by I K Watson
It wasn’t often that Anian Stanford went out with her housemates. Getting their shifts to coincide was almost impossible but somehow, through luck and feminine wiles, they had managed it. The Royal Free nurses had come by a box at the Carrington Theatre. A consultant from Nigeria was making an impression on the youngest of them and Anian guessed it wouldn’t be long before they’d be advertising an empty room. But for the moment they made hay.
In the bath she drank some wine – why did it always seem so wickedly indulgent? – and getting ready she drank some more and perhaps that was why, as they settled in their box seats, she was less than discreet.
She said, “Five rows in, three from the centre aisle, see him? Next to the black girl.”
As Anian held back, the other girls eased forward.
“Mr John bloody Lawrence. He’s got those women somewhere.” “Oh my God! The missing women?” The youngest of them, the consultant’s target, spoke with that feigned enthusiasm at which all young nurses – perhaps young women in general – were adept. Anian nodded. “He’s got a poster in his shop window. Maybe a couple of freebee tickets came with it.”
“Like us then,” the nurse giggled. “But the girl – the black girl – must be thirty or forty years younger.”
“She's a tom, works out of The British. A tart with a heart. She even gives discounts to pensioners.”
“Oh my God,” the nurse said then, more seriously, “Why take a prostitute to the theatre? If you're paying for it you should be on the job.”
Anian laughed out loud. “I don't know. You tell me about men and what they've got to prove?”
The nurse leant forward for another look. “What’s he got on his hand? It looks like a glove puppet.”
Anian took another peep. “It is a glove puppet. It’s got red lips.” The nurse shrugged and shook her head. “This is not normal behaviour.”
Anian searched for Chief Superintendent Marsh but couldn't find him. Had she glanced at the other boxes she would have seen him sitting comfortably next to the Mayor. Gilly Brown had gold hanging from his neck. And at the back of the theatre, in the deep shadows, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton and his wife were finding their seats along with the councillors.
The nurse beside her touched her arm and pointed to the stage. The curtain was going up.
The curtain went up to reveal a street scene and a gang of youngsters, dancing to the right or left and pushing the passers-by aside. They shouted abuse across the steaming road. One of them daubed paint on a brick wall: Kill the Bill. And the gang began to sing:
There were a few skirmishes last night but nothing much
Just a few friendly little fights but nothing much
We gave the residents a fright but nothing much…
The passers-by joined in. First the Politician as he introduced the others:
He's a criminologist and she's a sociologist
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
He's a police-inspector and she's a social worker
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
I'm into crime prevention, stop the windows being broken
And I'm a politician, vote for me.
And with that slimy offering the politician flashed white teeth and produced a red, white and blue banner which read: Vote for me! And the gang sang:
We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.
The gang's all here, born out of fear, you see…
Passer-by: Alienated youth, violence on TV, poverty, bad-housing, boredom and page three…
Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me…
Street Cleaner: I'm a street cleaner and I hose away the blood
Council Worker: I’m a council worker and I make the windows good
Vicar: I'm the local vicar and I'm mis-under-stood
Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me.
And the gang sang:
We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.
The stage was a frenzy of movement and colour. The first half-dozen rows were all but hidden by smoke. Anian Stanford didn’t really notice. She was watching Lawrence, trying to make out his features in the dimmed lighting and wondering if the girl hugging his arm was aware of the danger she was in.
Geoff Maynard was still out and the house was strangely silent. He’d mentioned earlier that Donna had come back with a nil return on the CCTV images and Cole guessed he was in the Square again, checking out the faces.
In just a few days the psychologist’s domesticity had left a mark; silly things, like the dishcloth left hanging to dry instead of squeezed and left on the drainer, the Teacher's safely tucked away in the cabinet instead of its usual place at the foot of Cole's armchair. Cole switched off the light and carried a glass to the bay window. The lawn, in its winter coat and orange wash, looked thick and spongy. The wind was up, sweeping through the volcanic light from the street lamps, rushing through the trees and beating the fluttering, flame-like winter shrubs into submission. He felt the familiar bite of the Teacher's and shivered, waiting for it to lift his mood. This was no life, annihilated every night, dealing with filth every day. No intermission. Another day, another meeting, another seeing, speaking, sleeping. Just going through the motions without a purpose, apart from one, waking up to do it all again.
A car rolled to a slow stop at the end of his drive. He recognized it and checked his watch. It had turned eleven. He watched her lock the car and start up his path. She was biting her lower lip, ready to turn and run, searching for a light in the house and frowning at the darkness. Maybe she'd already checked out the White Horse and drawn a blank. She wore a grey jacket and a short navy-blue skirt that fanned in the wind. A sudden gust gave him even more of her legs. Almost casually, she reached down and held on to the hemline. He turned on the porch light and opened the door as she was about to ring.
For a few moments they stood in silence.
She levelled her gaze.
With a slight tilt of the head he beckoned her inside.
She hesitated for a second more then stepped over the threshold. In the bedroom window the stars dissolved in the condensation. In the volcanic light the hard-edged trees rounded like candle wax under a flame.
