Director's cut

by I K Watson

  At the side of the room was modern art. Suspended over a hole left by a missing floorboard, secured by tackle and chain, was a wall of bricks, the size of a door. It took Cole’s breath away and kicked him in the midriff.

  For a moment he was bent double.

  Then he saw the open door only partially concealed by the curtain and then he was falling down dangerously narrow steps, scuffing against the rough walls until he was standing on dirt.

  It was only then he noticed the foul air, as if he’d walked into a cloud of stinking gas, and automatically he clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, forcing back the bile that all but blocked his throat. He careered through the room into the passage, knocking the single bulb as he went, sending shadows slithering from floor to festering ceiling. He’d come across the stink of putrescine before, many times, so even before he reached the end room he was already bracing himself. Even so, he was unprepared.

  Helen Harrison was circled in the full intense beam of the spotlight. For a ludicrous moment he wondered if she had been chosen for his benefit.

  Rick Cole said, “Holy shit!”

  And given the time of year he was probably right.

  “This is well out of order!”

  At his side, away from the beam and just another shadow among many, something stirred. And behind him, wrapped in a white sheet, negotiating the passage and still slowed by her drugged sleep, Laura approached. The room opened before her just moments after Cole had entered. She saw what Cole had seen and screamed.

  It wasn’t just an ordinary scream for, as with everything else about Luscious Laura, it was outstanding, and woke up a number of residents on the Richmond Park Estate.

  Rick Cole turned and took her in and noticed that even in her crumpled style she had definite possibilities. He said, “I’m at a loose end, sweetheart. Play your cards right you could be the next Mrs Cole!”

  Chapter 37

  The double-glazing salesman might have said that there is a condition where a wound to the chest does not necessarily cause much bleeding, not on the outside. The bleeding takes place in a sac that the heart sits in and eventually it constricts the heart and stops it altogether. It is known in the trade as a pericardial tamponade.

  Heathrow was busy with the last rush of Christmas and the security arrangements didn’t help. Paul’s face appeared out of the crowd. A painted face, not unattractive, with cherry-red lips and pencilled eyes and sky-blue eye shadow and cheeks that blushed with the hint of rosehips. He recognized Mr Lawrence.

  “Mr Lawrence,” he shouted excitedly and people nearby turned to look.

  “Hello Paul. Oops! Paula, I mean.”

  “Oh, Mr Lawrence.”

  “It’s not Mr Lawrence now, Paula.” And in his best Irish accent that wasn’t very good, he added, “It’s Father or, rather, Father Kerry from Kerry in County Kerry.”

  “I didn’t know there was a Kerry in County Kerry.”

  “Did you not? Well, there you are then, you learn something every day. I bet you didn’t even know that it was a girl’s name, either? Now, tell me this if you will, is it the time to check in?”

  Paul shook his head. “There’s still half an hour before the check-in opens and I needed the loo,” he explained. “Nerves. Never been on a plane before. I used the ladies. Never used the ladies before. They smell different, sweeter, and there’s no piss all over the floor.” His balance on the heels was more confident and as he walked his hips swayed. But there was something else about him. He seemed in pain. Mr Lawrence let it go. The beating he’d taken had been severe. Perhaps he was still troubled by that. Perhaps that was it. Paul looked him up and down. “Mr Lawrence, Father Kerry, you look wonderful. Give us a twirl.”

  “Not here, for goodness sake.”

  “Only joking, Mr Lawrence.”

  “That’s a nice jacket, Paula.”

  “I’ve had to clean it up, Mr Lawrence. There was dirt and…blood on it. I’ve had to soak some bits. Does it show?”

  “The policeman’s blood? No, Paul, it’s fine.”

  “It’s a Paul Smith, Mr Lawrence, says so on the label. My name, innit? And my size.”

  “I’ve heard of Paul Smith, but that was many years ago. My goodness, thirty years ago, I’d say. But it looks expensive. Where did you get it? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “Get you, Mr Lawrence. That’s one of your jokes, isn’t it?” “Have you got everything?”

