Cutter's Firm

by Julie Morrigan

  I put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea and we sit watching the telly while Dad snores. If he wasn’t making a racket I’d think he was dead; God knows he looks it, sitting with his head lolling back and his mouth hanging open.

  ‘Did you hear about the accident down the seafront?’ Mam says when the adverts come on.

  ‘No,’ I say, ‘what happened?’

  She picks the paper up off the arm of the settee. ‘Some poor little kiddie got knocked down. Just appeared out of nowhere and ran into the road in front of a lorry. She was killed outright.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ I say, ‘especially this near to Christmas. Her family must be devastated.’

  ‘That’s the funny thing, they don’t know who she is.’

  ‘How come? Somebody must be wondering where their daughter is.’

  ‘Well if they are, they haven’t said anything yet,’ she says. ‘Apparently the lorry driver’s devastated, but it’s not his fault, he couldn’t help but hit her.’ She shows me his picture in the paper and I take it from her and read the article. It’s by some journalist called Millie Redman and she seems to have been pretty thorough. I stop when I see where the accident happened: right by Cutter’s caravan park, now burnt out, and I know he’s involved. I’ll bet the kid’s one of the ones he was exploiting and that’s why the park was torched, to hide the evidence. I think of the little spy camera in the pocket of my hoodie and wonder if there’s anything in it that might shed some light on things. I have no idea how to get at the pictures, but I’ll work it out.

  ‘What are you doing tomorrow, son?’ Mam says, bringing me back to the present.

  ‘No real plans.’ I could do with finding a gym and I need a computer – and a job, for that matter – but I also want to see what I can find out about Cutter, and now this kid and the contents of the camera. I need to get some Christmas presents for the folks, as well.

  ‘Well, you just take your time getting used to being home, son,’ Mam says, and she pats my hand. I see her sneakily wipe away a tear and I feel rotten that I put her through everything I did. Before I can start brooding on it, Dad gives a huge snort and wakes himself up and I laugh and look at Mam, but she’s not laughing, she’s just looking at him with a mixture of sadness, despair and love.

  ‘What’s this new job you’ve got, anyway?’ I ask her, remembering the bloke who drove me home. ‘You said that Ian was your boss. What does he do?’

  ‘I’m still at the supermarket, but they’ve put me on the bakery. Ian’s the baker.’

  I can’t think of anything to say so I just nod, enjoying being home, being with the folks, being free.

  12: Millie

  Back home I kick my shoes off, put the kettle on and make a cup of tea. I put the TV on but mute the sound and take a bit of time to think about what I learned tonight.

  Gold was an odd club, a mix of high-tech and old school. The clientele were the same sort of mix, old and young, which is unusual. I could easily believe that some of the people I saw had been going there for decades.

  The bouncers operate a kind of quality control; no one badly dressed, rough-looking or drunk gets through the door, no exceptions. The result is the place has a slightly upmarket feel to it, more so than many of the other clubs in the area that are full of drunk youngsters on the pull.

  Having said that, there was a spot of bother tonight – a couple of minor reality TV stars acting up, probably hoping they’d get some publicity out of it – but it was handled quickly and quietly. In fact Gordon Cutter himself stepped in to get it sorted, escorted them out the back door without too much of a fuss.

  Now he’s a piece of work. Designer suit, handmade shirt, and a silk tie that probably cost more than my rent. He looks after himself, as well – I saw muscles rippling under all that gear – and he has well-cut hair and Hollywood teeth; his smile must have cost thousands. He’s also loaded – appropriately enough – with gold. Not the chunky identity bracelet and sovereign rings you might expect from a common lad made good, either – he was wearing a quality watch, wedding ring and signet ring, tie pin and cufflinks. Having said that, he’s a real show-off, swaggering about the place like Jack the Lad. He loves himself, really gets off on being the boss and having girls running around after him with glasses of champagne.

