The Cutting Room (7 page)

them again, closely.

`I’ll tell you what I can, though it’s not much. There’s no

camera trickery here. It’s a simple point and shoot.’ The

friendly tone was gone now, it was all business. `The

technology was there. Georges Melies filmed A Trip to the

Moon in 1902, but this guy’s not going to the moon - well,

not in our sense. You have to ask yourself what would they be faking? If there’s trickery here it’s in the set-up, makeup, false blood, acting. Christ, Rilke. I hope she was acting but look at her. For fuck’s sake, man, that’s an open wound.’

`I know. I’m sorry I had to show them to you.’

`Aye, I’m sorry you did as well.’

`Can I buy you a drink?’

`No. There’s one coming up soon I’ve had my eye on for a

while. I’ll stick around and see how it turns out. What are you going to do with these??

‘I’m going to try and find out what happened.’

`It was a long time ago.’

`I know that, but I’m going to try anyway.’

`Why do you want to know? Is she something to you??

‘I don’t really know,- Dougie. I’ve no idea who she was - just a lassie - but she was somebody and I can’t leave her there.’

In my mind there was a slam of closing doors and the smell

of spilt blood.

`I wish you well, but Rilke??

‘Yes?’

`Make it a while before I see you again.’

I touched his arm, turned and left him there washing his

hands. I wondered if his horse would ever come in and if it did what he would blow the money on.

Leslie

One foot in the grave, the other on a banana skin.

James Pryde, Head of the Clan Macabre

DO u G i E HAD SAID IT was all in the set-up. So now I needed to find someone who knew about these things. I headed back in

the direction I had come, away from Woodlands and towards

Park Road. A guy in a donkey jacket waylaid me and asked for money. He looked as if someone had polished him with old

chip wrappers. Everything shone except his shoes and his

attitude. I paid my Jakey tax, then slipped into a doorway,

took out my mobile and dialled.

`Leslie? Rilke.’

`Rilke.’ The soft, harsh voice, a bass Marlene.

`I wondered if you were in.’

`And now you know. Can I get back to what I was doing or

is there something on your mind?

`I wondered if I could call round.’

‘Terribly formal this weather, aren’t we, Rilke? Why did

you not just chap the door??

‘I’ve got something I want to ask you. Are you alone??

‘For the moment.’ Suspicion hung between us on the line. ‘Why?

`There’s something I want to show you.’

`Rilke, if I’d not given up double entendres as a camp cliche I’d be having a field day. Get yourself over here and tell me what it’s about.’

He hung up before I could say goodbye.

It took me fifteen minutes to get to Less. There was

splintering round the lock where the door had been recently

broken open and mended. I hit three short Morse dots on the

button above a cryptic L, and on the buzzer’s cue pushed open the heavy close door and made my way to the top landing.

The door to Les’s apartment was on the snib. I released the

lock behind me and went through the darkened hallway to the

living room.

Heavy velvet drapes were drawn against the gloom of the

day, creating a premature twilight. I hesitated in the doorway, letting my eyes adjust, taking it all in. A wave had hit the room, tilting it quick, one way then the other. Furniture had pitched forward, books somersaulting from shelves, a cabinet jettisoning drawers, drawers spewing their contents. Everything was just so much rubble, a jumble of CDs, papers,

clothes, shoes, wigs, objects tumbled together with no respect for tribe or genus. Les himself was sitting on the edge of a displaced couch, dressed in a black pleated skirt and polo-neck jumper, dragging on a roll-up. He had made a start at tidying, righting chairs and the coffee table, but even those looked out of kilter. A painting hung awry above the fireplace, a

wide-grinned Mexican illusion in an outsize gold plastic

frame. Les’s comment on mortality. Look this way, a laughing skull in a tasselled sombrero, sucking on a cigar, turn your head a little, Les with sombrero and cigar. I leant over and straightened it. Les flesh - no flesh - then flesh again. Behind me the real Les laughed his bandito laugh, a high bray that

ended in a phlegmy cough.

