Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  I told her. “I got the impression she’s not too concerned about what the police are up to. Has bigger fish to fry.”

  Dawn sat quietly, taking in what I’d said. I excused myself and went to the bathroom. On the way back to the kitchen I glanced out of the window and noticed a car parked opposite the flats, a dark grey Mercedes, with two people sitting up front. I’d spotted it a couple of times lately, but this time there was something odd about it, and it took me a minute or two to work out what it was. There was frost on the roof.

  I found Dawn still sitting at the kitchen table, making notes.

  “Am I under observation?”

  “What?”

  “You heard. There’s two guys in a grey Mercedes parked opposite. I’ve seen them before. Looks like they’ve been there all night.”

  She got up and I pointed her towards the landing window.

  “Not one of ours.”

  “Okay. And they’ve obviously not just followed you here.”

  “No. But they know I’m here now.”

  “They know you’re in the building. Not that you’re visiting me.”

  “I hope not. Are you planning on going into the bank today?”

  “It’s a working day. Look, Dawn, if I just suddenly stop showing for work, then Nilsson’s going to realise for sure that I’m up to something. I have to keep acting normally. Let me carry on for the time being and if I need to make a quick exit then I will. But it could be really useful, having me there.”

  She wasn’t happy. I persisted. “You haven’t told anyone, have you?”

  “That you’re working there? No.”

  “Why not?”

  I knew perfectly well why not, but it was good to have these things out in the open, if only to prevent any misunderstandings later on.

  “If I have to spell it out, because if I report it then somebody upstairs is going to want to know why we’ve allowed a witness and a potential informer to get involved in a live investigation without authorisation. Or have you forgotten that you’re a witness to a shooting?”

  “If the bank’s under observation, someone’s bound to spot me going in and out.”

  “Yes. But it ain’t going to be me. I haven’t seen you.”

  “That’s a bit remiss of you, DI Sayler. Especially as you know me from a prior case. If I were the senior officer on the case, I’d think you needed glasses.”

  She sighed.

  “Just let me worry about that bit. I’m off observation for the time being.”

  “Should I wear a disguise?”

  “Don’t be a twat. Like you said, just carry on acting normally while we think of a way out of it. Keep your eyes and ears open and your mouth shut, and don’t do anything unpredictable.”

  “Unpredictable? Me?”

  She took another quick look out at the grey car. Still there.

  “Okay, I’m going.”

  “Where to?”

  “For a fucking eye test, where do you think?”

  I laughed.

  “If you must know, I’m going to go downstairs, talk to some of your neighbours. Give those arseholes the impression I’ve been doing a bit of door-to-door. When I leave, keep an eye on them and see if they follow.”

  “What if they don’t?”

  “In that case, we know it’s you they’re watching.”

  Oh great. I waited a while to give Dawn time for her little charade and then happened to glance out of the kitchen window while she crossed the road and got into her car. It was only when she pulled away that I realised she drove a Fiat Panda.

  It was getting late: I had to hurry or I’d not make it to the office before Simon Leach rolled up. As I trotted out of the flats towards the tube station, the grey Mercedes was still in its place, the man on the passenger side apparently engrossed in his Financial Times.

  Chapter Eight

  Monday 17th November

  Bad News

  As soon as I got the chance, I went into Leach’s office and gave him the news. His kind employer face was all downturned mouth and puppy eyes; his finance face lurked behind it, slightly annoyed at the inconvenience. I had to cry a bit to get the message across: I was going to Chicago on Thursday whether he liked it or not, to pay my last respects to Mommy. Nilsson came in without knocking.

  “What’s going on?”

  He looked from me to Leach and back again.

  “Charlotte’s mother has passed away rather suddenly. She needs to go to Chicago this week, to the funeral.”

  “Chicago? Oh, okay. I didn’t realise. I’m sorry Miss Bronski, that’s really terrible. Please, take as much time as you need.”

  I dried my eyes and shot a quick glance at Leach. He wasn’t happy, which I could understand, because he must have felt he was losing assistants as fast as coins down the back of the sofa.

  “Thank you, Mr Nilsson,” I fluttered, resisting the urge to curtsey. “I’ll be back in three days.”

  Leach frowned at that.

  “The reading of the will is the day after,” I explained, trying to look like I had no choice. Come to think of it, I really hadn’t had much say in the matter. Anyhow, having got what I wanted, I stepped briskly back to my desk and carried on with the task in hand, leaving Nilsson and Leach having a quiet discussion behind Leach’s closed office door.

  When I told Lucy Fleming about my hastily-arranged trip she, too, appeared less than thrilled that I was taking time off, although she also seemed very keen to check up on flight availability for me, and even offered to book the trip. She certainly made all the right sympathetic noises, but what I was hearing didn’t tally with her expression.

  Later that morning, shortly before lunch, Nilsson wandered over, Coke in hand. He leaned his arm casually on the partition against the side of my desk and glanced at the document I was typing. I smiled. He smiled.

  “How are you getting on?”

  I wasn’t sure if he meant generally or with the typing, so I said, “fine, thanks.”

  “Good. I wonder, would you perhaps like to get some lunch?”

