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The Lost Son
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The Lost Son
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A screenplay by Eric and Margaret Leclere © 1996
This is the original screenplay, 'untinkered' with by they who brought
it to the screen

Read Extracts
If you are interested in the story behind this screenplay, you may like to read the following articles by Margaret Leclere which were published in The Spectator magazine.
The Author & Film
The Screenplay
>> Victims of intellectual torture
Free PDF Download
>> Whose film is it anyway?
<pre>
 
 
 
       EXT. REDDINGTON ROAD, HAMPSTEAD. LONDON. LATE AFTERNOON.
 

       FADE IN... THE PURR OF A CAR ENGINE, idling. WINTER TWILIGHT. 
       HEAVY RAIN... A leafy avenue bordered with somber mansions...
   
       A HAND FLICKS a cigarette out the car’s window... It flies through
       the rain...
       HITS THE WET TARMAC WITH A SPRAY OF SPARKS.
       IN AND HOLD ON XAVIER LOMBARD, at the wheel of a TRIUMPH 2000. 
       Late 30s, dark, short hair, stony-faced, in a conservative dark
       suit and white shirt - collar button undone... Through the open
       window his eyes survey...
       BEYOND OPEN GATES FLANKED WITH A SECURITY CAMERA: the lit- up
       facade of a white mansion fronted by a gravel drive; parked there:
       A BLUE ASTON MARTIN, TWO FERRARIS AND A DAIMLER...
 

       INT. TRIUMPH. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       IN ON Lombard as he glances at... The passenger seat: A SCRIBBLED
       NOTE beside an OPEN PACK OF PLAIN GITANES and A SPORTS BAG:
       “Spitz, 46 Reddington Road, NW6... 5pm...”
       HIS WATCH (leather strap, flat with hands): 17:07... 
       Lombard swallows without parting his lips...
       QUICK SEQUENCE... His left foot (FINE BLACK LEATHER SHOE) pushing
       the clutch pedal; His left hand (GOLD WEDDING BAND) shifting the
       car into gear; His right hand spinning the wheel (SILVER
       CUFFLINKS); His right foot pushing the rev pedal...
 

       EXT. DE MORAES DRIVEWAY. LATE AFTERNOON. 
 
       The Triumph wheel crunches to a stop on the gravel next to the
       Aston Martin’s polished spoked wheel...
 

       INT. TRIUMPH. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       Eyeing up the Aston Martin, Lombard turns his engine off, starts
       winding up his window and catches sight of...
       A UNIFORMED BUTLER under a huge umbrella heading his way... 
 

       EXT. DE MORAES’ DRIVEWAY. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       The butler - stiff, sour, middle-aged - opens the Triumph door. 
 
                                  BUTLER
                 Mister Xavier Lombard?
 
       Lombard eyes him coldly, then, unfastening his seatbelt:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 That’s right.
 
                                  BUTLER
                 Will you please come with me?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 That might depend on where you’re going.
 
                                  BUTLER
                 I am Lawrence, sir. Mr and Mrs De Moraes’
                 majordomo. They are expecting you.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat; he looks him up and down)
                 De Moraes? I was asked here by a Mrs
                 Spitz.
 
                                  BUTLER
                 That would be Mrs De Moraes mother, Sir.
                 Mr and Mrs Spitz are here with their
                 daughter.
 
       Lombard eyes him a while longer, pockets his Gitanes and steps out
       the car under the butler’s umbrella... The butler shuts the door.
 

       INT. DE MORAES’ MANSION, HALLWAY. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       Footsteps echoing... Grand white marble floor, broad staircase,
       modern art...  Lombard peers around, following close behind the
       butler who heads for...
       Huge double doors; The butler opens them, stands aside, announces:
 
                                  BUTLER
                 Mister Lombard.
 

       INT. DE MORAES’ DRAWING ROOM. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard steps in past the butler - who backs out, closing the
       doors - and stops... taking in...
       A BLACK AND WHITE NIGHTMARE of modern Italian interior decorating:
       lots of marble, chrome, glass, steel and leather; more modern art. 
       WE FIND...
       An old couple, THE SPITZES, sit side by side at a glass table,
       strangely upright, she dark, intense, her hands on a large
       envelope, he morose and bespectacled, with a coffee mug and half-
       eaten DOUGHNUT...  DEBORAH (stunning, in a crimson tweed suit, its
       jacket low cut, baring her cleavage and pearl necklace) stands
       behind them, arms crossed, a cigarette between her fingers... And,
       deep in the room by a blazing fire, CARLOS (dark, handsome, Latin
       manhood in all its carnal glory) and MR BANI (50s, very Italian)
       sit in armchairs studying huge technical diagrams and EYEING
       LOMBARD ABSENT-MINDEDLY. Mrs Spitz motions to the chair of twisted
       metal opposite her, saying, in a strong, rasping GERMAN ACCENT:
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 You are late, Mr Lombard. I very much hope
                 you are better at your job than at keeping
                 time. Anyway, come and sit down.
 
       Lombard peers at her; a flicker of irritation behind his eyes...
       Then, wilfully:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good afternoon, Mrs...?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Spitz. We spoke on the telephone.
                   (perfunctorily introducing the others)
                 My husband...
                   (Mr Spitz nods at Lombard)
                 My daughter, Deborah, whose house this is.
                   (Deborah just looks back at him)
                 My son-in-law, Carlos... 
                   (he shows a few white teeth)
                 The gentleman is a business partner of
                 his.
                   (Mr Bani looks blankly at Lombard)
 
       Now are you going to sit down or is it your intention to remain
       standing, Mr Lombard?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Come, come, give the man time to probe,
                 Mummy. Don’t you know private detectives
                 like to appraise people?
                   (looking Lombard up and down)
                 Aren’t I right, Mr Lombard?
 
       IN ON Lombard; a frown... He APPRAISES Deborah... rests his gaze
       on her cleavage... SMILES... glances towards... Carlos and Mr Bani
       have begun to whisper IN ITALIAN over their diagrams (THEIR KEEN
       WHISPERED CHAT WILL GO ON THROUGHOUT THE SCENE)... turns back to
       Deborah, sends her a charming smile and starts for the table...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The pleasure is mine, Mrs De Moraes.
 
       Deborah purses her lips, takes a drag of her cigarette and sneers
       as...  Lombard sits, grimaces, twists to inspect his chair’s
       tortuous back, turns back to the Spitzes and, now appreciating why
       they sit so stiffly, grins, pushes his chair back, settles on its
       edge and reaches for his Gitanes...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 May I...(smoke)?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                   (she waves a hand: ‘If you must’)
                 May I ask if you are Jewish, Mr Lombard?
 
       IN ON Lombard; a fed-up frown as he lights his cigarette...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Lombard, this is not a Jewish name, is it?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (pocketing his Gitanes, with a SMILE)
                 I hope it’s not too significant.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 What if it is?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well, I would have to point out that we
                 could have dealt with that question when
                 you called this morning, Mrs Spitz. I
                 wouldn’t like to think I’d kept you
                 waiting for nothing.
 
       IN ON Mrs Spitz... Displeasure darkens her eyes... She appraises
       him...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Whatever, you come recommended. We...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Recommended?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Must I speak to you in French?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Didn’t you say I came recommended?
                   (off her look: ‘Yes’)
                 That’s what I thought. May I know by whom?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 You may not. And besides, it is
                 irrelevant.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, deciding to yield)
                 Okay. Recommended...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Good. Now, as I trust you may have
                 guessed, we are looking for someone to
                 work for us. Someone whose discretion can
                 be relied upon. Someone who while in our
                 employ would give us full commitment. Do
                 you think you could be that person, Mr
                 Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he peers at her, then at his
                    cigarette)
                 Look Mrs Spitz... I don’t know to whom I’m
                 indebted for the recommendation but... I’m
                 not in the business of making oaths of
                 allegiance or giving myself character
                 references. What I do is listen to what
                 the people who care to call me have to say
                 and judge whether or not I can be of help.
                 I hope you can appreciate that, Mrs Spitz. 
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 What I can appreciate is insolence, Mr
                 Lombard!
 
       Lombard scowls, turns to... Mr Spitz, eyes fixed on his cup, says
       a few words in YIDDISH... his hand squeezing his wife’s arm, a
       gesture firm but appeasing. 
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                 Would you like a doughnut, Mr Lombard?
 
       Lombard looks up... IN ON Deborah; a provocative smile, gleeful
       contempt...
       Lombard stands, leans across the table, stamps out his cigarette
       in her ashtray.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Don’t disturb the butler. I remember the
                 way out.
 
                               MISTER SPITZ
                   (softly; MILD GERMAN ACCENT)
                 Sit down, please, Mr Lombard. Sit down...
 
       Lombard turns to Mr Spitz... uneasy eyes in a patchwork of deep
       wrinkles...
 
                               MISTER SPITZ
                 Please, forgive us. We did not mean to
                 offend you. It’s just that...
 
                                 DEBORAH
                 Let him go, Daddy. This is pointless
                 anyway. Wonder boy’s soon enough going to
                 run out of cash and stagger back to the
                 nest.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Shut up, Deborah!
 
       UNEASY SILENCE.  Deborah sighs, sneers, stamps out her cigarette.
 
                               MISTER SPITZ
                 We were hoping to ask you to look for our
                 son, Mr Lombard. He...
                   (off Lombard’s look)
                 He has been missing for three weeks now.
                 We are worried he might be in trouble...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Oh, come on! If you must go ahead with
                 this you might as well get to the point.
                   (to Lombard)
                 As for you, if you’re determined to stay
                 and hear about my dear brother’s riveting
                 personality, you might as well sit down
                 again. Boredom is easier handled that way.
                 And by the way, before you ask, the boy
                 Leon is 31 years old.
 
       SILENCE AGAIN.  Mrs Spitz glares at Deborah, who lights a new
       cigarette...  Mr Spitz fixes his pained eyes on his clasped
       hands... 
       Lombard decides to sit down, saying helpfully to the Spitzes:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I take it your son is called Leon?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Leonard. What my daughter is on about, Mr
                 Lombard, is that Leonard is somewhat of a
                 Bohemian. You might as well know that...
                  
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 For Bohemian read ex-university drop-out
                 and ex-failed rock star recently turned
                 Artist Photographer. Oh yes, and a most
                 likely relapsing ex-heroin addict.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 We do not know that for certain, Deborah!
                  
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I said ‘likely’, Mummy.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                   (to Lombard, irritated)
                 Leonard is a good boy, but sadly he likes
                 bad company and is susceptible... Two
                 years ago we sent him to a... a
                 detoxification clinic. It has had the
                 desired effect. He has since been very
                 content living in the apartment I bought
                 him here in London and, until three weeks
                 ago, he called every fortnight to our home
                 in Scotland.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Money doesn’t grow on trees...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                   (to Lombard, with irate defensiveness)
                 Leonard is now devoting his time to
                 photography. It is good for him. My
                 husband and I have chosen to support him
                 in this. He also works, though. In a
                 restaurant...
                   (quickly, preempting Deborah)
                 He washes the dishes. Three evenings a
                 week he washes the dishes.
 
       TENSE SILENCE; Lombard surveys the opulent room, comes across...
       A FRAMED PHOTOGRAPH: Carlos, triumphant in racing driver’s
       overalls, on a podium - Magnum of Champagne in one hand, garland
       around his neck...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What do you think has happened to your
                 son, Mrs Spitz?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 You wouldn’t be here if I knew, Mr
                 Lombard. What I do know is that he has not
                 been at work for three weeks. That
                 enquiries to the police and London
                 hospitals have borne no results. And that
                 a check with his bank revealed he has not
                 used his account for four weeks now.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How did you do that, Mrs Spitz?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Do what, Mr Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Check with your son’s bank. Banks don’t
                 usually give out information about their
                 customers.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 I said earlier that my husband and I are
                 supporting Leonard in his photography, Mr
                 Lombard. By this I mean that since his
                 return from America I have been depositing
                 for him a monthly allowance in an account
                 we jointly hold. So as you see, I did not
                 have to break the law to find out if he
                 used the account.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I didn’t mean to imply you did, Mrs Spitz.
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Then you should not have sought an
                 explanation.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, grinning)
                 I presume you checked your son’s
                 apartment...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Yesterday. It all looked normal.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Did you look for his passport, driving
                 licence?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Leonard does not hold a driving licence.
                 As for his passport, I do not know where
                 he keeps it.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 So he could have decided to go on a
                 trip...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 He could indeed, Mr Lombard. But had he
                 done so I think he would have let us know
                 about it.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Then why aren’t you asking the police to
                 look for your son, Mrs Spitz?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 At last! A pertinent question. Come on,
                 Mummy: answer the detective.
 
                               MISTER SPITZ
                   (looking up sadly into Lombard’s eyes)
                 Leonard used to disappear like this before
                 his treatment, Mr Lombard. Whether he has
                 reverted to his former habit is something
                 we would rather not find out through the
                 police. I’m sure you can understand...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                   (with a scolding glance at her
                    husband) )
                 I am categorical Leonard has had no
                 interest in drugs since he came back from
                 America.
 
       The Spitzes eye each other somberly...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Now you know why you’re here, Mr Lombard.
                   (enjoying herself now)
                 It might be difficult for someone like you
                 to discern, but we are people of a certain
                 standing.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Appearances can be deceptive, Mrs De
                 Moraes.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 That depends what you’re looking at.
 
       IN ON Deborah; cold defiance in her eyes... IN ON Lombard; a cruel
       flicker in his... He softens, smiles, asks, only slowly moving his
       eyes away from hers...  
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I take it your son is not married, Mrs
                 Spitz?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 No. And before you ask, no, he’s not gay!
                 He has had girlfriends, but nothing
                 serious... 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Any friends?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 The proprietor of his workplace is the
                 only friend of his we know about.
                   (she slaps the envelope on the table)
                 His address is in this envelope with
                 Leonard’s address, keys and other things
                 you might need.
                   (she glances impatiently at her watch)
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m sure... As far as you know, when and
                 where was your son last seen?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 When... I’m told he came here...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Three weeks ago. To borrow money. I wasn’t
                 here but he got to my husband, sold him
                 some fancy story about an exhibition of
                 his work and needing money to get new
                 prints made. Carlos handed over £1,000 to
                 get rid of him.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 And that is the last time any...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Well, Leon does not need money for prints,
                 Mr Lombard. Does his own printing.
                 Wouldn’t want anyone to interfere with his
                 ‘Art’!
                   (after a beat, perversely)
                 Which, as he subsequently vanished, raises
                 the question: what was the money for?
                 Perish the thought.
 
       IN ON Mrs Spitz - this has hit home; she scowls at the envelope
       under her fingers... slides it across the table towards Lombard...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 The £1,000 is on account.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he peers at the envelope, then off
                    her look)
                 My rates...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 We are aware of your rates, Mr Lombard. We
                 will pay you double your rates plus
                 expenses. In return, need I say it again,
                 we expect discretion and undivided
                 attention.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a long beat; then, grinning)
                 Why do you think your son chose not to
                 come to you for funds for his photography,
                 Mrs Spitz?
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 Ha... No, Mr Lombard. His monthly
                 allowance is all he is to expect from us.
                 He knows it and we feel the amount is more
                 than adequate.
 
       Lombard nods... thinks... reaches for the envelope and stands...
 
                                 MRS SPITZ
                 My husband and I will be leaving tomorrow
                 for a short stay in Israel. Deborah will
                 be here if you need anything before our
                 return.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Fine. One more thing, Mrs and Mr Spitz;
                 may I ask what is or was your occupation?
 
                               MISTER SPITZ
                 We make and sell shoes and leather
                 garments.
 
