Director's Cut (36 page)

He moved into the kitchen and pulled a red from the cupboard next
to the sink.

“I’ve saved this till last,” he said, bringing out the crystal glasses.
“Chianti. It’s one of my favourites. It’s dark and mysterious, like the
Vatican itself. Indeed, just like you. If taste can have a past then this is
it.”

“I’m not mysterious.”

“I’m talking about your looks.”

Glass in hand, she reached the sofa and asked, “Ready?”
“Yes. Where shall we begin?”

“How about with Sandra? It’s odd… It’s odd, isn’t it, that Sandra
should run away like that?”

“You’ve been listening to the news?”

“Yes, the local news. Your art class was mentioned.”

“People are always running away from something, sometimes
themselves.”

“But she had nothing to hide, according to her husband.”
“What would he know? Husbands are the last people to know.
We’re all hiding something.”

“I think you’re wrong.”

“We all have our secrets, my dear.”

“Not all of us. With some of us what you see is what you get.”
He pushed in a darker shade around her eyes so that the mystery
deepened.

He said, “Do you think I’m hiding something?”

“I have no doubt.”

“Anything in particular?”

“People talk…”

“Indeed they do, but most of what they say is rubbish. I suppose
going deaf might have one consolation after all. You wouldn’t have to
listen to the rubbish that was spoken.”

“I heard that you were in prison.”

“A long time ago.”

“What did you do?”

“I had a breakdown. It was a childhood thing that came home to
roost. Or so the experts said. I hurt some people and they locked me
up. I had what they call a personality disorder. It meant pills, lots of
pills. I served my time and afterwards, became a voluntary patient for a
while.”

“Did it help?”

“No. There was not a couch to be seen. We sat around in groups
listening to each other’s problems. I decided I had enough of my own.”
“And what now?”

“Now I am fine, just fine, if that’s what you mean. A little more
cantankerous as I get older, I suppose, and perhaps a little more
impatient, but that is all. I think it was a part of growing up. Some
people take to dressing oddly and others to visiting gyms and things.
But now? To paint. To go on painting. The finished product is not the
objective. It’s the journey that counts. A lot of journeys are like that.
Some of them go nowhere. They’re the best kind, I’ve always thought,
when you’ve time to enjoy the scenery without worrying about the
destination. But the lease on this place runs out soon and, although I
have an option, I have not yet made a decision.”

“Where would you go?”

“Who knows?”

“But wouldn’t that be like running away?”

“Ah, we’ve come full circle. All the way back to Sandra.”
“It is odd that she should run away like that.”

“Prenatal stress, perhaps.”

“In the first few weeks? I doubt that.”

“They interviewed her husband. He was on the television. Terribly
upset, of course. I don’t own a television but I saw it on Paul’s. When
it came on he got quite excited and called me in.”

“I’m not surprised he’s upset.”

“Paul wasn’t upset. He was excited.”

“Not Paul. Sandra’s husband. Did the police come here?”
“Of course. The art class was one of the last places she was seen.”
“Not the last?”

“Obviously not. Someone else must have seen her, unless she fell
down the pavement grating. Maybe I should check the cellar. They
interviewed my lodger, Paul, but he couldn’t help. Then they asked me
lots of questions. They knew about my previous problems. The police
make a big thing about previous. Understandable, I suppose. They
keep files, you see. Most people inside have been inside before. And
more than once at that.”

“Gosh.”

“Yes. But I couldn’t help them either. She left. Simple as that. What
more could I say? But I don’t know if they believed me. But I do
wonder whether her husband is the father. Could it be she’s run off
with the real father?”

“She would have told her sister. Sisters confide.”

“Do they? I haven’t got a sister so I wouldn’t know about that.”
“You have a brother?”

“No, but I don’t suppose brothers confide either.”

“So for the moment this was where she was last seen. In here? I’m
surprised the TV cameras didn’t come in here.”

“Goodness me. That would have been something. I might have
been on the TV. That would have excited Paul even more. Probably a
good thing it didn’t happen.”

“There’s still time.”

“I have a feeling there isn’t. But anyway, someone must have seen
her leave. It’s early days yet. One of these cameras they’ve put up to
spy on us and keep us safe will have caught her. She’ll turn up, a few
pounds lighter, perhaps, but I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

“I don’t know. With all that’s going on today, women being
attacked in the street, the other missing women, Helen included, it’s all
a bit of a coincidence.”

