,’ I say to the bloke, and he gives me a smile in the rear-view mirror, his eyes on the scars on my face.

  ‘My pleasure, Jack,’ he says, then Mam grabs hold of my hands and won’t let go until we’re home. We don’t talk much and none of what we say is important, but it’s all I can handle for now. I’ve longed for this day for so long and now it’s finally here, it’s overwhelming. If I say too much, I might break down and cry.

  When we pull up outside the house, Ian says, ‘There you go, safe and sound.’

  ‘Will you come in for a cup of tea?’ Mam says, and he shakes his head.

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll leave you to it. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to talk about and I’ll bet young Jack here just wants to put his feet up and relax for a bit.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For the lift, I really appreciate it.’

  ‘No problem. Take care, son. Look after your mother.’

  We get out of the car and he watches until we’re in the door, then toots his horn and drives off.

  Inside, things are both different and the same. The sitting room has had a coat of paint and there’s a new telly; Dad sits in the same seat with a glass of whisky in his hand, the bottle on the floor at his feet. I find it easy to believe he hasn’t moved in the three years I’ve been away.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ I say and he looks at me as if he doesn’t know me.

  ‘Jack,’ he says at last. ‘Welcome home, son.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, it’s good to be back.’

  I look around; the Christmas tree is in its usual place in the corner and the other armchair has been pushed further into the room to make space for it.

  Mam bustles in with mugs of hot tea for me and her, but she doesn’t offer one to Dad.

  ‘I’ll sort some lunch out in a bit,’ she says, ‘let’s just have a cuppa and catch our breath.’

  Dad gets up from the chair and comes over to me. He’s none too steady, but he’s determined, and he puts his arms around me and gives me a hug. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he says and his voice is thick with tears. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘None of this was your fault,’ I say as I hug him back, and I’m struck by how the man I used to literally look up to, the man who could whisk me up on to his shoulders or swing me through the air like I weighed nothing, is diminished. It breaks my heart to see and I know exactly who is to blame for this.

  Cutter.

  We all sit down, Mam and me on the sofa with our tea and Dad in his usual seat with his whisky, and the empty armchair screams injustice. Three years and we still don’t know where my sister Livvy is or what’s happened to her. Three years of worrying and speculating.

  I look at Dad and I don’t wonder why he drinks. If anything, I wonder why Mam doesn’t.

  6: Millie

  I’ve been checking out this Gordon Cutter character since the fire at the caravan park. He’s quite the local success story.

  As far as I can make out, he’s got five businesses: as well as the caravan park, there’s the amusement arcade, a gym, a second-hand car sales outfit and Gold, the poncey nightclub in town. That’s a canny little haul for somebody not yet out of their thirties.

  He got married last year to his second wife, and has two kids from his first marriage. He has custody, which is unusual, but the mother seems to have been unstable. He had her sectioned at one point; she was apparently considered a threat both to her own safety and to the safety of the children.

  I’m curious about him, I have to say. And then there’s that fire.

  When I was talking to the guys who helped put it out, they told me that while there wasn’t a lot left, what they found indicated that people had been living in the torched vans quite recently and, from the look of it, there had been kids there. The other static caravans on the site just looked like empty holiday homes. One of the firemen said he had a bad feeling about it. To him it looked more like deliberate destruction than casual arson. He has no proof, just a feeling based on years of experience, but it’s enough to make me wonder if someone was trying to hide something.

  So did the poor little beggar who got run over come from there? She hasn’t been identified yet and no one has come forward to say a child has gone missing. The police are checking old records, but how the hell can no one miss a little girl, aged ten or eleven, a week before Christmas?

  I sit back in my chair and scratch my head. It’s a mystery, and it’s got my curiosity meter off the scale.

  ‘Millie? You got a minute?’ I look up to see the boss’s head sticking out of his office doorway, finger beckoning me to join him.

  ‘Sure.’ I get up and head in to join him. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘What are you working on?’ he asks, as he sits back down behind his desk.

  ‘I’ve been looking into the fire at that caravan park.’

  ‘I thought that was cut and dried? Kids, arson, wasn’t it?’

  I nod. ‘It is cut and dried, on the surface at least. But there were ap
parently people living in the caravans that were torched, including children, and then there’s that little girl who got killed on the coast road. There’s a story there, I can feel it.’ I fill him in on what I know. ‘The owner is some bloke called Gordon Cutter. He’s got a lot of business interests, including Gold.’