`Cheers, Rilke, that’s a real improvement.’

Les was never a pretty boy. In his best phase - say,

seventeen to twenty - he had an elfish charm. He was the evil pixie, the giggler behind the bad fairy’s skirts urging her on to more wickedness. At forty he has a face that reflects his life.

Deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes, high cheekbones, a slender nose just the right side of hooked, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth.

As faces go it’s too much, overdone, as if he has one feature too many. But dressed, from a distance, he can be anyone you want him to be. He coughed again, a sixty-a-day grandmother’s cough, rich and textured.

`Rose just phoned looking for you. She sounded in a right

state. I told her I’d not seen you for days. I’m not sure if she believed me, so you better call her and dial 141 while you do it. I don’t want that mad bitch coming round making a scene.’

`I thought you two liked a scene.’

He twisted his mouth. `Outclassed, dear boy. When it

comes to scenes, Rose wins every time. Feel like a beer??

‘Aye, all right. What happened here??

‘Ach, what do you think?

He pulled himself from the couch, awkward, rubbing his

hands over the small of his back, straightening stiffly as if he had been sitting there for a long time. Chaos continued in the kitchen, jars of food tipped across the floor, oats and cereal merged with lentils, rice and pasta, drawers upturned,

contents scattered, pots and pans tumbled into crockery.

Leslie skirted the mess as best he could, reached into the

fridge and handed me a chill can.

`I was busted last night. They took the place apart in their usual half-arsed way - you know, books out the bookcase,

clothes out the closet, drawers on the floor.’

`Did they find anything??

‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t be talking to you if they

had, would I? No.’ He started to laugh, `It was in a tartan

shopper hooked on the pulley. A fucking bar. Three coppers

pulling the place apart and one giving me the once-over:

Where is it? they know I’ve got it; I’m an intelligent guy,

why not save us all a lot of time and do myself a favour. He was so embarrassed. I was in a frock. He couldn’t even look

at me, and all the time it’s hanging there above their heads.

They had this dog with them, a big German shepherd. It

was going crazy, jumping up, whining, practically baying,

the poor beast was in torture. Its handler kept on shoving it down telling it to sit and shut up. It was the only one there with brains, I’m telling you, man. Christ, it was all I could do to stop myself looking up. A fucking red tartan bag. I

swear I thought it was going to start talking to them, open

up its zip mouth and shout, “Here I am, here I am, how do

you do?!” ‘

`Where is it now? He jerked his head at the ceiling, no, at

the red tartan bag swaying slightly on the pulley. `Leslie. It’s still there??

‘Well, I didn’t know what to do with it. I’ve not been over

the doorstep all day. I tell you, man, it’s a real worry. That’s why I was pleased when you phoned.’ I let that one ride.

`Anyway, what’s on your mind? You looking to score? ‘Cos

I’m well supplied.’ He laughed until the coughing took over.

`Jesus. La dame aux camelias, right enough. It’s not the cough that carries you off, it’s the coffin they carry you off in.’

`It’s a matter of contacts.’

`Oh yes??

‘Leslie, you know a lot of people.’

`Nature of the business.’

`I need to meet someone who knows a bit about the skin

trade.’

He sat himself down at the kitchen table, motioned for me

to do the same, and took a sip from his can.

`You buying or selling?’

‘Buying.’

`Well that’s a relief. I thought for a moment you were

wanting to get your skinny shanks on celluloid.’ He took out the makings and began to roll a joint. `What kind of stuff are you after??

‘I need some informarion.’

`Rilke, that’s the worst thing you can say to a guy in my

game. Information? Now, you can say it to me because we’ve

known each other a long time and I know you can be trusted,

but drugs and porn, big-money low-scruples operations.

