The First Cut (9 page)

Lawrence sighed. ‘Not this again. There’s no life after death, Connie. There’s no heaven or hell—’

‘Lawrence, please!’ Bridget gave him a furious look from the doorway and Lawrence threw his hands in the air with exasperation.

Nicky watched the old woman, who was still staring at her. Her face was expressive. Where a moment ago there had been fear, she now drew herself up and seemed defiant. ‘I’m not going alone,’ she said. ‘Your husband’s coming with me!’ she added.

‘Connie!’ Bridget’s voice was sharp. She called out for Tatjana and came back to help Connie to her feet.

Lawrence wasn’t letting up. ‘The punishments we deserve are given in this life only.’

Connie’s mouth was working hard on things unsaid as a fleshy woman in a white uniform entered and started making soothing noises to her patient. Adam was sitting perfectly still, his eyes moving from his father to his raving aunt to Bridget.

Tatjana and Bridget began to lead Connie away while she moaned slightly. Lawrence picked up the towel and flicked it in frustration against a chair. He turned to Nicky. ‘I’m a judge, as you know. Some of the things I hear in my courtroom would freeze your blood. I’ve meted out punishment all my working life. You soon get to believe it’s the here and now that matters.’

They sat in silence for a few more moments as Connie was guided down the corridor. Lawrence seemed to visibly relax once she had gone.

‘I love my sister, but she drives me crazy. Isn’t that always the way?’

‘Is she always . . . like that?’ Nicky asked.

‘No,’ Adam said, before his dad could answer. ‘Often she can talk for quite long periods and be perfectly lucid.’ He said this almost as a challenge to Lawrence.

‘Though she’s always been rude,’ Lawrence added.

Adam jumped on his remark. ‘That’s not true—’

Nicky was keen to avoid getting caught in another father-and-son argument. She was guessing they happened with predictable regularity. ‘Those are wonderful photos,’ she said, pointing at the wall opposite her.

Lawrence banged his hand down on the coffee table and pointed at his son. ‘You put her up to that, didn’t you!’ His face broke out in a grin.

‘They’re Dad’s,’ said Adam. ‘He’s very proud of them.’

‘I love their scale.’

‘Thank you. I develop them myself to get that size.’

‘Dad’s got a darkroom here.’

‘He only photographs trees,’ added Bridget, coming back into the room. ‘What does that say about a man?’ She rolled her eyes in faux horror.

‘An oak tree spends three hundred years growing, three hundred years living and three hundred years dying. Show me a human being as magnificent.’

‘He’s been in court too long,’ Bridget said. ‘It does strange things to a man.’

Lawrence sat back on the sofa and regarded Nicky. ‘I met your just-fired editor a few times, you know. Did you rate him?’ Nicky took a deep intake of breath. Lawrence laughed. ‘You don’t have to answer that. I’m being mean. But I hear you’re going downmarket – that true?’

‘Remember that he looks like a pickled beetroot,’ Adam said. ‘You don’t have to answer his silly questions.’

‘You’ll probably know before I will,’ replied Nicky.

Lawrence sighed. ‘My sister . . . Connie is vain,’ Lawrence continued. ‘She’d love the idea of an obituary, and I’m just sorry she’s not able to help much.’

‘I think lives like Connie’s might be just what the new regime is looking for. People think obituaries are all about death, but we’re really celebrating someone’s life.’

Lawrence looked rueful. ‘Whereas I deal with the nature of a person’s death. People think there are good and bad deaths, but they don’t realize how many are true horrors – it’s only in court that that stuff is revealed.’

Bridget shuddered. ‘This is very morbid.’

‘Morbid, but true,’ said Lawrence. ‘We all die screaming, one way or another. Do you know that, Nicky? We’re preprogrammed to fight to our last breath. It’s the human condition.’

There was nothing more to say after that. They all took a gulp of wine in silence, Nicky trying to block out the image of Grace in the black water. What the others were pondering she had no idea.

‘I
assure you, Mr Haynes, your teeth are not a reflection of your soul.’ The young Asian dentist pulled the paper mask off her mouth and sat back.

‘Imagine how black they would be if they were!’ She laughed and he saw her own pearly whites. Her uncomplicated, unadorned face only accentuated the perfection of her smile. ‘Dorian Gray has a lot to answer for.’

