The Cutting Room (30 page)

This time the-sister had sympathy in her eyes.

`I’m sorry, your aunt suffered a second heart attack at three fifteen this afternoon. She passed away forty minutes ago.’

She had led me into her tiny office, seating me next to her

opposite a neatly regimented desk. Through the glass windows I could see a nurse guiding a spoon into an elderly

patient’s mouth. Some of the contents of the spoon escaped

and slithered down the old person’s chin. I turned my gaze

away.

`Your aunt was over eighty. I’m afraid there was no chance

of her surviving a second shock to her system so soon after the first. The end came swiftly and painlessly. I’m sorry we

weren’t able to reach you any sooner.’

In the ward the nurse was wiping the patient’s face. She

reloaded the spoon and prepared to try again.

Miss McKindless had died while I was moving her

brother’s books, breaking my promise to burn .them. I felt

bad, bad that she was dead and bad that I had lied to her,

but I knew I would have felt worse had I destroyed them.

She and her brother were both dead. The books survived as

they had survived the deaths of other owners. Still, I hoped they hadn’t caused her distress in her last hours and I hoped she wasn’t hovering where she could see the boxes piled in

the back of the van.

`You did your best. It’s the kind of end we all hope for.’

Sister looked relieved by my stoicism. `Is there anyone you

would like me to contact?’

I shook my head.

A young nurse chapped softly on the office door then

entered. `We’re finished.’

`Well done. Thank you, Eileen.’

The nurse closed the door gently and Sister turned to me.

`Your aunt is ready. Would you like to see her?

I’d nodded and she had led me briskly towards an anteroom.

Fluorescent light shone through a yellow screen

erected around the bed, casting a sunflower glow. There

is a change that comes after death. The pale body washed,

scented and tucked beneath the sheets was no longer Miss

McKindless. Whatever it was that had made her herself, the

essential spirit, vital spark, soul, call it what you will, had departed. I touched her hand.

`I’m sorry.’ I whispered. `I hope you’ll forgive what I have done and what I am about to do.’

Sister stopped me outside. `Are you okay??

‘Yes, fine.’

There was genuine concern on her face. `You look terribly

pale. Even when it’s expected death comes as a shock. Why

don’t you have a seat in the office? I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

`No, I’ll be fine, thanks.’

`Are you sure? I don’t want you crashing on the way home

and making more work for us.’

Some of the old sharpness was back, but I saw it for what it was now. Tiredness edged a crosshatch of premature lines

around her eyes.

`Don’t worry, I’ll take it easy. Thank you for taking such

good care of her.’

`It’s our job. Let me know what arrangements you make.

She can stay with us for three days but after that…’

`It gets a bit crowded?

She gave me a sad, last smile. `Unfortunately.’

I took the lift up to Bowery, squeezed in beside Niggle, two young porters, and the desk Miss McKindless had sat behind at our first meeting. In the saleroom preparations were under

way to transform-the damp, dead expanse into an emporium

of rare delights. McKindless’s Turkish rugs hung, an exotic

backdrop to the podium. Ranks of furniture, once united

under the same roof, were beginning to assume separate

identities, marshalling themselves for auction. Trestle tables laden with bric-a-brac glittered along one side of the room.

Jimmy James, armed with a catalogue and muttering small

oaths, was labelling lot numbers. Jewellery and other pocketsized desirables had been tucked safely into display cases. A

boy, balanced casually at the top of a ladder, crowed a

triumphant `Yes!’ as he fitted a small oil into the last space on a wall now covered in paintings. Glass shades hung from

the ceiling on wire sharp enough to cut you. Objects to

bewitch and beguile, assembled together and available for

purchase, tomorrow, for one day only.

Rose stood in the centre of the room, posed like a monochrome 1950s Vogue model: back erect, hand on hip, pelvis

thrust forward, feet at right angles, cigarette poised midair, mistress of all she surveyed, talking to Anderson. She heard the lift doors opening and turned.

`Ah, the wanderer returns. How good of you to grace us

with your presence and it only three o’clock in the afternoon, the day before the sale. You know, the rest of us mere mortals have been here since eight this morning’

`Rose,’ Anderson stepped towards me, `can you not see

the man’s all in?

Jimmy James looked up from his task, shook his head and

continued labelling. The boys manhandled the desk from the lift.

A chandelier trembled, casting tiny, rainbow sparkles. The

world seemed to sway and me with it. Anderson placed a

steadying hand on my arm. I caught a glimpse of Rose’s frightened face and went through to the office, too tired to explain.

`Rilke, what’s happened? She followed me and started

opening and closing the drawers of the desk. `Where do you

stash that bloody bottle of whisky?

Anderson joined us. `Spirits are the worst thing you could

give him. A cup of strong tea with plenty of sugar’s what he needs.’

Rose looked flustered. She opened the office door and

shouted, `Nile, away and get Mr Rilke a cup of tea. Nice

and strong, with plenty of sugar.’

Anderson looked at her. She shrugged, lit a second

cigarette and passed it to me. I drew on it hungrily.

The world pitched again, then straightened itself and I felt better.

`A dram would be welcome.’

`A cup of tea first and then we’ll see.’ Anderson’s voice

held a comforting authority. `When was the last time you

ate anything? He didn’t wait for a reply, but stepped

beyond the office, caught Niggle on his way out, gave him

instructions and a couple of notes.

He returned, lighting a cigarette of his own and inhaling

deeply, `So been overdoing it, have we??

‘The old lady’s dead.’

Rose sank into the chair beside me. `I think I could do with a whisky myself.’

Anderson retrieved the bottle from its hiding place

among the envelopes. He poured Rose and me a small

measure each and watched in silence while we drank. Niggle

arrived with hot rolls and sweet tea. We ate, no one saying

anything until we had finished. It was Rose who broke the

silence.

