The moon was in its last quarter and the stars were as bright as he’d ever seen them. There were some dark clouds shouldering in from the east but for the moment they were unloading over Lover’s Wood. It wouldn’t be long before they reached the office. Cole turned from the window to face the silent incident room. The midnight oil had run out, the long unnecessary paperwork in duplicate and triplicate completed.
Anian placed a coffee on his desk.
“You’re going to have people talking.”
“We’re the only ones left, apart from the front desk. Sad people, aren’t we?”
He tasted the bitter coffee and pulled a face then said, “You should be at Hinckley or on sick leave. I’m surprised the North Mid let you out so soon.”
“Unless you’re dying you’re kicked out at Christmas, you know that Guv. I’m all right, honest. Even the counsellor agreed, said it was the best thing for me.”
“For God’s sake, Anian, you weren’t keen to come here when you were needed and now we can’t get rid of you.”
“Hinckley’s on holiday. There’s a notice on the door saying that in an emergency contact the Sheerham desk.”
“Is this an emergency?”
She held his gaze for an instant too long.
“You should be at home putting out mince pies and hanging up your stocking.”
“I don’t wear stockings. I thought you might have noticed.”
His smile was unexpected and warm and his blue eyes caught the overhead and sparked. “Well, this is an emergency, Guv. You can tell me to go if you like.”
He said eventually, “I was just off to the boozer. I don’t suppose you’d fancy a pint?” She gave him a little cat’s grin. “I was hoping you were going to say that. I don’t want to be alone tonight. It’s Christmas Eve and my flatmates have pulled duty.”
“Nurses, who’d have them? Their shifts are even worse than ours.”
“They drew straws and got New Year’s Eve. It’s always one or the other. Now Geoff’s gone I was wondering if I could use your spare room, or even the sofa?”
His pause seemed to go on forever before he said, “It’s probably not a good idea.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “You’re probably right.”
“On the other hand, if you know how to cook a turkey…”
A sudden smile lit her face. “You’ve actually got a turkey?”
“Well, not at the moment, but there are people will open a shop for me at any time day or night.” “You’d have to get the trimmings too. Brussels sprouts and Christmas pudding and pigs in blankets and crackers and…chestnut stuffing -”
He was about to respond with a Rick Cole line that was as good as you’d get on a dark December night when a case had been put to bed and a Teacher’s beckoned with its promise of fool’s gold, when a distant rumble had him turning back to the window. It took him a few moments to realize it was another bomb.
He shook his head and in almost a whisper said, “I wish I knew who was doing that.” “Kids,” she responded. “You’d think they’d have something better to do on Christmas Eve, wouldn’t you?”
He considered telling her about the house that had been demolished and the two accidental deaths that had been reclassified as murder but decided it could wait for another time. “Come on,” he said instead.
“Get your coat.”
From outside came the sounds of shouts and car horns and distant sirens and, above them all, a lone drunken voice: “Happy Christmas everyone! Have yourselves a very happy Christmas!”
Deleted Scene with director’s commentary
Deleted scene: Director’s commentary.
“Hello, I’m Julian Foster Grant. I don’t normally do these director’s cuts because I think my movies are brilliant to start with. All these director’s cuts are doing is putting hardearned money into the pockets of distributors and studios.
Now what you’re doing is giving more money to the fuckers who didn’t want you to see my original version in the first place. Or, even if they did, they realize that by picking up some shit from the cutting-room floor they can sell it to you again.
(Whisper off camera)
That was a joke, right? Ha, ha, ha. That wasn’t true.
