The Cutting Room (6 page)

prefer. Or perhaps cash would be better. “Cash is king.”

Isn’t that what they say, Mr Rilke?’

`They say a lot of things, Miss McKindless. It isn’t the

money.

`No? Okay, let’s accept that you are a man with your own

code of honour.’ She drew a final cross. The once white page had been transformed into a graveyard. `I’m sorry if I’m

compromising you, but nevertheless, if you want to hold this sale I’m afraid you must render me this service. I prefer to pay, rather than simply trust you. Experience has taught me

that is the best way.’ She met my gaze. `I intend no slur on your integrity. I want you to do it, Mr Rilke. By all means get help removing the contents of the attic, but I want it to be you who lights the fire, your hands that put the books, and any

associated material, into the flames.’

`I could prepare an inventory. You wouldn’t be required to

see or handle any of the material, just to sign a release.’

`I want to know nothing, see nothing. Not a single

title. Not a scrap of paper. Render me this service, Mr

Rilke. Were I a young woman I would do it myself, but

time has caught up with me.’

I looked perplexed, then gave her a sad smile and nodded.

In my head I agreed to nothing. I can smile and smile and be a villain still.

`Can I trust you, Mr Rilke?’

I thought of the guilty stash of photographs beneath my

floorboards. To reveal them would be to lose the sale.

`As you say, Bowery Auctions are very keen to secure your

custom.’

`I’d prefer a yes or no.’

`Yes. Yes, you can trust me.’ Beneath the table I crossed

my fingers like a deceitful child.

`Well, then, let us both get on.’ Her voice was brisker, as if she regretted revealing a weakness. `We’ve both got things to do and time is of the essence.’

She nodded dismissal and returned to her work.

In the hallway four of the crew were maneuvering a lacquered Japanese cabinet down the staircase. I paused, admiring the black gleam of the uncrackled glaze, the tiny figures traversing the Bridge of Happiness, painted over and over again on its drawers, its fragile shelves and compartments. A good Ł4000. Jimmy James halted three boys, carrying a rolled Chinese rug, at the top of the stairs. I ran up to the second floor, nodding to him as I went by. He blew his nose on an old rag and ignored me.

The next floor was deserted. I entered the spare bedroom and pulled down the ladder. There wasn’t enough time or privacy

for me to give the attic the going over I wanted. If there was a mystery to Mr McKindless, the solution was likely in that room.

I took a screwdriver out of my pocket, removed the mortise and replaced it with a new one I’d picked up that morning. It

wouldn’t hold off the determined, but they’d have to make a bit of a noise and at least I would know someone had been motivated enough to break in. I tidied the mess of wood drippings away and left through the front door without a goodbye to anyone.

Back at the flat I showered, dressed, then dug the photographs from their hiding place. They were no easier to look at

and made no more sense than they had the first time. I could see the roughness of the rope, stray fibres escaping the weave.

I knew how that rope would feel, but I knew nothing else.

There was a photocopyist’s on my route. I stopped by and

asked to use one of their machines. The assistant looked too young to guard the shop on her own. She came out from

behind the counter.

`We’re not busy the now, give them to me and I’ll do it for you. How many copies do you need?’

I’d taken the photographs out of my wallet. She held out

her hand, smiling.

`I’d rather do it myself if you don’t mind.’

She was insistent. `It’s no trouble. This place is like a

morgue. I tell you, you could die of boredom in here some

days.’

I laid on the patter. `Thanks for the offer, but I’m an

auctioneer and these are delicate, old photographs. I need to copy them for. a potential bidder. I’m better handling them

myself, that way if they get damaged it’s my fault.’

The girl looked impressed. `Can I have a look?’

I prayed for someone to come through the door and

distract her, but she was right, it was like a morgue in there.

`I’d love to show them to you but I’m in a bit of a rush. Do you mind if I just copy them quickly?’

Her bottom lip petted forward. `Suit yourself.’

She huffed towards a photocopier and switched it on.

I placed the pictures of the tortured girl gently, face down on the machine, closed its lid, pressed the button and watched as the image scrolled forth, the ink still damp, frozen on paper, the outrage revealed,‘repeated. I did the same with the pictures of McKindless. The machine hummed through its task, sliding out the wretched scenes. I felt myself almost falling into a trance.

The photocopier stopped. I gathered my copies, headed to the desk and counted the pages in front of her, taking care not to display the horrible facsimiles.

`Sorry about being in such a rush.’ The girl rang the price up on the till, `You should come round the auction house one day.

There’s a sale every second Saturday, it’s interesting. I’ll give you a wave from the rostrum.’

She smiled as she handed over my change. My pal again.

A block from the shop, I realised what I had done, turned

on my heels and ran. Too late. The girl stood, motionless, a frightened mannequin, next to the machine I had used. She’d

lifted the lid and now stood holding a photograph, a tangle of naked bodies, McKindless at the centre. A spider in a web of flesh. I took the photograph from her limp grip, whispered,

`Sorry,’ and left.

I had an idea of what I was going to do next. My game is

knowledge and contacts. What your own knowledge can’t tell

you, your contacts might. Balfour and Sons started taking

photographs of Glasgow when busy tugs still chuffed along the Broomielaw and Highlanders conversed in Gaelic on Jamaica

Bridge. The black and gold sign above their door dates their establishment to 1882 and their back catalogue covers almost every part of the city through the last century. I’d helped

them fill gaps in that catalogue over the years, calling on them whenever I found something I thought they might like. They

are known for being a good family firm, close, like all these old business families. No under-the-counter trade there.

They’d treated me with politeness and courtesy and I was

going to thank them by spoiling their day. But they had been born with silver nitrate in their veins and if anyone could tell me whether these photographs were real it would be one of

the Balfour boys. I peered through the window, trying to

make out who was inside, hoping for Dougie, the eldest

brother, but unable to see the interior for the prints crowding the display. I walked round to the side of the building and

entered the shop.