  ‘The nightclub?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going there tonight to see if I can suss anything out,’ I say, surprising myself with the decision I’ve just made.

  ‘Okay, but be careful.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Cutter has a bit of a reputation. He might be trying to appear to be squeaky clean right now, but it wasn’t always the case. He’s been involved in some pretty dodgy stuff in the past. Mind you, he’s bloody Teflon coated; nothing ever sticks.’

  ‘Interesting. I’ll check the archives, see what I can find out.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’ll get from it, but it’s the silly season, so go ahead.’

  ‘Thanks, boss.’

  ‘Just don’t forget your other obligations, do you hear?’

  ‘All in hand. I’ve got the annual charity Christmas bazaar at St Nick’s this afternoon and an amateur dramatic production of A Christmas Carol this evening.’

  ‘Let me know what you turn up on Cutter.’

  After agreeing I will, I head back out to my desk. Some of the archives have been digitised and are on the intranet; others, stored on microfiche or in dusty piles of papers on shelves, are in the basement. I decide to start with the digital stuff; it’s cleaner.

  Three hours later I have a sore neck and eye strain, and precious little to show for my troubles. I stand and stretch, then pick up my car keys and my bag.

  ‘Hey, Carl,’ I say, heading over to the photographers’ area, ‘you about ready?’

  Carl saves the image he’s working on and stands up. ‘Aye, no bother.’ He checks his camera bag and hefts it onto his shoulder. ‘Where we off to again?’

  ‘St Nick’s. Christmas bazaar.’

  ‘I always look forward to that. I hope that woman who makes the jam is there; I love her stuff.’

  ‘And the shortbread lady.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I’m under instructions from the missus to bring some of that home as well, plus some ginger wine.’

  I grin and we head out to the car. Life on a small, local paper; probably the same the world over.

  7: Cutter

  Me, Tommy and Big Liam are in the car heading over to this house Tommy got his eye on. We’re meeting the estate agent there and sure enough, when we pull in, there’s a Golf with the driver’s window cracked and smoke snaking out into the cold morning air. It’s crisp and bright and we might get snow for Christmas; I hope we do, the bairns will be made up.

  By the time we’re out of the car, so’s the estate agent; the fag end’s been dumped and stamped out and she’s suited and booted, professional smile and firm handshake at the ready.

  ‘Mr Cutter?’ she says, and I step forward.

  ‘That’s me,’ I confirm and we shake hands. ‘And these are my associates, Mr Bradley and Mr Gunn.’ She shakes hands with Big Liam and Tommy, then turns to the property.

  ‘As you can see, it’s a substantial house in its own grounds. It has the benefit of not being overlooked by any neighbours and enjoys privacy and a sense of isolation while actually being very close to a large urban conurbation.’ She fishes the keys out of her bag. ‘It’s brick-built, with a slate roof and the original sash windows.’ She opens the door and stands aside to let us in. We all troop through a porch and into the entrance hall. ‘The house enjoys original features and fittings and …’

  And blah blah blah. I’m not interested in all that flannel. I look around and like what I see. As well as the hall, which is a decent size, there are two big reception rooms downstairs, plus a bathroom, kitchen and utility room. The first floor has four bedrooms, all en-suite, and the top floor has three bedrooms and a small bathroom, all with dormer windows. The place has potential, massive potential.

  I’ve been thinking about making a few changes to the business ever since I saw the room Mac had set up at the club. The basement beyond the drinks cellar held a couple of old mattresses and a headboard, but there was also, through a separate door in the far end, a dungeon – no kidding, a fucking dungeon! It was about ten foot square, with shackles set into the brickwork, a ring in the ceiling with chains and manacles hanging from it, a cupboard full of flails, paddles and whips, handcuffs, ball gags, gimp masks … there must have been some hard-core dominatrix shit going on there and I wonder if Mac was into it himself. Young Mac, his son, probably was, the soppy little shite. I glance at Big Liam and wonder about him. Does the big man like a spanking from a woman dressed in rubber? I’d be interested to know.

  The bird leads us downstairs and back into the kitchen, then opens a door I’d assumed to be a pantry.

  ‘Down here we have the cellar,’ she says, pulling on a cord and turning on the light. We go down the stone steps and I’m knocked out by what we find. It’s a huge open space, an underground tomb.

