Cutter's Firm Page 6

  I run the idea for the feature past the boss and he’s keen on it, so I make a few calls and fix up a meeting with Mrs Scott, the mother of the missing receptionist. I ring my police contact and he tells me there’s still no word on the identity of the little girl; no one even knows her name, and that troubles me more than I can say. What the hell’s wrong with us as a society – Christ, as a species – if we’re so careless with our children that they can be so completely lost to their families?

  Mid-afternoon I’m rapping on the door of a council house, one of the few on the estate that hasn’t been bought by the owner. It’s always dead easy to spot the ones that have been; the first thing they do is change the windows and stick a porch on the front.

  ‘Mrs Scott?’ I say when the door is opened to me. ‘I’m Millie Redman, we spoke earlier.’

  She steps back to let me pass through the little lobby into a cosy sitting room. ‘Come on in and sit yourself down,’ she says, and she takes a seat herself.

  As I take my coat off and get my digital recorder and notebook out, ready for the interview, she picks up a remote control and turns down the sound on the TV, which is showing a rerun of an old Morecambe and Wise Christmas special.

  ‘They stand the test of time, don’t they?’ I say, looking at the screen and seeing a young Glenda Jackson dancing with Eric and Ernie.

  ‘They’re Tracey’s favourites, although of course when they were first on it was before she was born. We watch them every Christmas.’

  She sits and stares at the screen, the sound a mere whisper, her eyes brimming with tears. I feel like I’m intruding and I don’t break the silence.

  After a minute or so Mrs Scott takes a tissue from a box on the floor by her chair and dabs at her eyes. ‘I miss her every day,’ she says, ‘but it’s worse somehow at this time of year.’

  I notice she speaks about her daughter in the present tense, even though realistically the chances of Tracey being alive are pretty slim. I make a mental note to do the same.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’

  ‘It’ll be five years ago next May. She got up and went to work as normal but she never came home.’

  ‘What was she like before she disappeared?’

  Mrs Scott turns away from the screen to face me. ‘She was happy. She had a new boyfriend, a lad called Jeff, and she was doing well at work. She said she’d got a pay rise. She bought a load of new clothes and her and Jeff were planning a holiday. She was dead excited about it.’

  ‘Did she live here with you?’

  ‘Yes. She stayed at Jeff’s sometimes, but she still lived at home.’ She puts the remote down. ‘Do you want to see her room?’

  ‘Yes, please, if it’s not too much of an imposition.’

  She stands up and heads for the stairs, which run straight up from the front door. Upstairs there are three bedrooms and she opens the first door. ‘This is Tracey’s room. It’s just as she left it.’

  Mrs Scott stays in the doorway and I move further into the bedroom. The room is spick and span and looks lived in. It could have been just this morning that Tracey Scott left to go to work. Her perfume and moisturiser are on the dressing table, hair straighteners on the floor. There are bags from River Island and Next beside the chest of drawers and I reckon those are her new holiday clothes. I want to look, but it would be too intrusive; they’re the sort of things Tracey should be here to take out and show to her mam, try on for her boyfriend, not have rummaged through by a reporter from the local paper. I spot a framed photograph on the bedside cabinet, alongside a copy of The Da Vinci Code with a bookmark about a third of the way in, and move over to take a look.

  ‘That’s Jeff,’ Mrs Scott tells me, ‘our Tracey’s boyfriend.’

  ‘Does he keep in touch?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He vanished at the same time. That’s why the police reckon they ran away together.’

  My antennae are twitching now. ‘Where did Jeff work?’

  ‘I’m not sure. He was an accountant, that’s all I know.’

  ‘Do you know his surname?’

  ‘I think it was White; maybe Wright. I only met him a handful of times and I never used his surname, he was just Jeff. Yorkshire lad, from his accent.’

  ‘Do you mind if I take a copy of this?’ I ask and she shakes her head. I snap the picture on my phone; it looks like I need to try to track down Jeff at some point, too.

