Director's cut

by I K Watson

  Right away they knew it wouldn't be easy.

  He was streetwise, as familiar with the police and police procedure as was his punter, Rodney Grant. He'd wait for the duty social worker, get an overnight accommodation and then leg it. He'd done it a dozen times before. No big deal. When it came to kids the police were helpless, strapped by so many rules it made it impossible. The system helped them back on to the streets. Secure accommodation, even when it was available, was a joke. Social Services were in the same boat as the police. At the end of the day it came down to funding, or lack of it, and the years of restraints or, more to the point, indifference, to the street kids and a society in free fall, would take years to redress. Donna placed a Coke on the table.

  “Thanks,” he said and pulled the ring. He took a gulp as if it were life or death.

  Donna said, “Brian, we need your help.”

  He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. “Remember the guy with the tattoo? The snake wrapped around the dagger?”

  He sniffed, “So what?”

  “He's a regular. You should. You turned a little trick in the supermarket car park, remember?”

  He shrugged and slouched further into the chair.

  “He picked you up in the Square, your usual patch outside the fitness club.”

  He remained blank.

  “Can you remember what time it was? Or what day?”

  Another shrug of his bony shoulders, then, “Eight, nine maybe.” “What about the day?”

  He shook his head.

  “Was it last week?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What day?”

  “Think it was the weekend.”

  “Can you think of something you did before, or after, that might help you remember exactly?”

  Nothing.

  “We're looking for someone who might have been acting suspiciously, watching the members of the fitness club as they came and went. Did you notice anyone at all?”

  “Can't think. Might have done. It is the place.”

  “Try to remember, Brian. Someone hanging around?”

  He shook his head again and swallowed some more Coke. He placed the can on the table and said, “Just the usual, the girls, you know?”

  “The girls? The prostitutes?”

  “It's the place.”

  “Do you know them?”

  He pulled a face and shrugged again.

  “Would you recognize them?”

  “Maybe.”

  Maynard couldn't resist it. He broke in. “Brian, it doesn’t suit you. Jason’s better. Your real name would be better still. How long have you been huffing, Jay?”

  The lad shot him a frown. “It ain't Jay. It's Brian.”

  “OK, my mistake, but you’re still taking it up the nose as well as up the arse, aren’t you?”

  For a moment Donna was stunned. She gave Maynard a dark backoff look.

  Peter Ward turned in his seat, uncertainty in his eyes, checking that the tape was off.

  This was going pear-shaped.

  Not at all perturbed Maynard went on, “You heard about these women who've been attacked?”

  The lad's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

  “One of these women was a member of the fitness club. We think that the person who attacked her followed her from the club. That person has probably been hanging around for some time, waiting for a likely customer. Get the picture? It's your patch. You know what goes on down there. Women are getting hurt, big time. The next one might be someone you know and care about. This bastard is cutting them to bits. Before long, a woman is going to get killed. It’s only luck that it hasn’t happened already.” He threw up his hands to emphasize the point. “Maybe you can help us, maybe not. If you can give us some faces, anyone, then maybe we can stop it happening. That's why we need your help. This isn't about you. You go your own way, if that's what you want. Do a bunk like you've done before. Go and get mashed again. Why should we care? Think about it. If you stay with Social overnight you’ll still be rattling for a huff by the time you can leg it.” The youngster's mouth dropped open.

  Maynard said, “Talk to me, Brian. Don’t worry about them.” Keeping his eyes on Brian he threw a little nod toward the police officers.

  “What about my punter?”

  “He's a nobody, right? You don't owe him a thing. Men like that should be put out with the rubbish. Wouldn’t know which bin to use though. It wouldn’t be glass or plastic, would it? Probably dog shit.” The lad grinned.

  “What about these other girls? Can you help me out?” Maynard made it personal. ‘Me’ left the others out of it.

  “I know them all, and so do your lot. Go ask Sergeant Wilson. He knows them.” He frowned and raised a finger. “But there was one I hadn't seen before and the others didn't like it.”