       Lombard peers briefly at him, nods, then turns to Deborah:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about you, Mrs De Moraes?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (taken aback, after a beat...)
                 I have too much money to work, Mr Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is that why your brother braved coming
                 here to ask you for a loan?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (she eyeballs him, then, calmly:)
                 Perhaps it wasn’t so brave of him. Had I
                 been here I just might have given him his
                 money, Mr Lombard. One can reap rewards
                 from the strangest of conduct, as someone
                 in your line of work ought to know.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he grins, nods, turns to Carlos,
                    calls:)
                 Was it cash, Mr De Moraes?
                   (Carlos looks back, baffled)
                 The £1,000. You gave it to him in cash?
 
                                  CARLOS
                   (SUAVE BRAZILIAN ACCENT)
                 Oh. Leon. Yes. We’ve always got cash in...
                 We always keep money in the house.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 De Moraes. That’s a Brazilian name, no?
 
                                  CARLOS
                   (flashing white teeth)
                 That’s right. Do you know Brazil?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No. Do you work, Mr De Moraes?
 
                                  CARLOS
                 Work? Oh yes. I race motorcars, you
                 know...
                   (waving towards the diagrams)
                 That is what this is all about, ha ha...
 
       IN ON Lombard...  A polite smile.
 

       EXT. FOOTBALL PITCH, MARKET ROAD. EARLY EVENING.
 
       POURING RAIN on a floodlit pitch.  A match is in progress, a LOCAL-
       SHOPKEEPERS-KEEP-FIT kind of affair; men of all shapes, ages and
       races run, puff and yell in disparate shirts divided into YELLOWS
       and REDS.
       The ball is kicked into the air... drops to... Lombard (LIVERPOOL
       SHIRT) kills its fall on his chest, proceeds upfield...  past one
       YELLOW PLAYER... another... goes for a third, slips and falls...
       “FOUL!” screams someone...  Lombard picks himself up, grins at...
       A player with a crew cut: MARK OAK.
 

       EXT. UPPER STREET, NORTH LONDON. EARLY EVENING.
 
       MORE RAIN. CARS CRAWL in the halos of their headlights, crowds
       scurry along the pavements, between the cars...
       IN ON A GOOD-LOOKING BRUNETTE, a striking figure, umbrella held
       high; she saunters around the front of...
       LOMBARD’S TRIUMPH, at the kerb, engine idling... Through swishing
       wipers, Lombard, in tracksuit top, watches her impassively, a
       cigarette between his lips... His passenger door is open, a man,
       Mark Oak, in a raincoat, is leaning into the car, eyes greedily
       following the brunette as he talks (HIS DIALOGUE COVERING ALL THE
       ABOVE):
 
                          MARK OAK (ON/OFF SCREEN)
                 ‘So what’s your problem?’ I says; ‘I mean,
                 if she’s beautiful and great in bed,
                 huh?!’  ‘Well, she’s kind of psychic,’ he
                 says; ‘You know - precognitive.’  ‘Well,
                 if she’s a good fuck,’ I says, ‘who cares,
                 huh?’ ‘That’s just it,’ he says; ‘Whenever
                 we’re at it, she keeps yelling “Anthony!
                 Anthony!”’ The guy’s called Steve, right?
                 ‘Sorry?’ I says. And you know what the
                 poor bloke says?  He says: ‘She says she
                 can’t help it. She’s got to yell the name
                 of the next bloke she’s gonna lay.’ 
                 Honest to God, ha-ha...
 

       INT. TRIUMPH. EARLY EVENING.
 
       IN ON Lombard; a polite smile... then a frown as he sees... 
       Arriving beside Mark Oak: JANE (young, bubbly, shamelessly
       flirtatious, in a puffa jacket) panting but beaming through her
       drooping wet blond hair...
 
                                 MARK OAK
                 Oh Dear! Here’s my other tenant...
 
                                   JANE
                   (keeping her eyes on Lombard)
                 Hello, Mr Oak. Hi, Savieer. You’re going
                 home?
 
                                 MARK OAK
                   (before Lombard can speak, gesturing
                    her in)
                 He is. If you would, mademoiselle.
 
       Jane sends Lombard a searching glance...  He nods...  She beams,
       gets in, noticing... Lombard’s eyes on her hands holding something
       under her jacket...
 
                                   JANE
                 Fish and chips. Keeping it warm.
 
                                 MARK OAK
                   (leaning in again, winking at Lombard)
                 Better rush. Just saw a brunette going my
                 way.
                   (sniffing the air above Jane)
                 Ah, the smell of warm, moist fish... Too
                 bad...
 
       He grins at Jane and shuts the door.  Jane watches him walk away
       with a disgusted look on her face, then, as Lombard pulls away,
       says coyly:
 
                                   JANE
                 Hello again, neighbour. I didn’t intrude,
                 did I?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How are you, Jane?
 
                                   JANE
                 Fine. How was the match? Did you loose?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No.
 
                                   JANE
                 Must be your lucky day then. I’ve got your
                 accounts - you don’t owe much tax for last
                 year.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good.
 
                                   JANE
                 Yes. But my boss reckons you’d still be
                 better off as a limited company. For
                 expenses and all that, you know? It’d cost
                 you about £100 but he said it’d be worth
                 it.
                   (off Lombard’s silence)
                 Of course, you’d need a partner to
                 register. But that’s a formality. I mean,
                 I could be your partner. I mean, just as a
                 name, right?
 
       Lombard grins; this is all too familiar... He pulls into quiet
       ESSEX ROAD, revs-up...  Jane gazes pensively at his hand on the
       gear stick, looks away...
 
                                   JANE
                 Have you heard of a French film called “La
                 Collectionoose”?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 La what?
 
                                   JANE
                 “La collectionoose”. It’s about a young
                 girl in the south of France who seduces a
                 different man every night and then meets
                 one who resists her. It’s on TV tonight
                 and as I’m in I thought we could perhaps
                 look at your accounts and... The review
                 says it’s about the conflict between
                 intellect and instinct. And witty. The
                 director’s supposed to be famous. Rommel
                 or something. French. You must know him?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Should I?
 
                                   JANE
                 I don’t know. How many famous French film
                 directors can there be?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 That are called Rommel or something, I
                 guess not that many.
                   (he pulls up at the kerb)
 
                                   JANE
                 So you haven’t seen the film, then?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It’s Friday night, Jane. What happened to
                 your latest boyfriend?
 
                                   JANE
                 Oh... We split up.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (switching his engine off)
                 Well, I hope you’re not too heartbroken
                 and...
 
                                   JANE
                 Oh no. I’m all right. He was a jerk,
                 really. Another boy, you know? All I meet
                 is boys. When I think of all the fuss
                 about older men fancying young girls. I
                 mean, is it true?
 
       Lombard shakes his head, picks up his sportsbag and gets out...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Your fish and chips must be getting cold,
                 Jane.
 

       EXT. ESSEX ROAD. EVENING.
 
       Jane gets out INTO THE RAIN, asking across the Triumph roof: 
 
                                   JANE
                 No. Seriously. I mean, what about you,
                 Savieer? Do you think older men like
                 younger girls?
 
       He peers at her... Mild despair... He flicks his Gitane away,
       locks his door...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about Mr Oak, Jane?
                   (looking up, off her puzzled look:)
                 He might even give you a rent rebate.
 
       IN ON Jane; she understands... A stung young animal... she glares
       and... storms off to a door beside the screened shop front of a
       building... IN ON Lombard; a touched smile as he watches her
       struggle angrily with her keys...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ve got work tonight, Jane.
 
                                   JANE
                   (too hurt and angry for cleverness)
                 Oh yeah! Better be good and hurry away
                 then! Who knows? We might be being
                 watched! Maybe one of your stupid French
                 companies has got a detective prying into
                 your life - after all, that’s what they do
                 to their employees, isn’t it? Huh! Hope
                 you enjoy ruining people’s lives. Thanks
                 for the lift!
 
       She goes in, slams the door... Standing in the rain, Lombard peers
       coldly at the door then... makes for it, puts his key in the
       lock...  As he struggles with the lock we see.. A sign above the
       shop: M. OAK &amp; SONS, FAMILY BUTCHER.
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S OFFICE, LOMBARD’S FLAT. EVENING.
 
       SILENCE BUT FOR SOME SOFT SHUFFLING MOVEMENTS...  The room is BARE
       - four chairs, a desk with computer, telephone and answering
       machine and TWO GOLDFISH in a large aquarium.
 
       IN ON the desk; on and around MRS SPITZ’S ENVELOPE: a wad of £50
       notes, a set of Yale keys, an A4 sheet with, in neat handwriting: 
       Deborah’s phone number... the Spitzes Scottish number... and:
 
       -“Leonard’s Address: 14b, Drake Avenue, NW2. (top floor)”
       -“Philip Smith (Leonard’s Employer): The Four Seasons, Holmes
       Road, NW5. Tel: 0171...”
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S BEDROOM, LOMBARD’S FLAT. EVENING.
 
       DIFFUSED LIGHTING. In front of a mirror, Lombard finishes dressing
       in a clean suit, fastening his cufflinks... WE MOVE ON TO...
 
       LOMBARD’s football kit strewn on a chair... A TV set on a stool...
       An open wardrobe... A roughly made bed with a dry-cleaner’s
       wrapper and a dark suit jacket on it... A half-full ashtray and
       Gitanes pack on the bedside-table...
 

       EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET, NORTH LONDON. EVENING.
 
       RAIN. In a raincoat, smoking, Lombard leans against his Triumph,
       eyeing...
 
       Across the street: A MODERN APARTMENT COMPLEX... He flicks his
       cigarette away...
 

       INT. LEON SPITZ’ APARTMENT. EVENING.
 
       SILENCE.  Lombard stands in the doorway, against the lit
       corridor... IN ON his gold-banded hand feeling the wall, finding
       the lightswitch... LIGHT!  He is looking into a HALLWAY.  He goes
       in, shuts the door and steps into...
 
       THE LIVING ROOM (spacious, all mod-cons, noticeably CLEAN AND
       TIDY).  Lombard surveys the room, eyes scanning the walls hung
       with...
       Large BLACK &amp; WHITE PHOTOGRAPHS: A naked girl in a coffin as if
       dead ;  A scantily clad girl in contorted pose with blood and
       wounds (after-rape scene?) ; A girl pierced with arrows (fallen
       angel?) ; A girl in nightgown impaled on railings (broken
       innocence?) ; A girl in a foggy landscape, dressed as death, with
       scythe and all, mouth wide in a scream - an explanatory caption
       here: “DOES DEATH FEAR DEATH?”.
       Lombard shakes his head, proceeds around the room, past... 
 
       Bookshelves... A few spines... many books about the holocaust.
 
       Tape and CD collection - Bob Dylan, The Doors, Nirvana...
       Video shelf... old B&amp;W thrillers, ‘noir’ titles like ‘DOA’, ‘The
       Big Heat’ etc...  A Disney tape: ‘Sleeping Beauty’... LOMBARD
       RAISES AN EYEBROW...
 
       Now he rifles through a pile of magazines... ‘Time Out’, ‘Sight &amp;
       Sound’... a book of photographs by Bill Brandt...
       He glances at the FLASHING LIGHT of an Answerphone and goes out
       to...
 
       THE KITCHEN (tidy, but for a dirty bowl and spoon by the sink). 
       He lifts the dustbin lid, looks inside...
 
       Empty cereal box, milk carton, Ravioli cans...
 
       THE BEDROOM (Spartan, a double bed, messed up on one side only).
       Lombard scans the room from the doorway, moves to...
 
       The bedside table... A box of tissues, an open book, cover facing
       up: “OCCULT BONDAGE AND DELIVERANCE”...
 
       Lombard opens the drawer... a COLOUR PHOTO in a perspex stand... 
       He reaches for it... A COUPLE arm in arm by a mountain stream -
       she, good- looking, blond, late 20s, jeans, country type; he,
       early 30s, thin, with long black curly hair, roughly dressed.
                                      
       He replaces the snapshot, moves to... A chest of drawers; he pulls
       open the top drawer, glances in...
 
       THE BATHROOM (bare except for a bar of soap, toothbrush,
       toothpaste, shampoo, towel, pack of disposable razors and can of
       shaving foam).
 
       Lombard opens a medicine cabinet; box of Q-tips, aspirins...
 
       Looks into the small dustbin; a twisted toothpaste tube...
 
       Gazes at the toothpaste tube on the sink... half used, lid on...
 
       A DARKROOM (wealth of equipment, hanging negs, dry developing
       trays; piles of contact sheets and prints).  Lombard leafs through
       some prints... More girls in macabre poses... Checks the
       enlarger’s neg carrier... empty... Leafs through a pile of contact
       sheets... shots of London scenes: market crowds, STROLLERS IN
       PARKS, roadworkers...
       Leaving the room he distractedly glances at... A wall-mounted
       phone, NUMBERS SCRAWLED ON THE WALL around it.
 
       BACK IN THE SITTING ROOM. 
 
       A DESK DRAWER... Lombard leafs through a pile of papers... Leon’s
       last bank statement:... in credit by around £20...  Access card
       statement: credit limit £1,000.  Leon owes £997,50...  Bills...
       final Reminders...
       Another drawer... among personal effects - silver lighter, cheap
       watch, Donald Duck keyring, pens - an ADDRESS BOOK and a BRITISH
       PASSPORT...
 
       Lombard flips through the address book: mostly blank pages...
 
       Opens the passport: the same man as in the colour photo; eyes dark
       and haunted, long black hair plastered to his skull, mouth tightly
       shut...
       NAME: LEONARD JOZEF SPITZ...
 
       Lombard glances out the dark window to the streetlamps below,
       pockets the address book, replaces the passport, shuts the drawer,
       PUSHES THE ANSWERING MACHINE PLAY BUTTON and moves back to...
 
       THE BEDROOM... Lombard returns to the bedside cabinet, retrieves
       the colour photo and removes it from its perspex stand...
 
                             ANSWERING MACHINE
                 MAN: Yeah. Phil here, man. What the fuck
                 you doing, eh? It’s 8:30, the place is
                 full and I’m doing the bloody washing-up.
                 Get your arse over here, got it - beep.
                 PHIL: Thanks for shit, Leon. You better
                 have a good reason for this when I see
                 your face tomorrow - beep.
                 GIRL WITH A WELSH ACCENT: Hi Leon... It’s
                 me. I’ll call again... - beep.
                 MRS SPITZ: Leonard, this is your mother.
                 Call me when you get home, all right -
                 beep.
                 PHIL: What the fuck are you playing at,
                 you bastard. If I don’t see your arse here
                 in the next hour you’re through,
                 understood? - beep...
                 WELSH GIRL: Leon? (long pause) Are you
                 there? (long pause)... - beep.
                 PHIL: Son of a... - beep.
                 MRS SPITZ: Leonard! It is Tuesday now. 
                 What is happening? I have been calling
                 your work and they tell me you have not
                 been there. I am in London next week and I
                 hope to hear from you before then - beep.
                 WELSH GIRL: I, er, I tried to reach you at
                 work but Phil said you’d left... I hope
                 you - I hope everything’s all right...
                 -Long beep. Rewind.
 
       Thoughtful, Lombard pockets the photo and checks his watch....
 

       INT. THE FOUR SEASONS RESTAURANT. EVENING.
 
       Small, seedy, ‘cool’ place.  LOUD ROCK MUSIC.  A foursome talking
       animatedly; couples eating quietly; a gay couple; a lone WAITRESS
       moving between the tables, some empty.  WE FIND...
 
       Lombard, out of place, waits for attention just inside the door,
       COLD EYES ASSESSING... By the kitchen door behind the bar: PHIL
       (pony-tailed) chats with a young CHEF (messy uniform, smoking,
       rocking to the music). BOTH ARE CLEARLY HIGH ON DOPE.
 