“You take them off,” she said as she plucked the elastic below her navel.
He did and, some time later, lay back nursing a semi-skimmed dick. In the morning the night was just a blur. Teacher's, before and after, got in the way of clarity. He remembered the stars as they found their cruel brilliance again as the condensation wept away.
During the night there had been an explosion and it wasn't an allotment shed or children with reconstructed fireworks. It had brought down the roof of a house in a terraced row. An old exhausted run-down place that needed demolishing anyway. According to initial reports the cause was a gas leak. It happened, more than people knew. The Fire Brigade was out in force and uniforms were cordoning the area. Safety experts were examining the scene. Two men had died. Blown to bits and the bits burned beyond recognition. In time there would be neighbours and scraps of documentation and dental records and reconstruction and numerous items that would give them the background, but for the moment they were just casualties of the night, written off as accidental deaths. It meant paperwork and time they didn’t have and, hopefully, an uncomplicated transfer to the coroner.
In the car, in the morning, as they passed what was left of the house and skirted the flapping police tape, DS Sam Butler said, “With a bit of luck forensics will have something for us on Helen Harrison's car. And we do need something.” He paused, then: “Did you enjoy the show?” If Anian heard it didn't register. She said, “I almost went round to Rick Cole's last night.”
Sam Butler was staggered, speechless. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief and keep the car from veering.
“Did you hear me?”
Eventually he found his voice, but it still came out sounding like someone
else. “I'm having trouble with it. Tell me again.” “It's true. I was a bit pissed after the show. Couldn't help it. Wanted to. Couldn't. Stupid, isn't it?”
“Why?”
He sensed her shrug. “I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. He made it quite clear the other night that he’s not interested. Maybe that was it. The challenge. The old behavioural protocol becomes activated, doesn’t it? Pride, anger, you name it. In a negative way it’s still intoxicating. I'm getting hurt here, but I can't help myself.” “Back off, for Christ sake. I thought you'd had your fill of office romances. Think about it.”
She sighed. “You're right. But that's not me, is it? All my life I've jumped in head first and lived to regret it. I wish I hadn't told you.” He nodded reluctantly, unable to make sense of what he'd heard. He said, “So do I.”
“You're angry?”
“Leave it alone, Anian. I was surprised, that's all.”
After a moment he added, “For a while back there I forgot I was married with a little girl that's keeping me up all night. All right?” “That's fine. I understand.”
He shot her a glance. Her dark eyes were on the road. He wondered whether she did understand, that back there, for a moment, jealousy – pure, irrational, blood-rushing jealousy – had got the better of him. He drove in uncomfortable silence for five minutes then pulled up in a wide, well-maintained street the other side of the park. No line of parked cars here, just clean pavements and drives to every door. “St George’s Way,” Anian said quietly. “Imelda Cooke?” “Right,” Butler said and climbed out of the car.
She followed him up the drive toward a two-storey detached. Joseph Cooke had reported his wife missing three months ago. He had given up his job in the city to take care of the children. When he opened the door and recognized the police officers, the expectation of the bad news he’d been dreading drained his features and left a terrible stain in his eyes.
Butler had seen the look many times before – the certainty, the disbelief, the helplessness, the realization of all those nightmares, and he was quick to reassure him. “It's all right, Joe. There’s been no development.”
Relief flooded back. “Thank God for that. I thought…”
“I know. There should be a way of ringing you first to let you know that nothing's happened. I'm sorry. Are the kids at home?” “No. They're staying with their nan. I get a break from time to time. Come on in.”
They followed him into the hall.
“Can I get you something? Coffee?”
“No, no, thank you,” Butler said. “Listen, Joe, this is a bit delicate,” Joseph Cooke looked puzzled.
“You remember we asked you whether Imelda was pregnant, or not?”
“I remember. She wasn't.”
“Well, we have a number of missing women in the area and, with the exception of Imelda, the others are pregnant. I don't know what it means, exactly. I don't know why we're here, exactly.”
Joseph Cooke smiled sadly, “Clutching at straws?”
"Yes, that's it exactly.”
Anian stood aside, watching the detective sergeant as he skirted the issue, and the man beside him whose life had been shattered. Cooke offered, “You want to look at her things again? I've already done it a thousand times, but I don't mind. They're just as she left them. Nothing's been moved.”
“Yes, Sir,” Butler stammered. “That's what I really came for.” Cooke waved towards the stairs. “Help yourself. I'll be in the sitting room. Are you sure about the drink? I'm having one. And it's stronger than coffee.”
“In that case, Sir, scotch will do nicely. What about you Anian?” “Nothing for me, thanks. It’s a bit early.”
Cooke glanced at his watch and nodded. “So it is,” he said and left them to it.
As they climbed the stairs Anian asked, “What are we looking for, Sam?”
“Anything. Something we missed. A letter maybe, an appointment to a private clinic. If she kept it from him, it's hidden. Think about it.” “Kept the pregnancy from him?”
“Something like that.”
Anian shook her head and murmured, “In that case I hope we don't find it.”