“Maybe.”

“The painting of Helen?”

“Mrs Harrison?”

“Yes, Mrs Helen Harrison. Did she just come right out with it? I’m
pregnant, I want you to paint me? Did she throw off her clothes and
say ‘like this’? That doesn’t seem like Helen at all.”

“I seem to recall covering this ground with you before. It wasn’t
like that at all.”

“What then? Tell me? If there’s going to be a reconstruction I’ll
have to know?”

“But, my goodness, you don’t look a bit like Mrs Harrison. You’re
the wrong colour for a start. She was a blonde and very pale.”
“I’m sure you could manage. You have every colour in the universe
in those tubes.”

“You’ve seen the picture yourself. She was sitting more or less
where you are. And she was thrilled with the idea, I have no doubt
about that. I’m convinced it was a performance and she was loving
every minute. I’ll go further. I think she’d rehearsed it. It seems
ludicrous I know, but there you are. I remember it well, the dress
around her waist baring her breasts. That’s how I would have chosen to
paint her. Just like that.”

“So she was braless when she arrived?”

“That’s right, she was.” He wagged a paintbrush. “But don’t read
anything into that. I had noticed before, when she came in to make the
booking, that she often left off her…”

“Bra?”

“Right.”

“Can you tell that I’m not wearing a bra?”

“I hadn’t noticed. But today I’ve been concentrating on your face.
But now you mention it I would have a problem because you are
rather…slim, that’s the word.”

“Small is better. I have small breasts.”

“Yes, that’s it. Mrs Harrison was rather generous in that area.”
“What then?”

“Then? Then she hitched up her dress and we got on with it.”
“If I wanted you to paint me that way…?”

“I would think you were joking.”

“And if I wasn’t?”

“Then we would start again.”

“What is it about the nude?”

“The experts will tell you it has to do with the timeless universal quality of
art. To wrap a figure in clothes immediately dates the painting. You’re restless,
getting uncomfortable. Shall we take a break? I’m nearly through in any case.
I’ll pour us some more wine.

That one is wearing off. I like the way it brings the colour to your face.”

“I’m fine. More than one glass will go to my head. I’m not used to it at all.
Do you think Paul could have something to do with Sandra’s disappearance?”

“Could he be the father? I doubt it. I think he only saw her the once.”

“And no one’s seen her since?”

Mr Lawrence shrugged. “Someone must have done.”

“Is it possible that Paul met Helen?”

“Mrs Harrison? It’s possible. This is his hunting ground, after all, and she came
here. Tell me what you’re getting at?”

“OK,” she said. “Let me play detective.” A smile fluttered about her lips. She continued, “We have a
number of missing women. None of them took their personal possessions.”

“Didn’t they? I didn’t know that.”

“It was in the paper, I think. Anyway, that means that they didn’t run off. Some of the women were
involved with you, one through your art class, another through the painting. They were married, one of
them happily – ”

“Who knows whether they were happy?”

“Granted.”

“What else?”

“They were expecting. Did you use Sandra as a model?”

“For the class?”

“Personally.”

“No, not for the class or personally.”

“It’s a fascinating idea.”

“Yes, I can see that. And certainly I’ll agree with you that I am a common factor.”

“And their pregnancies, and the fact that they are local.”

“Right, they have all that in common.”

“Did Helen ever visit The British?”

“I never saw Mrs Harrison there. It’s not really her kind of place.”

“What about local restaurants? We know that Paul met Sandra.

Maybe he met Helen too. Maybe, after finishing a session with you, Helen went
for a drink or a meal in one of the local restaurants, and there she bumped into
Paul.”

“Let me stop you there. Mrs Harrison sharing a drink with young Paul Knight could
not happen in a thousand years. Mrs Harrison would die sooner than acknowledge
the existence of a youngster like Paul

Knight. I’m not for one moment suggesting that she is choosy with her company,
simply that, for her, the Paul Knights of the world don’t exist. In any case,
at the time of Mrs Harrison’s disappearance, Paul

was being entertained at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Hold it just there!”

“Well, he is a bit odd.”

“I mean keep still. I’m dealing with your eyes. They seem to have narrowed slightly.”