  Paul patted his bulging handbag then grimaced again. “Passports, tickets, bottled water, everything. And some other things. Women’s things. You wouldn’t believe the things that women keep in their handbags. No wonder they’re always so heavy. Maybe that’s also why they need so many.”

  “Well, dear girl, I’m not going to ask.”

  “Good thinking, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry – you don’t want to know.”

  Paul’s rich-blue dress was figure hugging and presented the outline of underwear including suspenders. One or two men nearby offered him admiring glances and a couple of coppers armed with machineguns and Glocks looked him up and down and thought they’d like to give him one.

  The coppers reminded Mr Lawrence of another copper. He asked, “What about the policeman?”

  “You were right, Mr Lawrence. Absolutely. He was parked just outside the gate. Listening to you both. You were right. They were on to me without a doubt. What about you? Did you finish the painting?” “Yes. But tell me what happened?”

  “He had the window down. I could hear you. Jesus, am I lucky.” He paused and said regretfully, “But I made a mistake. A bad one.” “We all make mistakes. What was yours?”

  “I didn’t just knock him out, Mr Lawrence, like you said. The hammer went right in, right through the side of his head. I didn’t mean it.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “I’m so grateful to you, Mr Lawrence. If it wasn’t for you, I’d be… I’d be check-mated.”

  “Good. Come on, brighten up. But do remember it’s Father Kerry and not Mr Lawrence. We’ve got time to grab a cup of airport coffee. I’ve heard it isn’t the best but we’ll see. Have coffee. I don’t want you drinking orange juice anymore.”

  “What’s wrong with orange juice, Mr Lawrence?”

  “Well, far be it from me to distress you for I know you’re partial toward it, but according to the late colonel orange juice is full of something called E-numbers and they have a strange pull on a young girl’s fancy.”

  “Getya, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry. Bit like the pull of weed, you mean? Understand that. So, coffee it is, then. I’ll have mine with lots of sugar and a Coke on the side.” Paul paused in his step. “But I do have a problem.”

  Mr Lawrence hesitated. “Go on?”

  “They won’t let us take the water through so we’ll have to drink that as well.”

  “You’re right, it is a dilemma.”

  “And there’s something else.”

  “I hope it’s not as serious.”

  “It’s the security check, Mr Lawrence – Father Kerry – the security check. We’ve got to take our jackets off at the security check and I’ve got a tear in my dress.”

  Mr Lawrence tut-tutted and continued on his way. “Don’t worry, Paul-a, all of the men and some of the women in uniform, will be looking at your arse. Most people in uniform are obsessed with arses. The older you get the more apparent that will become. They won’t notice a tiny tear like that.”

  And Mr Lawrence was right, as was usually the case. They didn’t. All of the men and some of the women in uniform looked at her behind. And her behind was right. Paul no longer existed. She was Paula now. So to hell with him.

  They moved unobtrusively forward in a queue toward the counter, a tall slim fairly attractive girl named Paula and her travelling companion, canonical dress in perfect order, cassock freshly pressed and heavy cross swinging gently across his chest.

  “Milk or cream, Father?” An assistant asked from behind her steaming silver c
ounter. “Ooooh, you’ve had an accident?”

  Mr Lawrence said in Irish that was getting better for he was growing accustomed to squeezing the vowels, “You’re very observant, my dear. Indeed I have, but it’s nothing much, wouldn’t you know, just a septic quick.”

  “Such a big bandage. Wouldn’t a plaster have done?”

  “It’s turned nasty, as things often do.” He sighed and was about to offer her his best shot at a condescending Church-of-England smile before remembering he was in Catholic garb and changed it to a boozer’s stupid grin with a bit of perve thrown in. “I’m going to overindulge, just this once. Cream please.”

  She served him, feigning that unlikely affection shown toward people who talk to God.

  “Bless you, child,” he said to her and, one-handed, picked up his tray.

