Director's cut

by I K Watson

  “The plods are going to love you.”

  “One way or another we'll get him.” Butler’s sigh carried down the line. He said, "Unfortunately we still haven't got a crime. You said it yourself. If it wasn't for Margaret we wouldn't have got the warrant to search the shop. And we certainly haven't got enough to take it to pieces. Not that it matters. The prelims suggest it’s hopeless. They had the dogs in there. Apparently, in the cellar they got so excited they were performing back flips. It turned out to be decomposing rats and a couple of dead cats.”

  Cole didn’t need telling. He had already heard.

  “I was thinking about surveillance.”

  Cole's pause went on too long.

  “Guv?”

  “Yes, sorry. I'll get back to you on that. It'll be down to the super. Don't count on it.”

  Butler frowned into the phone. That wasn't like Cole at all. He was up to something. Surveillance would bugger his pitch. He knew the DI from old.

  “OK, Sam. Fuck knows what I’ll tell the super. I promised him a result.”

  The DS sighed. He said, “I'll see you in the morning.” Then hung up.

  Rick Cole toyed with the handset for a moment. The DS had been right. He did have an idea. He left the building and drove to a public telephone. His mobile was out of the question. You couldn't be too careful lately. The Yard was spending twenty million a year investigating its own. CIB3 was now the biggest single-purpose investigative unit in the Met. Add that to CIB2 and you could see why there were so few coppers on the street. What was more, since the Investigatory Procedures Act 2,000 police officers were regularly bugged, more to discover whether they were racist or sexist rather than bent.

  “It's me.”

  Ticker Harrison responded, “Yeah, recognize those London tones anywhere. You got something for me?”

  “The art shop in the High Road, guy named Lawrence.”

  “I've heard of him. He painted Helen. Got it hanging in the sitting room. Good painter. Caught her just right.”

  “I think he knows something. More than he's telling us.”

  “Leave it to me, my son.”

  “Let me know.”

  “Fucking right.”

  Cole sat in the car for some minutes, filling it with JPS smoke. Now it was a matter of waiting. If the old man did know something then Ticker would get it out of him. One way or the other.

  Chapter 16

  Ticker Harrison had known for some time that if you wanted something doing well then you had to do it yourself, that accountability was something of the past. He blamed the politicians for trashing the old-fashioned values, loyalty in particular, and it came down to them letting in the foreigners so that national identity was lost. For fuck’s sake, there were places in England where you’d be hardpressed to find an Englishman.

  Ticker Harrison sighed and said reflectively, “Maybe I should take up politics.”

  “I don't see any point, Boss. You already make up the rules around here. We got our own laws and, come to think of it, taxes too. Some people might call it protection, but it's the same, ain’t it? No different. And they get more for their money from us than they do from that fucking Brown cunt. He ain’t fucking human, Boss.”

  “He comes from fucking Scotland, that’s why. But since when have you paid any fucking taxes?”

  “It's the principle, Boss, the fucking principle.”

  “But I'd take up fucking politics, Breath, to get some accountability back into life, not because of the fucking taxes.”

  “I don't see where you're coming from, Boss.”

  “I told you I wanted her found. I didn't give a fuck what it cost or how many people got hurt. Take out half of Sheerham if you had to, I said, but find my fucking wife. I am fucking suffering here. I can't sleep, I can't eat and, sooner or later, maybe sooner, some fucker is going to get fucking hurt. You hearing me now? Is that fucking clear enough? You remember me telling you that?”

  Breathless Billy's expression was shaped by painful haemorrhoids; a permanent grimace, even when he smiled, and that wasn't often. He said in a voice cut by emphysema and chastisement in equal measure, “Right, Boss. I think I get the message. I've got faces on the street. I've got faces in every fucking…you know, wherever they can fucking get, and we'll find her. But it takes time. And we got other things going on. This business is getting in the way of…business. What shall I do about the kids? You know what's going on in there. I'm telling you, Boss, Gilly will pull out and we'll be fucked. I've got major problems here. And you won't thank me for them! In case you hadn’t realized, Boss, Christmas is coming and we said we’d have the place cleared by Christmas.”