They didn't. They went through the bedroom methodically but found nothing of interest. It was always difficult for coppers invading the privacy of innocent parties and they felt embarrassed going through the drawers, particularly those containing underclothes.
They hit the landing again, ready for the stairs, when a little tug of memory caught Butler between steps.
“What is it?”
“Just a thought. When Janet did her test, she left the box and instructions on top of the bathroom cabinet. We hadn't got Lucy at the time but maybe it was instinctive, you know, a place where the kids couldn't get to it, out of the way. Every time I had a shave I noticed it. The bloody thing became a fixture. You never throw away old pills and medicine bottles, do you? I’ve got some chilblain ointment I used the other day then noticed the use-by date was November ninety-four. Seemed to work though.”
“Too much information, Sam. You’re spoiling the image.” Together they moved into the bathroom, a green-tiled bathroom complete with avocado bidet and shower cubicle and double-door bathroom cabinet. And on top of the cabinet, where it had lain for over three months, disturbed only occasionally by a Maltese cleaner, hidden by familiarity and a pink plastic bottle of baby lotion, was a white oblong box.
The detectives shared a look of amazement.
“There's no kit here,” Anian said. “Just the box.”
“In this case an empty box is good enough,” Butler said and shook his head in disbelief. “And it makes five out of five.”
Chapter 22
In Paul’s bedroom there were six TVs in two stacks of three and he was back watching them. He sat cross-legged on the end of his bed. Sky News and ITV and BBC covered the same story. Paul's eyes were wide, his mouth open, his attention held by the six screens. There was no sound. He had the sound turned down. The colours of east Africa slid across the cuts and bruises on his face. His ear was torn and his clothes were stained red in various places.
On the six screens a migration had begun. Women carried dead babies and babies that were dying. Men staggered on makeshift crutches. Children held their extended bellies. Flies crawled into eyes. Behind them a war continued. Ahead of them was another African border with trenches and mines and guns. The Dark Continent had never looked so cruel. There was no oil in this African country. It didn’t even have a name that anyone could remember.
At the door Mr Lawrence coughed to attract his attention. “Mr Lawrence,” Paul said and a shudder worked through his body. “What the devil's happened?”
“Oh, Mr Lawrence.”
Paul's eyes filled with tears that refused to roll. His hands were clenched in front of him. A vein on his forehead throbbed. “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I've been hurt a bit.”
“Come on, Paul, try to lie back.”
“I would, but the pain in my side…”
“Lie on the other side.”
“Both sides, Mr Lawrence.”
With his good hand Mr Lawrence pulled a plug and the irritating screens blanked out.
“That's better. Can't do with all that flickering. What is it? A Tarzan film?” Mr Lawrence sighed. “Goodness me. You've been gone… How long? Two Days? And look at you. What on earth shall I do with you? Now try to relax and lie back.”
Slowly, painfully, he eased back. Mr Lawrence undid the three remaining buttons on his shirt. Deep bruises patterned his left side. Around his kidneys the skin was red and swollen and his groin was caked in dried blood.
“You need a doctor, dear boy, the A and E or casualty. You need checking over. X-rays and a thermometer.”
"No! No! No doctors. They'll call the police. They always do. I can't get away with walking into a lamppost, not this time.” “You're right. Being run over by a bus would be more like it.” Using his good hand Mr Lawrence cleaned him up with a sponge and a bowl of warm water turned
pink. He dried him off and dabbed Germolene antiseptic cream onto the cuts and covered him with a single sheet. He had tried the ointment on the stub of his own finger but it hadn’t stopped the bleeding.
“Thank you,” Paul said before sleeping.
Like a baby.
Mr Lawrence watched him for a few moments. The boy really needed pyjamas but his wardrobe was full of baby things. His own clothes were in a heap on the floor. On the hangers tiny one-piece baby-growers in five bright colours were packed in. On the shelf above, two cellophane cartons of disposables were packed next to a selection of bottles and sterilization equipment.
Mr Lawrence went down to the shop, his head still shaking in puzzlement. He was not the worrying kind but he was worried and it showed in the deepening lines on his forehead. Somehow he had allowed other people to creep into his life and things were getting out of hand, spiralling out of his control, and something else was on its way.
She arrived with a small battered green suitcase that had travelled. She shrugged her luscious brown shoulders and raised her eyebrows and threw him a wicked smile from cherry-red lips.
“Me mum's kicked me out! She said she would and she did.” He sighed his resignation. “Well, we don't choose our parents. If we did the majority of us would have different parents.”
“He's given me a week. I told him I needed time. Told him I was confused by the electric, see? Confused, innI? Told him.” “Why did he hit you?”
“He's like that. He likes that. He hits everything, even the wall when he's really angry. Even the screws were frightened of him.” “We'll go to the police. That's what they're there for. Protecting the innocent.”
“You don't understand, Mr Lawrence. The filth won't help. They're not interested. It was probably them that told him where I was in the first place.”
“You said he loved you?”
“I did. I know. I said that. You hurt the things you love. You know that. He was just trying to straighten me out.”
“And are you straightened?”