Cut Out

by Marcia Woolf

  “What?”

  He exchanged a look with Dora that made me think they knew something I didn’t.

  “Will you two stop that? What’s going on?”

  There was a tap at the door and Rudy Bannerman’s head appeared.

  “May I?”

  He came in without waiting for an answer, and stood between Dora and the sofa, so that my view of her was completely obliterated.

  “You must be terribly shocked. I would like to help if you would let me.”

  I felt Dirk’s hold tighten. He’d always had a low opinion of Bannerman, even more than I did. Before I could formulate a response, Dirk interjected.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary at the moment, thank you. We just need to get Cookie back to the hotel.”

  That was news to me.

  “The hotel? I haven’t got time for that. I’ve got to get to the airport.”

  “You’re in no fit state...”

  I stood up. All three of them looked like they expected me to fall over again. I stepped round Bannerman, slipped my arm through Dora’s, and steered her back into Pinckney’s office. He was still sitting chatting to Uncle Mort. Pinckney stopped in mid-sentence and the pair of them had the same expression on their faces. I’d have liked to say it was sympathy rather than pity, but pity had won out. Mort spoke first.

  “Charlotte, I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

  “Is that so?”

  Pinckney opened his mouth but all that came out was an indignant puff. By this time, Dirk and Bannerman had followed us back into the office, and the five of them stood in a semi-circle like spear-carriers in a high-school Greek tragedy, waiting for Agamemnon to deliver his big speech. If only I’d had one, they could have had it, both barrels, but all I could think about was that night, eight years ago, when Jack and I were standing in pretty much the same attitude in our father’s – correction, Jack’s father’s – library. If I’d known then what I knew now, things might have turned out very differently indeed. I looked at my watch.

  “Dirk, I have to catch my flight back to London. Can you drive me to the airport, please?”

  He headed to the door without a word. I hugged Dora, surprised Uncle Mort by giving him a kiss on the cheek, and shook hands with Pinckney and Bannerman.

  “Please don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’m so sorry to have been a nuisance.”

  Dirk opened the door and I stepped out briskly ahead of him and along the corridor to the elevator. As soon as we started the descent, he took hold of me and we hugged each other hard, and I felt myself starting to cry in spite of it.

  On the way back to the airport, Dirk drove without speaking. I could see he was shaken up as badly as me by the old witch’s bombshell. I was late: we only had a moment or two for goodbyes, and I hated to leave him like that. I ran through security: they were about to close the gate when I arrived, breathless.

  After take-off I started to calm down. The plane reached cruising altitude and I relaxed some more. Then, you know that strange sensation when you suddenly remember that you’ve left something behind, left the door unlocked, forgotten to make an important phone call? Well, I had that sensation. One moment, the thought wasn’t in my head and the next it was, shouting and banging a drum. It all made sense, everything fell into place. I had left something behind: Dirk. It had to be him. Dirk was my father.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sunday 23rd November

  Enough Rope

  My mobile rang as soon as I got through passport control. Ollie sounded tense.

  “I’m coming over. I’ll meet you at your place.”

  “Okay. What’s the rush?”

  “Some news. About your employer.”

  “Nilsson?”

  “Not him personally.”

  On the way back the cab driver was listening to Heart FM. Then he turned it off and we drove in silence for a while. I tapped on the glass.

  “Could you put the news on? On the radio? I’ve been away for a few days, need to catch up.”

  He eyed me in his mirror as though I’d asked him to show me his organ donor card. I leaned back and he turned up the volume.

  “...body found in a shallow grave. Police are linking it to the death reported yesterday of a City of London bank employee.”

  The newsreader went on to the next item. There was no signal on my phone. I banged on the driver’s partition again.

  “What was that about? The body in the shallow grave?”

  He shook his head.

