by I K Watson
Cole listened, asked a few questions then turned to the others. “Geoff Maynard’s been stabbed. He’s in the North Mid. The plods are roping the scene, taking statements.” He looked at Donna, saw the concern mixed with disappointment. “I’ve got to get over there. I’ll drop you on the way.”
Deflated she said, “I’ll come.”
He glanced at Chas Walker.
Walker lifted his hands. “I’m with you, Guv.”
In A amp;E a uniform told them, “A Stanley knife or something like it, across the face, cut his ear in two then right across the cheek to his mouth.” To elaborate he used his finger and traced a line on his own cheek.
Cole said, “Shit.”
“Agreed. It was a woman. We’ve got a description. A blonde, two legs, good looking.” He shook his head and added, “I’ve never seen so much claret. We got him here with about three minutes to spare. Didn’t wait for an ambulance.”
“What’s happening now?”
“They’ve stopped the bleeding. Surgery later on. It’s going to take some needlework, believe me.”
“Did he say anything?”
“Ouch, or something like that. He’s not saying anything else till the stitches are in. Conversation was not on his mind.”
“What’s your name?”
“Kershaw.”
“You should be in plain clothes.”
“CID?”
“No! Out of the fucking job, son. We’ve got enough comedians in CID as it is.”
They hung around while the surgeons did their bit then Cole dropped her back at the smart terraced home she shared with her fiance. He was a buyer for a civil engineering company in Victoria.
“Thanks for coming to the hospital,” he said. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Shame.”
“Maybe next time.”
“Next time leave your phone at home. It’s got to be the worst invention ever.”
“Will you be all right? It’s late.”
She glanced at the quiet house. “By now he’s got used to a copper’s hours. He’d have hit the sack hours ago.”
He nodded. “That’s what I had in mind.”
“Yeah, me too.”
The door slammed between them. He checked the dash clock. It was after four. He watched her move to the front door, concentrated on her behind. She’d been right. The call had finished it, he hadn’t. Not this time.
In these early hours with the silent streets all but empty, he was about fifteen minutes away from the White Horse. Or he could go home and grab something to eat, something from the freezer, something he could nuke.
No contest, not really. Nuked food was not like the real thing. Morning was the colour of the concrete tunnel linings that Donna’s fiance bought. He felt like shit. He shaved with Gillette’s three blades then, while the coffee dribbled from top to bottom of the Kenwood he checked with the hospital. Maynard was comfortable – their favourite word. They suggested he ring back after lunch.
Cole reached the office just as Detective Superintendent Baxter walked in. The Super was chewing on a king sized sausage roll, one hand under his chin to collect the crumbs. Through a full mouth he said, “Been talking to Billingham. His plods are interviewing witnesses. We should be over there. This woman, we’ve got a good description. When can you speak to Geoff?”
“Late afternoon. And we are over there. Chas Walker is leading the team. I’ve pulled everyone available.”
“Good.” He finished his roll, dusted the crumbs from his hands and trod them into the carpet. “What about Hinckley?”
“Nothing on the new girl. They’re checking out the members of the art class and, as you instructed, they’re starting over with the CCTV. That will keep them busy. I’m pulling in some spare from Tottenham to help out.”
“Good. Keep on top of it, Rick. It’s still our number one. But both our psychologists out of action? Makes you think, doesn’t it?” Geoff Maynard sat up in bed, tried a smile using the half of his face that wasn’t bandaged and failed. He said awkwardly, “They tell me that in a few days you won’t notice the difference. I was lucky.” “They’re letting you out in the morning. I’ll pick you up.” Maynard nodded.
“We’ve pulled some good witnesses. We’ll nail her.”
“I hope it’s soon. She isn’t going to stop. She’s on a mission. I caught up with her, she turned, and that was it.”
“It shouldn’t have happened. You made a mistake. You should never get close enough to be taken with a knife. You wrote the fucking manual.”
Cole turned and the white door swung shut and Maynard said to the empty room, “Yeah.”
It didn’t help to know that the DI was spot on.
Chapter 26
It had been a most satisfying day. The police had surprised him by not requesting his presence at the station again, he had sold six paintings and two Italian vases and the woman was still to come.
Once the police had left Mr Lawrence said, “So, it’s official. Another missing woman.”
Paul, still trembling, said, “I was so nervous. I’m sure they noticed.”
“I doubt it.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We could advertise, I suppose.”
“For Sandra?”
“No, to fill her space. There is now a vacancy.”
“Not that, Mr Lawrence. The plan. Friday! The plan?”
“Oh that. It’s not been easy. They say that love is blind and that might be so, but it is also a primitive, dangerous emotion. It is a time when even your average man crosses the line.”
“I know that. He is dangerous.”
“In this case it is even worse. It has more to do with lust than love, I fear. And lust is a deadly sin that can lead to the breaking of at least half the Commandments in one go. What is more, this passion overrides reason. It cannot be reasonably discussed. So what we have to do…”
Paul edged closed.
“We have to shock him into reason.”
Paul frowned. “That won’t be easy.”
“Difficult things seldom are.”
Paul nodded but his expression remained blank.
