Cutter's Firm Page 5

  ‘When we get to the stage where we’re planning the rooms and fitting them out, will you act as a consultant?’ I ask her.

  ‘With pleasure,’ she says.

  ‘We’ll sort out the details over the next few days, then.’

  ‘Sounds great.’ She looks at her watch. ‘But now, I really must go. I have an appointment with a client.’

  As we stand up and shake hands again I can’t help wondering what that might entail. She turns to Liam and takes his face in her hands. ‘And I’ll be seeing you on Sunday, won’t I, big man?’ she says, pinching his cheeks like he’s a little boy. Then I see something I never expected to see in this lifetime; Liam Bradley blushes. I can’t hide my grin and I wonder what she’ll be doing to him. Something filthy, no doubt. For all her airs and graces, she’s still just a fucking slag.

  14: Jack

  Waking up in my own bed is fantastic, as is putting on normal clothes and deciding for myself what I want to do with my day. Today I decide to go into town and get some Christmas cards and gifts for Mam and Dad. It won’t be anything spectacular, but it’ll be normal, and normal is what I want more than anything right now.

  Mam has already left for work when I get downstairs and Dad is in his usual seat, the top off the first bottle of whisky of the day. I make him a cup of tea and some toast, and he thanks me for them but doesn’t touch them. I take them away again before I leave for town.

  I get there mid-morning, but with only a few days to go before Christmas the place is heaving. After being locked up for so long I enjoy just strolling round the shops, despite the crush.

  At lunchtime I decide to treat myself to something from the little café in The Bridges shopping precinct. The queue is long, but eventually I sit down at a table with a cup of coffee, a sandwich and a doughnut. Like everywhere else, the place is rammed, and I’m not surprised to hear a voice ask if they can share my table. What does surprise me is the identity of the speaker.

  ‘It’s Nat, isn’t it?’ I say as she puts her food down on the table and sits opposite me, and she looks at me properly for the first time.

  ‘Jack? It’s nice to see you. When did you get out? I bet your mam’s glad to have you home for Christmas.’ I see her check out my scars and then drop her eyes; she doesn’t want to stare.

  ‘I just got out a couple of days ago,’ I say, ‘it’s a relief for all of us.’ I pause as I take a drink of tea. ‘We just need to find our Livvy, now, and then the whole family will be back together.’

  She keeps her eyes on her sandwich when I mention Livvy.

  ‘You do remember Livvy, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she says, finally making eye contact. ‘I liked her. I was just as surprised as anybody when she went missing.’

  ‘Have you any idea where she is?’ I ask, and I watch her carefully while she answers me. If there’s one thing detention has taught me, it’s how to spot a liar.

  ‘I don’t, I’m sorry.’ She takes a drink from a can of Coke. ‘I can ask Aimee if she knows anything. Do you remember her?’

  A girl with a narrow face and knowing eyes springs to mind. She was one of the kids from the caravan park, but she ended up living at the safe house with Livvy. I nod.

  ‘I’ll be seeing her over the next couple of days. She spent more time with Livvy than I did so she might have a clue.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, and I scribble my phone number down on the back of the receipt for my lunch and pass it to her. If I’d thought she was fibbing I wouldn’t have bothered, but she seems as if she’s being straight with me. ‘Give me a ring if she knows anything, please.’

  She takes the bit of paper and gets her phone out, then taps the number straight into it. We make small talk while we finish eating, Nat sneaking glances at the scars on my face. Does she know how they got there? If she doesn’t, wouldn’t she ask?

  ‘I’ll ring you,’ she says, when I get up to go.

  ‘Thanks.’ I turn away, then I stop and turn back. ‘Nat …’ I don’t know how much she knows about Cutter, so I’m not sure what to say. She looks at me. ‘Be careful. Might be best not to mention you’ve seen me.’’

  She nods. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be discreet.’