There’s those that would kill me for the contents of that

tartan bag. Know how much that’s worth? Sure you do, a

grand. Nothing. But there’s folk would do that.’ He folded his fingers into the shape of a gun, put the barrel to my temple and fired, `Pow! Just to get their hands on it.’ I recoiled from the blast. Les grinned and blew away imagined smoke, Annie

Oakley-style. `I’m well protected, well connected, but even

so, screw up and you’re on your own. I’m shitting it over this bust. I’ve to split that with Gerry and if he doesn’t get his money I’m in big shtick. You know Gerry. Crazy man.

Normal rules don’t apply. I won’t just owe him the stake, I’ll

owe him a share of the profits as well. What kind of info are you looking for, anyway?

And I knew he was setting me up for a trade.

`I want to find someone who knows about photography.

Someone who knows about the snuff setup.’

Leslie had played a poker face at too many meetings with

too many dangerous men to react, but he toyed with the ringpull of his can before he spoke.

`Want to tell me what this is all about?

He passed me the joint, I dragged on it, took out the

envelope of photographs and slid it across the table.

`I found these on a call I was doing.’

He looked through them slowly, smiling at the early ones,

giggling a little, turning them this way and that in an

exaggerated attempt to sort out people and positions.

`Just goes to show you, man, nothing new under the sun, eh??

‘Keep looking, Les.’

`Don’t you worry, boy. Auntie Leslie isn’t squeamish.’

Then he hit them. He kept his face straight but there was no laugh. He took a long toke, squinted through the smoke at the last four again, then turned to me.

`Okay, what do you want??

‘I want to find out how these pictures were taken.’

`What do you mean??

‘I need to know if this set-up is authentic.’ ‘Why?

‘That’s my business.’

`True enough, man, but if you want my assistance it might

pay to confide in me.’

`I don’t know why, Leslie. Let’s just say I can’t leave her

there. I might be able to find out who did this to her and that seems important to me.’

`Well you’re wrong, Rilke. If this is real then it’s a horrible thing, but it’s a long time ago. Who did it doesn’t matter.

She’s long gone and you won’t be able to change that. The

past is the past. If you ask me - and I realise you’re not asking, but I’ll give you this one for free - if you ask me, this is as much to do with your past as with what happened to this poor unfortunate. Leave it alone. You’ve done well, you and Rose, with your wee swag market. Don’t start getting yourself

mixed up with unpleasantness and unpleasant people for no

reason.

`I appreciate the advice, Les, but I still want to know.’

`Aye, I knew you’d say that.’ He put the photographs back

in the envelope and handed them to me. The crazed smile was

back. `Well, I gave you some free advice, Rilke, but there’s very little free in this world, you’re a businessman, you know that.’

`How much??

‘Help me get the dope out and I’ll put you in touch with a

contact who can help you.’

`No way, Les.’

`Oh come on, man. I’ve got it all worked out. I’ve been

thinking of it since last night. All I needed was another body and here you are. Just listen, it’s foolproof.’

`There’s no need for me to listen because I’m not doing it.’

`Rilke, please. I’m between a rock and a hard place. If the

soldiers get me I’m looking at three years - more if some

polisman’s wee lassie kills herself on E the week I go to trial and if I screw up with Gerry I’ll lose my balls.’ He laughed again. `There’s not many people I could trust with a bar,

Rilke. If you hadn’t called me first I would’ve called you.’

`The thing is, Les, you’re desperate. Any plan is going to

look good to you.’

‘Untrue. If I get caught I’m screwed. You get caught, say I duped you. We go back a long way.’ Then he said the six

words that should have sent signals flashing. `You know you

can trust me.’

`Look, Rilke, we don’t even know that they’re watching the

building - we have to assume that they are, but who knows what goes on in the life of a polis? I’m small fry. The CID would probably smoke that in a week. No, they did a big production number last night and came up with nix. My guess is that they’ll be pissed off and go on with the next thing. Maybe an unmarked out front for form’s sake. I go out the front door carrying a suspicious-looking carrier bag. Inside that bag another one, wrapped up inside that, a box in ten layers of newspaper, and inside that thon hideous china Alsatian Frances gave us when I had Nero. By the time they’ve unpeeled that lot, you’ll be well over the back court and away.’