  I got a look at what seems to be his crowd. There’s a couple of older blokes, a couple of younger ones, and a gorilla of a man that Cutter spent most of his time talking to. I should be able to work out a bit more if I look into his business empire. I’ve got another potential lead as well: one of the younger blokes, Tommy, asked for my phone number. He’s not a bad-looking lad, but this is strictly business. I need to get whatever information I can out of him without getting involved. I wonder what the chances are of keeping it from him that I work for the local paper and reckon I’m on a hiding to nothing with that; my face and name are in the paper every day. Still, it’s not like I’m John Pilger, not yet, so we’ll see where it all leads.

  I’m curious about Cutter’s ex-wife. He didn’t have the current wife at the club and she’s probably worth checking out as well. Maybe she’s at home with the kids, maybe there’s trouble in paradise. There was a wedding picture in the archive and she just looked like a bog-standard bimbo, white-blonde hair and orange skin, but there might be more to her.

  I stifle a yawn and decide it’s time for bed. I’ll get down in the basement tomorrow and see what I can turn up from the stuff there. There’s a story here, I can smell it. I just need to get to the bottom of it.

  ***

  The alarm clock goes off far too early, but I drag myself out of bed, make coffee and try to wake up. At work I check my diary; unless something crops up that I need to get out and cover, once I’ve written up my review of the am-dram production I have the day free. By quarter to eleven I’m heading down to the basement to see if there’s anything there about Cutter.

  I get to the bottom of the stairs and walk over to the desk situated in the far right hand corner of the huge open-plan area. ‘Hi, Norm,’ I call, and I put a mug of coffee and a Greggs bag down on the desk and wait.

  Sure enough, just a few moments later I hear shuffling and Norman Collins pops out from between the racks.

  Norm’s an odd creature, tall and crooked, his spine crumbling thanks to some relentless degenerative disease. His eyes look huge behind his oversized glasses, but even though his specs cover part of his face, they can’t conceal the scar on his cheek.

  ‘Hello, Millie,’ he says, ‘how are you today?’

  ‘Tired; I had a late night.’

  ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘all in a good cause, I hope?’

  I nod. ‘Checking someone out for a story. I think I’m on to something.’

  ‘What’s it all about? Can I help?’

  ‘I hope so, Norm; that’s why I’m here, anyway.’ I nod at the desk. ‘I brought you some coffee and a wee treat.’

  ‘Bless your heart, you’re a good soul.’ He peeks into the bag. ‘A custard slice, my favourite.’

  I smile; I know.

  ‘Thanks.’ He takes a sip of the coffee, then slides it and the bag with the cake in it to the side of the desk. ‘Now then, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you familiar with a local businessman called Gordon Cutter?’

  For a split second he freezes, then he says, ‘Yes, I know him.’ His eyes narrow and his mouth becomes a thin line.

  ‘I’m guessing you don’t think too highly of him?’

  ‘You’re guessing right. He’s filth, absolute filth. Some of the things he’s involved in …’

  Norm lets it hang.

  ‘Do we have anything on him down here?’ I ask. ‘Old stories, notebooks, anything like that?’

  ‘I might be about to make your day,’ Norm says, and he swivels in his chair to face a rack of shelves behind his desk. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, then he slides a box file out from its fellows and lifts it onto the desk, his movements slow due to his damaged
spine. ‘You know how I try to be prepared in case the paper needs to get on to something in a hurry?’

  I nod. Norm is a legend; not only does he know what every damn piece of paper in the archive relates to and where it can be found, he was an investigative journalist himself somewhere back in the mists of time. He was dogged, relentless and fearless; he won awards for his work. He also has a nose for what’s going to be needed and when, and starts gathering together information and even writing up things like obituaries and background notes in advance.

  ‘Well, I’ve always reckoned one day there’d be the need for a big story on Gordon Cutter, so I’ve been gathering facts and snippets of information for years.’ He looks at me, his hand on the top of the box file. I’m practically salivating, I can’t wait to see what’s in there. And if Norm’s antennae have been twitching over Cutter, I’m definitely on to something. ‘There’s a story in here, Millie,’ he says, ‘and it’s a big one. I’d stake my life on it.’ He pushes the file over the desk to me. ‘Do it justice and keep me posted. And be careful, do you hear? He’s a dangerous man, Gordon Cutter. Vicious.’