  I leave her in the café and go to buy the odds and ends I want. I’ve got a bit of money, it’s been sitting in my savings account while I’ve been away, but I still need a job, and I want to join a gym as well. It’s not just that I need to be fit in case I bump into Cutter or his goons; it helps with the anger. I think of Wayne Dobbs, what the bastard did to me, and wrath flashes like lightning across my vision. He’s going to get what’s coming to him, I’ll do serious time for it if I have to, but he’s a dead man.

  15: Millie

  I’ve been going through the material Norm gave me about Gordon Cutter. It seems he’s quite a piece of work. As far as I can tell he’s into all sorts: drugs, gambling, prostitution … Norm suspects him of murder as well, although he has no proof. A few years ago a receptionist from the gym he runs vanished off the face of the earth and her mother couldn’t find anything out about what happened to her. Norm had added a note: If there’s one, there’s more. Worth digging into.

  I’m not sure where to start, to be honest. Cutter’s henchman, Tommy, rang me earlier and we’re meeting up for a drink later, so maybe I can get something out of him. There’s the ex-wife as well. I still fancy a word with her.

  I get online and track down an address and a phone number for the ex. The phone’s in my hand, half the number tapped in, when I have a change of heart; the house isn’t so far away, so I decide to take a chance on her being home and go and see her face-to-face. Besides, it’ll give me more time to think about what I’m actually going to say to her, because right now I haven’t got a clue.

  ***

  As I pull up in front of Claire Cutter’s house I’m still not sure what I’m going to say. I’ll think of something, though; I always do. I lock the car and walk up the path.

  Whatever else has happened, it looks like she’s done all right out of Cutter. The house is a good-sized Victorian semi-detached and there’s a new-ish Merc in the drive. It’s a dull day so although the curtains aren’t yet shut there are lights on inside. The interior looks warm and cosy, there’s a tree twinkling in the corner of the room, and jewel colours from the leaded lights splash into the puddles on the path.

  I ring the bell and it isn’t until she opens the door that I decide what tack to take.

  ‘Yes?’ she says and she looks me up and down, just waiting for me to try to sell her something or get money out of her for charity.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, ‘I’m Millie Redman, I work for the North East Times.’

  ‘I already get it delivered,’ she says and she starts to close the door on me.

  ‘No,’ I say quickly, ‘I’m not selling the paper, I’m a reporter.’

  The door reopens, but only by a fraction. ‘And?’ she says, her eyes narrowing.

  ‘I’m doing a feature on people who are missing at Christmas,’ I tell her, busking it. ‘A young woman who worked for your ex-husband at his gym went missing about four years ago and as far as I can tell no one has seen or heard from her since.’ I show her a photograph. ‘This is her, Tracey Scott. Did you know her?’

  ‘I never had anything to do with Gordon’s business interests,’ she says, sounding defensive. ‘You’d be better off asking him.’

  ‘I will,’ I say, ‘thanks.’ I pause. ‘You’ve been divorced a couple of years now, haven’t you? Do you see the kids much?’

  ‘Do I …? What the hell does that have to do with you?’

  I shrug. ‘I just wondered how you were managing. It’s unusual for a mother not to get custody of her children, after all.’

  That struck a chord with her; I see a flash of something … anger? Hatred? It’s not there long enough for me to be sure.

  ‘Gordon wanted custody and he usually gets his own way.’ Her hand flutters involuntarily to her che
ek and I see what looks like a scar under the make-up. I wonder if that was his handiwork, but don’t think this is the time to ask.

  ‘But you don’t remember Tracey?’ I ask again; that is, after all, why I’m supposedly there.

  My question brings her back from wherever she’d drifted off to. ‘No,’ she says, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help,’ and she shuts the door. I walk back to the car.

  Later I head out to meet Tommy. I didn’t want him picking me up – I’m not sure I want him knowing where I live – and I didn’t fancy a night at Gold, so I just arranged to meet him in town. It’s cold and wet and despite common sense telling me it’s a jeans and boots night, I have on a dress and heels. I must be mad.

  I take a taxi into town and on the way over the bridge the driver’s complaining about the lack of business; nobody’s got any money, nobody’s going out, the ones that do aren’t getting cabs like they used to. I take the hint and drop him a decent tip. Sure enough, it’s busy in town, but not as busy as I’d have expected this close to Christmas. Still, there’s a lot of people out there having to watch the pennies at the moment.