  At this point, I suspected he was inviting me to have lunch with him, but I played it cool, just in case. I’d already discovered that the Scandinavian way of saying things could be misinterpreted.

  “Oh, it’s twelve-thirty already. Yes. Would you like me to fetch you a sandwich while I’m out?”

  He raised his eyebrows and smiled again. Clearly my acting wasn’t up to much, but he played along.

  “I thought we might walk down together. Do you like sushi? There’s a good place on the corner, next to the station.”

  He was leaning over the partition now, encroaching into my space.

  “Oh. Okay – yes – thank you. That sounds very nice.”

  He waited by the lift while I fetched my coat. We were joined on the way down by one of the junior guys from the private equity team, Lorenzo Gallo. He took the opportunity to engage his boss in some earnest talk about a deal he was working on, and Nilsson listened, nodding and smiling. Lorenzo’s a bit younger than me; very tall and lean, handsome in a Milanese sort of way. He towered over both of us in the lift and I was edged into the corner while he flicked his hands around, emphasising a point here and there. Nilsson noticed. When we reached the ground floor the two men stepped aside and Lorenzo gestured that I should go ahead. He was startled and slightly embarrassed when he twigged that Nilsson was taking me to lunch. I knew I’d stolen his pitch, and he waved half-heartedly and strode off in the direction of a nearby salad bar, probably angry with himself for missing the opportunity. Lorenzo seemed a nice guy. I felt sorry for him.

  “Did you want to have lunch with Lorenzo instead? I don’t mind if you...”

  “No, no. It wasn’t important. I can discuss the deal with him anytime. He’s a good kid: I’ve got him working on a new project.”

  Nilsson ushered me smartly towards the sushi place. It was called California Roll, which didn’t bode well. He was obviously a regular and we were shown to a
small table at the back of the main bar area. A Coke and some sparkling water arrived as if by magic.

  “Do you want a glass of wine or something?”

  Nilsson asked me as if he had no idea what the answer might be. I did a quick calculation: water was safe but unfriendly; wine seemed inappropriate and Coke was out of the question. I settled for the inappropriate option and a small glass of house white duly arrived, too sweet and too warm. I sipped it slowly while we consulted the menu.

  “So, Charlotte. Going home to Chicago. Whereabouts is home?”

  “Oh, quite central.”

  “I’ve been to Chicago many times. Nice city. Very friendly people.”

  “Yes. Can be.”

  He suggested a couple of dishes and I said I was sure that whatever he chose would be fine. The waiter went away.

  “So, where is the funeral taking place?”

  I thought this was a very impertinent question. He was clearly fishing around about my family background, but I wasn’t sure whether this was because he was suspicious or just because he wanted to get to know me. He seemed keen to do that. Jack always says that a lie looks better standing next to the truth.

  “St Michael’s.”

  Nilsson thought for a moment.

  “Ah, yes. The big Catholic church near Lincoln Park. It’s very beautiful: I went around it one day when I had some time to spare. Wow. Yes. A most impressive church. Your family must be very...”

  “...Catholic?”

  He laughed.

  “Actually, only my mother is. Was.”

  “I see. What about your father?”

  “He died several years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I was going to say that there was no need to be sorry but that sounded hard-hearted, even to me. Nilsson pressed on as the food arrived.

  “So your family lives near Lincoln Park?”

  “Yes. West Webster.”

  He feigned astonishment.

  “West Webster Avenue? Really? How amazing. I have some friends who live right nearby. Maybe you know them? Sophie and Axel Glick?”

  I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. I don’t go back to Chicago very often. I’ve lived in London for years; I came over here at sixteen to go to school.”

  “Ah, I see. So you are really a Londoner, then?”

  He picked up a sliver of something unrecognisable and directed it mercilessly into his mouth. After a few minutes spent on this charade, I looked across towards a far corner of the room where two men were sitting, although I noticed that they didn’t seem to be eating or drinking anything. They were both on the same side of the table, facing in our direction. They sat stiffly, black-suited, out of place. Nilsson seemed unaware, or at least unconcerned. A waiter went over and spoke to them; there was a brief conversation, then the pair of them got up and left the restaurant by an indirect route, walking slowly by our table and very nearly stopping. I glanced up, and recognised the shorter of them as the one I’d seen earlier reading the Financial Times. Nilsson saw the expression on my face.

  “Is there a problem?”

  He looked at me hard.

  “No. Nothing to worry about.”

  “Are you enjoying the food?”

  “Yes,” I lied. “It’s excellent. Thank you for bringing me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Wednesday 19th November

  Inside Out

  We arranged that Dawn would collect me on Wednesday morning in what I now mentally referred to as her Panda car. In case the two guys in the grey Merc were still doing their thing, we agreed that I’d wait for her at the bus stop in the next street. She slowed down just long enough for me to jump in, so it looked like a friend spotting a friend. I put the seatbelt on as she nosed into a queue of traffic heading west. Dawn shot me a glance as she steered around a cycle courier, a Rastafarian riding like he was planning to make a claim on his insurance. She banged on her window and mouthed something at him. He gestured back.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine thanks. It’s really good of you to pick me up, Dawn. You don’t have to come with me.”

