by J. M. Smyth
They were out of there before the law arrived. Down the fire escape and through the car park. Greg gets in his car, Ted in his, then he remembers the surveillance laptop. No problem. Mr No Problem’s got it all figured out. There’s fuck all to worry about after all. The evidence of who killed Gemma’ll be on the laptop. Everything’ll be all right.
But the laptop is gone. It’s not in Gemma’s car. Things aren’t all right after all.
And a cop is turning into the car park with his foot to the floor and his siren blaring and banging into Greg’s car as he tries to make for the exit. Lyle legs it and Charlie Swags is back on the phone raving like a lunatic. Now to give you some idea of what I’m talking about here: that nut I mentioned earlier who was on the loose in Dublin. Some TV shrink had said: ‘It’s not so much that he attracts his victims, he abstracts them,’ which led to him being called ‘Picasso’. A reporter later nicknamed him ‘Ripcasso’ but it never stuck. Everybody’s running around with a nickname in this town, ‘Chilly’ Winters among them. And because Winters was still being unreasonable, now, for the first time in twenty years, by the way Charlie was adding it up, it soon became clear that Winters had an opportunity to hit him where it hurt. ‘You grab my kid, Charlie, I’ll grab yours.’ Has a certain logic to it. Winters knew Greg was no killer. Winters was acting out of revenge. And that’s what was getting Charlie going.
I’d never heard Charlie in such a state. Usually he’s the coolest bastard you’d ever come across under pressure. ‘This is bad, Red,’ he was going. ‘This is bad. Winters has enough to put Greg away for life.’
‘Look, Charlie,’ I said, ‘you’re worrying about nothing. Picasso’s victims are bound to carry his hallmark. When he strikes again, Greg’ll be in custody at the time and Winters’ll have to let him go. I’m amazed he’s even holding him. Greg Picasso? The idea’s ludicrous.’
To be honest, I wasn’t in much form for this. I’d a glass of cream soda in my hand. My throat was like wire wool from a wedding do I’d been at. I’d ended up staggering home and conking out on the sofa. Half an hour had gone by since this had happened and what Charlie was telling me was the first I’d heard of it. OK, Greg had blood on him, but he’d been in a car crash, it could have been his own. No witnesses had seen him in Gemma’s room. Fair enough, reception security cameras would later show him in the hotel, going into the lift. But none of it added up past the fact that Winters had found a Swags on the scene and was holding him for no other reason than that. Hardly hard evidence. It was all a bit hazy. An hour or so later Charlie got back to me with: ‘Winters even went to Greg’s flat and took his dog, Red.’
‘His dog? Why?’
‘How the fuck should I know? He’s hardly likely to tell me.’
I still didn’t know what was going on.
But as far as Charlie’s first phone call was concerned, to me it was just a frantic father seeing all sorts of possibilities that didn’t exist, with me trying to explain why they never would.
‘What do you want me to do, Charlie?’
‘Find Picasso.’
‘Find Picasso? Charlie, what the fuck do I know about catching serial killers?’
‘If anybody can catch him, Red, you can. You always do what you put your mind to.’
‘I wouldn’t hold out too much hope on this one. The law’s been after the cunt for the last eight or nine years and look how far they’ve got. Anyway, you’re not even thinking straight, Charlie. It’s the laptop you want. Not Picasso.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because it recorded him killing Gemma. Which means he doesn’t know about the camera. If he did, he wouldn’t’ve killed her on it. And to steal it, he’d first have to know about it. Besides, a guy like that hasn’t evaded the law by going around drawing attention to himself breaking into cars and setting off their alarms. With the amount of rooms in that place, any number of people could’ve seen him.’
‘Gemma Small’s car wasn’t broken into, Red.’
This was getting confusing.
