The Cutting Room (5 page)

and shoved it in my pocket. It’s worth a lot of money.’

‘This kind of thing depresses me. You’ve got a craftsman,

no, an artist, he can create anything he wants and this is what he comes up with, a piece of filth. You know, half the blokes I see in here, they’re not clever. They’re fuck-ups for the most part. No wits. No chance. You feel sorry for some of them,

but mostly they just bore you. There’s too many of them.

Now and again though you find an evil, clever bastard and

that’s what the guy who made this was. Tell me about the

man who owned this.’

`What, you on a slow night tonight?’

`Just humour me. I’ve got this predilection - you could say

it goes with the job. I’m used to people answering my

questions. I find they generally prefer it to the alternative.’

`I’m beginning to wish you’d left me out there.’

`It can be arranged.’

`Okay. I can’t tell you much so there’s no harm in telling

you what I know. I started clearing a house in Hyndland

today. A death. Natural causes, as far as I’m aware. Party by the name of McKindless.’

`McKindless.’ He turned the word over in his mouth like

he was feeling it with his tongue, savouring the syllables.

`McKindless.’ The vowels soft then hard. `That’s a name with a history.’

`Tell me.’

`I don’t know yet, but it rang a bell in the old police belfry.

Leave it with me and if I think it’s interesting I might look you up.

`I’d appreciate it.’

`Aye, you’re interested aren’t you? Makes me wonder

what else you found in there.’

`I was only called in today.’

`Well, let me know if you find any bodies. C’mon then.

Believe it or not, there’s actual crime going on in this city. I’ll get you past the front desk.’ He stood and led me towards the door. `And Rilke.’ I turned towards him. `You did me a

favour a long time ago. I’ve not forgotten. But mind yourself, there’s only so much I can do.’

I looked at him, the middle-aged policeman in a suit, and

remembered the boy he’d been.

`I’ll mind myself.’

`Good lad.’

I collected my paraphernalia from the duty sergeant and

then went out to face the day.

I could not love except where Death Was mingling his with Beauty’s breath.

Edgar Allan Poe,

`Introduction’ (1831)

WHEN I woke IN the morning I lay and stared at the ceiling for a long time, then leant over and reached for my jacket lying damp on the floor near my mattress where I’d flung it the

night before. I felt in the pocket to see if my tobacco and

papers were dry enough to roll a smoke, and came across the

envelope, stiff with its bundle of photographs. The tobacco

was passable, the papers stuck together and useless. I rooted around the room until I found another packet, then got back

beneath the covers to smoke. I unfastened the envelope,

flicked through the images I had already seen, pulled the next photograph from the pile and stopped.

There are three people, two men and a woman. They are

in a basement or cellar; on the wall behind them rough plaster gives way to bare bricks. The men wear monks’ habits, coarse robes secured by cord, long-sleeved and hooded. The hoods

throw shadows across their faces, concealing their features.

The woman is young, thin, and naked, save for a delicate

silver bracelet round one wrist. Her hands and feet are bound together and secured to either end of a long bench. Her calves and the small of her back are against raised bars, the bars shot through with spikes which cut into her flesh. The rope that

secures her wrists is attached to a ratchet, the monks are

engaged in turning a wheel which pulls the rope taut,

stretching her body and pulling her down further onto the

spikes. They have her on a rack.

The flash had been overexposed, rendering the woman a

bleached white against the dark background. The monks were

in sharp focus but she was almost a negative. Her features had vanished, save for the anxious dots of her pupils and the open gasp of her mouth. I looked at the photograph a long time.

Did she want them to do that to her? There was no way of

telling. It was too long ago. There were only a few photographs left in the pile. I turned over the next one.

The same girl, still naked, lies on a wooden pallet. Hanging on the wall behind her is a hessian sheet. It has been put there to act as a backdrop, but falls short of the edge of the frame, exposing a rough brick wall. I stare at the wall for quite a while. The woman has been cruelly treated. There are the

raised marks of a whipping on her stomach and thighs. Her

ankles, calves and knees are bound with bristly rope which

digs into her flesh. Her hands are tight behind her back,

presumably secured. She lies slightly on her right side,

towards the camera. Her breasts have been roughly bound,

the rope twisted three times round them, distorting their

shape, crushing them to her. Her head lolls backwards. She is still the whitest thing I ever saw but I can distinguish her features now, distorted, ghastly. Pupils unfocused and far

back in her head, a mouth that ended with a scream. Her

throat has been cut. Blood flows from her wound, slicks its

way across the pallet and drips onto the floor. I wonder if it stains the photographer’s boots.

For the final photograph the photographer has stepped a

little closer. The girl lies on the same wooden boards. Now

she is wrapped in a white sheet, only her bare feet exposed. A rope is coiled round her length from neck to ankle, securing her shroud, defining the shape of her body. A gag is tied, on top of the sheet, round her mouth. I can see her arms lying

straight against her hips.

I’m not sure how long I sat there after that. I felt peaceful.

A little boat on a calm ocean. My mind was completely

empty. I could hear my neighbour’s tread on the floor above

me. Four steps from his bed to the hallway, the click, clack, tap of the Rottweiler following in his wake. Perhaps I should get a dog. I was tired of people. I took my baccy and rolled myself another cigarette. My hands had a bit of a tremble on but they remembered what to do. I sat and smoked it in

silence. Then, though I didn’t feel like it, looked at the

photographs again. Were they real? They felt authentic, but

that meant nothing. I put them back in their envelope,

fastening them once more with the elastic bands. I wanted

to think about what I had just seen. If there had been a

murder, she’d been dead a long time. There would be hours

to spend in a police station at some point, no doubt, but even with Anderson’s backing Partick constabulary might have me

confessing to a Parisian sex crime committed when I was a

wee boy. Still, there was no way I wanted a casual search

finding these in my inside pocket. I lifted the loose floorboard under my mattress and placed them beside the revolver. Then

I glanced at my wristwatch lying on the floor beside me.