  Maynard smiled. “Now that's the one I'm interested in.”

  “She was different.”

  “How come?”

  “Classy, if you know what I mean. Sort of. My mates even fancied her. It was like, she wasn't, you know, playing the game. I don't know. It didn't look right. Maybe in a hotel. Not on the streets. I hadn't seen her before.”

  “Could you point her out?”

  “Maybe. She was different.”

  “But you'd recognize her again?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about men? Did you see any men?”

  “Only punters. Nothing special.”

  “Did she go off with any?”

  “Not that I saw. I could ask around.”

  “We can’t ask you to do that. If we did we’d all be in trouble. But you could point out this woman for me. There's got to be the price of a burger in it, right?”

  He looked at Donna for confirmation. She shrugged and nodded. And Brian, or Jason, said, “OK.”

  In the corridor something rather nasty was heading toward Sergeant Mike Wilson, eating up the distance between them. The duty social worker, incandescent, was firing threats loud enough for him to hear. ‘Juvenile’, ‘presence’ and ‘appropriate adult’ were just some of the words he snatched from the vibrating air.

  He thought on his feet. Fuck that, he thought and, without losing momentum, as though he’d remembered something urgent and hadn’t noticed her frantic bid for his attention, performed a sudden about-turn and hurried toward the exit to the car park and garages.

  For the copper, like the married man, the garage, like the garden shed, was a refuge, perhaps not consecrated, but as holy as any church. As Rodney Grant was led out of the building, released from police custody, he saw the social worker’s angry face and said to the uniform beside him, “Blacks, mate, all the same. And black dykes, fucking nightmare time! We should send them back to Wolverhampton or wherever the fuck they come from.”

  The kozzer agreed.

  The six o’clock news had just begun when Jack Wooderson caught up with Butler in Hinckley’s tiny canteen. The headlines were depressing, as grey as the December sky. The flickering lights in the shop windows had not done the trick. People did not believe the government's feelgood rhetoric. Plastic stayed in their pockets. And the shopkeepers were nervous. The street traders selling cheap wrapping paper, ten for a quid, were on a roll.

  “Prelims in,” Wooderson said. “Nothing. The garden hasn’t been touched this century and the cellar’s clean. They’ve found cobwebs down there that are older than the missing women. Dig up the floor and the only things you’ll find are prehistoric. Their words, not mine. All the walls are solid, crumbling but solid. They've sent some samples to the lab, but don't expect a return. If we want excavation we'll need the chief's OK. But it will be a waste of time.”

  DS Butler groaned. They'd been counting on the shop, certain that evidence would be found.

  “So what have we got?” The inspector asked, then answered his own question. “He's got form, fancies himself with a knife and was once known as the Underground Slasher. We can place two of the women in his shop. Truth be known, i
n just about every shop in the High Road. That's it. It's not half enough. Fact is, Sam, you’re sitting on fuck all.”

  Butler didn't need telling. “Let's see what he's got to say.”

  Wooderson glanced at the television and saw that it was after six. He said, “You’ll have to manage. I have a meeting.”

  Butler wondered what boozer the inspector used. He hadn't seen him in the locals.

  As he made his way to Hinckley's only interview room, Sam Butler picked up on DC Stanford’s questioning expression and paused by her desk. “The shop's as clean as… It's clean.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “A whistle.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “It sounds old-fashioned.”

  “Sam, you are old-fashioned.”

  Anian had seen the shop and the studio behind with its little kitchenette, but she was surprised that the cellar hadn't produced a return.

  “They're bringing him up now. Stay out of the way.”

  She didn’t need reminding.

  He turned to a DC sitting in front of a screen. The indexers called it a day at five. No commitment. They weren't in the job. “Rob, you're with me.”