‘Look, Charlie, a girl took it.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You said Ted Lyle heard the receptionist taking a call from a “miss” telling her that Gemma was being killed. How could that miss have known what was going on in Gemma’s top-floor room unless she’d been watching it on screen? She couldn’t have been in the room. She couldn’t have been outside looking up. If she had, she’d’ve run into reception, not phoned. She’ll hand it in. Who the fuck’s gonna sit on that type of evidence? Besides, the family of one of his victims put up a reward. That’ll make her hand it in if nothing else.’
‘What if she doesn’t?’
I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me that. ‘You’re thinking she might play the scam? Blackmail Gemma’s clients?’
‘I would in her shoes.’
‘Small-time thieves aren’t you, Charlie.’
The laptop held at least a couple of dozen of Gemma’s clients. Guys with money. Even a small-timer could squeeze each of them for fifty grand a head. There’s over a million in itself.
It was a pity we hadn’t told Gemma about the scam. She could have threatened Picasso with the camera and made him back off. But we couldn’t have her going around knowing about it in case it got exposed. Not with Charlie’s name behind it. After we’d pulled Gemma from the hotel that night, Charlie would have had her done in. Though he didn’t know I’d planned on her being found dead with that suicide note in her pocket. As far as a small-time thief was concerned, one might hit Gemma’s clients for small-time amounts. But we’d clean the cunts without them even seeing us. One or two usually crack though. Gemma would be hauled in for questioning. Fuck that. That sort of carry-on can get messy. We couldn’t tell her – that’s all there was to it.
‘Ted Lyle’s here with me, Red. He said if a girl has it, it might be a Lucille Kells. He can’t think of anyone else who’d have keys to Gemma’s car. He’s positive it wasn’t broken into.’
The one name I didn’t want to hear. If I’d known Lucille was gonna be brought into it, I’d’ve held back on the analysing. I certainly wouldn’t have mentioned that ‘miss’ part. Not that I’d’ve got away with it for any length of time. Charlie knows me. He knows how quickly I come up with likely possibilities, the way I was doing, thick head or no thick head. He’d have worked it out himself eventually. It would’ve given me a bit of time though to figure a way to keep him from going after her.
‘Listen, Charlie, all we’re doing here is speculating. Gimme Kells’ details,’ I said, as though I’d never heard of her. ‘I’ll check her out and get back to you.’
‘Don’t let me down, Red. If there was ever a time I need you to come through for me, it’s now.’
‘I’ll do what I can, Charlie, you know me.’
Down goes the phone. The quick way to find out whether Lucille had it was to give her a call. I rang her mobile. She answered. I said something to keep her on the line, rang the built-in phone in my laptop, heard it ringing and knew she had it with her.
If Charlie thought to do what I’d just done, he’d know she had it for sure.
There was one way out of this. If I could get the laptop and send Winters a printout of Picasso killing Gemma, Greg would be released. All I’d have to do is find some way of making Charlie believe that Lucille’d had fuck all to do with it. But first I’d have to get that laptop back before Charlie sent a squad of men over to take her flat apart looking for it.
PICASSO
My second error, as I shall explain, had to do with Gemma Small and Lucille Kells.
Because December was to complete my collection, I was not only keen to portray narcissus as perfectly as is humanly possible, I was also very anxious. This, over and above Duet, was to be the culmination of years of work, you understand. Nothing, absolutely nothing, but my best endeavours would suffice. In short, for the first time in my life I was embarking on a project in a high state of agitation. Whereas the weaver of tapes
try can unpick and start again and, in the same vein, charcoal can be erased, my instruments, once applied, cannot similarly be retracted. One indelicate stroke and the model is rendered unusable and has to be discarded. Superimposition is, given the nature of skin, out of the question. Mistakes cannot be covered up. Gemma Small was therefore to be a trial run.
While both she and Lucille Kells were admirable in their physical attraction, Lucille was by far the more beautiful. Gemma had a delightful, waif-like allure. Her demeanour was that of a subjugated child. In a previous incarnation, the product of neglect, she would have epitomised the embodiment of both Ignorance and Want. Had she been dark, she would have made an excellent December.