She nodded. ‘Indeed. The idea that our true inner natures are reflected in our appearance is a Victorian idea that has proved very hard to shift.’

‘Well, it keeps you in work. All of us, your clients, I mean, are really trying to make ourselves look –’ he paused, searching for the appropriate word ‘– holier.’ He gave her what he thought of as his wolfish grin, and she indulged him with another smile. He saw the wedding band on her finger with a touch of regret. He’d have liked to try it on with her. Success or failure, he loved the challenge and the chase.

‘Now, let’s take a look.’ She pulled an overhead mirror towards him and he parted his lips. ‘The veneers on these two side teeth give you a nice neat line that still looks natural.’ Troy gazed at his five-grand grin. He ran his tongue over his new teeth, feeling the smooth outline. ‘You’ll notice how there’s still a tiny gap between each tooth. That makes each tooth look real. This way you don’t get that increasingly unnatural effect as you age.’

Not her too, thought Troy with a bolt of panic. Even the hot dentist was talking about him ageing.

‘I’ve begun the bleaching, but you probably won’t notice anything for a few days. It’s a gradual process and we don’t want to do too much too soon or you’ll end up looking a little too “Hollywood” and it can make your teeth brittle.’

Troy nodded. He knew how easily teeth could break. And skulls; bones of all kinds, in fact. He’d grafted for his money over the years. Maybe that was what had aged him. It was time to stop working so hard. He rinsed and spat out a pink, strawberry-flavoured liquid. His jobs had not all been as easy or as fun as Marcia. But as he sat in the pretty dentist’s chair in Harley Street he knew he’d still rather live this way; the alternative seemed grotesque and pointless – the drudgery and poverty of the nine to five, a jumped-up tyrant further up the greasy pole using his small bit of power to stamp on your manhood, and coming home to a nag who never turned the telly off. His brother and the grisly wife sprang to mind.

After school Troy had gone to work in the kitchens at the airport because he needed cash for women and drugs. There he clashed horns with the head of catering and, just like with the teachers and the headmaster at school, he didn’t want to
be
that man when he was older. He parted company with the plastic chopping boards and nasty white hats pretty quickly, but not before noticing the private jet that would sometimes land or take off while he and his fellow grunts took their fag breaks out by the bins. He made it his job to come to the attention of the man stepping out of that private jet. Lyndon B was to Troy that completely alluring animal: a property developer. That Lyndon obviously had an eye for young men Troy soon turned to his advantage because Lyndon B needed a handsome helper on his plane, someone to be his ‘biscuit chucker’, his beck-and-call guy. What he did in his bedroom was up to him. Looking back, Troy realized Lyndon probably saw something in him, an amorality he could use, a violence lurking just beneath the surface that could explode with deadly results. Troy was a young man he could shape, and Troy was only too happy to go along. The airport was the perfect setting to be schooled not in flying but in crime. He smuggled for Lyndon, stayed loyal and kept his mouth shut as the nature of Lyndon’s business dealings became clearer. Lyndon began to ask him for favours that extended after a few years to roughing up people and threatening others. He met Darek, who occasionally did jobs for Lyndon but ran his own stuff too. It was only a short and painless step to do work for Darek on the side.

The dentist lowered the chair and Troy stood up, helpfully handing her back the protective bib.

Troy’s life had stayed this way for years, until three months ago, when Lyndon was diagnosed with a serious heart murmur. He holed up in a hospital in Monaco, leaving Troy adrift in London, and for the first time in his life Troy had too much time to think about the big things: death and love and money. If Lyndon died, Troy had nothing.

Uncomfortable thoughts about where he was going and what he had achieved were beginning to trouble him, when he got a call from Darek about a job. They met in a pub and, unusually, Darek was drunk and full of bitter recrimination about his girlfriend having walked out on him. Troy was an opportunist and he helped take Darek home; there, fuelled with another bottle of vodka, Darek became just a little too chatty. He let slip that the best job he’d ever done earned him half a million quid. Troy laughed and pretended to drink his vodka. He realized that at the end of that commission, dangling at the very end, had been him. The bottom feeder. He had only got thirty grand.