  ‘The previous owners only used it for storage, but there’s plenty of scope for creating rooms if you want to.’

  She’s right, there is; it’s huge.

  ‘What’s that?’ says Tommy, pointing to a chute in the rear wall.

  ‘Oh, that’s a coal chute. The river runs through the grounds at the back and in the last century coal was delivered here by boat. It’s overgrown now, but there’s an old paved path leading from here to the water. The coal would be loaded onto a cart, wheeled up to the house and tipped in through the chute.’ She smiles. ‘It was probably handy for smugglers, too.’

  That’s it; my decision is made.

  ‘I know what the asking price is,’ I say, ‘but realistically, what will they settle for?’

  She purses her lips and looks at me. ‘I probably shouldn’t say this, but the vendors are two siblings who live abroad. This was actually their grandparents’ house. Their parents had it for a number of years, but I don’t think they ever lived in it. It was too much for them so they just let it sit. The current owners really just want rid of it. I think they’d be interested if you offered in the region of …’ She names a price range that makes me very happy. ‘There might be a little bit of haggling, but I think they’d accept something in the general ballpark.’

  ‘Good enough. My solicitor will be in touch.’ I shake her hand. ‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ she says, looking pleased with herself. She probably thought she’d have this place on the books for months, and here she’s selling it within a few weeks.

  In the car on the way back I ring Wayne and tell him to get in touch with Charlie, Dek and Doc; they’re all to meet us at the safe house in an hour. There are changes afoot and things to discuss.

  ***

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I say, when the girl has sorted everyone out with what they want and buggered off out of the way, ‘I have seen the future, and it’s kinky.’

  I look round at them all and see a crowd of expectant faces.

  ‘The house we looked at is perfect for the next stage of the business,’ I tell them, and I describe the layout and the situation for the benefit of the people who weren’t there at the viewing. ‘On top of that, there’s a cellar. It’s huge. Plus, the river runs through the grounds at the back and there’s a path right from the water to an old coal chute that tips right into the cellar.’

  ‘Handy for smugglers, the estate agent said,’ Big Liam adds.

  ‘Secret deliveries,’ says Wayne. ‘Very useful!’

  ‘What did you mean when you said the future was kinky?’ asks Dek. He’s one of Mac’s old crew; he and Charlie joined my firm when I took over and they run the car lot for me.

  ‘Did you know Mac had a dungeon at Gold?’ I ask him. He looks at Charlie and they both shake their heads. ‘Well, he did. Apparently it hadn’t been used for a while, but it’s there, and it got
me thinking, especially with that daft kid getting itself killed.’ I take a drink from the Jack Daniel’s the girl poured for me. ‘It’s time to go legit.’

  ‘What?’ says Wayne. ‘Legit? How?’

  ‘Well, not legit, exactly, but it’s time to stop selling kids and start selling kink. We’ll have girls and boys over the legal age and cater for the perverts.’

  ‘Don’t we cater for the perverts now?’ asks Wayne.

  ‘Different kind of pervert. The kind who like to dress up as babies while nanny feeds them a bottle, or get their arses slapped while they’re chained to a wall.’

  ‘Dominatrix stuff, that always used to be popular,’ rumbles Liam, his voice even deeper than usual, and I wonder if I’m stirring a few memories here.

  ‘I’m not being funny, boss, and I’m sure it’ll sell, but what do we actually know about anything like that?’ asks Charlie.

  It’s a fair question. There’s the chickens and the massage parlour above the gym, but I don’t really know how to set up for that sort of specialist stuff. ‘Next to fuck all at the moment,’ I tell him, ‘but we need to get the house fixed up first anyway, so we’ve got plenty of time to learn.’ I know this is the right thing to do; my gut tells me it is.

  ‘I know someone who might be able to help,’ says Liam.

  ‘Good enough. Get him in for a meet,’ I say.

  ‘Not a him, it’s a her.’

  ‘Get her in, then. Soon as you like.’

  ‘What about the chickens?’ asks Doc. ‘We’ve still got ten upstairs.’ He’s wearing a fat bandage on his hand and a wary expression on his face, but he’s accepted me taking his finger was fair punishment.

  ‘They’re doing my head in,’ says the girl, and I realise she’s come in and is topping drinks up.

  ‘Aren’t they doped?’ I ask.

  ‘Most of the time,’ says Doc, ‘but they have to be allowed to come round to eat and take the odd bath, if nothing else.’