                                 WAITRESS
                 Evening. Table for one?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (charming, milking his French accent)
                 No. Thank you. Could you tell me if Leon
                 Spitz is here, please?
 
                                 WAITRESS
                   (she eyes him up and down, surprised)
                 Leon? No. I’m afraid he left.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Left? When? I just come from his place and
                 there was no one there. A neighbour of
                 his...
 
                                 WAITRESS
                 No. I meant he left as in no longer works
                 here.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he affects a worried frown)
                 Oh. This is... We’d arranged to meet
                 tonight and I’m due to return to Paris
                 tomorrow...
 
                                 WAITRESS
                 I’m sorry...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Yes. You wouldn’t know where I could reach
                 him? We had to discuss an exhibition of
                 his photographs at my Paris gallery, you
                 see? I really need to see him before I
                 leave.
 
       After a beat, she shrugs, gestures for him to wait...
       She makes for the bar where she speaks to Phil who eyeballs
       Lombard over her shoulder before striding across the room...  He
       stops in front of Lombard, hands in pockets, with a pissed-off
       frown:
 
                                   PHIL
                 Welcome to the club. 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Excuse me?
 
                                   PHIL
                 I hear you’re looking for Leon.  That
                 makes me, his old-lady, and now you,
                 looking for the little bastard. Leon’s
                 gone, man. Vanished. You interested in his
                 photographs?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Uh-huh.
 
                                   PHIL
                 No shit... Well, I’m afraid I can’t help
                 you.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I take it you don’t know where he is,
                 then?
 
                                   PHIL
                 Huh! You could always try Suicide Bridge.
                   (off Lombard’s puzzled look)
                 You don’t know Leon, do you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I know his work better than I know him.
 
                                   PHIL
                 Let me put it this way then; the
                 photographs and the man? One and the same,
                 man, one and the same. At best fucking
                 weird, at worst fucked-up fucking weird.
                 Maybe you should think yourself lucky.
                 Some folks just ain’t worth getting
                 involved with. And Leon sure is one of
                 ‘em.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about his girlfriend?
 
                                   PHIL
                 What about which girlfriend?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (describing the girl from the photo)
                 Small, blond, good-looking. She was with
                 him when we met. She had a funny English
                 accent.
 
                                   PHIL
                 Oh. That’d be Rhian, a Welsh chick he used
                 to lay at weekends. She got wise and
                 dumped him months ago...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Would you know where I might reach her?
 
                                   PHIL
                 Yeah! Somewhere in Wales. I don’t really
                 know her. Used to turn up in a Transit van
                 on weekends, sell old furniture at Camden.
                 That’s how come he only laid her at
                 weekends, ha ha...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Could that be Camden Market?
 
                                   PHIL
                 Yeah. Why? You’re going to look for her...
                   Shit! You really think his pictures
                 are that good?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 (his cold eyes focused on Phil)
                 Fucked-up fucking weird.
 
       IN ON Phil; a confounded frown...  Should he laugh?
 

       EXT. OUTSIDE THE FOUR SEASONS. NIGHT.
 
       RAIN.  Under a streetlamp, Lombard leafs through...  LEON’S
       ADDRESS BOOK: ‘R’ page... It is blank... He frowns, pockets the
       book, turns to...
 

       EXT. CAMDEN MARKET. DAY.
 
       A GREY DAY. A CACOPHONY OF 60S AND 70S TRACKS AS WE SEE... A slow
       moving sea of trendiness drifts between the market stalls... WE
       FIND...
 
       SEQUENCE of Lombard searching the faces of ‘antiques’ stall-
       holders through the market... Now peering at A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN...
       Glaring at a group of impeccable YOUNG PUNKS, as if preserved from
       the 70’s, but French; their voices drift across: ‘Hey, c’est cool
       ça, non?’...  Looking over an AGEING WOMAN in fishnet tights
       swaying to a Bob Dylan song...  Walking calmly on as people hurry
       from the RETURNING RAIN... and on until, drenched and weary, he
       stops to light a cigarette near...
 
       A GUY with a plastic hood hops up and down behind his sorry
       display of wet cigarette lighters on a box. A sodden handwritten
       sign reads: ‘5 LIGHTERS £1’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (eyeing the sign, without malice)
                 Is there really a living in this?
 
       The young guy looks back at him, vexed, looks away...
       Blowing the smoke from his cigarette, Lombard eyes him, confused,
       then turns away to... A TRAMP rummaging through a bin...
 

       INT. LEON’S FLAT, SITTING ROOM. DAY.
 
       Lombard is listening to the messages again...
 
                             ANSWERING MACHINE
                 MRS SPITZ: ... in London next week and I
                 hope to hear from you before then - beep.
                 WELSH GIRL: I, er, I tried to reach you at
                 work but Phil said you’d left... I hope
                 you - I hope everything’s all right - long
                 beep. Rewind.
 
       Lombard picks up the receiver, is about to dial, changes his mind,
       presses the LAST RECALL BUTTON.  A few rings... No answer. He
       DIALS... 1-4-7-1...
 
                          PHONE COMPUTERIZED VOICE
                 Call box number 01766 770 471 called on
                 Thursday the 9th of Novem...
 
       He hangs up, peers out the window... a flicker of thought...
 

       INT. LEON’S DARKROOM. DAY.
 
       A RINGING TONE. Lombard is on the wall-mounted phone, waiting, his
       eyes on... THE NUMBERS SCRAWLED ON THE WALL: Amongst a few London
       numbers, several six digit numbers, WITH THE CODE 01766...
 
       No answer.  He redials... After a few rings a little girl’s voice: 
 
                            LITTLE GIRL #1 (OS)
                 Hello?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Hello. Who is this?
                   (A giggle... whispers... several girls
                    giggling; Lombard frowns...)
                 Hello? Can I speak to your mother?
 
                            LITTLE GIRL #1 (OS)
                   (suppressing giggles)
                 You have reached the wrong number... This
                 is the speaking sheep. At the third baa it
                 will be time to have a pee - baa, baa,
                 baa!
                   (roars of girlish laughter)
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Listen you...
 
                            LITTLE GIRL #2 (OS)
                   (speaking very fast, laughing)
                 This is the speaking sheep. At the third
                 baa it will be time for a pooh - baa, baa,
                 baa!
                   (she laughs and hangs up)
 
       IN ON Lombard staring at the handset, incensed; he dials again.
 
                     DIRECTORY ENQUIRIES OPERATOR (OS)
                 Directory enquiries. Can I help you?
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Yes. I’m trying to reach a friend but I
                 can’t get through. The number is 01766 770
                 471.
 
                     DIRECTORY ENQUIRIES OPERATOR (OS)
                 01766 770 471. Let me check it for you,
                 sir.
 
       Waiting, Lombard takes out a pen, reaches for a CONTACT SHEET,
       absent- mindedly scans it... STROLLERS IN A PARK... He flips it
       round as:
 
                     DIRECTORY ENQUIRIES OPERATOR (OS)
                 There’s nothing wrong with the line, sir.
                 Are you sure you have the right number?
                 770 471 is the number of a call box.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 A call box? That’s odd. Where exactly?
 
                     DIRECTORY ENQUIRIES OPERATOR (OS)
                 Penrhyndeudraeth, North Wales.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Can you tell me how you spell...
 

       INT. STATIONARY TRIUMPH OUTSIDE LEON’S FLAT. DAY.
 
       RAIN DRUMS ON THE CAR.  Lombard scans a road map...
       IN ON A ROAD MAP: up along the M1... onto the M6...blue lines
       snaking... move to another page... M54... A5... And on until...
 

       EXT. WELSH ROAD. AFTERNOON.
 
       Rain: A road sign: ‘PENRHYNDEUDRAETH’... The Triumph speeds
       past...
 

       EXT. PENRHYNDEUDRAETH, MAIN SQUARE. DAY.
 
       His back to a red phone box, Lombard scrutinizes... The village
       square: police station, Post Office, Pub, ‘Spar’ grocer....  It’s
       quaint, quiet and dull.
 

       INT. SPAR GROCER. DAY.
 
       A couple of CUSTOMERS (country housewife types).  Lombard is
       talking to the GROCER (red-faced, lovable type)...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 ... She sold me a couple of chairs in
                 London and I’ve come to collect the
                 matching pair. Unfortunately, I seem to
                 have mislaid her address. She’s small,
                 blond, attractive. I think she drives a
                 Transit van...
 
                              LADY SHOPPER 
                   (cutting in behind him; Welsh accent)
                 Rhian Gelli is the one he must be looking
                 for...
 

       EXT. SMALL COUNTRY ROAD. AFTERNOON.
 
       The rain has stopped.  No houses in sight.  The Triumph crosses a
       small bridge... pulls over by a cattle grid leading to A DIRT
       TRACK along a river...
      
       INT. TRIUMPH.  Lombard checks a roughly drawn map on a paper
       bag...
      
       EXT. The TRIUMPH bounces through puddles along the TRACK...comes
       to...
       A SMALL CLEARING; A battered blue TRANSIT VAN stands there, alone.
      
       INT. TRIUMPH.  Lombard parks by the Transit... lights a cigarette,
       eyeing... 
       Up ahead, A FOOTPATH WINDS UP RIVER INTO THE WILDS...
 

       EXT. FOOTPATH. AFTERNOON.
 
       UNDER DRIPPING TREES, Lombard walks along the footpath...
       reaches...
 

       EXT. RHIAN’S COTTAGE. AFTERNOON.
 
       The bottom of a field with grazing sheep leading to a STONE
       COTTAGE, smoke rising from its chimney.  Out front RHIAN (in
       gumboots) splits logs with an axe.  An Asian boy, SHIVA, about 10,
       and a blond girl, CARYS, about 6, play football near her.
       Lombard stops, observes them... starts upfield...
       IN ON the Asian boy; he spots Lombard, FREEZES WITH DEAD EYES.
       IN ON the blond girl; she turns to Lombard; cries out to...
       IN ON Rhian; she follows the girls gaze... DREAD IN HER EYES...
       IN ON Lombard; he stops, frowns as...
       Yelling in WELSH, Rhian herds the two children into the cottage... 
       Lombard peers at the empty field for a moment, flicks his
       cigarette away and resumes walking... He stops again, STIFF.
       Rhian is back, heading his way, holding a DOUBLE-BARREL SHOTGUN.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 This is private property. The public
                 footpath is back to the left of the
                 bridge.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                   (as she stops ten yards from him)
                 How are you, Rhian?
 
       IN ON Rhian; something’s wrong... She dithers... RAISES THE
       SHOTGUN...
 
                                   RHIAN
                 On-on the ground! Lie down on the ground!
 
       Lombard scowls.  She FIRES ABOVE HIS HEAD.  He ducks... glares...
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Lie down on the ground, I said!
 
       Lombard reluctantly kneels down on the wet grass, hands up...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It’s wet. Will this do?
 
                                   RHIAN
                   (a beat as she hesitates)
                 Where’s your wallet? Have you got a
                 wallet?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is this some kind of mugging? Because...
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Shut up! Where’s your wallet?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 In my jacket. Left inside pocket.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Reach for it and throw it to me. And... My
                 finger’s on the trigger, you hear!
 
       Lombard groans, reaches for his wallet, tosses it to her...  She
       picks it up and, struggling to keep the shotgun on him, searches
       it... 
 
       A FRENCH DRIVING LICENCE, BUSINESS CARD... She frowns, reading:
                   “XAVIER LOMBARD, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR...”
 
                                   RHIAN
                 A private investigator... You’re not
                 Austrian?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Should I be?
 
                                   RHIAN
                   (she tosses his wallet back)
                 What’s a French private investigator doing
                 here?
 
                                 LOMBARD
                   (reaching for his wallet)
                 Can I get up now?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 No! What do you want here? How do you know
                 me?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 As you know from speaking to Phil, your
                 friend Leon has disappeared, Rhian. His
                 family have hired me to find him.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 ...Leon’s not here. How did you get here?
                 Phil doesn’t know where I live.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well, I obviously do. And I also know that
                 Leon’s not here, Rhian. But I thought that
                 you might know where I should look for
                 him.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 You thought wrong. I haven’t seen Leon for
                 months.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Haven’t you? Then why the worried messages
                 on his answering machine, Rhian? I’d have
                 sworn you expect him to be in trouble.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 You-you’re wrong. I just called to ask if
                 I could stay with him next time I’m in
                 London. That’s all.
 
       Lombard peers at her.  She looks away, uneasy... He pockets his
       wallet.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well, since you have a gun, I’ll take your
                 word for it. Now, I’m going to stand up
                 and quietly return to my car, all right?
 
       Rhian stays silent... He gets to his feet and, with a pissed-off
       frown, inspects his wet trouser legs, sweeps the dirt from them,
       saying:
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 By the way. Does your friend Leon employ a
                 cleaner? His flat seems remarkably clean,
                 for a single man suspected of being back
                 on drugs.
 
       He peers at her... She stares, too perturbed to speak... He looks
       down again...  
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Never mind. You were my best hope of
                 locating him, so I guess I’m now out of a
                 job. I expect his family will relay my
                 findings to the police.
                   (he turns to her again... grins)
                 I trust you have a shotgun licence. My
                 apologies forsounding Austrian. Goodbye,
                 Rhian.
 
       He turns and starts walking away, pulling his Gitanes from his
       pocket...
 
                                RHIAN (OS)
                 Wait... 
 
       Lombard stops, turns back...  IN ON Rhian; SHE IS CRYING,
       softly...
 

       INT. RHIAN’S COTTAGE, FIRST FLOOR LANDING. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard stands behind... Rhian leans against a closed door, calls
       IN WELSH:
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Carys? Tell Shiva not to be scared. The
                 man’s not going to come in, all right?
                   (she stares at Lombard, takes a deep
                    breath, opens the door and moves
                    aside)
                 My daughter Carys and her friend Shiva, Mr
                 Lombard.
 
       Lombard looks into...
      
       A CHILDREN’S BEDROOM: deep inside, Carys stands protectively in
       front of Shiva, her arms hugging him behind her, sullen eyes on
       Lombard.  Shiva, much taller, cowers behind her, DEAD-EYED.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Shiva doesn’t speak English so we don’t
                 know where he’s from or what his name is.
                 But we have to call him something, so
                 Shiva it is.
                   (a beat; she goes on, in bursts)
                 He cost £15,000. Leon bought him. From an
                 Austrian who sells children to perverts.
                 Aren’t you glad you came, Mr Lombard?
 
       IN ON Lombard; a puzzled frown... He turns to...
       Rhian, lips trembling, through her tears, she eyes him
       defiantly...
 
                                   RHIAN
                 What are you going to do now? Call the
                 police?  Take him away? I must warn you
                 he’s terrified of men, so... 
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Shut up!
 
       Lombard turns to the children again... SMILES REASSURINGLY...
 

       INT. RHIAN’S LIVING ROOM. AFTERNOON.
 
       Cave-like but welcoming.  SOUND OF CHILDREN PLAYING UPSTAIRS. 
       Lombard sits by a log fire, sombre, smoking, a cup in his hand,
       eyeing...
       Rhian, on the edge of an armchair, clasping a tea-mug, fighting
       tears - beautiful with fire-light reflected in her tearful eyes...
 
                                   RHIAN
                 ... I thought I’d call the social services
                 but... He took to my daughter, started to
                 come out of his shell, so... He needs
                 care. They don’t...
                   (a beat, she sighs)
                 Anyway, that’s all I know. Six weeks ago
                 Leon turned up with Shiva, said he bought
                 him in London from an Austrian, gave me
                 £3,000 for his keep and left saying he was
                 going to try to rescue another child...
                 Apparently, there’s plenty more where
                 Shiva came from.
 