Anyway, I thought Jude and Nicole were brilliant in this and, er, I was really sorry to have to lose it. Unfortunately it held back the, er, er…
(Whisper off camera)
…pace, that’s it. What I was trying to do, was explore the, er, er…
(another whisper off camera)
…fundamental differences, about passion, which there weren’t any and that’s why we had to cut it. (another whisper)
About, er, you know, that passion doesn’t, er, you know, as you get older, that it’s the same for the old gits as it is for the young people. It’s just that the old gits can’t do anything about it. And I think that really comes through. Like I said, I thought Madge was excellent… Sorry, didn’t I say that? Anyway, I was really sorry that she ended up, er, ended, er, on the cutting room floor. So was she. In this scene, right, as we enter the supermarket, Robot City, the camera swoops over the rows of tins of Heinz Beans and Batchelors Peas and Princes Tuna
Steaks and the lighting picks up Del Monte Fruit Cocktails and double cream and all the cheeses and then slowly we track up to the lingerie section with the models. I mean, we built this big dipper near enough, so the camera would go up and down and over the rows of food, mile after mile of the stuff, pizzas and puddings, blancmanges and curries, Bakewell tarts and macaroons and then…then we come to the models in the bras and knickers and suspenders, the women’s underwear section. See? See the point? (another whisper)
Well the point is…that if you ate all that fucking food you wouldn’t be able to get into any of the fucking knickers. Anyway, that scene was my homage, if you like, to Michael Winner who used a similar take in Death Wish Two…
(whisper)
Sorry, wrong film, wrong director. It was Antonioni’s La Notte. You’ll notice the close-ups. Wink, wink, yeah. In the trade we call them Sergio Leones. I want a Sergio Leone I’d say, and everyone would know exactly what I meant. See what I mean? That’s movie-maker’s speak, like, you know? Anyway, like I said, er, Madge was brilliant as the dummy. My mate Quentin suggested some sixties music over the scene but I said no, no, sixties music was overrated, just like your films. What I wanted was an Ennio Morricone score as we swept over the rows of cans and chocolates and cakes. This scene takes place shortly after Mr Lawrence discovers the dummies in his shop window. See what you fink. Er, er, that’s it.
(Off camera)
Fuck that for a living. Don’t ask me to do that again. Yeah?
Deleted Scene.
Saturday. Early. A time for nurses and milkmen and baker s and insomniacs when the rest of the world was asleep, when Friday night and no alarm clock in the morning had got the better of the rest, an ethereal time when silly thoughts took on immense profundity and last night’s problems were less severe. For the plods the long night was drawing to its close. They’d dozed in their secret places, of course, but it wasn’t the same.
First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason had started his shift the previous evening, showing a presence to the local teenagers. He was twenty-two. He’d left college with A-levels, passed the interviews, the physical and psychometric tests, and joined the force in August, the month that produced the worst crime figures. The schools were shut for their summer holidays during August but the experts will tell you that this is just a coincidence. Other experts will tell you that the hot weather is to blame. Members of the general public, less expert in such matters, would wonder why the yob culture had not spread to the countries where the sun shone relentlessly. The experts would tell you that it had nothing to do with the fact that in those countries the prisons were such that even prison visitors did not want to visit. PC Thomason faced a two-year probationary period, combining classroom studies in law and procedure with on-the-job training.
He’d been at Sheerham a week but it seemed longer. It seemed like a lifetime. He worked under the guidance of an experienced officer, sometimes a sergeant, more often than not a PC father figure. But last night he’d been let loose for the serious crime was drawing all the manpower. So he’d been plodding, waiting for calls, showing some uniform. He’d dealt with someone’s scratched car and moved on a bunch of kids using a shop window as goalposts. But for him the night had died young. Perhaps they had forgotten he was out there.
Dawn was fading in and he was looking forward to a healthy copper’s breakfast of bacon, eggs, sausage, black pudding and fried bread, when the shout came through.
The operator said wearily, “A disturbance at Robot City, you should be close.”
He responded, “Just round the corner.”
“CB1 is on the way. There will be flashing lights and a loud siren. For your information, just in case you’re a career copper, the lights and siren are known in the trade as blues and twos.
Try not to miss them.”
It was far too early for sarcasm and it flew unnoticed over Thomason’s head.
First Year Probationer Simon Thomason arrived before CB1 and the supermarket manager, Mr David Solomon, collared him at the door.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” the manager said, tapping his Disney watch and straightening his Mickey Mouse tie. He carried a walkie-talkie to let everyone know how important he was.
