by J. M. Smyth
How he’d do it was his own affair. My guess was he’d get Sally to hit her where it would do most damage – her mother. Sally was fond of the needle. I wouldn’t say she’d more track marks on her arms than a hillwalking map, but she’d a £300-a-day habit and Ted kept her in the best of clients to pay for it.
‘Wouldn’t you want your mother to see how well you’re doing? See what you’ve made of yourself? Nice car, real money in the bank,’ no doubt came into the leverage. I do know that Lyle finished it off by telling Gemma he was short of girls Friday nights – that I was getting fed up with his regulars. She could fill in. He figured that because I saw whoring as nothing to get excited about, she wouldn’t think I’d be bothered by her doing it and turn my back on her. She wanted to be near me, he reckoned, and would do whatever it took.
My own guess is she went with it because of her mother. Fuck all to do with me. I wasn’t the attraction. Read it any way you like. It happened. That’s all I know or give a bollocks about.
I’m in The Minstrel and in walks Gemma. I take her upstairs and act no differently than before. She comes at me a lot closer, with the sighs of emotion and all that crap, and when she leaves, she’s looking back at me, as if she doesn’t wanna go, as if she wants to stay only with me, that she’ll do it because I’m part of the package. Did you ever hear such a pile of shit in all your life? ‘Love’ – Jesus, no thanks. The last thing she said to me was: ‘See you next week, Red?’ I gave her a smile to keep her going. That was it. Thank fuck for Charlie, that’s all I can say. This stuff with Gemma was stirring shit in me that I didn’t want stirring.
By this time, things had moved on as far as what Charlie Swags had said to me was concerned. My reading of him turned out to be right. I knew a bit more about this than I said earlier. And it all added up to Charlie walking in looking like things had just taken a turn for the worse. And he walked into The Minstrel.
Now knowing Charlie as I do, I know his moods – whether he’s pissed off because things haven’t gone as planned or if there’s something personal in it. And that’s what this had come down to.
Drake – that fucker who owned the garage I was telling you about – had decided not to sell, and he was putting it about that he’d made a fool out of the ‘Great’ Charlie Swags. Which was a load of bollocks. It was simply a deal that had fallen through and Charlie would’ve seen it like that if Drake hadn’t gone mouthing off. Since Charlie was nodding towards the table in the corner, where we got down to the bones of it, it was more than obvious that as he was running it by me, he was looking for something with an edge to it that’d make Drake sell.
So I sat back, gave it some thought, downed a whiskey, nodded to the barman for another round – including a swig for Charlie’s two heavies on their high stools – waited till it was brought over, Charlie tipping away at Irish Mist …
‘Drake married, Charlie?’
‘He is.’
‘Other women?’
‘We’re all fond of a bit of skirt, Red.’
‘Kids?’
‘Daughter.’
‘How old?’
‘Fuck knows. Eleven, twelve …’
‘Hit him there.’
‘With what?’
‘What do men fear above all other things when it comes to sex, Charlie?’
‘Not being able to get it up any more?’
‘What else?’
‘Ah …’
Charlie never sees the angles. Even at this stage, when he’d become like one of those guys you read about in the Sundays – ‘Crime Boss Guilty of All Sorts of Crap’ – he still never sees the angles. Not that he’d ever been in the Sundays, though Chilly Winters had been refusing promotion for years trying to put him in them. Winters was still carrying a grudge over his daughter. He’d found out after she was taken that Charlie was behind it. And Winters knows, more so then than now, that where Charlie went, I went. He blames me too. No proof though. You’d think he’d wise up. In order to beat us, he has to catch us. If he doesn’t catch us, that’s a reflection on his abilities, a failing on his side. He should look at it like that.
‘Y’know that new girl Ted Lyle has working for him, Charlie? She was at a hen party one night in the Carmine Club, wore a dress no bigger than a pillowcase. Long blonde hair, no tits, small enough to go down on a guy standing up; very young looking. Gemma Small.’
‘Didn’t she used to work for you?’
He’d had his eye on her. Charlie likes them young. ‘She’s into electrolysis.’