  “Dunno, love. Some woman, found in Epping Forest. Bloke walking his dog.” He laughed. “Always the bloomin’ dog walkers that find the bodies, ain’t it? Wouldn’t catch me walkin’ a bloomin’ dog in Epping Forest. Never know what it might dig up.”

  When I got back, Ollie was waiting for me.

  “Sorry. Have you been here long?”

  “No, about ten minutes.”

  “You should have a key.”

  I reached round him and opened the door.

  “A key?”

  We stood in the doorway, half in and half out, and looked at each other. I realised what I’d said.

  “Yeah.”

  Ollie pulled me inside and closed the door with his foot.

  We kissed. It was a long, slow kiss and I felt myself starting to give in to him before our mouths slid apart. He undid my shirt. I unzipped his fly.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, in between the waves of pleasure that his fingers were already passing over me like electric currents.

  He picked me up and carried me into the bedroom.

  “Stop! What’s going on?”

  I was laughing but he dropped down onto the bed and began unlacing my boots.

  “Boots! Why are you wearing boots? Oh, God.”

  He groaned, gave up on the laces and tugged frantically at my jeans. I helped. He was desperate and I hate to see a grown man near to tears. Within seconds he was inside me, long slow strokes that he could barely control, every one accompanied by a little moan of ecstasy. I felt myself tighten around him, and he sighed, pushing again and again though I knew he wanted to hold back, wanted it to go on for ever. We hit the crest of the wave together and it seemed like nothing else existed apart from that moment, that intense and guilty pleasure.

  I awoke to find it was midday. Ollie was lying next to me, face down on the bed, sleeping like a baby. He was still dressed above the waist and below the knees. I wiggled my arm free from underneath his head and sat up. I struggled to remember what day it was. Sunday. Ollie rolled onto his back and opened his eyes.

  “Hello.”

  “Hello.”

  He grinned.

  “We seem to have fallen asleep.”

  “I have jet lag. What’s your excuse?”

  I got up and went to make coffee while Ollie showered. He still hadn’t told me what the call was about, but I didn’t think it could be important. It was probably just a ruse, an excuse to turn up at the flat. By the time I’d joined him in the shower and we’d fucked again, this time with bubbles, the coffee was stone cold. I made some fresh, while Ollie hunted round in the refrigerator to find us something to eat.

  Eventually, we curled up on the sofa in front of the fake fire, and I asked him why he’d called me. Ollie did that thing where he switched into copper mode.

  “Did you hear the news on the way back from the airport?”

  “Not really. Something about a body in Epping Forest.”

  “A woman, yeah. She’d been there a while. You didn’t hear about the private equity guy? Found dead at home.”

  “No. It wasn’t Nilsson, was it?”

  Highly unlikely, I thought. Very unlikely indeed.

  “No. It was someone you know, though.”

  “You’re joking! Who?”

  “Simon Leach.”

  “Jesus. Simon? Are you sure?”

  Ollie pulled me closer to him inside the blanket. It felt like I’d had more than my fair share of hugs recently.


  “It’s not good, Cookie. Simon Leach was found yesterday morning by his daughter Mollie. She’s only nine. He’d hanged himself in the garage at home.”

  “Oh God. Poor kid. Why? Why would he do that?”

  “Not clear at the moment. He didn’t leave a note. No problems at home, according to his wife. His doctor says he wasn’t depressed.”

  “Drugs? Money problems?”

  “Not that anyone’s aware of. You don’t think he was doing drugs, do you?”

  “He always seemed fine to me. Abnormally normal, if anything.”

  I curled up closer to Ollie and rested my head against him.

  “There’s something else, Cookie.”

  “What?”

  “The woman in Epping Forest.”

  Ollie stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head like I was a child. Bad news was coming. I felt it in my bones, felt it crawling inside the blanket with us and eating its way under my skin. Even before he said the words, I knew.

  “It’s her, isn’t it? Susie.”

  I felt him tense: the hand stopped stroking.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s looking like she’s been dead since the day she left the bank.”