`Well, Mr Rilke, long time no see. How have you been?

Mrs Balfour was the kind of mother every boy thought he

might like. Neat, well dressed, a short practical woman. Who knows, she might have beaten her boys every night of their

lives with a wire coat hanger, but she made me think of mince and tatties and stories at bedtime. I’m apt to be sentimental about other people’s mothers. There was a large sheet of glass on a carpeted workbench, Mrs Balfour was poised over it,

halfway through cutting it down to frame size. She looked up at me quickly, the laser-sharp scalpel still in her hand.

`Just give me a minute, son. If I stop now I’ll make a mess

of this.’

I watched the blade as she guided it gently through the

glass, using a steel ruler a foot long to mark the line. I thought of an Arctic vessel creeping slowly under dark skies, skirting icebergs, destined to sink; then, with a final snap, the scalpel broke free. She straightened up and smiled at me.

`Now, that’s it. Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do

for you? Is there something in the saleroom you think we

might like??

‘Not at the moment, Mrs Balfour. I might have something

coming up, you never know. This is more in the way of a

social call. Is Dougie around?

The smile didn’t move but there was a quick flicker behind

her eyes that told me she thought I’d come to try and borrow money. I’m not in the habit of making social calls, and if it were business I’d be as well talking to her.

`I’ve not got any Balfour plates, but I’ve come across some

other material I’d like his advice on.’

`Something you’d rather I didn’t see?

She was sharp.

`I’d not be comfortable showing it to you.’

`You’re a gentleman, Rilke. Softer than you look. I doubt

it’s anything I haven’t seen before, but I respect your honesty.

Dougie’s not here.’ She smiled, and there was a bitterness in this smile. `He’s in his office. Why don’t you go and chat to him there? I made a move to walk round the counter. `No,

son, not that office, he’s in Lester’s, three doors up.’

And I realised she’d not been worried I was going to

borrow money, she’d thought I might be due it.

There’s a move to make gambling socially acceptable. Dog

tracks offer corporate hospitality, the lottery is Saturday

night, family entertainment and Internet bets are the click

of a mouse away. None of these moves has reached Lester’s.

The door swung open lightly, oiled by use and I entered into a fug of smoke.

Lester’s is a simple arrangement. The concrete floor is

littered with old dowts and losing slips. To the right is a booth where the teller sits behind a protective grille, handling

wagers and payouts. Penny-ante stuff for the most part,

but Lester’s has had its big wins. Lester’s office is beside her, with Lester himself in constant attendance. Squint sideways through the office door and you’ll see his bald pate bent

over mysterious paperwork, or perhaps the broad back of a

man in a suit as he leans back on Lester’s visitor chair. On the opposite wall two large televisions flicker in high colour,

showing horse races or football matches. Beneath them is a

ledge where punters fill in their betting slips with the small blue pens Lester supplies. It is a busy shop. Men nip in, place their bets and are away again. Only the committed stay to

watch race after race.

I spotted Dougie in the far corner, his eyes trained on six

horses making a desperate circuit round the park at Haydock.

There were two other men beside him, concentration focused

on the screen. The commentator reeled out an account of

what was happening before their eyes, in a flat accent cut with practised enthusiasm, his spiel faster than any auctioneer’s. I waited until the race was over and each man had turned away

without a word to the others. None of them made their way

to the payout booth.

Dougie spotted me before we spoke. `Rilke. How’s it

going?’ He patted me on the shoulder.

`Fine, Dougie. Yourself?’

`Been better, been worse.’ He had the sad optimism of the

chronic gambler and I wondered I had never seen it before.

`You in for a wee flutter, eh? Got a hot tip?’

Aye, I almost said, give it up, but instead I shook his hand and said, `No. No, actually I’m in to see you. I wondered if you’d look at a few pictures I’ve come across.’

`My kind of pictures??

‘Very few folk’s kind of pictures. I guess you’d call them a select taste.’

`So why do you want to show them to me??

‘I need to find out about them and you’re the best man in

Glasgow for photographs.’

`Ach, flattery will get you everywhere. Well,’ he laughed,

remembering my proclivities, `you know what I mean. I’ve

got a bet on the next race. Hang on while I see how it goes, then we’ll go through to the back room and I’ll see what I can tell you.’

We waited through three races. Dougie had a three-way

accumulator, the first two, favourites, came in, the third, a ten-to-one sure thing, fared poorly on damp ground and

didn’t even feature. He stood through the show without a

change of expression. When he turned at last from the

screen his face wore the same cheerful look he had greeted

me with.

`Ah well, you win some, you lose some. C’mon, then,

show me these snaps.’

He led the way through to the gents’ at the back of the

shop. There was a smell of piss from the trough, the brown

walls were covered in graffiti and the cubicle was locked.

Dougie didn’t seem to mind: the smile stayed glued to his

face.

`They’re not what you’re used to, Dougie.’ I wanted to

prepare him before I shattered his day. `They’re nasty.’

`Ach, I can take it, Rilke. Me and Charles went to

Amsterdam a couple of years back. There’s things there

would make your hair stand on end.’

`Aye, I guess so.’ I took out the envelope and flicked

through it until I found the pictures I wanted. `What I want to know is are these real? I handed them over to him. `You’ll

see what I mean.’ I waited for him to focus. `I mean, did they kill that girl or is it a set-up? I don’t know if you can tell that kind of thing from a photograph, but I reckoned if anyone could it would be you.’

I watched as Dougie looked through them slowly, silently,

the light fading from his eyes. He squared the bundle, then

took a small magnifying glass from his pocket and examined