  Back at the office later I think about what I’ve learned. The whole thing about Tracey Scott and Jeff, whatever his name is, is very odd. Why was there no search? I barely remember hearing about Tracey going missing at the time, and I certainly don’t remember ever hearing Jeff’s name mentioned.

  I type up my copy for the story I’d planned doing and mention Jeff in the section on Tracey. Norm’s on holiday now until next year, but as soon as he’s back I’ll be trotting down the steps to the basement with a coffee and a custard slice and talking this all through with him, see if he’s got any ideas.

  I’m on holiday myself from tomorrow; I’m heading up to my parents’ house in Northumberland to spend Christmas with them and my younger sister. I’ll be taking the Cutter file with me, though; it’s an opportunity to read through everything Norm’s collected and do a bit of online research, see if there are any dots crying out to be connected.

  Meanwhile I’m seeing Tommy tonight. It’s the last time before Christmas, so I’ve got him a little present. I’m not doing very well at keeping him at arm’s length and just using him as a source of information, to be honest. Fact is, I didn’t expect him to be such good company.

  19: Cutter

  I get home early evening to see the bairns before they go to bed and the wife’s face is tripping her up, which is par for the course these days. I don’t know what the fuck’s the matter with her; she wants for nothing, she doesn’t have to work, her life’s her own apart from what she does for the bairns, and she’s still not happy. Not that being unhappy keeps her out of the hairdressers or the shops, mind, and she must single-handedly keep the tanning shop going. On a bad day, she looks like a fucking depressed Oompa Loompa.

  When I get downstairs after tucking the kids in she’s waiting to pounce. She’s got a glass of wine and she’s poured me a whisky and she wants to talk, God help us.

  ‘Look at this, Gordon,’ she says, waving the local rag in my general direction. ‘It’s so sad. A little girl got killed the other day and nobody knows who she is. Nobody’s missed her. Isn’t that sad?’

  ‘Tragic,’ I say.

  ‘And there’s another woman whose daughter and her boyfriend went missing years ago and they’ve never been found. Did you know her? She used to work at your gym.’

  That gets my attention. ‘Give that here,’ I say, and she hands the paper over. I flick through and find the article she’s on about; sure enough some reporter has written about the chicken who got squashed the other day and has also managed to link that story to a receptionist and a bookkeeper that used to work for me. I should bloody well think they are still missing, the thieving bastards, just like I can confidently predict they’ll never be found. They’re stone dead, the pair of them. He’s encased in concrete on a building site and she’s at the bottom of the River Wear.

  There’s a picture of the reporter next to the article, some lass with dark curly hair. How has she managed to connect them, though? Is it a coincidence, just two local stories that seem to fit together? Or is she digging? I clock the name – Millie Redman – and decide I need to know a bit more about her.

  ‘I think we should have a baby, Gordon.’

  ‘What?’ That one comes out of left field.

  ‘We should have a baby. A little brother or sister for Maria and Andrew.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not? They’d love a baby in the house. Maria says–’

  ‘Have you been talking to them about this?’

  ‘I just wanted to check they wouldn’t feel threatened by it. T
hey’d love a little brother or sister, they both said so.’ She cosies up to me. ‘We could make a start now, if you like.’ She starts doing that thing I like, but I know she’s just trying to get me to knock her up. It’s an insurance policy; birds are always the same. As things stand, if I dump her she gets very little and it’s a clean break. If she’s got a bairn or two, though, she has to be looked after and I’ll never be shot of her.

  ‘Leave it out,’ I tell her, and I bat her away from me.

  ‘What’s the matter? You used to love that.’ The bottom lip starts to wobble. ‘You used to love me, but I don’t think you do any more.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ I say, just to stop the bubbling, ‘but I’ve got to go to work.’

  ‘Will you think about it, though?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The baby. Will you think about having a baby?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ Of course I won’t. It’s a fucking ridiculous idea.

  ‘Will you come home earlier tonight?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘I’d love a night out. Can I come to Gold with you, Boxing Day night, maybe?’

