Director's Cut (26 page)

“You're bleeding.”

“Yeah, a bit. It ain't much, is it?”

“You ought to get to the hospital, boy. Something might be busted,
inside. But they'll ask questions. It didn't happen here, right?”
“Don't you worry about me, Powder Pete. You got enough to worry
about with the kids. I'll make out. Always did, right? You take care of
the kids. I'll be back… Terminator, innit?”

Powder Pete helped him through the window and passed out the
bags containing the badminton rackets and trainers. He shook a sad
head. Paul Knight was one of life's losers, a non-starter in the race of
the nobbled. Had he been a dozen years younger then Powder Pete
would have taken an interest, taken care of him, but lines had to be
drawn. Aid agencies across the world drew them and one man could
only do so much.

It was a shame, but there was nothing he could do but watch him
go, damaged goods leaking on to the gutted road.

A cry came up from the Warren and Powder Pete turned from the
window and the forlorn figure of Paul Knight, a hunched silhouette
against the shine of the city, clambering over the top of the world, the
piles of rubble and the silent diggers. He moved towards the sound of
tears and found their source curled up beneath a stained duvet.
He stroked a head of damp hair and said gently, “Don't be
frightened. I’ll take care of you. My name is Powder Pete.”

Two days earlier, the day before Brian Lara had met Paul Knight in
Avenue Road, PC Donna Fitzgerald spent the morning with Geoff
Maynard. She considered that Cole and Maynard made an unlikely
alliance. Cole was direct, intense and dangerous on a number of levels

– even the villains recognized it. He was good-looking too with a
physique that would make a cheap suit look good. She couldn’t
imagine him involved in household chores or relaxing in front of the
TV. But just the thought of him quickened her pulse. She was in
trouble and she knew it.

Maynard, on the other hand, was relaxed and informal and the
casual clothes he wore – she hadn’t yet seen him out of jeans – were
well-worn, even scruffy. She could easily imagine him at her old
school, teaching one of those dusty subjects she’d chosen to ignore.
But there lay the paradox. For someone who took in every word and
clung to every gesture no matter how slight or inconsequential, he was
simply too laid-back, and although he never challenged – as a copper
might have done – she just knew that it was all noted and filed for later
use. It was this undercurrent that left her uncomfortable and slightly on
edge.

She was, however, fascinated by the way he worked and following
him around, armed with a street map and retracing the victim’s
footsteps from, in the case of Elizabeth Rayner, the leisure centre to
her likely destination, she found herself shaking her head on more than
one occasion.

“Lose yourself in the surroundings,” he had said. “Ask yourself the
questions: why here, why now, was he waiting, or following, where
from, was an exit considered, if not, why not…”

She hadn’t really appreciated what he was getting at until they
reached the spot where Elizabeth was attacked. The only clue that an
incident had taken place was a poster, under the heading of ‘Serious
Assault’, appealing for witnesses and information. There, he had
offered two options – were they looking for a stalker or an
opportunist? The stalker would know the route and lie in wait. He
would have made his plans, followed her home on a number of
occasions and got to know her routine. He would then have chosen the
safest place to carry out his attack. Having already found a number of
more likely places further along Elizabeth’s intended path, she knew
without Maynard spelling it out that they were looking for the
opportunist and that the assaults on Elizabeth at least, had not been
planned. Equally, assuming that Elizabeth was followed, for if not then
the attacker might have been hanging around for some time waiting for
a likely victim and would not have taken the chance of being
recognized, then the attacker must have come from the same direction,
the leisure centre and the Square.

And after the assault which way did the assailant leave the SOC?
She nodded her understanding. She was beginning to understand his
reasoning and caught his glance as she worked it out. He was willing
her to get there, just like her old teacher.

“That way would be unknown territory,” she confirmed. “So unless
he knew the area he’d go back the way he came. He must already have made sure
there was no one behind him – the attack only took seconds – so he knows that
way is clear.”

Maynard said nothing but she knew she’d got it right. They
approached the High Road. He didn’t need to ask the question that she
was already working on – which way now?