       Lombard scrutinizes her... He drinks - she has a heavy heart,
       needs time, no point in harassing her.  His eyes roam the walls...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Leon’s?
 
       She follows his gaze to... A B&amp;W PORTRAIT of her - it’s pleasant,
       sensual even, unlike Leon’s other work... She nods.  He smiles. 
       She looks away. 
 
                                   RHIAN
                 We didn’t quite make it as lovers... Leon
                 is a good man, though...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Did Leon tell you why he didn’t want the
                 police involved, Rhian?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 He just said he had good reasons.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good reasons?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 That’s what he said. I tried to dissuade
                 him... Told him I couldn’t take on another
                 child, that he’d get into trouble... I
                 mean, people who sell children... But he
                 wasn’t listening... I guess he finally
                 found himself a crusade... His family
                 think he’s back on drugs, eh?
                   (off Lombard’s smile: ‘I’m afraid so’)
                 Huh... Leon did drugs. A lot of drugs.
                 Went through his self-destruct phase, you
                 know?  Things to come to terms with.
                 Demons to fight... Some people’s minds are
                 gloriously uncomplicated. Not Leon’s. He
                 did beat the drug, though. He did.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 His mother would be pleased to hear that.
 
                                  RHIAN
                 Yeah... But he didn’t beat the demons...
                   (off Lombard’s look)
                 A quarter of all the shoes sold in Europe
                 are made by or retailed through his
                 parent’s leather empire. All started from
                 a small shop in the East End of London and
                 war reparation money for holocaust
                 victims.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m afraid I don’t understand.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 They’re German Jews. Came here before the
                 war. They both lost all their families in
                 extermination camps, but they themselves
                 never went near one. The idea that his
                 family wealth was started with money he
                 believes should have gone to camp
                 survivors has been haunting Leon. It’s not
                 guilt, more of a curse...
                   (a beat)
                 And then there’s something about his
                 parents being involved with Nazi
                 hunters... But I think that’s just one of
                 Leon’s dark delusions...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, thoughtful)
                 Do you know Leon’s parents names?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Albert... Albert and Ethel. Why?
 
       Lombard stays silent... CHILDISH LAUGHTER from upstairs...  Rhian
       glances up, down again, sends out a tense sigh, turns to Lombard
       and looks away again, gently drying her tears on her sleeve.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 What happens now, eh? 
 
       Lombard drags his cigarette, flicks it into the fire, pensive...
 
                                  LOMBARD
       Who else knows about the boy?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 My sister... She lives in the next valley.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is she on the phone?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Yes...You-you’re not going to take Shiva
                 away?
 
       Lombard takes out his wallet and a pen, finds his card and holds
       it out to her.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I can’t think of a good reason for it -
                 for now anyway. My number if anything
                 happens. What’s your sister’s number?
 
                                   RHIAN
                   (incredulous, reaching for the card)
                 Oh, I... She just moved. I’ve got her
                 new... It’s in my book in the kitchen.
                 Wait... Thank you.
 
       Lombard watches her hurry out... He sighs, scans the room, rests
       his gaze on... Rhian’s shotgun against a wall... and stands,
       pocketing his wallet and pen...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 And you better stop greeting strangers
                 with a shotgun. If Leon’s Austrian was
                 looking for you I reckon he’d have found
                 you before I did.
 
                                  RHIAN
                 I’m sorry. It’s just you don’t look
                 local...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No sick people in the country, huh?...
                 Just tell me one thing, Rhian. Leon’s
                 story about the boy? You just took his
                 word for it?
 
                                   RHIAN
                   (staring at him from the kitchen
                    doorway)
                 He’d come prepared. He had something
                 besides Shiva... ‘Sleeping Beauty’. The
                 Disney film...
                   (a beat, off his look)
                 Well, it looked like the Disney film. It
                 was something else. I couldn’t watch...
 
       IN ON Lombard; a thoughtful frown...
 

       EXT. PENRHYNDEUDRAETH, MAIN SQUARE. DUSK.
 
       Lombard is in the phone box, his Triumph parked beside it.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Moreau? Laurent... Yeah. And you?... Good.
                 Listen, I wonder if you could check some
                 people in the computer... Yes, again... 
                 No, they’re new clients of mine, Albert
                 and...
                   (an approaching car drowns his words)
 

       INT. LEON’S FLAT, SITTING ROOM. EVENING.
 
       Lombard reaches for the ‘SLEEPING BEAUTY’ video box from the
       shelf... It looks like the real thing... He opens it, pulls the
       tape out...
       IN ON... Lombard turns it over in his hands; it is properly
       labelled...
       He slots it into the VCR, presses PLAY...  The arrow lights up...
       A CLUNK...
 
       IN ON THE TV SCREEN: A LITTLE GIRL’S HEAD ON A PILLOW, ASLEEP...
       CUT TO: TWO MEN LAUGHING AT A RESTAURANT TABLE. THEIR DIALOGUE, IN
       STIFF DUBBED ENGLISH: “Renatta assures me she’s got something
       special in store for us this weekend.” “Well, after last time
       there can only be one thing: the perfect love machine, ha-ha...”
 

       INT. A BRASSERIE, SOHO. NIGHT.
       Lombard stands in the doorway, eyes searching... A late night hang
       out; tired, lonely people, whispered conversations... NATHALIE
       (young, elegant, very French) sits at a table over a coffee,
       reading a “Le Monde”, smoking...
 
       Lombard settles opposite her.  She looks up, eyeballs him,
       deadpan.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 You look like shit, Xavier.
 
       IN ON Lombard; HE DOES, THERE IS ANGER IN HIS EYES.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Comment vas-tu, Nathalie?
 
       Nathalie just stares; a lot of things flow between their eyes,
       things they don’t need to speak about.  She frowns...
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Qu’est-ce que tu veux?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Un Autrichien. Negociant en pré-
                 pubescents.
 
       Nathalie raises her brows, sneers, turns back to her newspaper.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Les histoires d’enfants ne m’intéressent
                 pas, Xavier.
 
       Lombard grins - he knew she was going to say something like that.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What’s an hour of your time worth these
                 days, Nathalie?
                   (she looks up again, softly blows out
                    smoke)
                 Combien, Nathalie!
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Cinq cents.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Viens.
 
       As Lombard stands, Nathalie looks beyond him...  He looks back,
       sees...
       IN THE DOORWAY: TWO MEN (middle-aged, well-groomed) stand
       searching the room.  On seeing Nathalie one of them beams.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 J’ai bien peur qu’il te faudra attendre.
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘When?’)
                 Pas avant la matinée.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Tu sais où me trouver.
 
       Lombard turns and makes for the door, SCOWLING AT THE TWO MEN now
       making for Nathalie’s table... “Michelle! Long time no see, ha-
       ha...”
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S OFFICE. MORNING.
 
       Lombard, asleep, slumped at his desk, head on the table between a
       glass, a bottle of Cognac, the ‘Disney’ tape, a wad of £50 notes.
       BANG! A red folder hits the desk.  Lombard starts, sits up, bleary-
       eyed...  Jane (coat, handbag) gazes at him, frowning.
 
                                   JANE
                 Your door was open. This... This women was
                 downstairs, ringing your bell.
 
       Lombard looks past her... Nathalie is in the doorway, a laconic
       smile on her lips...  Their eyes lock... Silence... Jane waits,
       then, indicating the red folder:
 
                                   JANE
                 Your accounts. They just need your
                 signature. I’ve got to go to work.
                 Goodbye.
 
       And she edges her way to the door... IN ON Jane as she passes
       Nathalie; threatened, searching eyes... IN ON Nathalie; a smirk.
 
                                 NATHALIE
       Bye. And thanks...
       Nathalie gently closes the door, eyes Lombard who shakes himself
       awake... rolls her eyes and surveys the room...
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Où est passé ton salon?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Mon bureau coûtait trop cher.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Eh bien... T’es sûr que t’as besoin de
                 moi?
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘What?’)
                 La petite m’a l’air assez bien foutue,
                 non?
 
       Lombard frowns, grabs the £50 notes and videotape from his desk
       and starts across the room...  Barely stopping, he grabs her hand
       and pushes the money into it, then goes on towards the kitchen.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Café?
 
                                                            CUT TO:
 
       Lombard leans against the window, smoking, a coffee in his hands,
       eyeing...
       Through the kitchen doorway: Nathalie sits at the table, smoking,
       watching the TV screen above the fridge...
       IN ON her profile; her eyebrows twitch, her cheek muscles tense...
       IN ON Lombard; quiet satisfaction in his eyes...
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S KITCHEN. MORNING.
 
       He switches the TV off, turns to Nathalie... She gazes at the
       ‘Sleeping Beauty’ box on the table, her hand trembling just a
       little as she lights a new cigarette.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Alors?
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Alors quoi?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Le montage, l’emballage. Not your regular
                 street muck, is it? This is collectors’
                 stuff. How much would it cost me?
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 A l’achat, trois ou quatre mille. En
                 location, cinq cent. Mais ça pourrait
                 faire plus. Je ne sais pas. C’est pas
                 vraiment mon truc.
                   (off his look: ‘And...?’)
                 I don’t know any Austrian, Xavier.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 But maybe you know someone who does. An
                 Austrian, in London, dealing in kids and
                 snuff videos. How many can there be? These
                 people supply to order. He has to be
                 known, reachable.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Then why don’t you reach him?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I don’t have your credentials, Nathalie.
 
       He looks hard into her eyes...  She looks back, coldly, then takes
       a drag from her cigarette, eyes on the video box again... She
       looks up, sneers, then grins:
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Can you afford a room in a proper hotel?
                   (off his look)
                 It will look better. I also need more
                 money; five hundred in an envelope and the
                 same again for my time.
 

       INT. WEST END NIGHTCLUB. NIGHT.
 
       LOUD MUSIC.  Happy groups around tables... Sweaty people writhing
       on the dance floor... Couples snogging... We FIND...
       At a table near the bar: Lombard sits, smoking, watching as...
       Nathalie works her way across the room to a table where a MIDDLE-
       AGED MAN (suit) and a YOUNG WOMAN (a prostitute) sit.  The man
       eyes Nathalie, grins, signals the young woman... She scowls at
       Nathalie, stands and makes for the bar.  Nathalie sits, pulls an
       envelope from her handbag and puts it in front of the man as...
       Passing Lombard’s table, the young woman turns, stops, smiles,
       steps towards him.  He smiles, politely...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m afraid I’m otherwise engaged.
 

       EXT. WEST END NIGHTCLUB/PICCADILLY CIRCUS. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard and Nathalie emerge from the club... walk into the dark...
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 You’re a trustworthy sicko of mine who’s
                 heard only good things about the
                 Austrian’s products and doesn’t want
                 anything else. He claims not to know of
                 any Austrian but he’ll call around.
                 There’s no refund if he fails to deliver.
                 You should get a call tonight.
 
       They go on walking in heavy silence...  reach PICCADILLY CIRCUS.
       Nathalie stops, flags down a BLACK TAXICAB.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is he your pimp?
 
       She looks straight into his eyes.  He smiles, sadly, as the cab
       pulls up beside them and the CAB DRIVER opens his window.
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 We are so alike, Xavier. Still, sometimes
                 I wonder which one of us is the ugliest.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, opening the cab door)
                 If you can, send me a receipt.
 
       Nathalie smirks, gets into the cab, says to the driver:
 
                                 NATHALIE
                 Clarence Square. And hurry, I’m late.
 
       Lombard shuts the door and the cab pulls away... 
       He stands for a moment, gazing at... EROS, silhouetted against
       neon; homeless youths on the steps around it... He turns away,
       down Piccadilly, towards...
      
       ‘LE MERIDIAN’ HOTEL, glistening expensively in the dark night...
 

       INT. LE MERIDIAN, ROOM 142. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard lies on the bed, shoes and jacket off, the phone on his
       chest, dialling.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Moreau? C’est moi. Alors...
 
                               MOREAU (O.S.)
                 Salut, Laurent. Ouais. It wasn’t easy but
                 I got what you wanted through Interpol.
                 Say, what’s your business with these
                 Spitzes?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 They lost their son. Why?
 
                                MOREAU (OS)
                 It appears that in their younger days they
                 were actively involved with a shady German
 
                 group of Nazi hunters known as “Never
                 Forget”. Over the years we’re talking
                 about a dozen or so execution-type
                 killings.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Are they still operative?
 
                                MOREAU (OS)
                 Their last suspected kill occurred two
                 years back, though your Spitzes now
                 probably do no more than bankroll the
                 group. Still, I’d watch my step. These
                 people are well-connected, Laurent; former
                 Israeli prime minister, etc. The lady’s
                 also president of an international Zionist
                 organisation... Anyway, you get the
                 picture.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Mossad?
 
                                MOREAU (OS)
                 It’s a good guess...
 
       Lombard frowns... Mutters a ‘Thanks, Moreau’... and replaces the
       handset, thoughtful...  The phone RINGS almost immediately. He
       picks it up: ‘Hello?’.
 
                                MAN (O.S.)
                 I met your friend earlier. You got a pen?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (grabbing a pen from the bedside
                    table)
                 Go ahead.
 
                                 MAN (OS)
                 You want Mr Friedman - 0171 435 6268. Say
                 you’re calling about the puppies.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Friedman - 0171 435 6268. The puppies...?
 
                                MAN (O.S.)
                 Yeah. You saw the ad at George’s, alright.
 
       The man has gone.  Lombard dials... A few rings... a woman
       answers, ‘Hello?’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Can I speak to Mr Friedman?
 
       A few clicks, as if the line is being diverted... a few rings...
       then AN OLD MAN’S VOICE, with a GERMAN ACCENT: ‘Yes?’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m calling about the puppies.
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                   (silence, then:)
                 Have we done business before?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I saw the ad at George’s.
                   (no reply)
                 I’m passing through town and I’m in a
                 hurry.
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 May I have your phone number?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why?
 
                              FRIEDMAN (O.S.)
                 This is a bad line.
 
                                                            CUT TO:
 
       Lombard sits on the edge of the bed, lighting a Gitane, the phone
       on his lap.  It rings.  He answers: “Yes?”
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 What sort of puppy are you looking for?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What sort have you got?
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Pups. Bitches. From three to twelve
                 months.  Trained and untrained ones. White
                 and brown ones. You understand?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, voice calm)
                 Yeah.
 
                              FRIEDMAN  (OS)
                 We also provide 24-hour after-sale
                 service. Were the puppy to fall sick or
                 accidently die, we would unburden you, you
                 understand?
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Yes... Good, good...
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 So, what are you looking for?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about an untrained pup, white...
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 How much of a hurry are you in?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Tomorrow?
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 I’m afraid the only pups currently
                 available at such notice are brown and
                 trained. But they are all very cheerful
                 and have been thoroughly checked for
                 diseases...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I see. How much?
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Fifteen for a straight delivery. Twenty
                 with the provision of a safe place.
                 Visitors tend to find the second option
                 more convenient.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 ... Fine. I’ll go for the safe place.
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Have the money ready by 11am. We’ll call
                 you. 
 
       Lombard puts the receiver down, checks...  HIS WATCH: 00:10...
 

       INT. DE MORAES DRAWING ROOM. NIGHT.
 