Flustered, the first year probationer said, “Sorry, I was round the corner.”
“For what do we pay our rates? For law and order. If I were late the shop wouldn’t open, then what? Pensioners would go hungry, women would have nothing to do, nowhere for them to bring their disgusting sticky-fingered children to leave their sticky fingerprints all over the stock. My stock!”
Mr Solomon tugged at Thomason’s arm and all but manhandled him through the revolving door. Breathlessly he explained, “One of the models has gone missing.”
The probationer narrowed his eyes and asked, “Is she pregnant?”
The manager paused and threw him a strange look then rushed ahead, a thin short streak of black flapping jacket and baggy pinstripe trousers. l. It was here that Mr Solomon was waiting impatiently for him and where other members of staff in their green Robot City uniforms stood in small groups to watch, their expressions dark and serious. This was obviously a serious business.
The probationer asked reluctantly, “Can we have the name of the missing…?”
“Name?”
“Yes Sir?”
The manager shook his head and pointed to an empty stand between the shelves of flimsy bras and pants. Thomason made an O with his lips and left them open.
Eventually he composed himself and uttered, “A model, a mannequin, a dummy. I see.” He took out his notebook. “When did you notice its absence, Sir?”
“This morning. An hour ago.”
“Is there another one that I can see, Sir?”
Solomon looked horrified. “Each one is unique. That is what this boutique is famous for. Individual styles that are affordable.”
“And this one, the one that is missing, what did it look like? Was it a full figure like that?” He pointed to another dummy at the end of the row. “Or just the bust, like this?” His pointing finger moved to the bra counter.
“Full figure.”
“Dressed, Sir?”
“Of course, in our new designer range for the sophisticated woman. We sell all sizes between 8 and 12. Make sure you note that in your report. We don’t want anyone accusing us of not catering for the fuller figure.”
“Underwear?”
“Yes.” The manager wagged a thoughtful finger. “But wait a moment. I do have something to show you. In the stockroom. Came in last night. Something very similar. You will notice that these models share a likeness with Keira Knightley?”
“Yes, Sir. They are very thin.”
“Not thin, perfect. Perfect for our new range of lingerie.”
“Like a coat-hanger, you mean?”
The manager paused, then continued on to the stockroom. In a rush he opened a single door and ushered Thomason in. Before him lay cages of unwrapped goods and shelving that went on forever. “This is the one,” the manager said, halting before a partially dressed mannequin. “As near as damn it.” Beneath the model a soft-covered book had been left open on the shelf. The manager pulled a dismissive face. “What’s this? Atonement? McEwan? Never heard of it, or him.” He sighed. “I wish the staff wouldn’t use the stockroom for their tea-breaks.”
“I see what you mean. She is like Keira. Saw the film, just last week. She was in a football strip, poking through, gorgeous. What was it called?”
“Pirates of the Caribbean?”
“No, no, not that one.” Thomason shook his head, trying to shake back the memory. It came out of nowhere. “Bend it Like Beckham, that’s the one!”
“Didn’t see it,” Solomon confessed. “Football strip, you say? I’ll get the DVD. By golly, thanks for that.” A woman in green poked her head around the door. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr Solomon, but we have a problem.”
“Right,” the manager snapped in his efficient mode. “Be right there.” He turned to the probationer. “Make notes in your notebook. Be back in a mo’.” He paused, for Miss Knightley had made all the difference and they were now a brotherhood, and added, perhaps in confidence, “It’s probably the lottery. It causes more trouble than it’s worth.”
Then he was gone and the door, a fire door that swung shut automatically, swung shut. And First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason was left alone in the stockroom with the mannequin that looked like Keira Knightley and, come to that, a dozen other stars that graced the silver screen. He made a few notes, height, colouring, no obvious blemishes and so on and his closer insp ection got closer still and, given the circumstances, to obtain a complete picture, he pulled aside her pants. And that was when the door swung open and Mr Solomon, the manager, and the occupants of CB1, PCs Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones, stood framed in the doorway. The manager raised an ominous eyebrow, the brotherhood forgotten instantly, and together, as one, the PCs burst into uncontrollable laughter. Shit street. There’s one in every town.