‘What’s that – some kinda vibrator?’
‘No muff.’
‘So?’
‘Scams are about perception, Charlie. What people perceive to be the truth, not the truth itself. Set her up as a tourist in that hotel you said Drake drinks in. Nice and easy does it; she’s not to rush. See what happens. Maybe he’ll bite, maybe he won’t. If he does, it’s up to her room with a hidden camera on the go. I’ll set it up, all part of the service.’ I had surveillance gear, the kind top-notch private investigators use, with built-in phones, microphones, speakers, ‘always-on’ broadband access, VCR jacks, camera lenses the size of tie pins, the works. I call them surveillance ‘laptops’, mainly because they’re portable, but they’re much more than the ones you’d buy in the shops and about twice the size. ‘If my guess is right, a little thing like Gemma without the pubic hair will come across on screen as a minor. Send Drake a copy, then ring him up and reduce your offer. When he scoffs, ask him what kind of videos his daughter and her schoolmates like to watch. That’ll tell him you’re the one who sent it.’
The kid element gave it the edge he was looking for.
‘God bless you, Red.’
‘No problem.’
‘How the fuck do you come up with these scams so fast?’
‘You know me, Charlie – always like to have one ready in case of a quick getaway. I’m also a genius.’
Genius, my bollocks. I’m no smarter than the next guy. I just take everything from experience. When I was a kid, I saw two lads with a Christian Brother. They were both about the same age, but one had pubic hair and the other one didn’t. The one without it looked a lot more like a minor because of it. That was probably my first lesson on how things look based on how you present them. If you’d shaved the lad with it, he too would’ve looked like a minor. Your basic everyday logic. That’s the lesson I took from it anyway. When I saw Gemma, it came back to me.
I saw the upshot of this, incidentally, when Ted Lyle’d recorded it onto one of my surveillance laptops. Gemma had a doll’s mouth. When she went down on Drake, her lips had a job getting round it. Brought back memories. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have said she was only coming into her teens. But I knew her – Drake’s wife wouldn’t. She’d have seen him fucking what looked like a kid. Then Drake went and got hit by a car and ended up in hospital, and Charlie put that part of it on hold till he was up and about.
Of course, the extra angle was that while we were waiting for Drake to hit on Gemma, others would hit on her. Top hotel, leave the camera rolling, in the hope she goes down on a top cop or a politician. Or maybe a judge. Nothing like having His Honour in your pocket if the bastard happens to be looking down on you at the time with his wig on. This is the sort of stuff I told you I dabbled in from time to time, when girls brought celebrities back to my hotels. Most of the videos I’d never used. Kept them for my own private collection in case they ever came in handy.
Then there was the money angle. She was bound to pick up businessmen. We could see if they were worth hitting on or not. What could be easier? Clean the cunts for every penny they had; get as much out of a scam as you can.
Women were another angle. If one picked up Gemma, a woman fucking her would give it another extra. All kinds of offshoots. Oddly enough, though I didn’t know it at the time, Gemma swung both ways. She had a couple of girlfriends round the clubs.
Anyway, all scams have to end. You can only milk them for so long. And w
hen they’re finished, the girl involved has to go. That’s why I’d nudged Gemma into this.
So I sat down and wrote Gemma a letter. She would think it had come from her mother, in response to the one I’d typed for her but never posted. I can’t even remember what bullshit I wrote. Something like:
Dear Gemma,
I’m sorry for taking so long to reply to your letter. But as much as I wish things were different, they are what they are … My family are unaware of my past … I wish you all the best in life.
Love Angela
The usual ‘fuck-off’ letter mothers like Gemma’s send.
It was to tie in with that suicide angle I was telling you about. The suicide was weak, I grant you that. I hadn’t had enough time to work on it. The law’d find Gemma’s body on the pavement outside a high-rise, her ‘mother’s’ letter and the one I’d dictated to the drink company in her pocket, pointing to her having jumped because she couldn’t live with Angela rejecting her twice. I’d cut the ‘Dear Sir’ bit off the one Gemma’d handwritten for me. Anyway, that’s the way it was supposed to work out. The law would suspect Charlie was behind it, but the suicide note would colour it and keep the pressure off him. He’d expect me to have an angle like that working for us.