       The butler, in his dressing gown, waits in the open doorway
       wearily watching...
       Lombard, holding a briefcase, stands staring into the cold
       fireplace...
       Deborah - clinging robe, eyes puffy with sleep but still made up
       (she’s clearly been drinking) - comes in past the butler (who
       closes the door behind her), glowers at Lombard and makes for the
       sofa.  In a croaking voice:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I won’t comment on the time but you’ll
                 understand if I don’t tell you to sit
                 down. Now, spare me the apology and get to
                 the point, will you, Mr Lombard.
                   (she sits down and lights a cigarette)
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr De Moraes.
                 I have reason to believe your brother’s in
                 trouble.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 For your information, Mr Lombard, trouble
                 is possibly the one thing Leon is capable
                 of getting into all by himself. Though I
                 doubt he will not ultimately fail even at
                 that.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (smiles, sighs, retaliates:)
                 I don’t know. He seems to delight in so
                 much sisterly love, he might become
                 determined.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Oh-oh! Touché, Mr Lombard! But tell me,
                 what would you know about sisterly love,
                 eh?
                   (a beat, with an icy glare)
                 No. Don’t. You might get confused speaking
                 of things you don’t understand and we need
                 you clear- headed, at least until you’ve
                 done what we are paying you for.
 
                                 LOMBARD 
                 Now you are confusing me, Mrs De Moraes.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Can it be that easy?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Can it be that you want your brother
                 found?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Anything is possible.
 
       Lombard peers at her... chooses not to bother... He opens his
       briefcase... throws ‘SLEEPING BEAUTY’ onto the low table in front
       of her:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I found this at your brother’s.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (she glances at the cover, then:)
                 Disney! How inter...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It’s a snuff movie. Prime paedophile
                 material. I’m told it retails at around
                 £4,000.
                   (as Deborah frowns at the tape, rigid)
                 I see you don’t require a definition.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You... You found that at Leon’s?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 There’s more. Your brother also purchased
                 a young boy for £15,000.
 
       Deborah looks back at him, confounded... LOST FOR WORDS for once.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You seem surprised. Could it be you don’t
                 think that badly of him after all?
                   (off her silence)
                 You needn’t worry. It seems his motives
                 were pure. From what I can make out he
                 bought the boy to rescue him from further
                 abuse.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 What... What are you talking about?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Your brother got mixed up with child
                 procurers  and tried to make this world a
                 better place, Mrs De Moraes. And having
                 rescued one little life he unwisely set
                 out to repeat the exercise.
                   (a beat)
                 You don’t mess around with child
                 procurers. Right now my guess is he’s
                 either on the run, held captive, or dead.
                   (off her horrified frown)
                 I understand your misgivings, Mrs De
                 Moraes. But I’ve seen the boy and made
                 telephone contact with the man Leon bought
                 him from. If anyone knows what happened to
                 your brother it will be that man. Which
                 leads me to why I’m here at such a late
                 hour. I need £20,000, in cash, by 11 this
                 morning.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Excuse me?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I need the money to smooth my way, you
                 understand? Now, have you got that sort of
                 cash here or do we need to meet in the
                 morning?
 
       Deborah stares at him, thinking hard... her amazement turns into
       indignation... Lombard pre-empts what he thinks is coming:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I will of course do my best to hang onto
                 it.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Where is it?
                   (off his look: ‘What?’; shouting)
                 He. The boy you said my brother bought! 
                 Where is he?
 
                                 LOMBARD 
                 I can’t tell you that yet. But he’s being
                 well looked after.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Oh no. You’ll have to do better than that,
                 Mr Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (angry)
                 Look, Mrs De Moraes, however much of a let
                 down it might be, your brother’s not back
                 to his old weekend tricks! Impressionable
                 as he is, he probably grew tired of
                 healthy girls in grisly poses, tried
                 moving on to bigger things, came upon more
                 than he’d bargained for and somehow
                 fancied he could take on the real world.
                 Which he no doubt chanced upon on his way
                 to that thing now sitting on your table...
                 Have a look at it, Mrs De Moraes. I told
                 you I had bad news...
 
       Deborah scowls... Lombard waits, giving her time to calm down
       but... It seems too much for her...  She laughs nervously, looks
       at the video, shakes her head:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Not Leon...
 
       IN ON Lombard; a puzzled frown...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 How dare you...
                   (a beat, eyeing the tape again)
                 You don’t know this tape belongs to my
                 brother, do you, Mr Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The question now is whether or not your
                 brother still owns anything, Mrs De
                 Moraes.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (glaring at him)
                 No. The question now is how long it’s
                 going to take you to get out of here, Mr
                 Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Excuse me?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Get out of my house. You’re fired, Mr
                 Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (an angry frown... Then, calmly:)
                 Perhaps I should come back when you’re...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (cutting in, getting to her feet)
                 No. You’re fired! Get out of my house. And
                 take your sick tape with you...
 
       And she picks up the videotape and hurls it at him...  He ducks,
       turns to see... THE TAPE CRASH AGAINST THE WALL... turns back,
       bemused...
 
      
       Deborah now watches him in cold disdain.  She calls to the door:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Laurence!
 
                                 LOMBARD
                   (peering hard at her)
                 I was hired by your parents, Mrs De
                 Moraes.
        
 
                                 DEBORAH
                 The family hired you and I have just fired
                 you, Mr Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (long beat as he looks back at her,
                    then:)
                 Why me, Mrs De Moraes? Why should such
                 well-connected people as you hire a small-
                 time French detective to look for their
                 missing son, Mrs De Moraes?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Huh! Who do you think we are, Mr Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Couldn’t Nazi hunters do the job?
 
       Deborah sizes him up, surprised, then... To the butler in the
       doorway:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 See Mr Lombard to the door, Laurence. He
                 is leaving.
 
       Lombard peers at her, realises he won’t get anywhere now... He
       holds up a hand appealing to the butler to wait, searches his
       pockets, pulls out a ‘LE MERIDIAN’ MATCHBOOK, throws it on the
       table and turns for the door.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ll be in room 142 until 11am. Keep the
                 tape.
 

       EXT. DE MORAES DRIVEWAY. NIGHT.
 
       ‘Merde!’ In the rain, Lombard throws his briefcase into his
       Triumph.
 

       INT. LE MERIDIAN, ROOM 142. MORNING.
 
       THE EMPTY BRIEFCASE OPEN on the undisturbed bed... A full ashtray
       by the phone and... Lombard leans against the window, smoking,
       staring through rain streaked glass...
       BELOW: traffic and pedestrians swarming over wet Piccadilly...
 
       The phone rings.... Lombard turns and snatches it up: ‘YES?’
 
                              MAN’S VOICE (OS)
                   (with a YORKSHIRE ACCENT)
                 It’s about the puppy. You got the money? 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat, he glances at the briefcase)
                 Yeah. 
 
                              MAN’S VOICE (OS)
                 At what time will you be available?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (glancing at his watch: 11am)
                 Three o’clock. 
 
                             MAN’S VOICE (O.S.)
                 ‘Le Mercury’. Newman street. Ask for
                 Peter.
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S BANK. DAY.
 
       Lombard empties his Safety Deposit Box, pockets bundles of used
       £20 notes...
       The box is almost empty now.  Lombard looks over the remaining
       items...
       More money (mostly French)... AN OLD BLUE FRENCH PASSPORT...
 
       IN ON Lombard; hurt in his eyes...  He slams the box shut: CLANG!
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S OFFICE. DAY.
       Lombard reaches into the pebble bottom of his aquarium, pulls out
       a flat plastic- wrapped bundle... THE DOORBELL RINGS... He shakes
       the bundle dry... shoves it in a desk drawer... looks out the
       window...
       Through the rain: A BLUE ASTON MARTIN is doubleparked down below. 
 

       INT. FIRST FLOOR LANDING, LOMBARD’S FLAT. DAY.
 
       Lombard stands in his doorway, looking down into...
       The Stairwell: Deborah, looking rough, but in an attractive suit,
       climbs the stairs... She stops on the landing, silently holds out
       a Marks &amp; Spencers bag...
       Lombard takes it, glances inside: BUNDLES OF PRISTINE £50 NOTES...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I still don’t buy your story but I figured
                 it can’t do any harm to let you go on with
                 your enquiry. Besides, if you do turn out
                 to be nothing but a cheap little
                 extortioner, we could always get the right
                 people onto you. I trust you know who I am
                 talking about.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (grinning)
                 You drive a hard bargain.
 
       Deborah opens her mouth, wavers, turns and starts down the stairs.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You’ve got your money. Do your work.
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S OFFICE. DAY.
 
       Lombard at his desk, writing; over his shoulder we glimpse a few
       words: 
                  ‘Rhian... Penrhyndeudraeth... Friedman...’
 
       IN ON a wastepaper bin; the wrapping from the aquarium bundle...
       IN ON a corner of the desk; A HANDGUN AND SILENCER...
                                      
       Lombard folds the note, puts it into an envelope addressed to... 
       Deborah De Moraes... inserts this envelope into another
       envelope...
 

       INT. JANE’S FLAT. DAY.
 
       A square of floor just inside Jane’s door... an envelope is slid
       under the door - WE HOLD on the message scrawled on it:
                 ‘Dear Jane, a little favour. If I’m not
                 back by the time you leave for work
                 tomorrow please send the enclosed letter
                 by express messenger. Xavier.’
 

       EXT. WEST END STREET. AFTERNOON.
 
       HEAVY RAIN. A smart, busy street lined with restaurants and
       cafes... A black cab halts the traffic as it pulls up...
       Lombard, with his briefcase, gets out and, as the cab drives on,
       stands on the kerb, peering at...
       Across the road: ‘LE MERCURY’ restaurant - elegant facade, tinted
       windows.  A WHITE MERCEDES sits in front; inside a YOUNG DRIVER
       reads a paper.
       Lombard checks his watch: 14:52.
 

       INT. ‘LE MERCURY’. AFTERNOON.
 
       Dim lighting.  Empty tables.  A MUSCLY BARMAN in a white shirt
       polishes wine glasses... He looks up...
       Lombard stands inside the door, eyeing across the room...
       The only customer: PETER (fat, grey-hair, smart suit) looks back
       at Lombard while talking into a mobile phone, a half-eaten ice
       cream sundae of him.
 
                                  BARMAN
                 We open at six.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Peter?
 
       The barman eyeballs Lombard... nods towards Peter... Lombard sends
       him a stony grin and makes for...
       Peter, keeping his eyes on Lombard, pockets his phone and... as
       Lombard reaches his table, checks his watch.
 
                                   PETER
                 Five to three. You’re early.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Should I come back in five minutes?
 
       IN ON Peter; he scoffs... glances at the briefcase, indicates the
       seat opposite.
 
                                   PETER
                 May I offer you a drink?
 
       Lombard slips into the seat, putting the briefcase on the table.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No. I’d like to see what I’m buying.
 
       Peter raises his brows... then casually resumes eating his
       sundae...
 
                                   PETER
                 I gather we’ve done business with a friend
                 of yours?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat; then deadpan)
                 Have you?
 
                                   PETER
                   (swallowing ice-cream, perplexed)
                 The person who put us in touch seems to
                 think so.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I don’t recollect mentioning a friend.
 
       Peter swallows more ice-cream, puts his spoon down, dabs his lips
       with a napkin, reaches for the briefcase, turns it round, opens it
       just enough to look inside...  He shuts it again, turns it back to
       Lombard and lights a cigarette.
 
                                   PETER
                 Your lady friend did.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The lady’s not a friend. She’s a whore.
                   (he pauses, staring at Peter)
                 Someone at a special screening I attended
                 mentioned certain goods could be got from
                 an Austrian here in London. And not just
                 movies.
 
       Peter scrutinizes Lombard, calmly, then breaks into a smile.
 
                                   PETER
                 And while visiting our fair city you...
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘That’s right’)
                 An Austrian?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 An Austrian.
 
                                   PETER
                 An Austrian... Not much to go on, is it?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (impatiently)
                 Questions can amount to revelations. Now,
                 I’d hate to think I was made to come here
                 carrying a substantial amount of money in
                 order to be subjected to a cross-
                 examination. Mr Friedman led me to believe
                 we had a deal. Do we?
 
       Peter eyes Lombard, takes a drag from his cigarette, peering at...
       LOMBARD’S WEDDING BAND... He nods his head in agreement...
 
                                   PETER
                 Will you be alone?
                   (off Lombard’s frown: ‘What?’)
                 The merchandise. Is it just you or...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ll be alone.
 
                                   PETER
                   (a beat; he grins)
                 You must agree to be blindfolded...
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘What?’)
                 Just for the journey. It might appear
                 unseemly - you’re the paying customer -
                 but ordinarily clients come with some kind
                 of endorsement.
 
       Lombard glances at his briefcase... Peter follows his eyes...
       Lombard looks up, eyes hard... Peter gestures he is sorry but...
 

       EXT. ‘LE MERCURY’. AFTERNOON.
 
       RAIN.  Lombard gets into the back of the Mercedes...  Peter behind
       him...
 

       INT/EXT. MOVING MERCEDES/AROUND LONDON. AFTERNOON.
 
       IN ON Lombard; tight-lipped, he looks down at...
       In his hands: a deck of POLAROIDS... He shuffles them slowly...
       SIX SHOTS OF SIX YOUNG BOYS, each with a number on the top left
       corner; all aged between 7 and 11, all naked, all standing limply
       before the same dark backdrop.
       Lombard hands the polaroids to Peter without looking at him...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Number six.
 
       Peter pockets the photos, dials on his mobile...
       Lombard turns to the window to watch LONDON’S RAINY STREETS pass
       by... We HOLD on his grim face as...
 
                                PETER  (OS)
                 Number six. We’re on our way...
                   (a beat, then, to the driver)
                 Stop in a quiet spot when you can, Jack...
 
       Lombard turns...  Peter is unfolding a black hood...
       EXT.  THE MERCEDES IS STATIONARY IN A QUIET STREET...
       INT. MERCEDES.  Lombard stretches out on the floor between the
       front and rear seats, holding the hood... Peter, sitting in the
       front now, looks back...
      
       IN ON Lombard; he peers at Peter, then, as he puts the hood on:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Drive carefully...
 
       DISSOLVE TO BLACK as Lombard’s face disappears into the hood.
 

       INT. ROOM 40. AFTERNOON.
 
       IN ON Lombard (standing) as the hood is removed from his head...
 
                              MAN’S VOICE (OS)
                   (Yorkshire accent, as on phone
                    earlier)
                 I hope your journey wasn’t too unpleasant.
 
       Lombard squints in the neon light... looks down... 
       MARTIN (burly, 50s, in shirtsleeves) sits behind a table, looking
       him over.
       Lombard turns to survey... AN AUSTERE, IMPERSONAL BEDROOM...
       On a single bed a muscly GIANT in a tight suit sits FOLDING THE
       HOOD... He greets Lombard’s gaze with a stony nod and tucks the
       hood into his pocket...  Lombard turns back to Martin:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What happens now?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 We conclude our transaction.
 
       IN ON Martin; he peers at Lombard... Lombard steps forward, puts
       the briefcase on the table, opens it, swivels it towards...
       Martin looks inside, picks up a bundle of £50s, pulls one note
       out, examines it, then proceeds to transfer the rest from
       briefcase to table, saying tonelessly:
 
                                  MARTIN
                 The room’s yours for 24 hours. It’s sound-
                 proofed, stocked up with food, drink and
                 other things you might find useful. You
                 can do anything you like.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Anything at all?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Anything at all. I presume you won’t want
                 to take the boy with you when you’re
                 finished?
                   (he shuts the briefcase, pushes it
                    back towards Lombard, looks up)
                 There’s a £500 fee for disposal. The boy
                 is yours, you understand?
 
       Lombard nods, jaw clenched... Martin’s eyes linger on him...
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Vous êtes Français?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Does it matter?
 
       MARTIN scrutinizes Lombard a little longer, then motions towards
       the Giant and turns his attention back to the money.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 He’ll take you to the boy. Don’t forget
                 your briefcase.
 
       And Martin starts counting the money, his fingers expertly racing
       through the notes... Lombard turns to the giant who stands up...
 