  “Kids! Squatters! How can I think about kids when my wife is missing? It's all right for you, you ain't got a fucking wife. You don't know what I'm going through. Look!” Ticker pointed toward the painting of Helen. “Let's have some fucking priorities around here, eh? You're trying to change the subject. I ask you to do one simple thing, find Helen, and nothing. It's left to me to come up with something.” Breathless Billy checked out the painting and shook a sad head. What had Helen been thinking of to pose like that? And what was Ticker thinking of putting it on public display?

  Ticker noticed his right-hand man's uneasiness and relented. “I'm sorry, Breathless, but this shit is getting to me. I never realized how much I'd miss her. Christ, I feel like someone's gutted me. Look, take a couple of guys and throw some weight about in Avenue Road. Let them know we're serious.”

  Breathless Billy nodded. “OK, Boss, I'll do that. But what you said there, before, you heard something?”

  Ticker said slyly, “Maybe, maybe I have. It's more than you lot have. You and me, we're going to have a look around an art gallery. You in to art? Picasso, Raphael, Flaubert? Flaubert said that one must sense the artist everywhere, but never see him.”

  “Fuck me, Boss, I didn't know that. I thought Flaubert was a writer. You know, that Bovary tart. Just shows you, doesn’t it? Never see him, eh? That is interesting. They probably hide behind the fucking screen, the easel, when they're fucking, you know, doing the business, with the paint.”

  “Well, do you like the paintings?”

  Breathless pulled a face. “I can take it, you know? The Tate. Never been there, mind. Fucking don't, do you? Fuck that. Walking around with a stiff neck. Pay to get in. Half the cunts don't make fucking sense. I can't see it. Painting half black, half white, call it black and white and bung a fifty-grand tag on it. And the women in the pictures. Fattest fucking tarts I've ever seen. And they're floating, right? In fucking heaven or some place, with fucking angels. Little fat fucking kids with wings that wouldn’t hold up a fart-filled balloon, right? I'm telling you, Boss, these artist people have got their brushes up their own arseholes. Sooner have a dead fish stuck on the wall.” “That's art!” Ticker pointed to the painting of Helen.

  “Yeah, it's something. That's for sure. This ain't a criticism, Boss, no fucking way, but no way would I have my missus on show like that. Not so's anyone else would get to see it anyway. I mean, that's real. Any closer and you'd be giving it a tongue job. With respect, that is.” “I ain't got a problem with that. Helen didn't either. If you've got a problem then it's your fucking problem.”

  “Right. I was just saying – ”

  “No! No you weren't.”

  “Boss, it's a fucking turn-on. Do you want other geezers walking out of here with a fucking cruise missile sticking out in front of them? That's the question. If it was me, I'd want to keep it all to myself. For fuck's sake, I mean, the cunt's either made a smudge or that's the clit hanging from here to Southend.”

  “You always were a selfish cunt, Breath. You probably got Scottish ancestors like that fucker Brown.” Ticker grinned. “Only kidding. Even you ain't that tight! Come on, let's go and look at some other paintings.”

  “I'm with you, Boss. Always have been, you know that. But I hope it's scenery, like trees or wild animals, tigers or ducks. Ducks is good. I ain
't into all these acres of skin. Puts a shiver up my arse. Brings back memories of when I didn't have to pay for it.”

  “We all pay for it, Breath, one way or the other. We all fucking pay.”

  “Ain't that the fucking truth?”

  Breathless looked at the painting of red bricks and said, “See what I mean, Boss? That’s a bunch of fucking building bricks, right, and the bastard’s put a grand tab on it. Now what the fuck is the world coming to?”

  The heavy old-fashioned blade of the guillotine came down and left Lawrence's index finger on the table. The three men stared at it for some moments. It moved. Some little nerve ends were left alive, or a tendon flicked back like a piece of elastic. Breathless Billy let go of the handle of the guillotine and took a pace back and said, “Fuck that!” But Ticker Harrison had moved his gaze to Lawrence’s face. The old bastard had felt no pain, he was sure of it. He was simply staring impassively at his finger.

  Ticker said, “If you don't talk to me, sunshine, then you're going to end up with no fingers at all. That ain't actually going to improve your painting, is it? Now I'm a fucking art lover and I hate to do this, but one way or the other, you're going to fucking talk to me.” “If we could negotiate.”

  “Negotiate? Where the fuck are you coming from? Negotiate? You ain't actually holding a very good hand at the moment.”

  Breathless chuckled. “That's good, Boss. That's fucking funny.” “Breath, that wasn't a fucking joke.”

