FINAL CUT
A Vince McNulty Thriller
Colin Campbell
PRAISE FOR FINAL CUT
“Fantastic story, fantastic characters—fantastic everything.” —Chris Mooney, international bestselling author
PRAISE FOR THE BOOKS BY COLIN CAMPBELL
“Very real. And very good.” —Lee Child
“There’s nothing soft about Campbell’s writing. If you enjoy your crime fiction hard-boiled, the Jim Grant series is a must read.” —Bruce Robert Coffin, author of the Detective Byron series
“A cop with a sharp eye, keen mind, and a lion’s heart.” —Reed Farrel Coleman
“Campbell writes smart, rollercoaster tales with unstoppable forward momentum and thrilling authenticity.” —Nick Petrie
“Grim and gritty and packed with action.” —Kirkus Review
“The pages fly like the bullets, fistfights and one-liners that make this one of my favourite books of the year. Top stuff!” —Matt Hilton
“An excellent story well told. A mixture of The Choirboys meets Harry Bosch.” —Michael Jecks
“Sets up immediately and maintains a breakneck pace throughout. Its smart structure and unrelenting suspense will please Lee Child fans.” —Library Journal Review
“This is police procedural close-up and personal. A strong de-but with enough gritty realism to make your eyes water, and a few savage laughs along the way.” —Reginald Hill
Copyright © 2020 by Colin Campbell
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by Colin Campbell
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Final Cut
About the Author
Books by the Author
Preview from Below the Line by Stephen Jankowski
Preview from Long Time Dead by Tony Black
Preview from Code Four by Colin Conway and Frank Zafiro
PART ONE
“You’ve got to be ready at all times. Prepared to fight but ready for peace.”
—Vince McNulty
ONE
Vince McNulty never had a childhood. He went straight from damaged orphan to troubled man with one swing of the Bible and a broken nose. Not his nose. At Crag View Orphanage. He missed out on all the things other kids enjoyed like devoted parents and trips to the seaside. His only pleasure was the movies. Not, going-to-the-cinema movies, but Sunday afternoon films on TV. Growing up to be a cop was a direct response to the broken nose. Working in Hollywood was the result of all those Sunday afternoons.
“McNulty.”
The producer shouted across the parking lot.
“Can you get this guy to stop walking like a duck?”
Okay, so Titanic Productions wasn’t exactly Hollywood, but it was the movies. McNulty stood beside Larry Unger and glanced at the actor who was trying to look like a cop.
“I know lots of cops who walk like ducks.”
Unger turned to his technical adviser.
“In England, maybe. Here in America they walk like John Wayne.”
“I thought you wanted this to look real.”
“John Wayne is real.”
McNulty shook his head.
“John Wayne wasn’t even John Wayne.”
Unger raised his eyebrows.
“Doesn’t matter. In America cops walk like John Wayne. Haven’t you heard of the John Wayne syndrome?”
McNulty was fighting a losing battle, but he was going to fight it anyway.
“That’s more to do with the mindset. You know, wading in to save the day. More cops die because they think they’re invincible than anything else. That’s the John Wayne syndrome.”
Unger glared at McNulty.
“What am I paying you for? To be my shrink now?”
He indicated the actor standing next to the makeup trailer.
“Get him to walk like a movie cop.”
McNulty let out a sigh and nodded his understanding. Like they said in that John Wayne movie about shooting Liberty Valance, when the truth gets in the way of the legend, print the legend. Looking at the narrow-shouldered pipsqueak playing the lead, he reckoned he was going to have his work cut out for him.
“Alfonse.”
He strolled over to the struggling actor.
“Let’s go through this walking thing again.”
The movie circus that Vince McNulty had run away to join was filming in Quincy, Massachusetts, just south of Boston. It couldn’t replace the brotherhood of blue that all ex-cops missed, but it was more family than he’d had growing up. Vince loved the movies. He felt like the kid who joined the Big Top because he liked clowns and lion tamers. Titanic Productions had plenty of clowns. There weren’t many lion tamers. That’s why Larry Unger employed McNulty. McNulty’s query letter laid out his qualifications.
“I am a veteran police officer with more than twenty years’ service in the West Yorkshire Police and Savage PD. If you employ me, I will not only ensure technical accuracy but also liaise with traffic control and provide on-set security.”
He didn’t mention why he’d left the West Yorkshire Police or how he’d come to work in Savage, Maryland. Why he’d come to America in the first place. Hiding in plain sight was still hiding. Running away was still running. McNulty liked to think he was running toward something. He hadn’t told Larry Unger about that, either.