`When??

‘This afternoon, before I came here.’

`Were you there?

I nodded.

`Shit.’

She reached across the table and took my hand. I squeezed

hers, then drew away.

`It’s all right. She was gone before I arrived.’

`All the same.’ She made a sympathetic face. `Well, I guess

eighty’s a good age. If any of us make that we’ll be doing

well.’

I nodded. `I suppose so.’

Anderson drank the last of his tea. `Can I ask who you’re

talking about?

Rose apologised, `Jesus, Jim, I’m sorry,’ and explained.

His face creased into an expression of concern. `So presumably this is the end of the sale?

Rose answered before I could speak. `No, no I don’t think

so.’ She gave me a stem look over the top of Anderson’s head and continued. `Miss McKindless was aware of her failing

health and appointed a nephew to oversee the sale. As far as I understand it, he’ll be her executor so, if he’s agreeable,

there’s no reason why the sale can’t proceed and the money

be lodged as part of the estate.’

`That seems very efficient.’

`It’s in the interest of the estate.’

Rose was thinking on her feet. I hoped she wasn’t going to

overdo it.

`After all, if they delay there’ll be a bill from us plus

storage charges and then they still have to dispose of the

goods. No, I’m sure they’ll want to go ahead.’

Anderson stood. `Well, sounds like you’ve got a busy

afternoon ahead. I’ll leave you to it.’

Rose got up, ready to walk him to the door.

`James.’ It was the first time I had used his Christian name in thirty years. The surprise registered on his face.

`You mentioned there was a story attached to McKindless.

You found a file. Will you tell me about it, now that they’re both dead?

`I don’t know. It’s not really for public consumption, know

what I mean?

Rose leant into him, putting an arm round his waist. `Ach,

you’re not on duty now. Rilke’s hardly “public consump

tion”. Go on, put him out of his misery or there’ll be no work from him today.’

He smiled at her. `You’re a hard taskmaster, Rose. If he

was in my squad I’d be sending him home for a rest.’

She lowered her eyes. `You like it. Anyway, you told me

you were at a loose end. Why don’t I send you in a couple of coffees? You can have a good chat while Rilke catches his breath. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.’

`Aye.’ Anderson looked serious again. `You’ll be wanting

to phone the executor and find out if the sale is to go ahead.’ Rose’s smile was tight. She gave me another warning look.

`You read my mind.’

Once Rose had gone Anderson settled back in his chair and

shook his head.

`She’ll get me into trouble one of these days if I’m not

careful. Still, I suppose I’m partly to blame for your interest, asking you to keep your eyes open for anything suspicious. Just remember, what I’m about to tell you is in strictest confidence.’

`My lips are sealed.’

He gave me his policeman’s stare to show he was serious.

`See that they are. Remember, it’s not my case, but I had a

quick shufti at the file when I heard you were clearing the

house. Not pleasant reading. Basically, it’s something and

nothing. You could say I got a hunch when you showed me

that Japanese toggle. Eighteen months ago a major investigation was launched into vice in Glasgow. Since the collapse of

communism in Eastern Europe there’s been a flourishing trade in the trafficking of young men and women for the purposes of prostitution. “White slaving” they called it when we were

young. Not just in Glasgow but all over Britain. The powers

that be decided they weren’t going to put up with it in

Glasgow. An initiative was launched and essentially failed

quite spectacularly. Some minor players were caught, a facesaving operation, but the big boys walked away with just a

warm breath on their collar.’

`And you think McKindless was involved in that?’ I felt

suddenly ashamed for not coming forward.

`McKindless’s name had been mentioned by a few people

over the years. Enough for there to be official interest in his activities. Truth is, he’s dead and you can’t prosecute a dead man. Whether he was involved directly or not, it’s hard to

say. He had one conviction for importing pornography. He

convinced the judge it was an aberration, paid his fine and

on the face of it learnt his lesson, never saw the inside of a courtroom again. On the other hand, maybe he just learnt

how to be careful. My contacts in Vice were happy to hear

he was dead. One less to worry about. They seemed pretty

certain he was a long-term player. Abehind-the -scenes man.

What’s sure is he was a regular associate of several

individuals who, detectives on the case seem sure, were

deeply involved.’

`So what happened?’

`Ultimately, very little. A couple of arrests - small fry - a couple of people disappeared, left the country, and now your man’s dead.’

`Why was it such a disaster?’

`Part of the problem is the international nature of such

crimes. The criminal will cross any border in pursuit of their crimes, while police tend to be trapped within narrow

jurisdictions.’

`But isn’t there international co-operation, Interpol and the like?’

`True enough, in theory. In practice, it’s no so easy. Before

you can persuade a foreign police force to begin a major

investigation, there’s a burden of proof. Get over that hurdle and there are differences in laws and procedures. Surmount

them and you find there’s not enough manpower or money.

Finally, most importantly, there’s just not the will. Different if it was drugs. The war against drugs is highly funded, highly publicised. But rape, abduction, even possible murder of the poor and the dispossessed; young women promised good jobs

abroad; children found on the street; runaways out to teach

Mum and Dad a lesson; there never seems to be enough

money to fight that.’

`Shit.’ I put my head in my hands. `I swear to you, Jim, I

never found anything like that.’

`Hey, don’t let it worry you. Neither did we. The reason I

thought you might find something is these guys are different from your run-of-the-mill professional criminal. They’re not just in it for the money. They’re into the stuff. They make a commercial business out of a sexual obsession. You can put up sentences all you like, throw away the key, who’d object? But they keep on coming, like dragon’s teeth. It’s a horrible