  ‘I will, I promise, on all counts.’ I stand up and lift the file from the desk. ‘Thank you. You’ve saved me hours of work.’

  He nods and reaches for his coffee and cake, and I leave him there in his basement, hunched over the desk, and head back upstairs.

  13: Cutter

  Next morning she’s still batting her gums as I leave the house and jump in the motor next to Tommy. You’re never here, where were you last night, who were you with, what about Christmas, on and on and on.

  Tommy drops us off at the club. Nat, the bookkeeper, is already there and I call her into the office. ‘I want to buy a house,’ I say. I tell her what it’ll cost and that it’ll probably take the same again to do it up. Before I can say any more the solicitor, Paulson, turns up.

  ‘Mr Cutter,’ he says, shaking my hand, ‘good to see you again.’ He takes off his overcoat and Nat takes it from him and hangs it up. ‘Thank you, Natalie,’ he says, and he sits down, putting his briefcase on the floor beside him. I sit in the big swivel chair behind my desk.

  Nat sorts out coffee for the three of us and takes the seat next to Paulson, and we get down to business.

  ‘The reason I wanted you both here today is that I’m buying a property. James,’ I nod to the brief, ‘I want you and Nat to liaise and get everything sorted.’ I slide the house details I got from the estate agent over the desk to him and they both sit forward to take a look at it.

  ‘That looks like a nice house, Mr Cutter,’ Nat says.

  ‘It is,’ I tell her, ‘and I’m getting it at a good price. It’s a sound investment.’

  ‘You’ve got a nose for such things,’ says Paulson, and I think I can detect a hint of jealousy in his voice. ‘That’s a very good-looking property.’ He spots the figure I scrawled in the top right hand corner of the sheet and his eyes widen slightly. ‘Very nice,’ he says.

  ‘What’s it for?’ Nat asks.

  ‘What do you mean, what’s it for?’

  ‘Well, depending on what you want to use the house for, there are different loan options, and possibly grants we can access towards the cost of refurbishment.’

  ‘I’m going to use it for business meetings and conferences. It’ll need a lot of work doing to get it up to scratch.’ I look at Nat. ‘Tommy’s handling the refurb,’ I tell her. ‘He’ll be talking to you about it once the sale goes through and he has a chance to make some plans. You and him need to pull costings together and we’ll sort out a budget, okay?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Cutter,’ she says, and I know the job’s in safe hands. Don’t get us wrong, I trust Tommy, but she’s as straight as a die and watches every penny of mine like it was her own. She’ll keep on top of things and make sure the expenses don’t run away.

  Once the main business is concluded we settle up the last of the bits and bobs and then Nat goes into her office and I take the brief out for lunch. I’ve got a couple of hours before the next meeting; Liam’s contact, the dominatrix, is coming in to talk to us about the ideas I have for the house. I’m not sure what to expect, but she needn’t think she’s going to get away with any funny business with me. She’s still nothing but a fucking sex worker, still spends day and night tugging off filthy old men for cash, and she’d better not get any ideas above her fucking station. I’m the boss and that’s final.

  We’re in the restaurant when I get a phone call from Wayne; Gus in Hartlepool is taking the chickens off our hands. He’s coming down with a minibus this evening so they’ll be gone before Christmas. I tell him, ‘Nice work,’ and end the call.

  ‘Good news?’ says Paulson.

  ‘Just a troublesome bit of business brought to a satisfactory conclusion,’ I tell him. He knows just as much as he needs to about my business. He doesn’t know the ins and outs and he has the good sense not to dig. His love of money is such that he accepts any old flannel I tell him at face value. He’s just about on the right side of bent.

  I’m back at the club in time for the meeting. Liam and Tommy are there, and Wayne’s at the safe house sorting things out ready for Gus and his minibus. The girl’s getting the chickens washed and dressed in some new clobber so they look a bit less feral and since Gus’ll want them quiet on the road, Doc’s on hand to administer a little chemical calming-down juice. He’ll need to tell Gus what they’re on and in what doses as well; Gus won’t want to go killing off his new pets by accidentally dosing them up too much.