To the crowd, she proposed. In a crowd people remain anonymous.
He’s heading back to the Square!

Wouldn’t he hang around to see the ambulance and the police?
Some get off on that?

No, he couldn’t take the chance someone would approach from the
other direction.

Maynard said, “So, we’ve got the time to within seconds and we
know which way he came and which way he went. Any camera along
the way would have photographed not only Elizabeth once, but the
attacker twice within a few minutes, front and back image.”
They walked on and checked every shop and business, searching
for a camera that might have picked up the passers-by. They checked
the higher buildings for any CCTVs that covered the street itself. They
were some two hundred yards from the SOC, just a short distance from
the Square itself, when they found what they were looking for.
“You’re sure it’s a him we’re after? Could it be a double act with
the woman acting as a lure, maybe, or even a lookout? Maybe she was
fingering the victims and giving him directions on the phone – Fred
and Rose West, Brady and Myra Hindley?”

Maynard pulled a face. It wasn’t dismissal, exactly, but it was clear
he wasn’t happy with the idea that two people were involved. “You
check the film,” he said. “You’re looking for a man – or a woman –
wearing or carrying a dark jacket and, if it’s a man, then you might
look for a woman on his heels. I’m going to concentrate on Brian’s
woman. The key to all this lies...”

“Go on?”

“I was going to say in her handbag, but it might be under her skirt.”
Maynard walked away toward the Square and left Donna staring
thoughtfully after him.

Later, Brian said, “You ain't a normal copper, are you?” He sat in the
front of Maynard's car. He felt a lot more at ease without the others. It
was never easy with coppers up close. They were only interested in
one thing, a result. And they didn't care how they got it.

“I'm not a policeman at all. I'm a psychologist. Does it show?”
“Some things aren't hidden. Blue eyes is blue eyes.”

“My eyes aren't blue.”

“I know. They're brown. And they're all over me. They have been
since you walked into the room.”

“Maybe you're tired or maybe you’re on something but you're way
off the mark.”

“Think so?”

“Yes.”

“Please yourself.”

“OK, I've no problem with that. What you think is your own
business. Let's concentrate on finding this woman.”

“The toms?”

“Just the one in particular.”

“She ain't here.”

“You haven't looked.”

“I'm certain, Mister. She was different. She stood out. You’ll see,
when we find her.”

“OK, we'll wait. Meanwhile you could tell me a bit about yourself.”
“Yeah, like I would.”

“Fair enough.”

“What about?”

“How you ended up on the streets? We could start there.”
“How you do end up anywhere, you tell me? Did you end up doing
what you wanted to do?”

“No, I was going to raise pigs. My mother holds a little place in
Lincolnshire and she breeds pigs. It’s a small place and the smell is a
bit dodgy, particularly on a hot day. But that’s what I had in mind. So
what about you?”

Brian shrugged. He glanced up into Maynard's eyes. “Been there,
done it.”

“Pigs?”

“Sort of.”

They both laughed then Maynard said, “You were hurt?”
“Some of them like to hurt you, you know that.”

“Well, it wasn't serious or you wouldn't be here.”

“Two weeks in bed, couldn't eat, pissing blood.” He glanced at
Maynard again. The light caught his long eyelashes, drew you to his
dark eyes. He gave the psychologist a tricky little smile.

Maynard reached to the key. “Think you're clever?”

The lad shrugged his bony shoulders. He said, “Where we going?”
“To the supermarket.”

“What's there?”

“The car park, more toms, more rent boys. More people who are
hurting. Your kind of place.”

“Suit yourself.”

“I always do.”

The youngster threw him a strange glance.

They drove in silence.

Some of them like to hurt you.

Maynard knew all about it. Some of them were tuned into violence;
it was part of the routine; an attempt at self-annihilation.

The High Road slid by full of Christmas shoppers, bulging bags, silly
Santa-hats and rolls of see-through festive paper – fifteen for a quid.
People weren’t feeling good and even the street dealers were feeling it.
The holes in the wall were sucking in plastic like one-armed bandits
but paying out less and fake Calvin Klein was snatched up by punters
who fancied a tenner instead of thirty.