Lucille, on the other hand, was not possessed of a boy-like figure. Dressed in black jeans, Danish sandals and a white, sleeved top, with the natural mahogany streaks in her ebony hair curling in around her breasts, Lucille comported herself in a rather impertinent fashion, yet, in more pensive mood, exuded a confidence and grace which no preparatory school could instil.
On one occasion, while I was seated on a park bench, I watched her giggling at some girlish pun. She was affecting a kind of roll-walk, reminiscent of bicycle pedals smoothly rolling round and round, exemplifying some choreography or other to Gemma. She was so full of life. With her hair flowing down over the narcissus, she would portray December perfectly. I was determined, at the earliest opportunity, to apprise her of my intentions.
However, having visited Gemma, I had departed in the belief that Lucille Kells would identify me to the police. I thought my career had ended. She would turn me in. Unless I could take appropriate measures. Alas, my Transit was no match for the speed of her Fiesta.
But then it occurred to me that the direction in which she was travelling indicated that she was intent on visiting a location close to the village of Clonkeelin. A hunch, as it were. And one which proved fruitful. For I had already followed her there and knew exactly which short cut to take to arrive before she did. I welcomed her in my usual fashion.
The following morning, having arranged for her to awaken to the same considerations as Lisa Shine and Jackie Hay, I found myself in a mood of some elation. Not only had I acquired December, I had also heard, on the radio, that the police had arrested another man in my place, one Greg Swags, as I had connived; though I was surprised to learn that they had mentioned him by name so soon after the event. This Swags was innocent. Clearly the police did not think so. He would go in my stead, as it were, and Lucille would model for me. I should then have to decide on my future career: retirement or enjoying models in the comfort of my rooms and having them regarded as ‘missing persons’. Undoubtedly, if the authorities ever caught up with me, the truth would out. Strange the way things transpire, don’t you think?
No one was more surprised than me to find myself still at liberty, I must tell you. Swags had seen me. He was a vital witness. Ah well, ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or … no, I don’t think so.
Unfortunately, as luck would have it, my sense of elation was short-lived. But only momentarily. A further bulletin reported that perhaps I had been seen. Second-hand news, as only I knew, because I had been present at the scene. They were clearly referring to Lucille. Which brought the question: whom had she informed? And how, since she was with me? I realised that I was becoming concerned over conjecture. The word ‘perhaps’ brought relief. No doubt you too spotted the uncertain connotation of its usage. ‘Perhaps?’ I had been seen or I had not. How does one ‘perhaps’ see one?
A further bulletin furnished enlightenment:
‘A woman rang the front desk of the Top Towers Hotel saying Gemma Small was being killed in room 720. The caller had actually named the deceased. She knew her name.’
How, I wondered. What woman caller? And how could she know what was going on in 720? I decided to ask my guest.
LUCILLE
When I regained consciousness, I was in a cell with no windows. A big black rat was in the corner eating a dead one. Behind the cell door was a crate. A length of timber, nails and a small hammer lay next to it. It had already been shored off with another piece. Another, gnawed through and matted with black hair and blood, stood next to it. Rats’ hair. There were rats in the crate, trying to gnaw their way out.
He had put a live one in to feed on a dead one, to let me know what would happen if the others ate their way through. I’d be all they’d have to feed on.
‘Hello, Lucille.’
It was him. He had been spying on me through a hole in the door. It opened, he said, ‘May I?’ and stepped into the threshold, filled it: he was enormous. I felt nauseated just looking at him.
‘Would you care to see where I work?’
I was too terrified to even move, let alone answer him.
A dog snarled. Then others started barking.
‘Follow me. Come on, no need to be concerned.’
No need to be concerned? He had murdered my best friend and now he was talking to me as casually as if we were sitting in a bar over a quiet drink.