       INT. CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON
 
       IN ON A GOLD NUMBER 40 as the door is slammed shut.
 
                                   GIANT
                 This way.
 
       And Lombard, briefcase in hand, follows the giant down a
       windowless corridor, past more doors... 41... 42... 43... until...
       DOOR NUMBER 46... “DO NOT DISTURB” on the handle...
       The giant unlocks the door with his back to Lombard who frowns
       at...
       Through the giant’s tight jacket: THE LINES OF A HOLSTER STRAP...
       The giant opens the door and steps aside to let Lombard through:
 
                                   GIANT
                 I’ll lock behind you. Pick up the intercom
                 when you’re finished or if you need
                 anything, alright?
 
       Lombard pauses, then steps into...
 

       INT. ROOM 46, INNER CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON.
 
       A narrow passage to a PADDED DOOR... Lombard waits as the outer
       door is locked... turns to the padded door, opens it... THE SOUND
       OF A BUGS BUNNY CARTOON...
 

       INT. ROOM 46. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard stands just inside the padded door, peering at...
       In an armchair: BOY NUMBER 6 (T-shirt, short trousers, plimsolls)
       looks back at Lombard, apprehensive but docile...  ‘Bugs Bunny’ is
       on the TV in front of him.  Lombard raises his voice above the TV:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Do you speak English?
                   (the boy frowns)
                 Français?
 
       No reaction.  Lombard sighs... scans the room... Padded walls,
       mirrored ceiling, a huge bed, small drinks bar, a hifi, video
       player, fridge, shelves of porn videos and literature, a dark
       doorway... And the boy again, still gazing at him...  Lombard
       smiles, shuts the padded door and crosses to...
      
       The dark doorway: he turns on the light; A WINDOWLESS BATHROOM.
      
       He walks to the fridge... stocked with food and drinks...
       Opens a cupboard: S&amp;M paraphernalia, sex aids, aphrodisiacs,
       tranquillizers, a still camera, video camera, etc... all neatly
       stacked.
      
       He eyes the boy again... turns to the fridge, opens it, reaches
       for a chocolate bar... makes for the boy, squats and hands it to
       him with a reassuring smile...  The boy warily reaches for it.  IN
       ON Lombard as he peers with a frown into... 
      
       THE BOY’S EYES: dilated pupils - he’s obviously been sedated.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (pointing to the bathroom)
                 You go in there. In there, yes....
 
       The boy frowns, stands... docilely walks into the bathroom and out
       of sight...
       Lombard peers after him, then straightens up and follows him...
      
       THE BATHROOM: the boy stands by the bath eyeing Lombard in the
       doorway.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (pointing to a stool)
                 It’s all right, huh. You sit down. Sit.
                   (the boy timidly sits down)
                 Good. You eat your chocolate. It’s yours.
 
       He points at the chocolate in the boys hand, makes eating
       motions...  The boy doesn’t seem to want to eat...  Lombard brings
       his finger to his lips...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You stay here and be quiet, okay. Shhh...
 
       And he slowly and softly shuts the door. 
       Now Lombard switches the TV off, puts his briefcase on the bed,
       picks up the intercom and, with it wedged between his shoulder and
       ear, pulls his handgun and a silencer from his pocket and calmly
       starts screwing one onto the other.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 There’s no toilet paper.
                   (pause)
                 There’s no toilet paper.
                   (pause again)
                 Uh-huh. I’m sure. And hurry, will you.
 
                                                            CUT TO:
 
       Lombard stands behind the open padded door, gun at the ready, a
       cigarette between his lips, listening... The outer door is being
       unlocked... slams shut... footsteps... The giant steps in with a
       pack of toilet rolls: ‘Here’s the...’
       Lombard sticks the gun into the nape of his neck and kicks the
       door shut.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 On the bed!
 
                                   GIANT
                   (bemused, turning)
                 What...?
 
       Lombard whacks him across the face with the gun, shoves him
       hard... The giant drops the toilet rolls, stumbles back onto the
       edge of the bed... He puts his hands to his face, takes them away -
       they’re red with blood from his nose.
 
                                   GIANT
                 Jesus...
 
       He starts to rise, furious, reaching under his jacket...  Lombard
       sends him back down with another crack across the face...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where is the Austrian?
 
                                   GIANT
                 You... Fuck you!
 
       Lombard aims at one of the giant’s knees, SHOOTS...  THE GIANT’S
       LEG JERKS, FALLS STILL... The giant gapes at his knee.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You’re not playing with little boys now,
                 scumbag. Where is the Austrian?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Jee... Fuck... You’re fucking mad!
 
       Lombard SHOOTS HIS OTHER KNEE... Stunned - though still showing no
       pain - the giant gapes at the blood cascading onto his polished
       shoes... looks up:
 
                                   GIANT
                 Who are you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (aiming the gun at the giant’s crotch)
                 Where is the Austrian? Is Friedman the
                 Austrian?
 
                                   GIANT
                   (grabbing his crotch)
                 Yes. Friedman’s the fuckin’ Austrian!
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where is he?
 
                                   GIANT
                 I don’t know. He’s gone!
                   (Lombard slaps him)
                 He’s gone. I don’t fucking know where, I
                 swear... He’s gone. On holiday...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 ...On holiday?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Yeah... This morning. He left this fucking
                 bloody morning... Jesus, man, my knees...
 
       And the giant begins to sob with his trembling hands suspended in
       mid-air above his knees...  Lombard watches him, thoughtful, then:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Who’s the money man?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Who?
                   (Lombard aims at his crotch again)
                 Martin... He’s Martin...
 
       Lombard pulls out the SNAPSHOT OF LEON - with Rhian torn off, only
       her arm around Leon’s waist visible.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Ever seen him before?
 
                                   GIANT
                   (he peers at the snapshot)
                 No... No...
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘Are you sure?’)
                 I swear...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What’s this place? A hotel of some kind?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Yeah... The Diplomat.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where?
 
                                   GIANT
                 What?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where are we?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Finsbury Park. We’re in Finsbury Park.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where are the kids?
 
                                   GIANT
                 What kids?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 There were six on offer, you scumbag.
                 Where are the other five?
 
                                   GIANT
                 I don’t know...
                   (Lombard whacks him across the face)
                 This is just a delivery place, man! I
                 swear I don’t know where the kids are... I
                 work for Martin, that’s all. Martin knows.
                 He works for Friedman. He knows...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 And who does Friedman work for?
 
                                   GIANT
                 The company. We all work for the company.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What company?
 
                                   GIANT
                 I don’t know. I don’t know, man. I don’t
                 even know Friedman that well... I...
                   (he stares at his bloody knees again)
                 Man, you’ve got to get me out of here...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How many of you scumbags are here?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Just me...
                   (off Lombard’s look)
                 Martin’s gone back to the Ambassador.
                 Look...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What’s the Ambassador?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Another hotel. Down the road. Martin lives
                 there. He took your money. He’s got a
                 safe... 
                   (staring at his bleeing knees again)
                 I need a doctor...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about the staff?
                   (off the giant’s look:’What about
                    them?’)
                 They’re in on what’s going on, aren’t
                 they?  How many of them?
 
                                   GIANT
                 F-five. The Wilsons and their three kids.
                 They run the place. Look, man, I’ve got to
                 get to...
 
       Lombard knocks him out with a gun blow to the back of the head...
 

       INT. CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON.
 
       ROOM 40... Gun at the ready, Lombard knocks at the door... No
       answer.  He tries the handle; it’s locked...  He frowns, thinks,
       turns towards...
 

       INT. SEQUENCE. STAIRWELL/CORRIDORS. AFTERNOON.
 
       Stairwell. Lombard hurries down the stairs, hand gripping his gun,
       reaches...
       A SIGN: ‘SECOND FLOOR’...  DULL SOUND OF TELEVISION from behind a
       door.  Lombard goes on down the stairs... ‘FIRST FLOOR’... VOICES
       drift up from the lobby... Lombard listens... The voice of a YOUNG
       GIRL is drowned by a loud DRUNK IRISH MAN...: ‘Because I’m telling
       you, woman. I’ll be home next Sunday...’  Lombard turns, looks
       back along...
       The corridor: at the end, A WINDOW shows cold twilight... He makes
       for it...
       THROUGH THE WINDOW: in heavy rain, cars crawl in their headlights
       along the dark expanse of FINSBURY PARK...
 

       INT. ROOM 46. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard squats over the groaning giant (now tied to a radiator, A
       POOL OF BLOOD around his legs), searching him...  He tosses the
       giant’s gun away, disregards his wallet, mobile phone... finds THE
       ROOM KEY - pockets it - and KEYS ON A BMW KEYRING. He examines
       them... pockets them... stands, kicks the giant...
       The giant groans... opens dazed eyes to see... LOMBARD’S SHOES
       STANDING ON THE BLOOD SOAKED CARPET... 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What colour is your car?
                   (off the giant’s dazed look: ‘Huh?’)
                 What colour is your car?
 
                                   GIANT
                 B-Black...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where is it?
 
                                   GIANT
                 Downstairs... At the front... Jesus...
 
       The giant looks up, hopefully... Lombard knocks him out again with
       the gun...
      
       THE BATHROOM: boy #6 still sits with his untouched chocolate
       bar...
 

       INT. CORRIDORS/STAIRWELLS/LOBBY. THE DIPLOMAT.
 
       IN ON LOMBARD’S BLOODY SHOE stepping onto the corridor carpet...
       STAIRWELL: Lombard, his gun in one hand - concealed beneath the
       raincoat over his arm - his briefcase and the boy’s arm in the
       other hand, hurries down the stairs towards the SOUND OF MUFFLED
       VOICES from below...
       He tugs the boy past the ‘SECOND FLOOR’ sign and on down the
       stairs...
       SOUND OF A DOOR OPENING and LAUGHTER below... Lombard stops,
       tightens his grip on the gun, peers over the bannister...
       FIRST FLOOR CORRIDOR: AN EMBRACING YOUNG COUPLE steps into the
       stairwell and starts slowly down, exchanging kisses and
       pleasantries...
       Lombard frowns, glances at the boy, decides to... He picks up the
       boy, sits him on his arm, and hurries down after...
       The couple... Lombard slows, follows close behind them as they
       near the lights and noise of the lobby, eyeing over their heads...
      
       AN ORDINARY 2 STAR HOTEL LOBBY.  A DRUNK leans against the wall
       with a bag at his feet...  Beyond, at THE DESK, by a flickering
       TV, a PRETTY RECEPTIONIST is giving directions to TWO MEN bent
       over an ‘A to Z’.  Further, a WOMAN shakes her wet umbrella by the
       glass front door...
       The couple skirt the drunk... Lombard follows, speeding up... He
       catches up with the couple as... The man puts his room key onto
       the desk without stopping... As the receptionist looks up and
       smiles mechanically,  Lombard hurries ahead... past the couple...
       past the umbrella girl and...
 

       EXT. THE DIPLOMAT/STREETS, FINSBURY PARK. DUSK.
       ...Out, into POURING RAIN.  Hugging the boy to him, Lombard turns
       right outside the door and hurries away... He looks back over his
       shoulder just once before... He turns the corner... Crosses the
       road... Strides past shops... Turns another corner... stops and,
       pocketing his gun, searches the street... Sees...
 

       EXT. BUS SHELTER. DUSK.
       TWO WOMEN wait for a bus... IN ON WOMAN #1: an instinctive smile
       as... IN ON WOMAN #2: a frown as... Lombard steps into the shelter
       still hugging the boy... He returns woman #1’s smile, puts the boy
       down, scrutinizes him...
       The boy stands in his plimsolls, wet and shivering, clasping his
       sodden chocolate bar to his chest, staring at the ground...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Qu’est-ce que je vais faire de toi, hein?
 
       He turns to... Woman #1’s smile has gone; she stares at the boy
       with a worried scowl... Feeling Lombard’s gaze, she looks up...
       Lombard grins, contritely:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I just found him standing all alone in the
                 rain. I’d be grateful if one of you would
                 be kind enough to take him to the local
                 police station. His parents are probably
                 looking for him.
                 Sorry. I’m in a hurry. Thank you.
 
       And he hastens away into the rain... The two women frown at each
       other...
 

       EXT. ROAD ALONG FINSBURY PARK. DUSK.
 
       Dripping wet, smoking, Lombard stands with his back to the park...
       Facing him across the street: NONDESCRIPT HOTELS - one lit up neon
       sign reads ‘THE DIPLOMAT’; another, 50 yards away: ‘THE
       AMBASSADOR’.  Lombard flicks his cigarette away towards...
       A SHINY BLACK BMW parked along the kerb...
 

       INT. LOBBY. THE AMBASSADOR. DUSK.
 
       Similar to the Diplomat. A harassed-looking MALE RECEPTIONIST
       argues over a bill with a SCOTTISH FAMILY checking out...
      
       Dripping onto the carpet, Lombard peers past the receptionist
       into...
       AN OPEN DOORWAY behind the desk: TWO FILIPINO-LOOKING WOMEN
       (raincoats, handbags) sit silently at a table over tea mugs. A
       BALD MAN (English, shirtsleeves) reads a tabloid in an armchair
       beyond them...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (curtly, interrupting the
                    receptionist)
                 Hello there. Martin around?
 
       The receptionist frowns, looks Lombard quickly up and down,
       glances at his briefcase, hesitates, then, off Lombard’s stony
       grin:
 
                             MALE RECEPTIONIST
                 Er, Mr Martin’s gone to the dentist. He
                 should be back soon.
                   (pointing to an armchair by a potted
                    plant)
                 If you want to wait...
 
       Lombard turns to...
 
       The entrance; TWO MEN (one middle-aged,coat, scarf; the other
       young, long-hair, leather jacket) walk in, wave at the
       receptionist, cross behind Lombard and the family and go through
       another door past the desk... to reappear in the room with the
       Filipino women and the bald man who, seeing them, stands up to
       close the open door, absent-mindedly peering at Lombard as he does
       so...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you. I’ll come back later.
 
       The receptionist nods and turns back to the family with a sigh...
 

       EXT. THE AMBASSADOR/FINSBURY PARK. DUSK.
 
       RAIN. A few yards from the Ambassador, Lombard shelters in a dark
       doorway, eyes searching the pavements left and right and across
       the traffic packed road... He focuses on the BURLY SILHOUETTE of a
       coated man with an umbrella heading his way... It’s not Martin...
       Turns to A VOLVO parking nearby... A woman and two children get
       out... Turns as A TAXI stops across the road...
       MARTIN - coat, gloves, scarf - gets out and starts to cross
       between cars...
 
       Lombard blocks Martin’s way as he steps onto the kerb...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How are you, Martin?
 
       IN ON Martin as he stops dead with a tight-lipped frown; his LEFT
       CHEEK IS SWOLLEN, it takes him a moment to recognise Lombard... He
       glowers, instinctively lowers his eyes to... the pocket in which
       Lombard conspicuously holds a gun... peers at his briefcase...
       Then, WITH A SLIGHT SLUR:
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Problems?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (nodding back at the Ambassador)
                 Is my money in there?
 
                                  MARTIN
                   (a beat, a bit reassured, foxy eyes
                    smiling)
                 Uh-huh. You could’ve waited for me inside.
 
       Lombard nods, gently... grins an icy grin... signals towards the
       Diplomat...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Let’s go.
 
                                  MARTIN
                   (not moving, still smiling)
                 I don’t know what your problem is, but...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Right now your big friend at the Diplomat
                 is bleeding fast, Martin. He might still
                 possibly survive if attended to soon. And
                 he did cooperate.
 
       IN ON Martin; incredulity and fear... He automatically glances at
       the Ambassador’s lit up entrance behind Lombard... Then... a
       frustrated grin...
 