Right now, in a parking lot off Merrymount Parkway, running was something else Alfonse Bayard was having trouble with. That and his name, which Unger was trying to Americanize. Alfonse kept quoting the example of Arnold Schwarzenegger but Bayard was no Schwarzenegger. McNulty took him around the back of the makeup trailer.
“You’ve got to think of it as balance.”
Alfonse stood with his legs apart, feet planted. Balanced. McNulty waved for him to stop.
“Not standing-still balanced. Balanced movement.”
McNulty walked a few paces, nice and easy. Loose.
“Patrol speed.”
Then he broke into a jog.
“Ramming speed.”
Then a sprint.
“Pursuit.”
He stopped running and walked back to Alfonse. He relaxed his shoulders and let his arms sway gently at his side. An easy rhythm. In sync with the rest of his body.
“As a cop you never know what’s coming next. You’ve got to be ready at all times. Balanced. Think of it like a sportsman. You’re coiled but relaxed. On the balls of your feet, not flat-footed. Ready to fight, give chase, or chill it down. Non-aggressive aggression. Prepared to fight but ready for peace.”
Alfonse looked bemused.
“All that just for me to walk?”
McNulty exaggerated a flat-footed walk. Slapping his feet on the ground.
“Duck walk.”
Then he walked normally.
“Cop walk. Glide. Like Sean Connery as James Bond.”
Alfonse frowned.
“Not Roger Moore?”
McNulty shook his head.
“Roger Moore ran like a
girl. Unless you’re gonna play the first transgender cop, stick with Sean Connery.”
Alfonse copied McNulty’s walk. He put a bit more swagger into it, swaying the shoulders. It looked pretty good. McNulty was about to say as much when he heard the commotion inside the makeup trailer. A slap and a scream.
The day turned cold. McNulty felt the short hairs bristle at the back of his neck. His troubles had started with a slap and a scream. Then a Bible and a broken nose. He didn’t want to break anyone’s nose today, but he couldn’t ignore the scream. He was around the corner and up the stairs before the trailer stopped shaking.
“Clumsy bitch. That stings.”
The man sitting opposite the wall mirror was rubbing his eyes. Amy Moore was standing next to him holding the side of her face. Her eyes were wide with shock. There were forty-eight light bulbs screwed into the frame around the mirror. They gave everything a soft light so the makeup artist could see what she was doing. The man in the chair disagreed. The woman couldn’t see for shit. Slapping her in the eye wasn’t going to improve that.
“You’re supposed to put it around the eyes. Not in them.”
He continued to rub as if that were going to make it better. Amy saw McNulty charge through the door and cringed again. McNulty toned down the anger on his face and held up a calming hand. Scaring the makeup artist was the last thing he wanted to do. The fact that he’d done exactly that gave him pause. He really needed to work on his anger management. Or at least aim it at the proper target. The proper target was the man sitting in the makeup chair. The best way was to not sound angry at all.
“Don’t rub them. It’ll make it worse.”
McNulty stood behind the chair and kept his voice calm.
“Lean back and open your eyes.”
The man leaned back but kept his eyes screwed shut.
“I can’t open my fucking eyes.”
McNulty glanced at the worktop then mimed pressing an aerosol. The makeup lady understood and handed him a cooling mist spray. McNulty nodded his thanks and waved for her to leave. She didn’t need asking twice. McNulty turned his attention to the man in the chair.
“Of course you can. It just stings, that’s all.”
The man shook his head, then wished he hadn’t.
“It’s the stinging why I can’t open ’em. She’s fucking blinded me.”
McNulty spoke as if talking to a child.
“No, she hasn’t.”
He changed the subject.
“You’re playing the crook Alfonse chases, aren’t you?”
The man nodded, more gently than he’d shook his head.
“Robber Number Two.”
McNulty smiled even though the man couldn’t see him.
“Okay, well. Number Two. Here’s how it works.”
He soothed the man’s head back against the headrest.
“Back when I was in the police, I sprayed this fella with C-S.”
“C-S?”
“Like Mace. Anyway, he had a knife and I sprayed him full in the face.”
“You didn’t shoot him?”
McNulty did the child talk thing again.
“It was in England. Police don’t carry guns.”
“No shit?”
“Yes, shit. Anyway, he drops the knife and starts rubbing his eyes. Worst thing he could have done. What you’ve got to do is open them wide and let the air get to them. Don’t rub them or wash them or reactivate the Mace.”
Number Two considered that for a moment.
“Don’t rub them?”
“No.”
“And don’t wash them?”
“That’s right.”
He paused a few more seconds then forced his eyes open. He stared at the ceiling, tears streaming from bloodshot orbs. Then McNulty emptied the cool mist water spray right into his eyes.
The scream was more of a roar and it shook the trailer. The makeup lady glanced at Alfonse Bayard then they both looked at the steps leading to the door. The door didn’t open. Amy lowered her hand from her face, revealing a red mark down one side. Alfonse noticed the mark then nodded toward the door.