The dog – ‘Stay there, Shirley,’ he said to her – a big, wire-haired mongrel, was squatting at the bottom of a flight of stairs as I went out behind him, into a corridor with four cells, including mine. The last one contained the rest of the dogs. Five. All as big as the one guarding the exit. He opened their door.
‘Stay close to me, Lucille. They’re only Shirley’s pups.’
Oh, God. There were bones inside on the floor. And they were human. Two dogs were chewing on a ribcage, growling at each other, fighting over it.
The mother came in behind us snarling. Then she stood silent, watching the others sniffing and licking my legs.
‘They get excited at times like this. In anticipation.’
They made my skin crawl. But it was the look in the mother’s eyes that terrified me the most – she was staring at me, drooling. If it’s possible to see in a dog’s eyes that she is biding her time, then that was what I saw in hers. I was never as glad to get out of a place in all my life.
He led me through an internal door and down some wooden steps into a lower cellar.
‘In here.’ We went into a room. ‘This is where I work.’ He took me straight back out again and into another room. ‘And this is my gallery.’
Then he questioned me. I realised what he was doing. The rats and the dogs had been enough to make me tell him anything he wanted to know. But he had quickly shown me his studio and gallery to instil as much extra fear as possible. He wanted quick answers.
‘Did you alert the Top Towers’ receptionist last evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I saw you. On camera.’
‘On camera?’
‘Yes.’
I told him all that had happened. He flew into a rage then just as quickly came back out of it. The composure of the man was unbelievable.
‘And where is this laptop?’
‘In my car.’
‘Thank you, Lucille. You are very kind. I’m afraid I have to apologise. I cannot now continue this guided tour. Please make yourself at home down here. I shall see you anon.’
He was gone.
So was I. I’d been telling myself: ‘Now don’t act the meek and mild female, Lucille. Think about how to get yourself out of here. Crying won’t get you anywhere. You need your wits.’
But after all that I’d been through, having found my mother, all that I’d hoped for us, I’d never see her again. And what he’d done to Gemma … I couldn’t stop myself. I just crumpled on the floor and wept.
RED DOCK
The question was: where was Lucille when I’d rung her? And where was she now? The lights in her flat were out, and she wasn’t answering her home phone.
The obvious answer was she’d gone straight to the law with that laptop – that she and her old man, good old Chilly Winters, were seeing each other for the first time in twenty-odd years without knowing who the other was – that he was stud
ying Picasso’s latest release, in which Picasso was starring as the bad guy – that by morning, he’d release Greg and everything would be OK. Only Charlie Swags had men watching the cop shops for her. Grab the laptop off her on her way in, pull the scam and then hand it in. But no one had seen her. She hadn’t gone near the law as far as any of us could make out. So where the hell was she?
I picked the cylinder lock to her flat and went inside.
An Irish Holiday Cottages brochure was under her bed. Four had been ticked off, all near Clonkeelin. It was nearly midnight. About an hour and a half had passed since Gemma’d been killed. I rang them, saying I was a relative desperate to contact Lucille. The third one told me what I wanted to know. So I took a drive out.
Lucille had rented a white stone cottage called Roselawn, near the Donavans, in the townland of Coolylacky. Her car was outside. And that’s where I found my surveillance laptop.
To be honest with you, I was surprised to find it. If she knew what I was sure she knew, why, as I’ve said, hadn’t she taken it straight to the law? The only thing I could think of was that it had scared her. She couldn’t face questioning so soon after seeing Gemma killed on it. Why else would an ordinary working girl hang onto it? Different for someone like me, who could put it to good use.
Odd, really, that she’d left it in the car though. Then again, the chances of anyone else stealing it that particular night were a bit unlikely. Maybe that was how she was seeing it. You have to look at things the way other people do. She might not have wanted it inside with her. All the same, she was surprising me. The lights were out. Seemed a bit unlikely that she’d gone to bed. Out in the country, pitch-black outside, the slightest rustling noise easily heard, it was spooky, especially with images of your best friend being killed still fresh in your mind.