  “It sounded like a joke. It was funny enough to be a joke.” “The cunt wants to negotiate. He thinks I'm a fucking Arab or something. Al fucking Fayed. He's losing his fucking fingers and he wants to negotiate. What sort of fucking world are we living in? Forget the fucking finger. Take off his fucking arm!”

  Lawrence said calmly, “I was merely going to say that I'm bleeding rather badly. If I could have some tissue to stem the blood, then I'll be quite willing to tell you whatever you want to know. It was never a secret anyway. You didn't have to do this.”

  Ticker seemed upset. “You should have fucking said.”

  “You never gave me a chance.”

  “Breath, for Christ's sake find some fucking tissues.”

  “Got one here, Boss, in my pocket somewhere. But it's been used.” So Ticker Harrison discovered that his wife had a lover and was enjoying a romantic liaison in Spain – winter sun, Thompson, something like that – and she was going to phone Lawrence once she returned home, but that was still some days away. He had, during their sessions, become her confidant.

  In the car Ticker Harrison kept shaking his head. He was stunned. Uncertainty had been nudged aside by anger. For the first time since Helen had gone missing, he was in charge again. Now he was working on how to pay her back for causing him such grief. He'd take her lover apart, no doubt about that, and to teach her a lesson he'd probably make her watch. What he was going to do to her he hadn't quite decided but one thing was certain, Helen Harrison wasn't going to enjoy it.

  “You OK, Boss?” Breathless asked. He was still shaken by the old guy's detachment. There had been no scream or shout or cry. No reaction that you usually got. Fact was, Breathless Billy had noticed a smile on Lawrence's face as his finger came off. Now that was fucking scary.

  “I'm fine, Breathless. I need to get my head around it, though. I can't understand how a fucking woman could leave me, that's all.” “I can understand that.”

  “What the fuck’s that suppose to mean?”

  “I didn’t mean…the fucking women leaving you. I meant I could understand how you feel about it.”

  “They call that empathy.”

  “Do they? Fuck me. What’s that mean exactly, Boss?”

  “It means that you’re a soft bastard.”

  Breathless Billy pulled a downcast face.

  Ticker went on, “Some time alone. A little bit of space is what I need. Going to play the old Matt Monro records. Maybe some Dean Martin. My old man used to know him, you know? When he was on the buses.”

  “I never knew Dean Martin was on the buses.”

  “No, Matt Monro was on the buses. Dean Martin was with Jerry Lewis.”

  “Right, I remember the movies now. Great fucking movies they were. Black and white. Can't remember the titles though but, Dean, he was all right.”

  “ Little Old Wine Drinker Me, remember that?”

  “Do I.”

  “One of my favourites.”

  “And Rio Bravo, remember that, Boss?”

  “Fucking remember it! When I was a kid I knew every fucking word. John T Chance. Angie fucking Dickinson, and she was a good looking tart in those days.”

  “Were you a John Wayne fan, Boss?”

  “Yeah, still am, but don't spread it around.”

  “I won't say nothing.”

  Ticker nodded. “Now, like I said, I need some space to get my head around this shite, so I'm going to leave Avenue Road to you. Get some people together and get over there. I think we've had enough fucking blood for one day, don't you? So just give them a scare, right?” “I get it. I know where you're coming from. I'll do that. Not a fucking problem. You can leave it to me. And Boss, I know this has hit you hard, I know that. For fuck's sake, I want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, like, fucking, a fucking shoulder to cry on or something, I'm always here for you.”

  “I know that, Breath, and I'm fucking grateful. Maybe you should have been a fucking social worker. But right now I want to sit in my bathroom. Is that all right with you?”

  The big guy nodded and reached for a tissue to blow his nose, then remembered he’d left it changing colour on what was left of the old guy’s finger, which wasn’t very much.

  Chapter 17

  The Gallery had been filled with police officers, some of them in white overalls and calling themselves SOCOs. They carried the tools of their trade – ground-penetrating radar handsets, Hoovers and copies of the town planner's drawings. There were also a couple of springer spaniels straining on leashes. Paul heard some of their handler’s conversation but it didn’t make much sense to him. They were talking about how these dogs were different to your average police sniffer dog, how they could detect the scent of human remains through concrete. They were going on about something called NPIA and scientific training techniques and then, later, that the dogs couldn’t work in the stink in the cellar and that they had got over-excited by the dead rodents, the decomposing cats and rats. One of them suggested that they bring in the local authorities, that there must be a law against dead cats in a cellar. That was just before they sent out for some breathing apparatus. To Paul the coppers looked more like dentists than policemen and perhaps that was why he was so unsettled.

