I Watson - Director's cut

Anian recalled Maynard’s account of Lawrence’s early life, the birth of his brother, his mother’s hospitalization and his rejection. What was it the psychologist had said? It lit the fuse?

The tape continued. “After a while, about a month or so, that got boring, so I used to slit them open with a razor-blade. I'd sit for hours, watching the pale blood dry in the hot sun. When I stood up I'd get quite dizzy. A kind of religious experience. Point is, when I slit open one belly, a big white egg fell out. I say white. It was mostly white, but there was pus and green strands on it. Not much blood. But after that, I went after the females. At first you couldn't tell the difference until you slit them open. But after a while I learned. It wasn't only the swollen belly but the skin as well. Even the eyes seemed different. They hung there, on their crosses, with their mouths wide open and their little round eyes glazed over, but they didn’t cry out. They made no noise at all. But finding an egg, watching it fall out while they were still wriggling, that was special. After that I started cutting open the eggs, finding the little brown tadpoles inside. Even in the burning sun some of them lived for more than a few seconds.

“Tell me, if you can, what more than that can a schoolboy want?” Another voice came in, male, gentle. “You've told us about your parents. They forced you to go to church. Did that annoy you?” Lawrence laughed. “Of course we were forced to go to church. People in the fifties still believed in God. I collected the Sunday-school cards like everyone else. Moses and David and Jesus, dished out by a fat woman in flip-flops who had her eyes on the padre.”

“Did you have any friends in Cyprus? Did they cut the lizards as well?”

“Friends?” Lawrence's chuckle went on for some moments. The velvety tones of his voice sent a shiver down Anian’s back. She could barely believe she was listening to the man she knew as Mr Lawrence, the man whose knife and brush had so perfectly captured her image. The stranger's voice came back. “You never thought that killing the lizards was wrong?”

“Wrong? It didn't come in to it. At school we were dissecting mice and frogs.”

Anian pressed stop and the room fell strangely silent. Police officers – a couple of them old-timers waiting for their pensions, who had seen and heard a few things in their time – shuffled in their seats and exchanged uncomfortable glances. They were repelled, mostly, by the matter-of-fact quality of Lawrence’s voice but also by its – almost

– patronizing tone.

Breaking the silence Sam Butler said softly, “One sick bastard. He's killing these women, or he's got them bottled up someplace. I don't know how or where, but it's him. We know it's him.”

One of the PCs said, “What about having the lodger in, Sarge?” “Paul Knight? A waste of time. Let’s be kind and say that he is mentally challenged. He won’t give us any more than he did at the shop and that’s nothing. Lawrence is careful. He isn’t going to confide in Paul Knight.”

“That’s a no then, Sarge?”

Butler went on, “Guy’s have come back with zilch, so he's not up to his old tricks, at least not on the underground. So let's try it from another angle.”

Guy's Hospital kept a comprehensive pathology database on wounds to the person. There had been no unsolved attacks on pregnant women.

“He meets them in the shop, through his art classes or, as customers. Worse case scenario, he's killing them. Best, he's holding them prisoner. We’ll leave the why for the psychologists. Either way, it means there's another place where he does his business. How does he get there? As far as we know he doesn't have transport. How does he get the women there? Does he arrange to meet them, or does he take them? Are they forced to go along?”

One of the PCs cut in, “There's another possibility.”

“Go on?”

“If he is involved then he might be helping them to get away from…domestic violence, unhappy marriages. Maybe he's a selfappointed marriage guidance counsellor.”

“If Margaret Domey wasn't in the frame I'd say you had a point. But she wasn't running anywhere.”

The PC persisted. “Can we be sure of that? Who knows what goes on in private? How many times have friends and family surprised us? My brother was divorced. I hadn't got a clue until it was, basically, all over. I thought they were happy as… you know?”

For a moment Butler thought about his own marriage and his wife's affair, but time dulled the pain, turned it to something else.

“We'll keep it in mind, Joe, but for the moment we'll assume the worst.”

In another office a phone was ringing. Eventually someone answered.

DC Stanford suggested, “Maybe the women are driving him.” “Forced?”

“Not necessarily. But does it matter if he's getting to where he wants to go?”

“Fair point.”

“No it's not,” the plod interrupted again. “Linda Brookes didn't drive.”

Anian Stanford turned on him. “OK, so they might have caught a fucking bus.”

The copper shrugged. “Anian, it was just a suggestion. It wasn't to win fucking Mastermind.”

She backed off and threw him a quick apologetic smile.

Butler put an end to it. “So he might be meeting them in this other place. Let's widen the net. Use some initiative. Get your sources to ask around. He's a regular at The British. Does he drink anywhere else? He must have a warehouse or a lockup someplace. I know we’ve been here before but let’s try it again. We must have missed it. Get back to the friendly bank manager. Go through the statements again, line by line.”

The plod said, “What about surveillance?”

Butler hesitated. Cole had been quite clear. He said, “I’m still waiting for the green light on that. Let’s not jump the gun.”

Anian pulled her jacket from her chair and reached for her handbag. She smiled sweetly at Butler. “Tell me what you decide in the morning. I’m on an early night. A bath, a long one, then the theatre.” Butler nodded. Even though she’d mentioned it a dozen times he’d completely forgotten. “Bikini Line,” he acknowledged. “Anthea Palmer. I used to like her on the weather.”

“You and half the male population.”

“One minute she’s standing in front of the British Isles telling us it’s going to rain tomorrow, the next she’s cart-wheeling over everything in sight. She was on the front page this week or, at least, her knickers were. They snapped her getting into a car. A diabolical liberty, really. Maybe there should be a law against it. Invasion of private parts. Trespass by lens.”

“Schoolboys enjoyed the picture. I doubt that many men did.” Butler pulled a face. “You know nothing about men, then, Anian.” “What paper was it in? The Sun? The Mirror?”

“I don’t read crap.” Butler smiled. “The Sunday Sport!”

She smiled back and said, “It’s rare that a girl will show you her knickers unless she wants you to see them. And that includes photographers.”

His glance was a double take. She had surprised him.

A uniform poked his head around the door. “Sarge,” he addressed Butler. “Just had CB3 on. They've found Helen Harrison's car. Two roads up from the Gallery.”

Anian hesitated.

Butler said, “Get out of here. Go and enjoy yourself.”

She flashed him another sweet smile and let the door swing shut behind her.

The phone went. Cole said, “Cole.”

“It's me.”

“Right.”

“Read between the lines.”

“Right.”

“You were right. He spilled the lot. Helen's got herself a lover. My fucking wife has run off with another geezer. Can you believe that? Even I don't believe that. She's shagging Jesus fucking Christ and she runs off with John the fucking Baptist. That fucker's going to lose his fucking head. She's carrying my fucking baby for fuck's sake. She's in the fucking Costas, can you believe that? Soaking up the sun? I can't believe that. Treated this Lawrence cunt as some kind of confidant. They got real fucking close during the painting sessions. It ain't surprising, though, not really, considering the pose. They say love is blind, don't they? Know what I mean? It takes a brain dead, lungless fucker like Breathless to point it out. I should of seen it, Rick. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she had one leg on each arm of the fucking sofa. Anyway, she's still in contact. Going to ring him when she gets back. He'll let me know. Then I'll be paying her a fucking visit.” “Does he have an address?”