“Sorry. I was getting carried away. I can’t get Helen’s disappearance out of my
head. Perhaps it’s an unhealthy interest. She was my friend.”

“I hope she still is.”

“Of course.”

“I’ve noticed during this session that the hem of your dress has
moved up a little. It is undoing my composition.”

She moved one long leg against the other and said, “It must be the
wine. I feel quite giddy. It’s just that… I was just wondering about that
reconstruction you mentioned. Whether it would jog a memory,
something that you missed, something important.”

“My goodness, I was wondering about that too.”

He had things to do, errands for Mr Lawrence. He had to stay in the
shadows for in the light the filth were about looking for the missing
girl, Sandra. And they were on to him. Paul was sure of that. If he were
staying he would have to get shot of everything. Couldn’t leave it in
the room. They’d find it all and that would be that. End of story.
Checkmate, mate! You could guarantee they’d make another search,
find a hair from his ex-cell mate, or some blood between the

floorboards. DNA, that’s the word. Right? They’d find the DNA and
that would be that, without passing go. They’d blame him for
everything. Even Sandra. He’d be lucky to get out with a walking
frame. Still, he wasn’t hanging around for that to happen. No way.
Time to retreat. Like Dunkirk. Like the old soldiers…like…like the
colonel, but not to the same place. Legging it, innI?

It had been a funny sort of day. Special days always were –
the days of weddings and funerals and court appearances where you’re stood up
in front of a beak. Colours seemed different, darker, and sounds seemed different,
louder. It started early, he remembered, earlier than most, before the sun was
up, before it was…light. It was still dark when Laura came in. Her eyes were
sleepless and her legs were shaking and a little bandy and she looked altogether
exhausted. That was the night shift for you, he supposed. It did you no good
at all. Mr Lawrence made her some tea and forced her to drink it. He looked
after her. She was asleep before her head hit the pillow. Only halfundressed.
Or dressed. But they completed the undressing anyway, so she wouldn’t… You know?

Strangle or something.

Mr Lawrence gave her bottom a little pat and Paul gave it a little
stroke, little gestures of endearment, perhaps parting gestures, for their
leave-taking was fast approaching.

But Paul had important things to do.

First he had to go to Boots. Mr Lawrence had spelt it out. He had to
visit the booth and have his photograph taken. He spent some minutes
admiring the image of the girl looking back at him. Then he had to take
the strip of photographs along with a brown envelope that Mr
Lawrence had given him across town to a small backstreet shop where
a thin grey man named Arnold took the strip of photographs and the
brown envelope and told him to wait. He waited for almost an hour
before Arnold appeared again and gave him yet another envelope. He
didn’t look inside but he knew that the envelope contained two
passports. He’d guessed that all by himself. Maybe they were going to
Scotland or some other place where the law couldn’t find them. He
nodded. Mr Lawrence had it all in hand.

Arnold said, “Anything else I can do for you – firearms, bomb-making
equipment, recipes? I’ve got a nice line in Iraqi headgear, only slightly smoke-damaged
– call them seconds.”

“No,” Paul stuttered. “No, thank you.”

He needed to get out of there. It was too heavy for him. He hit the
pavement, still stuttering.

Then he was on the move again, back to the High Road where he
knew his way around.

In the travel agency a woman wearing thick foundation whose hair
was thinned and split by too many perms in the seventies gave him a
funny look along with the tickets. He’d noticed that women of a certain
age, like, maybe forty or fifty, looked at other women differently, threateningly.

He’d noticed that. He got a bit flustered by the threat,

said Paul instead of Paula, that sort of thing. Easy mistake. But he
wouldn’t make it again. Probably forgot to wiggle his behind as well.
Such is life. And what was more, the tissue fell out of his left breast as
he bent to sign. When that happened the woman behind the desk was
immediately sympathetic and fingered a little pink ribbon she’d pinned
to her cardigan. Amazing how, once the threat was no longer relevant,
girls stick together. Men weren’t like that. The glue that held men
together was only temporary, just for the moment, made up of alcohol.
It wasn’t lasting. Men didn’t have friends, as such, only opponents.
They promised they would stay in touch because words were cheap,
boozy words cheaper still, but they never did. At the end of the day
men were destined to be alone even in a crowd. It was the nature of
things, probably because they couldn’t have babies. Yeah.