  ‘You’ll be at the New Year’s Eve party.’ I’ve got a big bash planned, show off a bit to some of the other firms and the local bigwigs. There’ll be names and faces there from around the region; it’s going to be massive. ‘Make sure you get something nice to wear. Treat yourself.’ Like she doesn’t do that every day of the bloody week as it is. Most of her clothes came from George at Asda before she met me; now everything has to have a label and she trots off to Manchester or Edinburgh with her sister every few months and comes back laden down with gear. Half of it never gets worn; there’s bags in the dressing room with the clothes still in them, tags still attached. It’s like a fucking addiction.

  ‘All right, Gordon.’ She brightens up a bit. ‘And we’ll have a lovely Christmas, eh? Lots of nice presents.’

  ‘Yes, dear.’ I get up and grab my car keys. ‘I’ll see you later.’

  An hour later Big Liam and I have got the pink-haired waitress from the club out of her body suit and we’re doing her from both ends. For a skinny lass she can take some punishment; it’s the smell of money, though, they’re all the same, they’ll do anything for a shot at a platinum card with somebody else picking up the tab.

  Back home in the early hours I’m sitting with a glass of whisky, thinking back over the day’s events. I went to the caravan park after I saw the ex-wife, but there was no sign of that camera. Could I have counted wrong? I don’t think so, but I’ll check the bag in the safe again tomorrow. Hopefully it just burned away to nothing.

  I’ll have to decide what to do with the Oompa Loompa; it’s not that I’m averse to having more kids, I love the little buggers upstairs. It’s good to pass on your genes and I’ll need them to take on the businesses at some point. But do I want them with her, that’s the thing.

  I pick up the paper, still open at the article that got her started, and look at the reporter’s face again. I can’t help feeling there’s something familiar about it, but I’m damned if I can remember where it is I’ve seen her. Then the penny drops; it’s the bird whose phone number Tommy was so pleased to have got the other night.

  20: Jack

  Christmas Day was less hellish than I was expecting. It’s great to be home and to be eating Mam’s cooking rather than the stuff in the YOI, but there was no escaping that there was someone missing at the dinner table. Mam set a place for Livvy and that was both a comfort and a torment. I kept expecting her to shout through from the kitchen that she was making the gravy or that the pudding was ready to come through.

  In between Christmas and New Year I get a call from Nat; she’s managed to have a word with Aimee and she wants to meet up. I arrange to meet her in R Bar at six o’clock.

  It’s not too busy when I get there, so I grab a table and give her a wave when I see her coming in. ‘What are you drinking?’ I ask.

  ‘Wine and soda, please,’ she says, and I head off to the bar while she takes her coat off and sits down. I’m soon back with her wine and soda and a Coke for me. I don’t drink and I have no plans to. I’ve seen what it can do to people, and while Mam has the odd drink and is okay, I’m worried I have the same weakness that Dad and Livvy have.

  ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?’ she asks.

  ‘It was okay,’ I say. ‘Nice to be home. How about you?’

  ‘The usual; family, presents, too much food.’ She looks up and gives me a quick smile then drops her eyes to the table again. I realise she doesn’t want to tell me what she’s found out.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘you spoke to Aimee.’ I don’t like Aimee, she’s a horror. She was at the caravan park when those parties were going on and she was at the house with Livvy; she knew what was happening and she didn’t care.

  ‘Yes,’ Nat says. ‘I asked her if she knew anything about what happened with Livvy.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Yes.’ She takes a sip of her drink and it takes all I’ve got not to shout ‘Tell me!’ at her.

  ‘Aimee says that Livvy—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jack, Livvy killed herself. She got a gun and she shot herself.’

  I’m stunned into silence. Whatever I was expecting to hear, it wasn’t that. ‘No,’ I say after what seems like an age. ‘No. She wouldn’t do that. Besides, where would Livvy get a gun? She wouldn’t know how to use one …’

  ‘Mr Cutter has guns. He keeps them locked up. Apparently Livvy knew where they were and knew enough about them to be able to fire one.’

