“Sandra never came home.”
“My goodness. Have you seen her, Paul?”
From behind the counter Paul shook his head.
The man said, “Come on, we're wasting time.”
Susan explained, “This is Sandra's husband.”
Mr Lawrence thought about shaking hands. Instead he shook his head and offered them a grave expression.
Sandra's husband said, “We'll have to report it to the police.” Paul grimaced. “The police?”
“Got to. She's pregnant, you know?”
Mr Lawrence put in, “No, I didn't know until Paul told me, yesterday.”
All faces turned to Paul who shrugged, “She must have said.” “Bloody worry that is. I've had to take time off work. Don't get paid for it. And my dinner wasn't cooked three nights running.” The man shook his angry head. Leaning closer he took them into his confidence and said in a whisper, “Last night was steak-and-chips night. I ended up with Chinese – all that fucking salt. What do you think of that?” “Not good. Between you and me I’ve been worried about the Chinese for some time. But what about Sandra? You've left it this long?” Mr Lawrence raised his eyebrows.
Sandra’s husband stepped back from the perceived rebuke. “I thought she might have gone to her mum's.”
“Does she often do that?”
“Only on Saturday afternoons when she takes the kids. I meet her there, after the racing. We all go for tea. Always have. Isn’t that right, Sue?”
Susan nodded.
“It’s not much,” he said gloomily. “Always the same – ham and salad, and the bread’s always stale.”
Susan turned to the door and said, “C’mon, you’re right. We’re wasting time.”
Mr Lawrence wondered whether women with freckles knew just how attractive they looked. He asked, “The last time you saw her, was it at the studio?”
They turned back from the door. Susan's eyes filled up as she nodded. “I was meeting my husband. I left early, remember?” “I do, yes. Now I remember. You didn't clean your brushes. I've told you about that before.”
Once they had gone Paul sidled across, a sideways crab-like movement. He picked up a duster and began dab-dabbing. It wasn't necessary. Mrs Puzey and her gang left the shop spotless. His mind was clearly on other things.
“I'm worried. I don't mind telling you. Things seem to be ganging up on me.”
“Nothing's as bad as it seems.”
“But if Sandra's missing.”
“That's not a problem. We've got a waiting list for the club.” He shook his head. “That's not what I meant. The police will be back, Mr Lawrence. The police! What about the gear, the gear?” “Oh, don't worry about that. They won't be looking for stolen property. Not now. They'll be looking for Sandra. You don't have a problem.”
“I do have a problem. Friday is coming.”
“Oh yes, your gentleman friend.”
“He's not so gentle.”
“You're right. I can still see the fist marks from his last caress.” “And on Friday he's coming back.”
“I told you before that I will think of something. Don't you worry about that either.”
Paul nodded, more confident in the knowledge that Mr Lawrence had not forgotten him.
“Now go and make some tea, and take a cup into Laura. She came in very late last night.”
Paul tut-tutted the idea. “That girl will get herself into trouble one of these days.”
“I think she's on the pill.”
“I didn't mean that, Mr Lawrence. I meant that she'll meet some nutter. A real…nutter!”
“No. She's very choosy. She doesn't sleep around. Or stand around either, come to that.”
“I don't know. There's an awful lot of nutters out there.”
“So long as they're not in here. That's all that really matters.” “By the way, Mr Lawrence, I heard the cats again last night and they were crying again, like before.”
“Yes, something must have upset them.”
While the kettle boiled, Paul went back to his room and carefully, so they wouldn't crease, he replaced the baby-growers on the hangars and placed them in the wardrobe. They'd been left in a pile on his floor.
Chapter 24
Cole dreamt of the past. He had arrived home late to find his wife with suitcases pulling on her arms. She was ready to go out. “I’m leaving you,” she had said. He discovered later that she was leaving him for someone else and that his occupation was only a part of it. Morning broke with winter sun slanting in through the slightly parted curtains. Donna Fitzgerald blinked awake and once again recognized the strange surroundings of Rick Cole's bedroom and said, “Oh shit!” She grabbed at the bedside cabinet for the time.
Breakfast TV led with a press conference given by Chief
Superintendent Marsh. “Given the length of time she has been missing…” The headline was Margaret Domey, the missing psychologist.
They drank their coffee in silence. Maynard joined them in the kitchen but remained noncommittal. If he was surprised at finding that Donna had become a fixture it didn’t show. He concentrated on the TV.
“…None of her belongings are missing, her bank accounts remain untouched and her mobile phone has not been used. The circumstances of her disappearance are suspicious and we are exploring the possibility that she has been a victim of crime.”
A BBC reporter pushed out a microphone. “Is there any connection with the other missing women?”
As the chief noticed the face behind the question his thin lips tightened and left his contempt in no doubt. He said, “We are exploring that possibility.”
In the hall, in the mirror, Donna added final touches to her makeup. She gave up and said, “Fuck it!”
Cole caught Maynard's glance and shrugged. “Me too,” he said. Back at the office something had broken. When Cole walked in with Donna and Maynard in tow he recognized immediately that there had been a development and the stern expressions indicated it wasn’t a good one.
“Hinckley have lost another woman,” someone said. “An art student. Any guesses where her classes were held?”
Geoff Maynard left them to it; he knew exactly how it would go. Baxter and Cole would be leaning on Hinckley and Wooderson in particular. In turn Wooderson would take it out on DS Butler. DS Butler would use his only option, gather his team and pay another visit to the Gallery where more statements would be taken – either there or at the station and, if common sense prevailed, that would be that. There would be no point at all in more white-suited experts with their radar guns and tape-measures poking around the Gallery. Evidence of the girl would be all over the shop, the studio and the pavement outside. She had been going to classes for months. Lawrence was laughing at them, enjoying himself immensely. He would be anticipating more interviews and another visit to the station. There might be more gained by denying him that satisfaction, perhaps even ignoring him completely. Rejection, like Maynard had said before, was a potent brew. He smiled at the thought.
DS Sam Butler led the way into the Gallery and while Laura went to find Mr Lawrence and Paul stood statue-like at the counter, he studied the large painting of the bricks and wondered how on earth it could justify the price. A DC beside him said, “ Brick in the Wall, Pink Floyd.”
Butler nodded. “An old rocker, then.”
Disappointment marked the detective’s face. “Heavy metal, actually.”
Butler said, “Really.”
Mr Lawrence appeared at the stairs with Laura behind. He made it a grand entrance but the coppers didn’t notice. They noticed instead how short Laura’s skirt was as she negotiated the remaining steps and their knees bent in Dock-Green fashion.
Mr Lawrence said to DS Butler, “I know you said you’d see me again, but I didn’t expect it to be so soon. As much as I like to help the police, you are starting to get in the way of business. Customers don’t come in when the police are here. People have a natural aversion to the police. And can you blame them? Something to do with them shooting innocent people, I imagine, and the uniforms. Think of the staff behind the counters of the big banks with their spotted skirts and croupier fingers. You see what I mean?”