  The assistant turned to Paula at his side and her attitude hardened. In Paula the assistant saw a threat. Paula noticed and lifted her head defiantly as women do when confronted with their own kind. She remained cool and aloof and hopelessly, adorably self-assured. A couple of men in the queue behind instinctively glanced at her behind. It was questionable who would be the first to the cellar. He hoped that it was Laura. It would be a lesson for her: never trust men who wear brown shoes. But it might be the policeman. If Paul had been mistaken and he was still alive then he would come round and panic and then reach for the radio. Or he might be found in the car. That was unlikely for the road at the back of the shop was quiet. In the evening it was a parking place for wrecks and courting couples, usually one and the same.

  But he hoped that Laura got there first.

  It would be the making of her.

  In the small hours she would stir, waking from her drugged sleep. She might check the time first and then move – stumble – to the window. The drug would take a little time to wear off. Her head would be heavy. Holding her heavy head she would make her way down the stairs and see the light coming from the kitchenette.

  And once in the studio she would utter, “Crikeeey! Shiiit! There’s a fucking wall growing out of the floorboards and…the cellar door is open!”

  My goodness, Laura’s scream would be heard three streets away. But it would teach her an invaluable lesson, that shoes can tell you everything you need to know about the man.

  From the tiny porthole the lights of ships or oil platforms winked their private message that life went on down there – and death, of course. Paula was nervous, her body rigid, her head forced back and her slender hands gripping both armrests. She trembled, as the more attractive women often do. Only her eyes flicked from side to side. One of the stewardesses kept a discreet eye on her, and smiled sympathetically. Nowadays, quite rightly, they weren’t called stewardesses. Now they were trolley dollies.

  “Is it her first time, Father?”

  “Like a virgin? Yes, it’s her very first time, but don’t worry, I’ll take care of her.”

  The trolley dolly, in an excellent thigh-hugging blue skirt tightened her lips at his mention of the word virgin. She eyed the bandage. “Are you all right? That looks nasty.”

  “You wouldn’t believe what happened,” he said. “Caught my ring finger in the confessional. All but tore it off.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t believe it.”

  She went on her way, checking the other passengers, making sure that their belts were clipped and their luggage was tucked away, noting on the way, which passengers would buy her duty-free and which were tight-arsed.

  “Are we up yet?” Paula asked nervously.

  “Dear girl, we’ve been up five minutes. We’re over the Channel, somewhere, heading off to the Continent where Neanderthal man still lives. In a few moments you will smell garlic and the fear of subjugation, both of which have led to thriving industries in the production of expensive perfume.”

  “Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m not going to leave you, Paula. Goodness me, I’d need a parachute to leave you here. Or wings, maybe, and I’m no angel.” “Please don’t leave me when we’re there, either…” lace, you know? They have a population explosion there. Too many babies being born. And, my goodness, we do know, don’t we, that this world is no place for children?”

  “Is it true what they say about Chinese women?”

  “I’ve heard the rumours just like you, but honestly, I don’t know. But we will find out. There is one thing, though, Paula, and take careful note of this – write it down so you don’t forget, on the back of your hand, if you like. It’s the salt in their cooking. We must remember that no matter how much we enjoy sizzling king prawn Kung Po style and duck and bean sprouts Cantonese style and crispy won ton with sweet and sour and egg fried rice, we must watch out for the salt.” Paula flicked him another nervous smile. But the smile held too the look of a child who wasn’t old enough to understand. There was, about it, the look of complete dependence. Mr Lawrence peered from the porthole just as they broke through a dense layer of cloud and the heavens stretched out before them, sparkling with riches, playgrounds for the freed souls.

  But Paula didn’t see the splendour; her eyes had closed and her head tilted lifelessly forward. The black jacket had fallen open and just below a neat tear across the breast of her blue dress, a patch of purple spread out and resembled an opening bloom of a perfect welted thistle. That strange sac that no one had ever heard of, had filled up and overflowed, like the cup that had overflowed, and she was in her green pastures, as she raced toward the glorious dawn of another Christmas Eve.