Eight-thirty. I should have met the crew at the McKindless

house half an hour ago. I managed a quick cold shave, dressed and left.

I was back in Hyndland for nine. The squad were outside

waiting for me, half a dozen of them, two Lutons. One

empty, ready for today’s load, the other full of yesterday’s loot. The back of the second van was raised, the crew sitting in a parody of a living room, among the furniture we had

packed the day before. Nobody greeted me. Disapproval

hung rank in the air. I could see the unfurled Daily Records, the front-page photograph of the dead callgirl, smell the sweet, milky coffee and hot rolls. Before I rounded the

corner this had been a merry scene, with my defection the

main topic. Now they looked at their feet and chewed on

their breakfasts. They’d had an hour to ruminate on my

faults as an auctioneer and as a man. Jimmy James, the head

porter, shook his head’ slowly. Niggle, the youngest of the

crew, excited by my folly and not wise enough yet to bide

his time, broke the silence.

`You’re awfy late, Mr Rilke.’

`And you’re awfy kind to get me my breakfast, Niggle.’

I relieved him of the potato scone and egg roll he had been

about to raise to his mouth and helped myself to a foam cup of coffee that was marking a ring on the polished surface of an occasional table. His expression buckled.

`Oh, dinnae greet, son. Someone give him another roll

before he starts bubbling. And the rest of you, what are you waiting on?

I set them to. One squad up to the warehouse to empty the

first van, the other filling the second. They would go like this all day, keeping a steady pace, Jimmy James in charge. I didn’t intend to be there for long. There was the usual sale to be

attended to. In the normal course of things this would be a

courtesy call. Just stick my head round the door and make

sure everything was going smoothly. No upsets or squabbles.

The householder happy, the team polite, but today there was

something else I needed to do.

Miss McKindless was in the downstairs study. I chapped on

the door gently and she bade me enter in her young,

schoolteacherish voice.

`Mr Rilke. You look as though you’ve been working hard.’

Getting picked up by the police tends to have an ageing

effect.

`Are you satisfied with your progress??

‘So far we’re on schedule. Accidents barred, I’d say we’ll

be out of your hair in a week’s time as requested.’

`You’re hovering.’ She laid down her pen and removed her

spectacles. Those blue eyes bored through me. `Is there

something particular you’d like to discuss??

‘Well yes …’

She leaned back in her chair.

`Take a seat.’

I settled myself in front of her. Now was my opportunity.

My chance to get rid of the photographs. Pass the whole sorry mess over to someone else.

There was a framed portrait photograph on her desk. A

black-and-white image taken a long time ago. I lifted it. Dark

eyes stared malevolently from the past. I felt that, had I met this man, I would have known myself in the presence of evil.

Your brother?

`That’s Roddy, yes.’

`A handsome man.’

`I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to discuss.’

`No, I’m sorry.’ I wondered if the portrait had always lived in this room or if she had moved it there herself in an attempt to keep her brother close. Her devotion touched me. I

wondered how much she knew of his life. `You told me

you’d never been in your brother’s upstairs study.’

`I believe I told you that on our first meeting, yes.’

`I wanted a word about its contents.’

`Get to the point Mr Rilke. You don’t have time for

hovering or havering if you’re going to get the job done on

time. Tell me what it is that you found.’

`It contained a significant library.’

`I see.’ Her voice remained calm. She lifted her pen and

drew a small cross on the blotter in front of her. `My brother was always a keen reader.’

A second cross marked the page, followed by another.

`These were books he may have wanted to keep private.’

She laughed.

`Mr Rilke, the moment I saw you I knew you were the man

for me. A born diplomat. Yes it is possible that he might have wanted to keep them private. Do you think that explains why

he kept them in a locked attic inaccessible to the rest of the household?

I levelled my hands on the table. `It seems a reasonable

hypothesis.’

`It does, doesn’t it? Dispose of them.’

At first her meaning eluded me.

`I was going to suggest that you might want to enter them

for a specialist book sale. They could realise an impressive sum if there was the right interest in the room. It would mean Bowery storing them for a month or two but I think you

might be impressed by the return and’

She levelled her gaze. `I want them burnt.’

I spoke before I thought. `Miss McKindless, this is a significant collection. I know the nature of the material may offend, but some of these books are worth a great deal of money.’

Her pen scratched across the paper.

`I am an old lady. I have as much money as I need.’

`They are worth a lot of money because they are rare

editions of significant texts. Many of these books were

produced in extremely short print runs. There are editions

there that you come across once in a lifetime. Once in a

lifetime if you’re lucky.’

`Look at your right hand, Mr Rilke. It’s shaking. Is it the

thought of the money or the books??

‘Both.’ That and the hangover. `You don’t destroy this kind of material. If you don’t want to profit by the library, gift it. I can make arrangements. No one need ever know where it

came from.’

`I want it gone. Burnt and no trace left. If you need this sale as much as I think you do, you’ll do it for me before the week is out. If you’re too squeamish, there are other auction

houses, other auctioneers.’

`Apart from anything else, clearing the attic would involve

a considerable amount of work. Books are heavy, Miss

McKindless.’

`I’ve already told you. I’m an old lady with too much

money and no one to leave it to. Bill me. I’ll make the

cheque out to yourself or Bowery Auctions, whatever you