In the car Ticker Harrison kept shaking his head. He was stunned. Uncertainty had been nudged aside by anger. For the first time since Helen had gone missing, he was in charge again. Now he was working on how to pay her back for causing him such grief. He'd take her lover apart, no doubt about that, and to teach her a lesson he'd probably make her watch. What he was going to do to her he hadn't quite decided but one thing was certain, Helen Harrison wasn't going to enjoy it.
“You OK, Boss?” Breathless asked. He was still shaken by the old guy's detachment. There had been no scream or shout or cry. No reaction that you usually got. Fact was, Breathless Billy had noticed a smile on Lawrence's face as his finger came off. Now that was fucking scary.
“I'm fine, Breathless. I need to get my head around it, though. I can't understand how a fucking woman could leave me, that's all.” “I can understand that.”
“What the fuck’s that suppose to mean?”
“I didn’t mean…the fucking women leaving you. I meant I could understand how you feel about it.”
“They call that empathy.”
“Do they? Fuck me. What’s that mean exactly, Boss?”
“It means that you’re a soft bastard.”
Breathless Billy pulled a downcast face.
Ticker went on, “Some time alone. A little bit of space is what I need. Going to play the old Matt Monro records. Maybe some Dean Martin. My old man used to know him, you know? When he was on the buses.”
“I never knew Dean Martin was on the buses.”
“No, Matt Monro was on the buses. Dean Martin was with Jerry Lewis.”
“Right, I remember the movies now. Great fucking movies they were. Black and white. Can't remember the titles though but, Dean, he was all right.”
“ Little Old Wine Drinker Me, remember that?”
“Do I.”
“One of my favourites.”
“And Rio Bravo, remember that, Boss?”
“Fucking remember it! When I was a kid I knew every fucking word. John T Chance. Angie fucking Dickinson, and she was a good looking tart in those days.”
“Were you a John Wayne fan, Boss?”
“Yeah, still am, but don't spread it around.”
“I won't say nothing.”
Ticker nodded. “Now, like I said, I need some space to get my head around this shite, so I'm going to leave Avenue Road to you. Get some people together and get over there. I think we've had enough fucking blood for one day, don't you? So just give them a scare, right?” “I get it. I know where you're coming from. I'll do that. Not a fucking problem. You can leave it to me. And Boss, I know this has hit you hard, I know that. For fuck's sake, I want you to know that if you need someone to talk to, like, fucking, a fucking shoulder to cry on or something, I'm always here for you.”
“I know that, Breath, and I'm fucking grateful. Maybe you should have been a fucking social worker. But right now I want to sit in my bathroom. Is that all right with you?”
The big guy nodded and reached for a tissue to blow his nose, then remembered he’d left it changing colour on what was left of the old guy’s finger, which wasn’t very much.
Chapter 17
The Gallery had been filled with police officers, some of them in white overalls and calling themselves SOCOs. They carried the tools of their trade – ground-penetrating radar handsets, Hoovers and copies of the town planner's drawings. There were also a couple of springer spaniels straining on leashes. Paul heard some of their handler’s conversation but it didn’t make much sense to him. They were talking about how these dogs were different to your average police sniffer dog, how they could detect the scent of human remains through concrete. They were going on about something called NPIA and scientific training techniques and then, later, that the dogs couldn’t work in the stink in the cellar and that they had got over-excited by the dead rodents, the decomposing cats and rats. One of them suggested that they bring in the local authorities, that there must be a law against dead cats in a cellar. That was just before they sent out for some breathing apparatus. To Paul the coppers looked more like dentists than policemen and perhaps that was why he was so unsettled.
The search was completed long before Mr Lawrence arrived home. Paul was waiting for him by the stairs. Still spook-eyed and trembling it was clear he needed the gentle touch. He blurted, “What was it, Mr Lawrence?”
“A mistake, dear boy. They were on about missing women and stolen property.”
Paul's eyes grew even wider, ready to pop. Mr Lawrence’s explanation had not done the trick and he pointed an idiot’s finger up the empty stairs. “They went in to my room.”
“Is your gear stolen?”
“Well…”
“My goodness. Well, obviously they weren't interested in it. I think it was more likely artwork that they were after.”
“Like the ballerinas?”
“Did they take them?” Mr Lawrence turned to check but there they were, still dancing. “Did they take anything at all? Did you make sure they signed for whatever they took?”
“Just your books. That’s all they took, apart from little plastic bags of things they picked up with tweezers and things. And they used Hoovers too, small Hoovers. They used them in every corner and on every surface and on some clothes. There were kozzers everywhere, upstairs, my room as well. They even unscrewed our bathroom cabinet. Why would they do that? And they took the cistern to pieces. They spent ages in the cellar, with their tape measures. And in the studio. They looked at everything, even the floorboards. They looked behind all the pictures. I thought they'd never go. It was humiliating, Mr Lawrence.”
“Yes, I’m sure it was. They think we've got a hidden stash of artwork. Someone's put them up to it, no doubt. Probably someone from The British. Probably Albert. There is something odd about Albert. I know he’s Jewish, but there is something else beside.” “I'm worried, Mr Lawrence. Kozzers worry me even when I ain't done nothing. And I’ve always done something.”
“No need to be. They have nothing to go on. Nothing at all. From now on, we have to be a bit careful, that's all.”
“I've tidied up a bit, especially in the studio. And I’ve put up some more tape around the cellar door. The smell was coming through something awful.”
“But the studio is out of bounds, Paul.”
“I know you said that but…”
“Yes, the circumstances. Given the circumstances, just this once.” “They left a mess. All your boxes were on the floor.”
“The Clingfilm?”
“Yes, your boxes of Clingfilm.”
“I use it to wrap the paintings. It keeps the damp away.”
“I guessed that. I guessed that's what you used it for.”
The subject was good enough: an island of trees giving the illusion of a suspended mass, an object and its reflection bathed in light. During the last week or so Mrs Unsworth had made experimental dabs, changing this key and that value and yet was still puzzled by its lack of depth. Mrs Unsworth was seventy, fragile, her tiny frame warped by arthritis. A widow, she had been coming to class for four years, making use of her enforced independence.
“I've told you before that you can't have the paint too thin where the light is weak. You've been skimping again. I know that paint's expensive but better to use a smaller canvas and get it right.” “Oh, I know, I know. I blame my husband, God bless his soul, but I've become so used to frugality. He used to boil the carrot tops, you know, you know? To put it another way, Mr Lawrence, he was a tight bastard. Right up to the day he died. It caused his death, you know, you know? We were in Sainsbury's, the meat section, when he saw the cost of lamb chops and died on the spot. Caused quite a commotion, I'll say. He went just like that. He saw the price per kilo and hadn’t got a clue what that was, then slowly he converted it to English money, pounds, and then slowly shook his head in wonder and then, very slowly, he dropped to his knees. For a moment I thought he was praying but then, he slipped sideways and went all the way. I remember it so well, you know, you know? So very well. I just stood there watching. I couldn't move. His leg shot out and hung in the air for a moment, kicking, waving. Waving goodbye, maybe. And that was it, you know, you know? His final wave to me. Gone. After thirtyfive years. Gone. And you know, you know what the funny thing is? He was a liver and bacon man. Liver, bacon, mash and fried onions with thick lumpy gravy. He never even liked lamb!” She shook her white-haired head. “It's always amazed me, though, when I see the news, the farmers on the news, when they say they have to kill off their lambs because they're not worth the money. You tell me if you can, if the farmers are getting pennies, you know, you know? Then who is getting rich, eh? Eh?” And with that, with a slender arthritic finger, she poked him forcefully in the arm.