“Fear, Paul, that’s the thing.”
“That’s what Powder Pete said. But how are we going to do it?” “Tell him to come here, to the shop.”
“He’ll suspect something.”
“No, he won’t. Tell him that you’re going to run away with him, do a disappearing act just like Sandra. Tell him that you’re going to have my money box away along with a few of the more valuable paintings. He’ll understand that. Tell him to meet you here tonight. That sounds good. By all accounts it’s going to be a dark night. Two o’clock.” “It doesn’t sound good.”
“I know. Clock is an ugly word. I think it’s to do with the cl sound.”
“I didn’t mean that, Mr Lawrence. I didn’t mean the way it sounded.”
“Tell him. Tonight, or rather, two AM tomorrow morning.”
Paul went off to Robot City with shopping bags and list and a whole head of thoughts. Mr Lawrence needed more shoe polish – nothing but Kiwi would do – and Clingfilm and teabags, the Queen Anne blend of Assam and Lapsang Souchon.
The light in the studio was diffused, as close to summer light as you can get. The woman arrived and said, “My God, what’s happened?”
“A scratch, my dear, nothing more than a temperamental guillotine.”
“So many police about,” she said. “Three cars in the road and a dozen policemen. They’re stopping people.”
“A girl has gone missing.”
“Oh,” she mouthed as though it were a common thing, which of course, it was.
“Have you had a good day?”
She pulled an indifferent face.
“Oh dear.”
“I’ll get over it.”
“Well, let’s get started, shall we? I’ve opened a tricky little
Beaujolais. It’s a wine that is very much hit-and-miss. It needs a g
ood year and, according to legend, virginal feet trampling the grape. And they’re in short supply nowadays. The summers, you see. We’ve had a series of wet summers.”
“I thought Helen preferred white wine.”
“Did she? DID SHE? Mrs Harrison never complained. What about you?”
“I like red.”
“It likes you.”
For a while he worked in silence.
Her eyes flicked around the room, searching the shelves and dark places.
At length she said, “The girl in the shop…”
“Laura?”
“She works for you?”
“I wouldn’t call it work, exactly. There must be a better word. Through bad luck, really, nothing more than a mother-daughter’s menstrual cycle coinciding, she’s found herself homeless. Homeless, just like Paul. I’m putting her up for a few days and just occasionally, when the mood takes her and, that isn’t often, she helps out in the shop. In truth, she frightens off more customers than she attracts and those she attracts are not really interested in art.”
“You seem to attract the waifs and strays.”
“They’re good kids, really. They just need a little help, a point in the right direction.”
“Her skirts are very short.”
“Yes, I’ve noticed that. But she does have nice legs.”
“Has she modelled for you?”
“No. Landscapes are my thing. I mentioned it before. You must have forgotten.”
“What is it about landscapes?”
“They’re natural. You don’t have to search for honesty.”
“Is that important?”
“It is for an artist. But that’s something you must answer for yourself.”
Her eyes darkened at the veiled criticism.
“Are you a religious man, Mr Lawrence?”
He recalled Laura bringing up the same subject and wondered what it was about him that led people to it. He said, “That’s a very personal question.”
“Yes, but we have become personal.”
“Have we?”
“You are painting me. What can be more personal than that?” “Not too personal, I hope. But to answer your question, I’m not an American bible-belter. I don’t believe the earth was created shortly before the American civil war or that Noah navigated the Mississippi.” “You read the Bible?”
“I have done but not lately. I always thought it needed a good editor. Far too much begetting for my liking. But, my goodness, I hope there is not a God and an afterlife. I wouldn’t like to think that all the people who have gone before and all those who are coming after will know my business.”
“I imagine they’ll be too worried about their own business to worry about yours.”
“Yes, you’re right. I hadn’t thought of that. But think of this: if the people who died can see how the people who live carry on, they must spend eternity regretting their own propriety or spend it horrified at what they see. Either way, it doesn’t lend itself to a contented hereafter.”
“The painting you did of Helen…?”
“Mrs Harrison.”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Not Helen, in that pose. And she was pregnant. Did you know she was pregnant?”
“Yes. That was the urgency. Getting it finished before she started to…show. It was nonsense, really. I mean, how long did she think it would take?”
“I couldn’t pose like that.”
“Shyness is all about lacking self-confidence and it is only for the moment. If you see your doctor, for instance, you might die of embarrassment the first time, but afterwards it is of no consequence. And in any case, Mrs Harrison was proud of her body. Self-confidence was never an issue. She was posing for herself, I think.”
“How did it happen? Did she just say paint me like this?” “Yes, she told me from the start what she wanted.”
“You must have been shocked.”
“It was an unusual request and I imagine photographers are used to it, but…shocked is not the word I’d use. My only concern was whether I could do it justice. You might not believe it but I have a reputation to consider.”
“What do you suppose happened to her?”
“The police asked me that very question but in such matters I’m no expert. If it were just Mrs Harrison my guess would be that she’d gone off with the devil who’d led her to the club but now these other women have gone missing, it does make you wonder. Perhaps the police should get someone to retrace her steps. I think they call it a reconstruction, to jog the public memory. They can give out one of those special numbers for the public to call. That might do the trick. Of course, whoever took her place would have to dress in the same clothes. They could get an idea of what she looked like from the painting.”