  And beamed across the universe from all those great dishes that could be seen from space, perhaps catching up or even overtaking Paula’s freed spirit, were the radio waves that carried the Christmas number one. Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think I love you

  Oh, Mr Lawrence, I think we’re there…

  Chapter 38

  “He won’t get far,” DI Rick Cole said to Sam Butler.

  Butler’s wife and daughter were in the corridor and knowing how impatient Janet could be Cole was keeping it short. She was one woman he didn’t want to upset.

  Butler’s eyes sparkled. “He’s pretty bloody clever at keeping one step ahead.”

  “Every exit and entry point in the known world is bottled up. He’ll surface.”

  Butler nodded glumly, too wise to know that entry and exit points, particularly in the UK, didn’t mean a damn, then grimaced and instinctively touched the thick swathe of bandages around his head as if checking that they were still there. He asked, “What’s Marsh doing?”

  “He’s doing what he always does. Hiding in his office and hoping it goes away. We’ve found the missing women and there’ll be no more going missing, at least for a while. One way or another it’s a result. And to Chief Superintendent Marsh that’s all that counts. That doesn’t mean you’re in for a citation, Sam. It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to kick the shit out of you when you get out of here. You were well out of order.” Cole relented and shrugged. “If Marsh could have us without any flak, then he would. But he can’t. Wooderson’s on our side because he’s got nowhere to run and Baxter’s not going to say a word out of turn. The official line is that you were both on official business. Surveillance, recommended by me and approved by Baxter.”

  Relieved, Butler asked, “And Anian?”

  “She’s all right. She’s going to be fine. She was pretty well out of it. The wonders of Rohypnol or GHB and whatever else he used. She can’t remember much at all, which is probably a good thing. She’s up and about already and a hangover from hell isn’t stopping her.”

  “She’s got some bottle, I’ll give her that, but she’s the luckiest girl in the world.”

  “She passed out so didn’t see him leave. Geoff reckons that once Lawrence realized she wasn’t pregnant that was the end of it. He never killed for killing’s sake.”

  “Very considerate of him. But how could he tell?”

  Cole shrugged again. “I think he knew all along. This was just an ego trip or to teach her a lesson.”
“I’ll go for the ego trip. He was taking the piss from the start. I can’t imagine he’d waste much effort on a DC, a slip of a girl. This has all been a fucking joke and, somewhere, he’s laughing out loud. At us, at me in particular.”

  “The final count was two men, unidentified, and six women he’d operated on. Cause of death almost certainly blood loss or physiological shock.”

  “Why didn’t the radar handsets find the cellar?”

  “Good question and it’s already been asked. There’s a few red faces in Tech Support but apparently they don’t penetrate areas they’re not pointed at. The operating theatre was twenty feet away from the Gallery’s own cellar accessed by a narrow corridor that was bricked up.”

  Butler nodded again and flinched again.

  “Well, anyway, that’s about it. There’s someone in the corridor that wants to say hello.” “Janet?”

  “And Lucy, of course.”

  Sam Butler smiled. He watched Cole move to the door then said, “Rick.”

  With the door half-open Cole hesitated and turned to face his old colleague. “Forget it, Sam.” Butler nodded.

  “We need you back. There’s been a whole bunch of shit come in.”

  “Like?”

  “Like our slasher’s had another go. Big time. This time she killed someone in the underpass. Cut him to bits. I say him, but he was dressed as a woman, a fucking cross-dresser would you believe. We’re working on the theory that she got a bit pissed-off when she discovered it wasn’t a woman and really went to town.”

  “What else?”

  “The gas explosion.”

  “Go on?”

  “It wasn’t. Or rather, it was, but detonated with an explosive charge made of aspirin.” Butler whistled. “Jesus, that’s a big step from allotment sheds. A double murder. What’s happening to Sheerham? Cross-dressing, transvestites coming out the woodwork, bombings, slashers, murders. It’s becoming a dangerous place to live.”