  He paused, as if weighing up whether to tell me something more. Looking for the right words.

  “Do you know who Susie was? Really, I mean.”

  “Really? What, she wasn’t just Simon Leach’s PA?”

  Ollie was watching me; I think he was hoping I’d worked it out, that he wouldn’t have to say it. I shook my head. All I could think was that Simon Leach had killed Susie and buried her in the Forest, and he’d hanged himself when the body was found. It seemed weird: I wouldn’t have thought he’d had it in him.

  Ollie drew a breath and repositioned himself on the sofa, pulling away from me slightly. He looked terribly sad.

  “Who was she, then?”

  “One of ours. PC Sam Dillon.”

  “What? You mean she was investigating Nilsson? Ollie, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Tears were streaming down his face and I had to ask him to repeat it.

  “Because I’m not supposed to – because you aren’t supposed to be mixed up in this. Christ. Do you know—”

  “What?”

  He hung his head. After a minute or two, he pulled a tissue out of his back pocket and blew hard. It’s not often you see a man cry, really cry, like that. There was something so vulnerable about him, and I didn’t know why it made me feel angry. He stared into the fake fire.

  “D’you know what they called her round the Station? Magic. There was some kids’ cartoon series years ago, The Magic Roundabout, and one of the characters on it was called Dylan. Some dozy snail or something. Stupid. Fucking stupid waste. She was always bouncing around, off to the gym, captain of the station netball team. When I met her, I thought she was called Magic because of Magic Johnson, not after some dozy fucking kids’ snail.”

  I prised myself out of the blanket and fetched us a couple of glasses and the bottle.

  Ollie poured two large ones and we drank a toast. To Magic. The pretend fire flickered through its pre-programmed sequence of natural-looking flame. The afternoon wore on and neither of us spoke, although we carried on drinking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunday 23rd November

  The Go Between

  Dawn arrived later, around two-thirty. She rang to say she was on her way up, rather than buzz the intercom and risk alerting the neighbours. I let her in, and she trotted up the stairs, arriving out of breath.

  She looked worried.

  “I’m not here. Not till I know what this is all about, okay?”

  Sullivan gestured to her to sit down at the kitchen table, and he put a mug of coffee in front of her.

  “We’ve got a problem.”

  Dawn looked at us in turn.

  “Only one?”

  I sat down, but Sullivan continued pacing the length of the kitchen. Eventually he dropped into a chair and sat, head in hands. Still going over the same stuff. Still coming back to the same point.

  “You’re right. What’s the latest on Leach?”

  Dawn shifted uncomfortably.

  “We shouldn’t...”

  “Discuss it in front of her? Cookie?”

  She stood up and glared at us.

  “No, we shouldn’t. What you,” she said, jabbing a finger at Ollie, “what you’ve done, Guv, is to get yourself into the biggest pile of shit this side of a farmyard. Excuse me, Cookie, I don’t mean this personally, but he’s just let his dick lead us into this mess. And you’ve got me involved by default, which is not a position I want to be in, on account of having a career to think about: a career that I happen to love, which pays my mortgage. So now I have a problem as well, don’t I? Either I can drop Ollie in it, in which case I’m implicated anyway, or I can pretend I don’t know anything, which makes me look like a right dozy pillock, and I get to spend half my time watching over my shoulder for the anti-corruption lot to turn up. Which they will, because I’m not the only one who’s worked it out. So no, I’m not happy, Guv. What’s your problem?”

  She sat down.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I found myself staring at Ollie incredulously. Sorry. Was that it?

  “You’re right, Dawn.” He placed both hands flat on the table in front of him, palms down. “I think I need to make some decisions. But first I want to sort out this Leach thing.”

  Dawn sighed.

  “Well, since I’m here and the situation can hardly get any worse...”

  Sullivan stopped her. “Hang on. What did you say just now? Who else has worked what out?”