I’d driven the sixty miles into Allens, County Longford to mail the letter so it would have the right postmark on it. Gemma would have a read of it the following day then be seen to have bowed out that night. Up the emotional pressure on Lucille, all that. That’s how I was seeing it. But I wasn’t the only one with designs on Gemma.
Let me put that another way: someone else was intent on having designs on her. And when I say designs I mean designs. Literally. And it led to me getting the goods on one of the best killers this town had ever known.
Even I hadn’t planned on this one.
PICASSO
Everything was going along superbly, just as I’d planned. And then complacency set in. I’m lucky to be at liberty. Very lucky indeed. Complacency will not set in again. I can assure you of that.
The first error came in the form of two young ladies called Lisa Shine and Jackie Hay.
It had occurred to me that, rather than painting my models from the photographs I’d taken of them, I would instead bring them home and paint at my leisure. After all, did da Vinci paint the Mona Lisa from a Kodak, or Sargent Madam X? No, they had real-life models. Like them, I too would one day hang in the great galleries of the world. Each portrait would bear the model’s own handprint to authenticate its provenance. The world would know me as ‘Hockler’, and not by the ridiculous sobriquet the press had attached to me. Picasso! Hah! Why would one such as I need the name of another when my talent will one day stand on its own merits? Cornelius Hockler! Ultimately I would send my portraits to every major gallery, and the name Hockler would eventually be every bit as well known as the great masters.
Hah! What absolute drivel. Great masters indeed. If Michelangelo had been born in a hut in the Gobi Desert and had painted the ceiling of the local mosque, instead of the Sistine Chapel, no one would have ever heard of him. Mine is a mediocre talent – like many hanging in the art galleries of the world. What is talent? Often it is only one’s ability to be in the right place at the right time. You will observe that I have not said one’s ‘good fortune’ to be in the right place at the right time, which, of course, does apply in certain cases. An artist with a sense for business can discern opportunities using his wit, charm, presentability, his personal allure, his allusiveness perhaps, his articulateness, his ability to endear and elevate himself through colour-blind benefactors, who wouldn’t know one end of a brush from an ear pick. Prominent critics authenticate long-lost works, then a forger steps forward and exposes them for what they are – something he knocked out for a laugh. Pompous fools incapable of aiming a stick of charcoal. Yet they judge those who can do far more and, in so doing, ruin their careers. In short: circumstances, serendipity, better publicists, create ‘great artists’ often much more than their issue. I refer to my work as my issue. They are my babies – all motherless.
In my case, my work will be hailed for its subject matter and its ability to sell tickets. Its notoriety will sustain its appeal. The art world is a sham in which art lovers will come to recognise my paintings in an instant.
To date I had painted some, oh, twenty-or so models. I really do not recall the total number. Only eleven singles were of a sufficient standard to warrant exhibiting. The others had not turned out as I had hoped. The bosoms, you understand. Their texture and skin tone cannot be ascertained until clothing has been removed, venal fluids drained and flesh left to settle. Hence their ultimate rejection. No matter; mustn’t complain.
I had begun my clandestine career with the notion of formulating a sequence of portraits, each representing the seasons. Then I changed this to months. One portrait representing each of the twelve.
In the UK and the United States, at least, the carnation is the January flower, the primrose February, violet March, daisy April, lily of the valley May, rose June, water lily July, poppy August, morning glory September, calendula October and chrysanthemum November. These portraits I had completed, each depicting a flower, plus something from the Greek, Medusa being a particularly difficult one to encapsulate. I had added the Greek connotation, plus a little something from my own past, to satisfy the pretensions of the art Establishment. Art scholars and critics give more credence to mythology. It allows them to appear erudite. ‘Ah, yes,’ they would postulate, ‘Hockler clearly substituted fingers for snakes to …’ I don’t know. Whatever they come up with, it will be pure supposition. And wrong. I had not the slightest reason in the world for supplanting snakes, other than to give them something to muse over. I used fingers because I had no snakes. It was that simple.