  I walk into Green’s and Tommy waves me over to a table he’s bagged in the window.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, as he stands up to greet me. I clock what he’s wearing – both clothes and jewellery – and acknowledge that not everyone is watching the pennies.

  ‘Hi, Millie,’ he says. He nods to a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on the table. ‘Is that okay, or would you prefer something different?’

  For a second I debate asking for a pint of Guinness, just to see how he’d react, but in the end I say, ‘That’s fine,’ then ‘thank you,’ as he pours me a glass of fizz and puts it on the table in front of me.

  ‘You look nice,’ he says as I shrug my coat off.

  ‘Thanks. You do, too. Cheers!’ I tip my glass to him and take a drink.

  We make small talk while we finish the bottle, which doesn’t seem to take as long as it should. I’m going to have to be careful; I don’t mind getting a bit tipsy while I’m out with him, but I don’t want to be drunk. It’s his tongue I want loosened, not mine.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ he asks. ‘Shall I get another bottle, or would you like to go somewhere else?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say, curious as to what he might suggest.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ he asks, and I shake my head. I meant to, but I ran out of time. ‘How about dinner, then?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say. It’s a good idea, some food will help soak up the booze.

  ‘Okay; you wait here five minutes and I’ll go and get the car; I’ll pick you up outside.’

  He’s as good as his word and shortly afterwards I’m sitting in the front passenger seat of his car, heading towards Durham and what he tells me is his favourite restaurant.

  ‘Have you booked?’ I ask him, knowing that this particular restaurant is always busy; the people who eat there aren’t troubled by austerity, they leave that to the hoi polloi.

  ‘No, but we’ll get a table,’ he says, utterly confident. ‘They always keep a couple back for special customers.’

  ‘And you’re one of their special customers?’

  He grins. ‘Don’t act so surprised.’

  Sure enough, when we get there the door is opened for us and the maître d’ is straight over when he sees who it is. ‘Ah, Mr Gunn,’ he says, ‘it is always a pleasure to see you.’

  ‘Hello, William,’ Tommy says.

  William turns his attention to me. ‘And you have a guest,’ he says as he looks me up and down. Evidently I pass muster because he adds, ‘Charming, absolutely charming.’ He whisks our coats away and seats us in the bar area while he magics up a table in the busy restaurant. As I sip my champagne, I’m glad I made the effort to dress up tonight. I doubt I’d have been made quite as welcome here if I had turned out in jeans.

  William is back in no time and he puts our glasses onto a small silver tray and escorts us through the occupied tables to our own, which is in a very good spot; Tommy is clearly a valued patron.

  The food and wine chosen, we sit back with our champagne and I take a look at the crowd. There are faces I recognise, local TV presenters and footballers, plus a singer from the region. A couple of them catch Tommy’s eye and nod or smile. ‘I’m impressed,’ I say.

  ‘That was the general idea,’ he tells me. ‘I don’t bring just anybody here, you know.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose you do, not at these prices.’

  ‘Price isn’t the issue; being seen with good people is the issue,’ he says, and he’s serious.

  I’m saved by the sommelier who turns up with the wine, closely followed by the waiter delivering our starters. ‘Pan-fried scallops with lime and coriander,’ he says, as he puts the plates on the table. The food looks fantastic and it doesn’t disappoint.

  ‘That was amazing,’ I say as I put my knife and fork down. I take a sip of the wine; it’s delicious. ‘Good choice,’ I tell him.

  ‘It’s my favourite,’ he says, ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  The rest of the meal is equally wonderful and Tommy is surprisingly good company, so much so that I forget to pump him for information about Gordon Cutter and just what it is he does for him. Of course, that might turn out to be a good strategy, as if I take my time it might pay off better in the long run.

  At least that’s what I tell myself in the early hours of the morning as I creep quietly out of Tommy’s place so as not to wake him and call for a taxi to take me home.