       EXT. BLACK BMW NEAR DIPLOMAT, FINSBURY PARK. DUSK.
 
       Lombard shoves Martin into the BMW driver’s seat, slams the door
       shut and...
 

       INT. STATIONARY BMW, FINSBURY PARK. DUSK.
 
       Martin, pissed-off, watches Lombard settle behind him in the
       rearview mirror...
 
                                  MARTIN
                 If it’s money you want you’re making a
                 mistake.
 
       Ignoring him, Lombard opens his coat, pulls the snapshot from his
       jacket pocket, holds it out over Martin’s shoulder...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Ever seen him before?
 
       Martin squints in the semi-dark, turns, signals Lombard that he’s
       going for his inside pocket... slowly takes out spectacles, puts
       them on...
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Am I supposed to know him?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Six weeks ago. He bought a boy of yours.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Clients come and go.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 This one came back and was never seen
                 again. I understand Friedman looked after
                 him.
 
                                  MARTIN
                   (squinting at the snapshot, sceptical)
                 Huh, I doubt it...
                   (he trails off, takes his glasses
                    off...)
                 Friedman only deals directly with select
                 customers. I handle the rabble...
 
       IN ON Lombard; a frown... He pockets the snapshot...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where is Friedman?
 
                                  MARTIN
                   (eyeing Lombard in the rearview
                    mirror)
                 Look, I don’t think you’re fully aware of
                 what you’re playing with here, Mister.
                 Whoever put you up to this either pays too
                 well or misinformed you. Why don’t you
                 just tell me what it is you want so we can
                 do business in a civilized manner, eh?
 
       IN ON Lombard; his eyes darken... In one swift movement he whacks
       Martin’s swollen cheek.  Martin screams in pain... Lombard watches
       calmly as he buries his cheek in his hands, moaning... Then:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 If I were you I’d stop acting dumb and
                 narrow down my thoughts to speculating on
                 whether I’m going to kill you even if you
                 do answer my questions, Martin. Now, where
                 is Friedman?
                   (he waits for Martin’s moans to
                    subside)
                 Where is Friedman, Martin?
 
       As Martin glares ahead without answering, Lombard sticks the gun
       into the nape of his neck... “Where is...”
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Alright. Alright...
                   (nervous, he peers in the rearview
                    mirror)
                 You’re not gonna like it... Right now
                 Friedman must be landing in Los Angeles.
                 Not due back for a month.
 
       IN ON Lombard; a flicker of dismay.  Martin sees it... Sneers...
 
                                  MARTIN
                 What’ll you do now, eh? Fly to the U.S. or
                 make an appointment for next month?
 
       Lombard thinks, staring at the gun still stuck in Martin’s neck...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Friedman lives with you at the Ambassador?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 No. In Hampstead... Why?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (holding out the BMW keys)
                 Don’t jump any red lights.
 

       EXT/INT. HAVERSTOCK HILL/BMW. DUSK.
 
       Rain and heavy traffic.  The BMW climbs towards Hampstead...
       JOLTS...
 
                                  MARTIN
                 This car needs petrol.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (whacking him across the back of the
                    head)
                 Shut up and drive!
 
       The car coughs, jolts... Runs smoothly again as Martin turns into
       a level road...
 

       EXT. HAMPSTEAD RESIDENTIAL ROADS. EVENING.
 
       The BMW cruises past a few opulent houses...
       Through the rear WINDOW: IN ON Lombard peering at...
       A STREET SIGN: ‘Reddington Road, NW6’...  Lombard looks back at it
       over his shoulder as the BMW continues on and disappears around a
       corner...
 

       INT. STATIONARY BMW. EVENING
 
       The car is idling.  Martin peers across the road...
       Lombard eyes... A quaint HAMPSTEAD COTTAGE (ALARM SIREN BOX
       conspicuous on facade); the diamond-paned windows are dark, a car
       under a tarpaulin sits in the drive, A SIDE GATE visible in the
       darkness behind it...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 So this is Friedman’s... How many kids is
                 that worth, eh?
                   (a beat)
                 Pull across and park in front of the
                 drive.
 

       EXT. ROAD BY DRIVEWAY, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING. 
 
       Rain hammers onto the gun and silencer in Lombard’s hands...
       Through the BMW’s open rear window, Lombard takes aim... pulls the
       trigger: four flashes in quick succession... PHEWT, PHEWT, PHEWT,
       PHEWT...
      
       IN ON THE ALARM BOX; THUD, THUD, THUD, THUD.... Four holes, smoke,
       sparks... The LOW WHINE of a starting siren... It dies. SILENCE.
 

       INT. BMW. EVENING
 
                                  MARTIN
                 You’re out of your mind. What’s the idea?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (peering out at the nearest house; no
                    sign of life)
                 Maybe the thought of people like you going
                 on holiday bothers me. Come on, let’s
                 go...
 

       EXT. FRONT DRIVE, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       Lombard pushes Martin up the wall by the side gate...
 

       EXT. BACK GARDEN, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       CRASH... LOMBARD’S FIST (wrapped in his coat) punches out a pane
       of the FRENCH WINDOWS...  Dripping wet, Martin watches sternly...
       Now Lombard has the door open, gestures Martin inside...
 

       INT. FRIEDMAN’S DRAWING ROOM. EVENING.
 
       SILENCE, DARKNESS.  Lombard waits just inside, watching... Martin
       moves through the dark, stops, reaches for... CLICK; a chandelier
       lights up...
       Lombard scans the room... Regency furniture, oil paintings, bronze
       statuettes...  He frowns at... A PICASSO NUDE... then turns to... 
       Martin, hands in pockets, gazes grimly at the muddy footprints
       he’s left across the carpet... Lombard nods towards the Picasso...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is it real?
                   (Martin sneers)
                 You people are sick.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Huh. I’d have thought a tough guy like you
                 would know better. The sick ones are out
                 there, friend. They make up the clientèle.
                 Get rid of them and we’re out of business.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Only feeding the disease, eh, Martin?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Money talks, bullshit walks, whether you
                 like it or not.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Maybe I don’t.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Maybe you should. Think about it. Those
                 who can afford our goods do their thing
                 without upsetting anyone. Those who can’t
                 do it to kids from the streets or their
                 own family and it makes upsetting
                 headlines.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m overcome by your public-spiritedness.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Boys like the one you met today are
                 surplus. Commodities worth a handful of
                 notes in whatever arsehole of the world
                 they happen to be born into. We improve
                 some lives buying them where they’re not
                 wanted, improve still more selling them
                 where they are. Is that too hard for you?
 
       IN ON Lombard; loathing burns in his eyes.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You know what, Martin? I ought to tie you
                 down with your old arse up in the air and
                 advertise the hole in the middle of it to
                 the world. Free. And hope you never die.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Huh... I’m sure there’d be lots of takers.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Could someone have hurt you that bad?
 
       They eyeball each other... Lombard waves his gun towards a door...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Come on. Let’s find somewhere to keep you
                 out of sight.
 

       INT. KITCHEN, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       Lombard shoves Martin through a door into...  A WINDOWLESS LAUNDRY
       ROOM; Martin crashes into a washing machine... Lombard slams the
       door...
 

       INT. FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       UPSTAIRS CORRIDOR: walking, gun in hand, Lombard opens doors,
       switches on lights, glances into... 
 
       A BEDROOM: Double bed, impersonal, obviously a spare bedroom... 
 
       A BATHROOM: carpeted, antique bathtub, gold taps...
 
       A LAVATORY: Wooden toilet lid, gold toilet roll holder...
 
       THE MASTER BEDROOM: Spacious, oil landscapes, bay window... 
       Lombard steps in, frowning at... The single bed with silk spread;
       A MAN’S LEATHER SLIPPERS on the carpet, square to the bed...
       He peers into the closet... Men’s clothes and shoes, neatly
       arranged and hung...
       The bedside cabinet.  He pulls open the drawer... A handkerchief,
       neatly folded, a leather bound book... He picks it up... A BIBLE,
       IN GERMAN...
 

       INT. OFFICE, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
       Lombard sits in a swivel chair at a leather-topped desk, its
       drawers pulled open.  Lighting a Gitane he solemnly surveys...
      
       THE DESK: a mat, lamp, pen-set, three telephones in line and his
       gun, next to a pile of papers... IN ON the top sheet: a gas bill
       made out to OTTO GLUCK.
       Lombard sighs, scans the room... panelled walls, leather bound
       books and...
       Opposite the desk; AN OIL PORTRAIT OF A MAN, about 40, dark and
       handsome, sitting legs crossed before a fireplace...  Lombard
       focuses on it... frowns... sticks his cigarette between his lips
       and makes for it...
      
       IN ON the painting: beyond the man, hung above the fireplace, a
       SKETCH OF THE PICASSO NUDE FROM FRIEDMAN’S DRAWING ROOM...
       Lombard peers at the painter’s signature... illegible... The man’s
       eyes... intense and dark... He unhooks the painting, turns it
       over...
      
       In small letters on the canvas we read: “O.G.  WIEN, 1979”. 
 

       INT. KITCHEN. EVENING.
 
       With the painting and gun in one hand, Gitane in his mouth,
       Lombard unlocks the laundry room door, pushes it open, frowns and
       freezes, looking into...
      
       DARKNESS... A SCREAM.  Lombard starts, sees... MARTIN COMING AT
       HIM, face contorted in a scream...  Lombard bites on his Gitane,
       drops the painting, drops to a squat, aims and... FIRES!  Martin
       crashes hard into his shoulders, stumbles over him and Lombard
       springs up, sending him tumbling into the kitchen where...
       Martin’s body hits the floor with a loud thud.  Lombard spins
       round, trains his gun on him.  Face up, Martin lies still...
       ‘Damn...’
      
       SILENCE. Lombard waits... moves to Martin... inspects his chest:
       BLOOD GURGLES through his shirt... Martin’s face; a grin... In a
       throaty voice:
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Thought I might as well have a go. You
                 were going to bump me off anyway, weren’t
                 you?
 
       Lombard stays silent, flicks his cigarette into the sink, looks
       around, picks up the painting and holds it above Martin.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is this Friedman?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Who are you? Who are you working for, huh?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is this Friedman, Martin?
                   (Martin glances at the painting,
                    snarls)
                 Come on, scumbag. You’ve reached your sell-
                 by date. Tell me if this is Friedman,
                 where he is in Los Angeles and what name
                 he’s using?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 You’re making a mistake, tough guy.
                 Whoever he is, your guy’s not one of
                 Friedman’s...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You seem very sure about that.
 
                                  MARTIN
                 I told you... The rabble, it’s me...
                   (a beat; he looks away... distant)
                 Huh... It’s sad.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What is?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Dying without ever reaching the top...
 
       And he goes off into rasping laughter...  Lombard stares, A
       CRAZED, CRUEL GRIN on his face...  He drops the painting, gets
       hold of Martin, drags him to the wall, sits him up and rips his
       bloody shirt open as Martin dazedly protests.
       Lombard eyes his bleeding chest, looks back into his eyes... IN ON
       LOMBARD’S FIST, THROWING A PUNCH AT THE WOUND...IN ON Lombard;
       BLOOD SPLATTERS his face...IN ON Martin; eyes wide, mouth open in
       a harrowing yell...
       IN ON Lombard; a grin as he stares at Martin...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Feel the invigorating tonic of pain,
                 Martin? It’s amazing how long a dying man
                 can be kept alive. Sometimes it’s just a
                 matter of keeping his adrenalin flowing.
                 I’m going to keep yours swirling until you
                 wish you’d never turned bad.
 
       He throws another punch at the wound - more blood splatters
       Lombard, Martin becomes mute with pain - then stands, turns, opens
       kitchen drawers; another, and another, until he finds... A BONING
       KNIFE...  He turns back...
       IN ON Martin: dread... He tries to speak, can only gasp and
       stutter.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Trying to say something, Martin?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Hyatt... Friedman’s... at the Hyatt...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The Hyatt...? What’s that?
 
                                  MARTIN
                 Ho-hotel... Los Angeles... He...
 
       THE SOUND OF FAST APPROACHING POLICE SIRENS... Lombard turns,
       frowns... turns back to Martin, hesitates... picks up his gun and
       hurries to...
 

       INT. OFFICE, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       Lombard switches off the light, hurries to the window...
       BEYOND THE FRONT DRIVE: all is peace in the road as the police
       siren nears and...  A POLICE CAR SPEEDS PAST THE BMW AND AWAY...
 

       INT. KITCHEN. EVENING.
 
       IN ON Lombard: a thwarted frown as he lights a Gitane eyeing...
       Martin, eyes and mouth open, still hugging his chest... DEAD.
       Lombard turns to the wall-mounted phone by the fridge, picks it
       up, starts dialling, changes his mind...
 

       EXT/INT. BMW/STREET, FRIEDMAN’S COTTAGE. EVENING.
 
       EXT. HOWLING WIND AND RAIN, A STARTER MOTOR TURNING OVER..
       Lombard, in the BMW, trying and trying to start the engine...
       INT. Lombard gives up, scowls at... IN ON the GLOWING FUEL WARNING
       LIGHT on the dash...  He inspect his blood spattered coat, peers
       through the pouring rain to Friedman’s cottage... turns to... In
       the wet distance, the halo of a phone box... He swallows without
       parting his lips and...
       EXT. Through the deluge, Lombard strides away from Friedman’s
       cottage...
 
                              LOMBARD (V.O.)
                 It’s me. Be at my office in one hour.
 

       EXT. ESSEX ROAD. EVENING
 
       RAIN. Deborah’s Aston Martin pulls up in front of the butcher
       shop...
 

       INT. BATHROOM, LOMBARD’S FLAT. EVENING.
 
       THE HISS OF A SHOWER. THROUGH STEAM: Lombard’s wet coat and
       clothes in a heap on the floor... THE DOORBELL RINGS.
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S OFFICE. EVENING.
 
       Naked, drying his hair with a towel, Lombard buzzes the street
       door open, opens his door and makes for his desk, wrapping the
       towel around his waist...
       He’s lighting a Gitane when...  Deborah - radiant, low cut evening
       dress, fur coat - stops in the door... She looks him over,
       coldly... examines the room...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you for coming. Come in and close
                 the door, will you?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (without moving from the doorway)
                 Last night you upset my sleep. Tonight my
                 social life. We have two minutes. My
                 dinner guests are waiting.
 
       Lombard looks her over, sullen... He opens his briefcase, swivels
       it towards her and sits down, saying:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It may not look as good as yours but I
                 guess you won’t mind. The envelope
                 contains what I know. Plus the location of
                 your brother’s boy.
 
       Deborah frowns... Glances at...
       In the briefcase: the bundles of USED NOTES from Lombard’s safety
       deposit box and the envelope he’d left with Jane earlier (torn
       open)...
      
       IN ON Deborah; disquiet in her eyes... She quickly composes
       herself again...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You lost my money?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You could say that. And Friedman left this
                 morning for Los Angeles.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Who is Friedman?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The man who sold the boy to your brother.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I’m impressed. That information could have
                 cost me £20,000.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well, I found a little more than that. Let
                 me put it this way:...
                   (deliberately using her earlier
                    syntax)
                 Last night I thought your brother might be
                 dead, tonight I’m convinced he is. That
                 said, I have no evidence and I advise you
                 to let the police deal with it.
 
       Deborah peers at him... runs her eyes over his bare chest...
       focuses on... HIS SHOULDER, BADLY BRUISED (from Martin’s
       attack)...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I’m beginning to think you want my brother
                 dead, Mr Lombard. What happened? Did
                 someone frightened you?
                   (a beat, looking up into his eyes
                    again)
                 Or is the job too formidable for you?
 