  “S’all right. I thought you might need a bit of backup.”

  I smiled to myself.

  “I’m only visiting Jack. Not sure I need police protection.”

  “Says you. Anyway, it’s a tough call.”

  I watched the traffic for a while.

  “Dawn, you’re not here because Ollie put you up to it, are you?”

  “Do I look like Mary Poppins? I haven’t told Ollie. Didn’t think it was my business.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  We drove along in silence while I reflected on Ollie’s choice of partner. As we got near the prison, Sayler fished around in her jacket pocket and pulled out her ID.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I thought we might do a bit of queue jumping.”

  “Is that allowed?”

  Apparently it was. When we got inside I let her do the talking and we were fast-tracked into an interview room near B Wing. I was puzzled to see a balding guy in a tatty jumper and yellow cord trousers waiting for us.

  “I’m Roger.”

  I shook his extended hand slightly reluctantly.

  “I’m the Prison Chaplain,” he added. “My condolences, Miss Garrity. I thought you might need some support.”

  Backup and support. What were they expecting? A re-enactment of the scene in White Heat when James Cagney finds out his mother’s dead? I tried, briefly, to imagine a traumatised Jack jumping on the table and beating his chest, but somehow I couldn’t.

  “I don’t think he’ll be too surprised,” I said. “Our mother’s been ill for a long time.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Roger.

  I sensed Dawn, standing behind me, shuffling uneasily. We were spared any further sympathy when the door opened and my brother appeared, flanked by a tired-looking uniform, who manoeuvred Jack towards one of the three plastic chairs and dropped him into it. I sat down too, and the others stepped back against the wall, waiting. He spoke first.

  “What’s up?”

  Don’t beat about the bush, Jack.

  “What do you think?”

  He sat upright and looked me straight in the eye.

  “She’s dead, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Poor old Roger wasn’t getting his money’s worth in this little exchange. No gentle euphemisms, no tears. No table-jumping or chest-beating.

  “About fucking time.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath, and realised it was mine.

  “Jack! It’s our mother you’re talking about.”

  He slumped back into the chair. No doubt Roger and Dawn were giving each other the raised eyebrow treatment somewhere behind my head.

  “Funeral’s on Friday. I’m flying over tomorrow.”

  “Fine. Have a nice trip.”

  I was pretty appalled. Even by Jack’s standards this was – well, appalling. He might have at least pretended to be a bit sorry about it. He glowered at me and stood up, ready to go back to his cell. I spun round before he made it to the door.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you’d spoken to Dirk?”

  Jack stopped dead. For a moment I thought he was just going to ignore it, carry on walking, but he turned towards me, slowly, and gave me a look I’d never had from him before, never, in all our lives together. I knew what he was going to say even before he said it, but the words still hung in the air like knives.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were fucking Sullivan?”

  We drove back in silence. When Dawn pulled up, it was in a side street five minutes’ walk away from the flat.

  “Will you be okay?”

  I still felt like Jack had slapped me hard across the face, though this time he hadn’t needed to lift a hand.

  “Who told him? How did he find out, Dawn? Who knows about Ollie and me? Apart from Ollie and me? Well, you know, but you wouldn’t hav
e told him.”

  She gave me a pitying look.

  “You didn’t tell him, did you?”

  “Of course not. I’m not supposed to know, remember?”

  “Look, if it wasn’t us three,” (I realised that sounded very uncomfortable, and Dawn winced slightly as I said it), “then someone else must have told him. Someone who knows who Jack is, and where he is, and has access to him.”

  “And someone who’s got something to gain by telling him.”

  Dawn watched as a traffic warden ticketed a vehicle parked opposite. He was making a show of doing it, like he knew he was being observed, or wanted to be. Still facing away, she added, “anyone who wants to harm Sullivan...”

  I felt sick. She hadn’t said it like an accusation but I knew it was, and she was right.

  “Do you remember I told you about that woman in the gallery? She knew about us. Jesus, I wish I’d not let her get away. It must have been her.”

  Dawn looked at me intently. “Can you remember what she looked like? In any detail, I mean.”

  I closed my eyes.

  “Short dark curly hair, almost black, very glossy. Pale skin, no make-up. About five foot six, slim build, wearing a black jacket, trousers, I think – no, a skirt, dark check or tartan pattern – black tights, black shoes – lace-ups.”

  “Anything else? Was she carrying anything?”

  I concentrated.

  “No. But I suppose she might have left a bag or coat in the cloakroom. It was a really cold day.”

  “I can ask. They’ll have CCTV. Is there anything else you can remember about her?”

  “What? That wasn’t a good enough description?”

  “Was she wearing perfume? What was her voice like? Did she use any particular words or phrases? Unusual accent?”

  I repeated what the woman had said, as much as I could remember of it. “She sounded very businesslike, efficient. Like she was used to being in charge. Nothing standout in her accent – it was educated London vanilla.”

  Dawn listened, forming the simulacrum of the woman in her mind. After a moment or two, something occurred to her, but she didn’t share it.

  She said, “D’you remember if she was wearing any jewellery?”