It was all about proximity to the money. The price of killing was flexible: a lowlife on a south London estate would kill a man for £200 and a wrap; murder for an oligarch and you got half a million. The act of pulling the trigger was no different and neither was the outcome. The only difference was the cash.

Troy washed his hands in the dentist’s sink and used her hand cream. She held the door open for him and wished him a good day and he said he was looking forward to seeing her soon.

Troy had never been afraid of taking risks or of playing dirty, and he’d done both with Darek.

‘Problem with this business, Troy, is you can’t move up. One client gives you all the work and nearly all your cash,’ Darek had said that night.

‘What about the one-offs we do?’

‘They don’t make you any money. There’s no repeat business.’

Troy walked down the steps of the town house in Harley Street. He paused, running his tongue along his teeth, and watched a limo with blacked-out windows draw up. He wondered who was coming for a nip and tuck in the discreet building opposite.

As Darek had slurred and farted on his sofa Troy had had his light-bulb moment:
I can force repeat business and they are rich enough to pay
.

It had taken Troy three days to get the information out of Darek, and then three hours of hunting for the safety deposit key when Darek could no longer talk. He’d washed his hands eight times after that.

The door of the limo opened and a woman in huge dark sunglasses, flanked by two minders, emerged. She stared straight ahead as she walked to the front door. The world looked at her, not the other way round.

Lyndon was still on a recuperative holiday in a special facility in the south of France, so Troy had had time to study Darek’s list and work out a plan of sorts. He walked down the street, the pavement on this side cast in deep shadow. He stopped. The phone in his left pocket was ringing. Darek’s phone. He answered and a woman asked, ‘Darek?’

‘He’s retired. I’ve taken over.’

The phone went dead. Troy swore, annoyed that a foray into this new line of business seemed to have ended before it had begun. But five minutes later she rang again. ‘You still doing the same things?’

‘Your problem, my pleasure.’ It had sounded catchy to Troy earlier when he’d practised in his mirror and he was trying it out for the first time now. ‘Where’s the drop?’

‘Paddington Green Cemetery, like before.’

Before
. So Darek had lied. He did get repeat business. ‘Be more specific.’

‘The weeping angel grave. Aisle 1B.’

‘It’s all up front.’

‘Of course,’ she replied.

‘It’s the same price.’

She didn’t disagree. ‘I want it done fast.’

‘OK.’

She paused. ‘I’ll have something there by three this afternoon.’

Troy smiled to himself. The drop was a bouquet with the money and the picture inside a plain envelope. ‘
Muchas gracias
. If you’re bringing flowers, I like daisies, by the way.’

She snorted. ‘The symbol of innocence. I prefer chrysanthemums.’

‘What do they mean?’

‘Death.’

Troy looked at the phone, but she had already hung up.

T
roy didn’t say hello, they didn’t shake hands or do anything that might make people think they were together. This was all part of the game, part of the hiring: assessing people, taking precautions. They just picked each other out and fell into step.

‘You picked a funny place to meet!’ Struan had to shout over the horns and rattles that were going off all around them.

Troy leaned towards Struan and spoke in a low voice. ‘Good cover.’

They tried to walk down the street but the crowds were hemming them in on all sides. ‘What are this lot getting all worked up about, then?’ Struan was aghast as hordes of people milled around, waving placards, holding up bed sheets covered with appliquéd lettering and moving at a snail’s pace down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.

‘It’s a student march,’ replied Troy. ‘Why do you think they’re protesting? More money or fewer cuts. No one ever protests about anything else.’ Troy held up his hands as if to join in. ‘Enjoy. You probably won’t ever go on another.’

Struan frowned, staring: a guy with piercings dotted across his top lip was walking arm in arm with a girl with a shaved head. ‘Go back to bed!’ he shouted. ‘They all look like fucking freaks.’

Troy glanced down at Struan’s forearm, where a tattoo of a snake with big fangs coiled round and round and ended under the strap of his gold watch. ‘I guess it all depends on your point of view.’

Struan unstuck his shirt from his stomach. ‘Fuck, it’s hot! I’m a bit over it, to be honest. I saw someone collapse in the car park at B&Q yesterday. Louise had to go and help. I got tarmac all over my shoes. It was literally melting.’ He shuddered. ‘That stuff never comes off.’