  My mind is whirling. ‘But why wouldn’t they just ring 999 if she hurt herself?’

  ‘Aimee says she was beyond help. They cleaned up; they didn’t want any trouble.’

  ‘What did they do with Livvy? With her body?’ My hands are shaking and my voice is none too steady. I’m a hair’s breadth from tears.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘Jack, there’s more.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Mr Cutter was running a paedophile ring out of the caravan park. Aimee’s cousin was one of the kids involved. So was Aimee, when she was younger.’

  ‘I know. I saw her at a party there one time.’

  ‘You know?’

  I nod. ‘You wouldn’t believe who was there. I wanted to stop it, but the police are in on it, you can’t touch him for it.’

  ‘That’s what Aimee said.’ She wrings her hands together. ‘I knew nothing about any of this.’

  ‘How could you not? You’re right at the heart of his business, he trusts you.’

  ‘Apparently not as much as I thought he did. I know about the legitimate businesses and I knew there was a bit of dealing going on around the arcade, but I didn’t know about any of this.’

  ‘How come Aimee’s told you all this now then?’

  ‘After that little girl got knocked down, she heard Mr Cutter say he just wanted rid of the children and that he’d kill them if he had to. In the end he sold them to a man in Hartlepool. She’s worried for her cousin.’

  ‘She knew what was being done to her cousin and she didn’t care. What’s different now?’

  ‘You have to remember she’s been abused, too. She’s not thinking straight. She reckoned as long as she knew where her cousin was, she could keep an eye on him, and help him move into a better job when he was older, same as she’d done. Now she has no idea where he is, what conditions he’s living in or who’s doing what to him.’

  ‘That’s messed up.’

  Nat nods and then the full horror of what happened to Livvy hits me. My sister, so desperate to escape from Cutter that she shot herself. How could it happen? It’s not real. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say to Nat, ‘I have to go,’ and I leg it out of there, over the road and down onto the beach where it’s dark and quiet, and there’s nothing to hear except for the waves crashing in and me howling out
the grief I feel for Livvy. When I get control again I make a promise: I failed her in life; I’m damned if I’ll fail her in death. I’ll find out where she is and bring her home for a proper burial, and somehow I’ll see justice done.

  21: Millie

  It’s two days before New Year’s Eve and I’m driving back to my place from my parents’ house. Over Christmas I went through every last scrap of paper in the Cutter file, both the clippings and factual stuff, filled out with my own research and the speculative notes that Norm had made. It all paints a very scary picture, respectable on the surface but deeply corrupt beneath.

  Tommy and I kept in touch, but I can’t help but wonder just how deep he’s in this business with Gordon Cutter. It’s inconceivable that he knows nothing, but does he have the full picture? How mixed up in it all is he? I shake my head to clear it. The whole point of getting close to him was to find out what he knew; I should never have got this involved. I know that as much as I might not want to on one level, when I see him next I have to put an end to this. It’s too dangerous. Cutter’s very likely a killer and that means Tommy might be, too, or at least an accessory. I touch the chain around my neck – an unexpected Christmas present from Tommy that I haven’t taken off since he fastened it there last time I saw him – and curse my own stupidity. I have got to end this.

  The drive home only takes a couple of hours and I’m there by three o’clock; there’s still light in the sky, although it’ll soon be pitch black – or as near to it as it gets in town, anyway. I’d forgotten just how many more stars I could see in Northumberland until I was back there.

  I get out of the car and stretch, then get my bags and go inside. I put everything down in the hall and shiver. A few days with no heating on and my place is as cold inside as it is outside. I head to the kitchen to put the kettle and the heating on. When I get there, I stop in disbelief. The reason it’s so cold is that the back door is open, the lock hanging off where it’s been kicked in. Also, there’s stuff all over the floor. Drawers and cupboards have been emptied, packets split open, crockery broken; the place is a mess. I go into the sitting room and it’s the same there. Furniture has been ripped and books pulled from shelves; there are things strewn all over the place. Upstairs it’s the same story; my place has been well and truly turned over while I’ve been away.