“Technical adviser.”
Amy gave an embarrassed smile.
“Location security.”
They nodded then spoke in unison.
“McNulty.”
Number Two stopped screaming when he realized that the water spray hadn’t reactivated the Mace. Because it was eyeliner, not Mace. All the water did was cool his stinging eyes and give him the shock of his life. Once his courage returned, he spoke in a low hard voice.
“D’you know who the fuck I am?”
McNulty leaned against the counter, just out of Number Two’s fighting arc.
“Replaceable.”
Number Two ignored the truth of that statement.
“I am the guy going on camera in fifteen to face off against the star.”
McNulty found what he was looking for but kept it behind his back.
“You’ve been listening to Alfonse too much. He isn’t a star yet.”
Number Two forged ahead.
“He’s the hero cop in a cop movie.”
McNulty straightened against the counter.
“Yes. And I’m the guy who makes him look like a cop.”
He unscrewed the lid of the foundation cream with one hand.
“Teaches him how to deal with bad guys.”
He paused as if something had just occurred to him.
“How many lines you got?’
That seemed to bring Number Two back down to earth. His voice was smaller.
“I don’t got no lines.”
McNulty pushed off from the counter.
“A nonspeaking part.”
He brought the tube of cream from behind his back.
“You won’t be talking any more shit then.”
He reached over and pinched Number Two’s nose between strong fingers. Number Two’s mouth reflexed open and McNulty squeezed the tube. Thick brown cream squirted down Number Two’s throat, jerking him forward as he was sick in the washbasin. McNulty tossed the empty tube in the waste bin and walked out of the door.
There was no round of applause or hero’s welcome, but Amy Moore nodded her thanks and Alfonse Bayard looked at McNulty with newfound respect. McNulty ignored the actor and spoke to Amy.
“He wants to apologize.”
She nodded again and climbed the steps. McNulty turned to the star of the show.
“How’s the walk coming?”
Alfonse looked at the technical adviser.
“The walk’s fine. I want you to teach me what you did in there.”
McNulty walked a cop’s walk away from the trailer.
“I didn’t do anything in there. It’s for makeup.”
Alfonse fell in step with him, copying the walk and the stance and the body language. One man copying the other. The other man trying not to be himself. The sun finally broke through and signaled the restart of filming. Merrymount Parkway became a hive of activity as people shouted and the film crew hustled. Diffused arc lights came on. The camera dollied back to the start of the track. Everything changed. In the short walk to the set the actor became the cop and the cop became the hero. McNulty’s job was done. Larry Unger shouted from the camera position.
“McNulty.”
The owner of Titanic Productions broke free of the bustle and guided McNulty to one side. Once he found a quiet spot, he lowered his voice.
“We got another problem.”
TWO
McNulty considered the other problem at the Furnace Brook Diner during a break in filming. Just down the road next to Veterans Stadium, which was more like a football field than a stadium with its single stand. McNulty accepted the American propensity for exaggeration without a second thought. Saying that filming had gone well was an understatement though; Alfonse Bayard had knocked it out of the park.
The wi
ry detective hadn’t needed to run to catch up with the petty thief. The robber wasn’t trying to get away so much as blend in with the background extras—a crowd of spectators leaving the football stadium. The first robber had gone in the opposite direction leaving the detective following Number Two. He added a burst of speed that was no more than upping the pace as he glided toward the robber. On the balls of his feet. Like Sean Connery stalking a henchman. The henchman looked uncomfortable, his throat constricted and his face twisted in pain. He was very convincing. The tension built as the robber was about to be caught. The look on his face betrayed his discomfort. Then the detective stopped him with a harsh word and a promise of violence that proved unnecessary.
The robber stopped. Alfonse Bayard got his man. The director yelled, “Cut. Check the gate.” And Larry Unger nodded his approval. The detective wasn’t walking like a duck anymore. He wasn’t walking like John Wayne either. He was walking like a cop.
McNulty sat in a front window booth overlooking the stadium parking lot. The diner was on a parcel of land between the football field and a soccer pitch. The view out the other side was of the muddy sludge that would have been Furnace Brook if there had been enough water to do more than tickle the riverbed. McNulty preferred the parking lot. He liked watching the world go by. He liked not having to sit with his back to the wall anymore. Being a technical adviser was a lot safer than being a cop.
He thought about that for a moment. True, nobody had tried to bottle him, stab him or set him on fire since he’d been working for Titanic Productions, but he missed the friendships forged on the front line—the kind of camaraderie that only existed in the emergency services or the military. The feeling that what you were doing meant more than stopping an actor from walking like a duck.
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