Alas, I had yet to find a suitable model to complete my collection. Although I had a model in mind – for narcissus, the December flower.
Together these twelve works of art would be known as the ‘Hockler Women in Bloom Collection’. I had initially considered the ‘Hockler Blooming Women Collection’ as a title but, after many sleepless nights of cogitation, settled for the former.
As to why it had occurred to me to bring my models home, well, I simply became fed up with lurking in the shadows until the first suitable female happened by. To photograph under such circumstances is an absolute pain. One has the problem of lighting, weather conditions – on a bad night one risks catching one’s death of cold. The times I have had to postpone, you simply would not believe. Weather forecasts are of no help. And, of course, as I have alluded, if a girl is heavily wrapped up, it is impossible to tell what lies beneath her clothing, apropos her overall figure. I cannot work with plump models. A waist is vital. To sketch the stem of the bloom, one must have the curves of the waist to give symmetry. A big belly would look grotesque. And the skin must be taut, not aged and slack. Large breasts, too, are out. One ends up with squashed petals between the cleavage. Small, pert breasts are by far the more desirable.
Thus I went to the bank and arranged a loan to renovate my cellar into suitable accommodation. Naturally, I had to carry out the work myself, which involved going to night classes in block laying and welding, to make the doors and the masonry to support them. Finally, when the last block had been mortared, a serving hatch and a peephole fitted in each of the four doors, I loaded Shirley, my dog, into the back of my van, fed her a heavy sedative – nothing harmful, for I would not hurt a defenceless animal – and drove straight to a park that bordered a housing estate on the west of the city – the nocturnal habits of whose residents I had been monitoring for some weeks. I parked in a nearby lay-by used by lorries, from which one could see right along the road in either direction. I enjoyed a little Mozart while waiting. His Requiem.
The time was approaching half past ten when I saw the two models I had selected, their Labrador on a leash, crossing at the pedestrian lights, as I had observed them doing on previous evenings. I drove straight
in through the park gates, lifted Shirley out and laid her unconscious on the ground, then hunkered over her as they drew near.
‘Excuse me,’ I began in a very polite and pitiful voice, which, I have found to my advantage, evokes compassion among fellow dog lovers. A hook, if you like.
Their Labrador strained to attend and commenced sniffing Shirley, as dogs are wont to do, in her nether regions.
‘What’s the matter?’ the dark-haired one of the pair asked.
‘It’s Shirley. She’s had an attack of some kind. I’m so worried. Would you mind giving me a hand to lift her inside? I must get her home. Only it’s my back, you see. She’s too heavy.’ I sounded at my wits’ end.
‘Of course. The poor thing.’
‘Oh thank you. You’re very kind.’
‘Not at all.’ She turned to her friend. ‘Come on, Lisa. You take her front and I’ll take her rear.’
They were so helpful.
My chloroform spray caught them as they stooped. I reached for the two soaked cloths I had prepared moments in advance and pinned their heads back against my chest until they lost consciousness, then gently lifted them, one at a time, into the back, for I did not wish their skin to be bruised. Then I put Shirley in behind them and was gone, their Labrador chasing after the van.
In my cellar, I placed Jackie Hay in room number one, and Lisa Shine in number two, searched their pockets for keys and went to their apartment.
I confess that my career has occasionally forced me to appropriate where and when I can. The cost, you understand – van expenses, materials and so forth. I’m not quite a penniless artist living in a garret. A small trust set up by my father provides a modest monthly income, though not nearly enough. He also left me his surgical instruments, which I use to assist me in my work, and this house, which he himself had inherited. He was a surgeon and an anatomist in Berne, where I spent my early childhood. Like most boys, my wish was to follow in my father’s footsteps. I showed a keen interest in his work, attended his lectures, dissections. Alas, it was not to be. I became inured to the sight of human flesh post-mortem, but began to be fascinated by it as an art form. Art was fast becoming my passion. I studied in Vienna and Paris. But, as I have already averred, the art world spurns that which it does not understand, only to praise it when others and time have rendered it unique.