  I tried to intervene but Dawn wasn’t having it.

  “Cookie had an encounter in an art gallery. Some woman warning her off.”

  Ollie stared at me.

  “You didn’t tell me. What happened?”

  Dawn folded her arms and leaned back.

  “I wasn’t sure, when Cookie told me about it. But I am now. Go on, Cookie. Describe her. That’ll put the cat amongst the pigeons.”

  I told him about the dark curly hair and the distinctive earrings, the black jacket, the words she used. He listened, white-faced, and when I’d finished he turned to look at Dawn.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. I was mystified.

  “Her? You know this woman? Who the hell is she?”

  Neither of them spoke. Dawn finally leaned towards him over the table.

  “This is getting untidy.”

  Exasperated, I prodded Ollie’s arm, but he shook me off. The pair of them continued to hold eye contact. Plainly there was something being communicated, and I had been locked out. I stood up.

  “Okay, I’m going to go unpack while you two do whatever it is you’re doing, and when I get back in about fifteen minutes perhaps one or other of you will be kind enough to tell me what the fuck’s going on. Who knows, maybe one of you will have made some decisions.”

  I leaned against the bathroom wall and cried. Only two years ago, everything had been fine. Jack and I had been safe here in London. We’d had money, a life together, the situation in Chicago had been under control, we’d had nothing to worry about, or at least nothing we couldn’t handle. Now Jack was in prison, I was screwing the guy who’d help put him there, and the man I’d always believed was my father apparently wasn’t. And this business with Nilsson. How could I have thought I could get mixed up in it and not get hurt, not cause any lasting damage? Don’t get involved. I should have it tattooed on my forehead.

  Dawn knocked on the bathroom door.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, be out in a minute.”

  I headed back to the kitchen, where Sullivan was waiting. He produced a notepad on which he’d jotted down a few things, presumably during his discussion with Dawn. We looked at him expectantly.

  “Right.”

  He took a deep breath. We waited. We waited a bit more. Dawn frowned, as if s
he thought he was going to chicken out and she’d have to do the explaining on his behalf. I suspected that was a fairly regular occurrence. He looked at the ceiling. I looked at the ceiling, but all I noticed was that the light fitting needed dusting and made a mental note to do it before Jack’s parole came up. Which reminded me that Sullivan hadn’t mentioned the parole board recently. I wondered whether Jack had been turned down and nobody had had the guts to tell me. On the other hand, maybe he’d been released this very morning and was on his way home. I imagined him flinging open the door in a darling I’m back sort of way and finding the three of us sitting here, like best mates the morning after a sleepover. Actually, that was very un-Jack-like. He’d just sneak in quietly and hope to catch me doing something he didn’t approve of, like using an aerosol or screwing a DCI. I mentally kicked myself under the table here because Ollie was still gazing upwards for inspiration, lips pursed, and there was no way I should let him get away with that for more than a couple of minutes. “Come on,’ I said. “What’s the deal?”

  In the end, Dawn spoke first.

  “It’s not that easy. Where to start, I mean. We’re not supposed to be telling you any of this. You’re not meant to be involved. Not with him, not with this case. We aren’t supposed to even be here.”

  She nodded towards her guv’nor, to indicate we’d better shut up because he was about to deliver his explanation. What he said next threw both of us into a quandary. He turned to me and took hold of my hand.

  “Cookie. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. You don’t have to say anything now, but – and I really have given this a lot of thought, so don’t tell me I’m mad,” he said, shooting a look at Dawn, as though she was the one who’d be flinging accusations around, or maybe just to get her to keep her mouth shut, “but, please, will you marry me?”

  Dawn let out the kind of yelp you get from a dog when someone’s trodden on its tail. She started to say, “You can’t,” but he glared at her and she shut her mouth again. For a moment or two I thought I’d misheard, but he carried on holding my hand and smiling in such a bizarre manner that I realised I hadn’t.