  DC Robert Foster jumped to his feet, eager to have a go at the Underground Slasher, and followed DS Butler into the corridor. John Lawrence sat at the table relaxed and concentrating on his polished brogues. He looked up as the two detectives walked in. They sat down and went through the preliminaries. DC Foster busied himself with the machine while Butler arranged some papers on the table. Butler gave the recorder their names, time and date and then: “Mr Lawrence.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr Butler. Or is it evening yet? One does lose track of time in here.”

  “You know why you're here?”

  “Indeed. The other officer, what was he called? The custody officer, he explained.”

  Carefully, Butler spread four photographs on the desk.

  “I'm showing Mr Lawrence the photographs of Margaret Domey, Helen Harrison, Linda Brookes and Jenny Fielding. Do you recognize these women?”

  He was holding back the photograph of Imelda Cooke. She was the odd one out, on two counts. She wasn't pregnant and she had two children.

  Lawrence leant forward to examine the photographs. He took his time, concentrating on each in turn. Eventually he said, “Yes, I think so. I painted Mrs Harrison's portrait, and this one called into the shop yesterday. The others I'm not sure about. Their photographs, these photographs, are stuck to every shop window in the High Road. Mine included. But they may well have been in the shop.” His voice was calm and slightly seductive. It put you to sleep, almost, just like his eyes, unless you had a question, and knew he was guilty as hell. Butler tapped Margaret Domey's coloured image, an enlargement of her PIT. “Did Mrs Domey purchase anything?”

  “She was interested in an antique cooking pot, but it was out of her price range. She wanted to haggle. I explained that my shop was not a souk in the middle of Tunisia and she left. Fortunately, that was the last I saw of her.”

  “Did you notice anything about her?”

  “I noticed everything about her. You'll have to be more specific.” “Was she agitated or upset in any way?”

  “Agitated? That’s a curious word. After her wrangling and when she left without the cooking pot she was. Does that have a bearing?” “What about when she arrived?”

  “Ah, I see. You didn’t say that. But no, I don’t think so. On the other hand, with a woman like that it is difficult to gauge a mood. I imagine that to most people she would appear to be agitated all of the time.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Well, I'm not sure really. Before lunch, certainly.”

  “How long was she in the shop?”

  “Ten minutes, no more. I was serving another customer so she had to wait. She was rather impatient. No, even more than that, I'd say. She wasn't happy about being kept waiting. I thought she was an abrasive woman. I remember thinking that. I took an instant dislike to her.” “Do you have the name of this other customer?”

  “Afraid not. Cash sale, I think. A print. Ducks flying from water. Ducks are a best seller.” He shook a sad head. “While other men dream of Doris Day, I dream of shooting ducks.”

  Butler shook his head. Doris Day? Was she still alive? Were the men who fancied her still alive? He asked, “Did anyone see Mrs Domey leave your shop?”

  “I’ve no idea. The pavement outside is always busy, particularly at this time of year. Someone must have seen her. Maybe we can appeal for witnesses. On the television.” His eyes widened at the thought and he added, “Or maybe one of your CCTV cameras picked her up. With the number of times we’re caught on CCTV – what is it, two hundred times a day? – it is surprising that anyone could go missing. It is astonishing, really, that with all the controls the government puts in, all the checks and the listening and the spying – gosh, they even spy on our dustbins – it is surprising that a crime can still be committed.” Butler tried to ignore him. “What else did you notice?”

  Lawrence offered a sly little smile. “That she was pregnant, you mean?”

  Butler said stonily, “I didn't think it was that noticeable.”

  “Didn’t you? You have to know what to look for, of course, and it's more than just the rounded belly. The skin takes on a radiance. The eyes take on a secret sparkle as though no one else is suppose to know. It is a woman thing, a thrill that we can only guess at. One needs to play around with colour and oil to bring out the lustre.”

  “Let's talk about Mrs Harrison.”

  “Fine. I'd like that. I liked Mrs Harrison.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “She came in to pick up the painting about a week after the last sitting. The paint needs time to dry. Do you know anything about art?” “No.”