  16: Cutter

  I’m at the safe house wondering why there’s one less camera than there should be in the bag containing the ones from the caravan park. Were Wayne and Tommy careless about collecting them all? If they left it behind it should be burnt to a crisp, so that shouldn’t be a problem, but if they’ve taken one as an insurance policy, that’s a different matter altogether.

  My mobile goes and it’s her, the ex-wife.

  ‘What do you want?’ I bark. I’m not in the fucking mood.

  ‘When am I getting the kids for Christmas? You said you’d sort things out.’

  ‘And if I said I would, I will, won’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but Gordon—’

  ‘Yes, but Gordon what? You trying to call the shots now?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just—’

  ‘Because you know what happens when you try to call the shots, don’t you?’

  It goes quiet, then I hear, ‘Yes, Gordon.’

  ‘I’ll come round later.’ I end the call. Fucking witch. If it wasn’t for the bairns still being attached to her, she’d be in a dead in a ditch.

  ***

  I let myself in when I get to her house. It’s only right I have keys, I bought it, after all. She’s sitting staring at the telly, nursing a cup of tea. She jumps when I walk into the front room. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I didn’t hear you at the door.’

  ‘You’re not getting the bairns on Christmas Day,’ I tell her. ‘We’ve got plans; I don’t want them upset by you.’

  ‘They’re my kids as well,’ she says, ‘it’s only right they see their mother on Christmas Day.’

  I shake my head. ‘I’m not negotiating here, I’m telling you how it’s going to be. I’ll bring them over for a couple of hours on Christmas Eve and you can have them on Boxing Day, but that’s it.’

  ‘Well at least let them stay over on Boxing Day. You can pick them up the next day, or I can drop them off—’

  ‘You don’t come to my house,’ I say to her. ‘It upsets Sharon.’

  ‘Oh, well we can’t have that, now, can we?’ She jumps to her feet and stands in front of me, chin out. She looks a bit like her old self for a moment. ‘God forbid that slapper should get upset, eh? Never mind that she’s a gold-digging bitch who tore a family apart to get at you and your money!’

  She might be a bit nearer the mark than I’d like to admit with that one, but she’s still not getting away with it. I pull my knife out of my
pocket, flick the blade out. ‘You want the other cheek done to match, keep running your mouth,’ I tell her. She does a canny job with the concealer, but that stripe’s there and we both know it. The threat takes the wind out of her sails and she sits back down. ‘I’ll drop them off on Christmas Eve, about four o’clock.’

  I hear her say, ‘Okay, Gordon,’ just before I slam the door shut behind me.

  17: Jack

  Mam and Dad gave me some money to put towards a computer for Christmas and with my savings, I can get something half decent. I’ll wait until the sales, though; probably get the same thing a hundred quid cheaper if I buy it Boxing Day rather than Christmas Eve. One of the first things I want to do when I get it is see what’s on that camera I took from the caravan. That might be just what I need to get something over on Cutter.

  I’ve chased around a few places looking for work, but no luck as yet. It’s bad enough that I have a record, but then they clock the scars on my face. Naturally no one wants me anywhere near their customers. It’s like they’re scared being the victim of violence is something people can catch.

  That Ian that Mam works with has said he’ll put a word in for me at the supermarket, but I don’t really want to be working at the same place they are. If I’m still struggling in a week or so I’ll have to take him up on it, but I can stall for now by saying I want to get Christmas over and done with first.

  18: Millie

  After talking to Claire Cutter, I decide running a story on the missing receptionist and the little girl who got killed isn’t a bad idea after all. I can play on how it feels not to know where your daughter is at Christmas and speculate on who might be missing the kiddie. It’ll counteract some of the Christmas schmaltz, anyway. I’ve got a homelessness article in the pipeline for New Year, too, so it’ll all make a nice change from Christmas bazaars and am-dram productions. If I want to make the jump from regional to national in the next year or so, I need some stuff like this under my belt. For a moment I wish there could be a murder for me to get my teeth into, then I mentally chastise myself for wishing misery on others just to further my career. Keep up that sort of thinking and I’ll be applying to the Daily Mail for a job.