Maynard parked up. Five minutes went by before the lad said, “So?”
“Just watch.”

“We could be here for hours.”

“Got anything better to do?”

“Anything's better than this.”

“We'll give it half an hour. If nothing happens we'll call it a day.”
“What makes you think she'll be here?”

Maynard admitted wryly, “Just like you, I'm guessing.”

Brian shook his head. The rebuke had claimed his tongue.
“Jason was pointing out the faces but not the one we wanted. He’s
streetwise and bright but he’ll never grow old.”

Sympathy was beyond Cole and he struggled. “You can only offer
to help. Nothing more. You don’t interfere in the animal kingdom, do
you? You’d fuck up the food chain.”

“You’re a cold-hearted bastard sometimes.”

“You’re right. It goes with the job and my name isn’t Canute. No
point in fighting something you can’t beat.”

“He never believed he could stop the tide. He was making a point to
the Bosham locals that there were some things a man could not do –
even if he was king.”

“Exactly. That‘s the point. There are too many Sidney Cookes and
Lennie Smiths out there and too many kids who won’t listen for us to
make a difference. All we can do is take one body at a time and go
after the bastard who did it – taking into account, of course, at all
times, the bastard’s human rights!” He made a suitable noise. Street
boys and girls were easy prey and the city was full of predators. That
was the reality. He shook the thought away and asked, “So what have
we got, Geoff?”

“I talked to Mike Wilson and he agrees with what Brian and some
of the girls are saying. The girls gave it to the Gazette by the way, and
it was just speculation, perhaps jealousy. They run a closed shop. A
blonde, short spiky hair wearing a black jacket, slim, good-looking and
classy. She's been around for a few days. Didn't speak, remained aloof.
Although she had plenty of offers no one saw her get into a car or go
off with a punter. They figure she might be pricing herself out of the
market. A high-class tom on the way down. It's worrying me. The
woman I've been looking for is not well-built in the stocky sense. A
woman of the size Brian described would find it difficult to manhandle
even another woman.”

“Motive?”

“Difficult one. Not control or humiliation. Something sexual, I’m
guessing. Whoever it is, is obviously getting some kind of pay-back
from it. The concentration on the breasts has got to mean something –
jealousy or loathing.”

“A woman with small breasts?”

“I doubt it. Haven't you heard of silicon?”

Cole pulled a face. “You said this isn’t about control. Does she hate
other women?”

“Hate is tricky. That’s generally associated with revenge or
indoctrination. She's getting off on something bigger than the attack
itself. When we find her, it will be so obvious we’ll kick ourselves for
missing it.”

“Choice of victims?”

“Attractive women under thirty. Beyond that, nothing. If it’s
random it leaves us with two categories – the opportunist or the
stalker.” He recalled covering the same ground with Donna and
wondered how she’d got on with the CCTV. “For the victim it's a
lottery and any women who fits the bill is potential prey. Whether she
happens to take the wrong road at the wrong time or is stalked is
beside the point. It matters to us because it reshapes the profile. The
opportunist waits; he’s patient and calculating. The other hunts; he’s
restless and hungry and more likely to make a mistake.”

“A lesbian?”

“No reason to think so. A serial assailant, woman to woman, is not
common.”

“Once before you said find me the motive and I'll find you the
killer.”

“Nothing’s changed. And if not already then before long we’ll be
looking for a killer. The level of violence will only increase. But it's
the motive that's difficult. If we rule out inadequacy and jealousy, two
of the same, then we can consider concealment by imitation. Apart
from the real target maybe the others are just camouflage. Given that
scenario the real victim knows her assailant. I’m a long way from
buying into that but it’s important we’re not sidetracked by grouping
them together.”

“What about our Underground Slasher? We know he’s got a castiron
alibi but he might have spoken to someone. You know what we
think about coincidence.”

“John Lawrence put someone up to it? Not a chance. I studied
Lawrence and covered everything from saviour delusion to
pseudocyesis – the delusion of being pregnant. There was a case of a
woman who stole a baby from a neighbour’s womb. She used a knife
to break in.”