  “I insist on a week, more if possible. But Mrs Harrison could be very persuasive. Did you know her?”

  “No.”

  “She was a very beautiful woman. Stunning, I'd say. Not that I’m anything of a judge. The date of her last sitting will be in one of my diaries. I have two. They’re kept in the shop under the counter. Perhaps one of your officers can collect them, unless, that is, you have already confiscated them as evidence. It was about a month ago, no more than that. But time is an oddity. A day is a week and a week is a day. But it was about a week after her last sitting.”

  “And has she been back since?”

  “Mrs Domey hasn't. I don't think I'll see her again.”

  “Mrs Harrison?”

  “Oh, Mrs Harrison. I haven't seen her. I've taken on an assistant. He might have seen her.”

  “Paul Knight.”

  “Yes, that's his name. He might have seen her. He has an eye for the girls. Particularly the pretty ones.”

  “Paul has a little form, as well, doesn't he?”

  “Indeed he does. He will tell you it was a miscarriage of justice, that it was down to corrupt policemen. I had no truck with that. I told him that our policemen were the best. That in Britain we simply don't have corrupt policemen. I don’t think he believed me.”

  Butler looked for the sneer but if it was there he missed it. He turned to his notes. “You were released on parole in 1984.” “That's true. I had to attend a clinic. It will be in your records. It seems a long time ago. My goodness, it is a long time ago.” “Things have a way of coming round.”

  “I think I know what you're suggesting, Mr Butler. But you're quite wrong. I did have a problem. I was diagnosed schizophrenic but in those days that covered a multitude of sins.”

  “It’s the legal loophole, isn't it?”

  “I see, the Hare Test, the accepted scientific proof of a psychopathic personality disorder and that only people with treatable disorders can be kept in hospital? For fifteen years I've been running my shop. I spend my time either there or in the British. You can find me in the British most lunchtimes and evenings and, if I'm not there, I'll be at
the shop. Everyone will tell you. That is my routine and it hasn't changed in all that time. I was ill and I attacked those women on the underground. But now everything is fine and I’m no more a danger to the general public than you are.”

  Butler’s smile was forced. He said, “That’s good, but unfortunately we have some missing women and the thing they have in common is that they're all pregnant.”

  “All of them? I didn't know that. Goodness me. That is a coincidence. But the women, before, they never went missing. I always left them on the underground platforms. I agree that they weren't in, you know, tiptop condition, but I always left them there. They were never…missing. But I do get your point and I suppose that is why I am here. I suppose your computer has thrown me up, as they do. I don't understand them, myself, but perhaps that’s an age thing. They sound absolutely marvellous.”

  “The missing women visited your shop.”

  “Did the computer throw that up too?”

  “Forget the computer.”

  “I'd like to but, unfortunately, they won’t allow us that luxury. They put us on to a spreadsheet, they give us credit or they don’t, and what is more, when you speak to them on the phone, they speak in Indian accents. But, yes, you’re right, two of the women did visit my shop.” “I think you've got them somewhere. Not on your premises, but somewhere else.”

  “Do you really think so? I hope you’re not going to fit me up like those other policemen did to young Paul.”

  “I'm not going to charge you at the moment, Mr Lawrence, but I will get the proof and you will be back.”

  “Does that mean I can go? Will I get a lift back to the shop? I do so enjoy being taken for a ride. Do you?”

  “He's as mad as a fucking hatter,” Butler said down the line. He was angry with himself. He had let Lawrence get to him.

  Cole answered, “Bailed?”

  “Could have kept him overnight but what's the point? He isn’t going anywhere. He's enjoying himself too much.”

  “Is he the one, Sam?”

  “I've never been so certain of anything.”

  “That's good enough for me. What now?”

  “We’ll continue to dig. I want to know about everything since his release. I’ve asked for a search of the warehouses and garages at the back of his gaff even though I’ll guarantee they’ll be as clean as the shop. All we’ll find over there are smackheads and their cooking equipment.”