  We’re sitting in the VIP area drinking champagne when the door opens and the bar manager shows in one of the tallest women I’ve ever seen. We get up to greet her and she’s easily my height, which makes her over six foot.

  I take a look at her while she’s kissing Liam on both cheeks and she’s quite a fucking sight. Her hair’s red – not ginger, scarlet – and she’s got some sort of contact lenses in that make her eyes look black. The long, spiky false eyelashes and the eyeliner match the eyes, and the lips match the hair. When I check out her footwear I realise her height is down to the skyscraper heels on her boots. How the hell she walks in them I have no idea, I’ve never seen anything like them in my life. They’re black thigh-high patent leather, laces up the outside and zips up the inside, and the heels are made from stacked silver skulls. As for the rest of her, she’s wearing jeans tucked into the boots, a black leather bike jacket and a red-and-black skull-patterned scarf.

  ‘Mr Cutter, this is Lady Pain,’ Liam says. ‘Lady, Mr Cutter.’

  She shakes my hand and she’s got quite a grip. She’s not trying to get one over or anything, either, she’s just strong. Must be from giving all those handjobs. ‘Hello, Mr Cutter,’ she says and I detect a faint Welsh accent.

  I nod. ‘Lady.’ Fucking Lady Pain … silly cow.

  ‘Oh, please, call me Delwyn,’ she says, ‘in fact better yet, call me Del.’

  I can’t deny that sounds better. Less like it was made up to try and intimidate tossers by somebody who smacks arses for a living. ‘Okay,’ I say, then I look at Tommy. ‘And this is Mr Gunn.’

  She shakes hands with Tommy then we all sit at the table. Her make-up is immaculate, hair and fingernails perfect. Weird black eyes aside, she’s an absolute picture, very smart for a tart.

  ‘Champagne?’ asks Tommy and she shakes her head.

  ‘Not for me, thanks.’

  ‘Can I get you something else?’ he asks, eager to please.

  ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, and he goes off to find the bar manager to get it organised.

  We make small talk until she’s sorted with her cup of tea, then get down to business.

  ‘So, Del,’ I say, ‘Liam tells me you can advise us as to how best to serve the …’ I come to a stop, not knowing quite how to continue.

  ‘Kinky market?’ she says. She takes a sip of her tea. ‘Oh, that’s better. I needed that.’ She puts the cup down then rummages in he
r oversized handbag and brings out an A4 envelope, out of which she slides some papers. ‘Now then,’ she says, spreading the pages across the table, ‘obviously these aren’t actual plans because I don’t know how much space you’ve got or how it’s laid out, but they will give you an idea of the kinds of things you could incorporate.’

  I take a look at what she’s sketched out and I’m quite impressed; she’s given it a bit of thought.

  ‘This is the dungeon area,’ she says, pointing to the chart. ‘I’ve suggested two cells, but if you’ve space you could have more. You might want a wet room for golden showers. If you want to cater for infantilists, that’s adults who like to dress and act as babies, you could have a nursery; I’d suggest a changing room, a sleeping area and a playroom. Other than that, maybe some bedrooms for general use, and a sitting room.’

  ‘What would you classify as general use?’ I ask.

  ‘Spanking, wanking, penetration of various sorts.’ She shrugs. ‘The usual.’

  She should know, she’s probably choked more cocks than Colonel Sanders.

  ‘Are there many similar enterprises in the area?’ Tommy asks.

  She nods. ‘Quite a few, plus freelancers like me. There are DIY places where people can rent a dungeon and try things out together, too.’

  ‘Is the market big enough for us as well?’ I ask. I want to keep an exclusive clientele, but I need enough of them to make it pay.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says, ‘definitely. There’s quite an appetite for kink. Some of it’s down to Fifty Shades, some of it’s just people being people. A lot of us find a diet of nothing but plain vanilla pretty unsatisfying.’

  ‘What about staff?’ Liam asks.

  ‘I can help you find the right people, if you like,’ she says.

  We chat for a while longer and it’s clear she knows what she’s talking about, even though she has to explain some of it to us. She’s well informed and down to earth, very practical in her approach. I’m starting to like her.