“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 good 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.”