As he walked through the police car park to the rear entrance no one seemed to notice him. The uniforms strolled to their cars without giving him a second glance. In the corridor much was the same, not a glance or a knowing look. Until, that is, Sergeant Mike Wilson stopped him. He looked after the probationers. His uniform was too big and flapped around his legs.
“Where are they?”
“What’s that, Skipper?”
“The cigs, lad, the cigs?”
“The cigs?”
“Listen, lad, you’re sent out on a Friday night for one reason only. You work the precincts and you collect the cigs from the little hooligans who hang around them. Confiscate the cigs. Share them out with the lads. A dozen packs or so should do it, depending on how full they are.” “No one told me.”
“No one told you? You’re going to be the bloody flavour of the month if we’ve got to start buying our own cigs. Have you never heard of initiative? It’s what good coppers are made of.”
The sergeant checked hi s wat ch. “Now, after your break, go out again and check the arcades. Some of the little bastards won’t have gone to bed yet.”
PC Thomason realized his mouth had dropped again. He closed it quickly and said, “Skipper, it’s the end of my shift.”
“Wrong. You got it wrong again. It would have been if you’d used your initiative. See?” The PC nodded gloomily.
“Just remember,” his sergeant went on. “The older kids have wised up so go for the eleven and twelve-year-olds. And boys, not girls. The girls give you too much lip and it can cause a scene. It’s the hormones in the food.”
“Right.”
“Oh, and by the way, a word in your shell-like.”
“Skipper?”
“Had a call from the manager of the supermarket. Didn’t use your spray on the model, did you?” Consternation shook Thomason’s head. He stammered, “No, no!”
“That’s good. We only use that on pensioners.” Sergeant Wilson nodded. “No problem. I talked him out of making a complaint. Told him you were still learning the trade. Anyway, get out there and do your stuff. Remember, keep in mind that the enhancement of a charge is good for the figures, that abusive behaviour or drunk and disorderly can be written as resisting arrest and assault on a police officer. It’s a simple spelling mistake. We call it poetic licence. In the job we’re all fucking poets. Right?”
PC Thomason watched the flapping uniform move off down the corridor and was still thinking about CS spray as he pushedopen the door to the canteen.
In the canteen everything seemed normal, as though nothing had happened, the other coppers hadn’t heard about it.
He caught sight of Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones in front of full English breakfasts and they barely acknowledged him.
First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason breathed a tremendous sigh of relief as he joined the queue at the stainless steel counter. Behind him the first snigger began to spread and various faces reddened as laughter was held in. Lips trembled as they tightened and cheeks blew out until it all became too much. And then in the room of twenty or more uniforms the uncontrolled laughter cracked the faces and shook the uniforms beneath them.
PC Simon Thomason stood rooted to the spot, plastic tray in trembling hands, dying a death that awaited all first year probationers. It was a playground, a vast nation-wide playground, and it was playtime again.
Deleted Scene II
“I’m going to be your Christmas present.” Maynard reached forward and turned the key. “See, kid, you got it wrong again.”
“What then?”
“Remember the pigs, my mother’s place? Thought you might come up and meet her and spend Christmas Day with us, that’s all. I’ll drive you back on Boxing Day, if you like.”
“What, like Christmas dinner? Turkey?”
“If you like.”
“Real pigs?”
“You’d have to get used to the smell.”
“That don’t bother me.”
“Well then?”
The wheels skidded on wet grass and they bounced back to the road.
“Left or right? Left is where you came from.” Maynard said. “Your call?”
The clouds had shouldered in again and rain pelted the windscreen. He turned on the wipers, for a moment blurring the patch of road caught in the headlights.
Jason or Brian or Noel said, “Can I feed the pigs?”
In the darkness Maynard smiled and turned right, north, away from the…city.
…
“OK, guys, thanks a lot. That’s a wrap. See you all next time. Oh, er, drinks at my place, yeah?”