“She wasn’t wearing many clothes in that.”
“I admit the dress didn’t cover much but you could still get an idea of the style and colour.”
“They might have difficulty getting someone to dress quite like that and, the BBC might have a problem in filming it.”
“The watershed. I understand that anything can go out after the nine o’clock news.”
“The nine o’clock finished some time ago.”
“Well, I never. No wonder the country has gone to the dogs.” A little later he said, “One more sitting will do it.”
“Is that all?” There was anxiety in her voice.
Before she left, her mood still subdued, she said, “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain today. I’m afraid I have a lot in common with Helen. You see, this morning my test proved positive too!”
She was clutching at straws, watching his reaction or lack of it. But it was a good move. And devious too.
From Paul’s spyhole in the cracked wall there was a flicker of movement. He was back from the shops, errands complete. He was crouching beneath the stairs again, spying, watching and listening to every word.
Chapter 27
They needed the mannequin’s clothes.
Laura squealed, “Look! Mr Lawrence, he’s stuck hair on the dummy. He’s given her a hairy fanny!”
Mr Lawrence glanced down at the offending fleece. The barber’s missing hair came to mind. Funny how, if you waited long enough, things fell into place.
Paul looked a treat, although at the moment, because of the hair, a little embarrassed. Laura had been to work with her make-up and turned him into the model in the window. His skin was lightened and his cheeks glowed with blusher, his blue-grey eyes defined by mascara and blue shadow and his lips were bright cherry-red. Full at the best of times they were now rather kissable. He wore the model’s auburn wig of short bobbed hair. The striking thing was his body. In the matching set he was almost perfect. Only his chest let him down and that needed filling with cotton wool. But they needed that for Mr Lawrence’s padding so they used tissues. He hobbled in and turned over his right high heel.
For Luscious Laura and Mr Lawrence, keeping a straight face was difficult.
Holding his sides and whimpering, Mr Lawrence suggested, “You’ll be all right so long as you keep still.”
“I’ve shaved his legs,” Laura said enthusiastically. “What do you think?”
Mr Lawrence squeaked, “I think he’s beautiful.” And then he could hold it no longer. He coughed a dozen times to hide his laughter and that started a coughing fit.
“I don’t feel very beautiful. I feel like a dickhead. This isn’t going to work, Mr Lawrence.”
It wasn’t easy but Mr Lawrence managed to compose himself. He said, “Have faith, dear boy.”
“I’m losing it quickly, Mr Lawrence, the faith. I’m going down bank fast, and dressed like this isn’t helping.”
“You look fine, Paul, just fine. Now stop worrying and try to concentrate.”
“I’ll try.”
Laura turned to Mr Lawrence. “Right then, it’s your turn now.” She glanced at her watch. “And we’re running out o
f time.”
Laura was enjoying herself. In a sense, with them playing the parts, she’d become the director. Power was a powerful emotion. An aphrodisiac, some old cowboy had said, and he wasn’t talking about pork scratchings.
In the window, blinking red then green, it was hot beneath the padded suit of Father Christmas, and sweat trickled across his chest like some fast little insect. The cotton wool beard was giving him trouble too and loose strands made his nose twitch. He needed to scratch at every nerve and yet he dared not move. Paul was rigid. Mr Lawrence could see him from the corner of his eye. He looked better in green. The ballerinas were dark shapes and yet they seemed more life-like than Paul. From her hiding place behind the counter came the sounds of Laura’s heavy breathing.
“I can’t ever remember being so close to Father Christmas,” Paul said. “He never came to our house.”
“Hush now.”
They stood for fifteen minutes but it seemed like an hour. Adrenalin was rushing through them. Their bodies began to ache. Mr Lawrence’s knees began to give. He was thinking that perhaps Paul had been right, after all, and this wasn’t such a good idea. But it was too late. A grotesque shadow was at the window. Even though Mr Lawrence had only seen him in the dark, he seemed bigger than before, six feet and more with an egg-shaped head on a bull-neck. His shoulders were huge and his thick arms were long, apelike. Here was the missing link, without a doubt.
The trusty brass bell didn’t ring for it had been taped up. Instead, it clanked a single reluctant clank as the door opened. And another as the door closed. He was in. The feeling of danger was incredible. Mr Lawrence’s head was bursting with the rush and pressure knots bulged across his brow. The shadow moved across the shop. Thudding footfalls left the air vibrating.
From her hiding place behind the counter, Laura, in her deepest voice, called, “Pesst! Pesst!”
“Paul, is that you?”
“Pesst! Pesst!”
“Stop fucking around. You’re frightening me. You know I never liked the fucking dark.”
His back was to them. A huge burning red back.
From the window Paul silently turned. And without a whisper Mr Lawrence turned also, and from his bag of Christmas gifts he produced a long heavy wrench. It was Chrome-plated and glinted green and then red and reflected their faces glistening like cooking meat.