  The search was completed long before Mr Lawrence arrived home. Paul was waiting for him by the stairs. Still spook-eyed and trembling it was clear he needed the gentle touch. He blurted, “What was it, Mr Lawrence?”

  “A mistake, dear boy. They were on about missing women and stolen property.”

  Paul's eyes grew even wider, ready to pop. Mr Lawrence’s explanation had not done the trick and he pointed an idiot’s finger up the empty stairs. “They went in to my room.”

  “Is your gear stolen?”

  “Well…”

  “My goodness. Well, obviously they weren't interested in it. I think it was more likely artwork that they were after.”

  “Like the ballerinas?”

  “Did they take them?” Mr Lawrence turned to check but there they were, still dancing. “Did they take anything at all? Did you make sure they signed for whatever they took?”

  “Just your books. That’s all they took, apart from little plastic bags of things they picked up with tweezers and things. And they used Hoovers too, small Hoovers. They used them in every corner and on every surface and on some clothes. There were kozzers everywhere, upstairs, my room as well. They even unscrewed our bathroom cabinet. Why would they do that? And they took the cistern to pieces. They spent ages in the cellar, with thei
r tape measures. And in the studio. They looked at everything, even the floorboards. They looked behind all the pictures. I thought they'd never go. It was humiliating, Mr Lawrence.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was. They think we've got a hidden stash of artwork. Someone's put them up to it, no doubt. Probably someone from The British. Probably Albert. There is something odd about Albert. I know he’s Jewish, but there is something else beside.” “I'm worried, Mr Lawrence. Kozzers worry me even when I ain't done nothing. And I’ve always done something.”

  “No need to be. They have nothing to go on. Nothing at all. From now on, we have to be a bit careful, that's all.”

  “I've tidied up a bit, especially in the studio. And I’ve put up some more tape around the cellar door. The smell was coming through something awful.”

  “But the studio is out of bounds, Paul.”

  “I know you said that but…”

  “Yes, the circumstances. Given the circumstances, just this once.” “They left a mess. All your boxes were on the floor.”

  “The Clingfilm?”

  “Yes, your boxes of Clingfilm.”

  “I use it to wrap the paintings. It keeps the damp away.”

  “I guessed that. I guessed that's what you used it for.”

  The subject was good enough: an island of trees giving the illusion of a suspended mass, an object and its reflection bathed in light. During the last week or so Mrs Unsworth had made experimental dabs, changing this key and that value and yet was still puzzled by its lack of depth. Mrs Unsworth was seventy, fragile, her tiny frame warped by arthritis. A widow, she had been coming to class for four years, making use of her enforced independence.

  “I've told you before that you can't have the paint too thin where the light is weak. You've been skimping again. I know that paint's expensive but better to use a smaller canvas and get it right.” “Oh, I know, I know. I blame my husband, God bless his soul, but I've become so used to frugality. He used to boil the carrot tops, you know, you know? To put it another way, Mr Lawrence, he was a tight bastard. Right up to the day he died. It caused his death, you know, you know? We were in Sainsbury's, the meat section, when he saw the cost of lamb chops and died on the spot. Caused quite a commotion, I'll say. He went just like that. He saw the price per kilo and hadn’t got a clue what that was, then slowly he converted it to English money, pounds, and then slowly shook his head in wonder and then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he was praying but then, he slipped sideways and went all the way. I remember it so well, you know, you know? So very well. I just stood there watching. I couldn't move. His leg shot out and hung in the air for a moment, kicking, waving. Waving goodbye, maybe. And that was it, you know, you know? His final wave to me. Gone. After thirtyfive years. Gone. And you know, you know what the funny thing is? He was a liver and bacon man. Liver, bacon, mash and fried onions with thick lumpy gravy. He never even liked lamb!” She shook her white-haired head. “It's always amazed me, though, when I see the news, the farmers on the news, when they say they have to kill off their lambs because they're not worth the money. You tell me if you can, if the farmers are getting pennies, you know, you know? Then who is getting rich, eh? Eh?” And with that, with a slender arthritic finger, she poked him forcefully in the arm.