       IN ON Lombard; irritation... Deborah sneers... glances at her
       watch...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 No police, Mr Lombard. You talk of strange
                 and unpleasant things. You found a
                 loathsome tape. Perhaps even a poor little
                 boy. But as yet, you’ve not found my
                 brother. When you have, we’ll ascertain
                 whether or not to contact the police and
                 break my parents’ hearts with the news
                 that their son is involved with...
                 pornographers.
                   (a beat)
                 Your Mr Friedman could shed some light on
                 the matter, you say. Well, find him.
                 Didn’t I hear you say he was in Los
                 Angeles?
 
       SILENCE. They outstare each other for a moment... Lombard runs his
       eyes over her rings, earrings, bracelets... (she’s wearing her
       wealth tonight)
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Are we understood?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You watched the tape?
                   (off her look; ‘Maybe I did.’)
                 Friedman and his people don’t just provide
                 little kids and videotapes, Mrs De Moraes.
                 They’re in the import-export business.
                 They run hotels here in London which they
                 probably use as ware- houses and ports of
                 call for their merchandise.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (after a beat, uneasy, then
                    dismissive)
                 Huh! Really? Hotels?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The hotels are useful capital investments.
                 The kids liquid assets. My guess is they
                 own hotels across the globe, and travel
                 agencies specialising in flights from the
                 third world to boot.
 
       Deborah gets the picture, but she’s sceptical, and baffled...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Minimizes the risks. Children can be moved
                 across borders using reliable businesses.
                 These can also be used to move women and
                 drugs... Anything that makes money really.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (after a beat, still sceptical)
                 W-why are you telling me all this, Mr
                 Lombard?
 
       Lombard looks at her for a moment... sighs...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 This has become dangerous. I’ll have to
                 double my fee.
 
       Deborah peers at him... GLANCES AT THE MONEY IN THE BRIEFCASE,
       then up at Lombard again, focusing again on his bruised
       shoulder...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You drive a hard bargain, Mr Lombard.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You do want me to keep the job, don’t you,
                 Mrs De Moraes? 
 
       She sends him a rueful smile... thinks... turns AND WALKS AWAY...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Let me know where you’re staying when you
                 get to L.A. Just in case Leon does turn
                 up.
 
       Stony-faced, Lombard eyes the door she has left open behind her,
       listening to her footsteps as she starts down the stairs... HE
       CALLS:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 By the way, did I mention that Mr Friedman
                 lives just around the corner from you?
 
       DEBORAH’S STEPS STOP... quickly start again... Lombard grins, a
       cruel grin... reaches for the envelope from the briefcase, snaps
       the briefcase shut, pulls open his desk drawer, shoves the
       envelope inside and shuts it: Slam!
 

       INT. BEDROOM, LOMBARD’S FLAT. MORNING.
 
       IN ON Jane; a sulky pout... Dressed for work, she stands in the
       bedroom doorway fingering her handbag, watching Lombard pack a
       small case (a spare suit, a few essentials)...  Lombard makes for
       the bathroom...
 
                                   JANE
                 Why won’t you tell me where you’re going?
 
       No reply.  She gazes around the room: forbidden territory...
       Lombard comes back in, zipping up a sponge bag with a weary
       smile...
 
                               LOMBARD (OS)
                 When I’m back. If you look after my fish
                 well.
 
       She guffaws, nervously, then - she’s obviously been dying to ask
       this:
 
                                   JANE
                 Who was that woman? She’s French, isn’t
                 she?
 
       Lombard frowns, shuts the case, takes a key from his bedside
       table.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 She used to be my girlfriend, Jane.
                   (he throws her the key)
                 Here. You’ll be late for work. And you can
                 pick up my accounts from the desk. They’re
                 signed.
 
       She catches the key, slightly stunned...then smiles...
 
                                   JANE
                 She’s pretty... See you, huh?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Bye bye, Jane. And don’t be naughty.
 
       She nods - ‘Yeah, yeah...’ - waves a hand, turns away...
 
                                   JANE
                 Actually, I’m thinking of becoming a
                 lesbian...
 

       INT. LOMBARD’S KITCHEN. MORNING.
 
       Rain outside the window... Lombard sits at the table, the phone
       held in the crook of his neck... On the table: a MICROWAVE OVEN,
       its back panel removed, a screwdriver, his gun, silencer and the
       money from his briefcase...
       As he speaks on the phone he reaches into a large brown padded
       envelope, pulls out... TWO RED EUROPEAN COMMUNITY PASSPORTS.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Hello. This is Mr Lombard - I...
 
                            WOMAN’S VOICE (O.S.)
                 Ooh, yes. Rhian said you might call. She’s
                 fine. I saw her this morning...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good. Tell her I called, all right. 
 
       Holding the passports, Lombard dials again, replaces the phone in
       the crook of his neck and, as the PHONE RINGS, inspects...
       The passports: ONE ITALIAN, ONE BRITISH...  He puts the British
       one down, replaces the other in the envelope, adding his gun,
       silencer and money...
 

       INT. SITTING ROOM, NATHALIE’S FLAT. MORNING.
 
       A RINGING PHONE. IN ON a vase: a bunch of flowers still in their
       wrapper... A tastefully furnished room... An ANSWERPHONE
       responds... 
 
                        NATHALIE’S ANSWERING MACHINE
                 CLICK... I am not here. Leave a message
                 after the beep or try again later. Thank
                 you...
 

       INT. BEDROOM, NATHALIE’S FLAT. MORNING.
 
       IN PROFILE: Nathalie, on her bed wrapped in a duvet, her bedside
       table crowded with cold remedies, the floor around her strewn with
       tissues.  She gazes at a silent flickering TV screen, a cigarette
       between her fingers...
 
                               LOMBARD (OS)
                 C’est moi. Réponds si t’es là, Nathalie...
 
       IN ON Nathalie; she turns towards us, frowning, her nose red, eyes
       moist...
 
                               LOMBARD (OS)
                 Your friend... (he corrects himself) ...
                 your man called with what I needed but
                 things got a bit messy. I think you’d be
                 wise to go away for a while. They don’t
                 know who I am but they know you led me to
                 them... (long silence) ...I’ll be away a
                 few days. Look after yourself, okay.
 
       CLICK. Silence... Nathalie stares in front of her, SNEERS...
       SNEEZES.
 

       EXT. ESSEX ROAD. MORNING.
 
       Standing in HEAVY RAIN holding his case, Lombard looks grim as he
       flags down a BLACK TAXI and stands back as it pulls in.
       IN ON the taxi wheel sending up a splash from the streaming
       gutter...
 

       EXT. THE HYATT, SUNSET BOULEVARD, LOS ANGELES. DAY.
 
       LYNYRD SKYNYRD ON A CAR RADIO.  BRILLIANT BLUE SKY... A HUGE
       MARLBORO COWBOY erected on a rooftop displays his virility to...
      
       ‘THE HYATT’, a chic multi-storey hotel.  A YOUNG GUY (shirt,
       sneakers) comes out the entrance and, chewing gum, grinning,
       passes TWO DOORMEN and A CHAUFFEUR fussing around a stretch limo
       in the FORECOURT...
       A GITANE HITS THE PAVEMENT WITH A SPRAY OF SPARKS.
       THE MUSIC CARRIES OVER...
 

       INT. STATIONARY TAXI CAB. DAY.
 
                                 YOUNG GUY
                   (settling at the wheel)
                 They have a guest by the name of Gluck but
                 no Friedman, sir.
 
       In the back, unshaven, Lombard squints tiredly in the bright
       light.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Did you get Mr Gluck’s room number?
 
                                 YOUNG GUY
                 Three three seven, sir.
                   (a beat)
                 You in the entertainment business?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No. And turn that radio down, will you?
 
       And Lombard turns to the Hyatt, thinking... The cab driver pulls a
       face, turns away, shuts the radio and, glancing in his mirror
       while starting the engine, asks:
 
                                 YOUNG GUY
                 Right. Where to now, sir!
 
       Lombard thinks... turns, peers across the boulevard towards...
      
       A multicoloured tower block: ‘THE MONDRIAN HOTEL’.
 

       INT. ROOM 504, MONDRIAN. DAY.
 
       A RINGING TONE. IN ON “Mondrian, Hotel De Grande Classe” on the
       matchbook in Lombard’s hand... A Gitane in his mouth, showered, a
       towel around his waist, the phone under his chin, he gazes out his
       5th floor window...
       SUNSET BOULEVARD snakes up and away into the Hollywood hills...
       Across the boulevard, the Hyatt doormen chat in the shade of the
       forecourt...
 
                            HYATT OPERATOR (OS)
                 I’m sorry but Mr Gluck is not answering,
                 sir.  Would you like to leave a message?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ll call again.
 
       Lombard hangs up, stays at the window, eyeing with a puzzled
       frown... THE EMPTY PAVEMENTS... He raises his brows, redials...
 
                            HYATT OPERATOR (OS)
                 The Hyatt. Good afternoon. May I help you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (in a SLIGHT GERMAN ACCENT)
                 Can I have the reception desk, please.
 
       A click.  The ringing tone, then: ‘Reception...’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 This is Mr Gluck, room 337. I am expecting
                 delivery of a parcel at the hotel in the
                 next hour or so. Could you see to it that
                 it is taken to my room immediately.
 
                          HYATT RECEPTIONIST (OS)
                 Fine, Mr Gluck. Room 337. No problem.
 

       INT. THE MONDRIAN BOUTIQUE. DAY.
 
       The LADY ASSISTANT gift-wraps A BOX OF CHOCOLATES while... Lombard
       tries on SUNGLASSES, looking at himself in the display mirror... 
       He selects a plain pair, takes them to the desk.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ll have them too.
 
                            LADY SHOP ASSISTANT
                   (pushing the box to him, sweet smile)
                 How will you be paying, sir.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (pulling out his wallet)
                 Cash. You wouldn’t happen to have a sticky
                 label and a pen. I need to send the
                 chocolates somewhere.
 
       She sends him a knowing smile - a gift for a lady? - but then:
 
                              SHOP ASSISTANT
                 We have packs of ten labels for two
                 dollars and pens...
                   (she breaks off, perhaps encouraged by
                    Lombard’s enticing smile...)
                 Well, I guess I could lend you a pen.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat, grinning)
                 That’s very kind. I guess I better buy a
                 pack of labels then.
 

       INT. MONDRIAN RECEPTION DESK. DAY.
 
       Lombard hands the LABELLED PARCEL - we glimpse: “Mr O. GLUCK...” -
       to the RECEPTIONIST.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Would you please see this is delivered to
                 the Hyatt in ten minutes...
 

       EXT. MONDRIAN, SUNSET BOULEVARD. DAY.
 
       Lombard stands just outside the entrance.  He peers up at the sky,
       puts on his SUNGLASSES as...  A GORGEOUS BLOND (starlet type, low-
       cut top, shades) in a convertible Porsche pulls up in front of
       him... In a flash a PORTER holds her door open, beaming... “Hello,
       Miss Jones”...
       The Blond flashes her teeth, climbs out the car, proceeds to the
       entrance, past Lombard...  IN ON Lombard... IN ON the porter; both
       follow... CLIP CLOP... every curve moving beneath her mini skirt
       and along her LONG LEGS ON STILETTOES... She slithers through the
       door and out of sight...
      
       The porter wiggles his brows at Lombard, hops into the Porsche,
       revs away...
       Lombard starts across Sunset Boulevard...
 

       INT. THE HYATT, LOBBY. DAY.
 
       Eyeing the HOTEL GUESTS around him, Lombard makes for the lifts...
 

       INT. 3RD FLOOR CORRIDOR, HYATT. DAY.
 
       IN ON a door: ROOM 337...  The corridor is quiet, then...
       The LIFT DOORS slide open, a PORTER gets out holding Lombard’s
       parcel and hurries along to... 
       DOOR 337.  He knocks... No answer... He lets himself in with a
       key...
       Lombard steps out from behind a corner, makes for the door, goes
       on in and...
 

       INT.  ROOM 337, HYATT. DAY.
 
       ...almost bumps into the porter hurrying back out.
 
                                  PORTER
                 Oh. Hi there. Mr Gluck...?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Uh-huh.
 
                                  PORTER
                   (signals towards the parcel on the
                    table)
                 That packet just came for you, sir. I was
                 told to bring it to your room.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 That’s right. Thank you...
 
       Lombard dips into his pocket, pulls out a $5 bill...
 
                                  PORTER
                 Thank you, sir. Have a nice day...
 
       And he backs out, bowing, grinning, closing the door... And
       Lombard turns into the room...
      
       No bags or personal belongings to be seen...
       He peers through the BATHROOM DOOR; same...  Opens the wardrobe;
       empty but for... a HEATHROW DUTY FREE BAG and a SMALL LEATHER
       TRAVELLING BAG with a VIRGIN AIRWAYS tag... He looks inside...
       In the duty free bag: a bottle of Armagnac...  In the travelling
       bag: LEATHER SLIPPERS, like those in Friedman’s London bedroom...
      
       IN ON Lombard; he doesn’t like it... He makes for the window...
      
       Across Sunset, the ‘Mondrian’... In the sidestreet alongside the
       hotel, the Blond drives her Porsche out of the underground
       parking...
      
       Lombard scans Sunset a moment longer, turns back into the room,
       sees a bright HOTEL BROCHURE on a table... Picks it up, PROPS IT
       UP AGAINST THE WINDOW, draws the curtain over it and...
 

       INT. 3RD FLOOR CORRIDOR, HYATT. DAY.
 
       ...places a ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign on the handle of door 337.
 

       INT. ROOM 504, MONDRIAN. DAY.
 
       THE RINGING TONE.  Lombard sits back in an armchair, smoking, his
       bare feet up on the DOUBLE BED beside his case, waiting for his
       call to be answered while gazing gloomily out the window at...
      
       The Hyatt; THE BROCHURE IN THE WINDOW OF ROOM 337 IS CLEARLY
       VISIBLE AGAINST THE DARK CURTAIN.
       He is about the hang up when...  ‘Hallo?’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How are you, Mrs De Moraes?
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                   (after a beat, hesitant)
                 Mr Lombard?
 
                                 LOMBARD 
                 Have you got a pen?
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                 Just a moment...  Go ahead.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The Mondrian, room 504. The number is 266
                 7548, plus the L.A. code...
 
                              DEBORAH (O.S.)
                 ...7548. Have you... Have you found him
                 yet?
 
       Lombard frowns - this hesitant woman doesn’t sound like Deborah.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Are you all right?
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                 Yes... You woke me up... It’s the middle
                 of the night here. Have you found Mr
                 Friedman?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Not yet. The place I hoped to find him
                 turns out to be little more than a contact
                 address. I’ll give it 24 hours. He just
                 might show up.
                   (after a beat, off her silence)
                 If you need to reach me ask for Mr Lamont.
                 Paul Lamont, all right?
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                 Paul Lamont...?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Yeah. Goodnight, Mrs De Moraes.
 
       Lombard hangs up, sighs, stamps his cigarette...
 

       INT.ROOM 504.SEQUENCE.EVENING/NIGHT/DAWN.
 
       EVENING. Through the open window; A FLAME RED SUNSET... Down in
       the Hyatt forecourt, a steady stream of limousines pull in...
       On the table, in red light, the remains of a meal, a half-empty
       bottle of wine... On the floor, a pack of Gitanes, a full ashtray,
       Lombard’s watch... Then...
       LOMBARD, SOUND ASLEEP in his armchair by the window...
 
       NIGHT.  SILENCE. A TV flickers in the dark... Lombard stands at
       his open window... Across Sunset, Friedman’s window is dark...
       SWISHHH... Lombard strikes a match, lights a cigarette, flicks the
       match out the window...
 
       DAWN.  Lombard is lying on the bed, eyes closed...  A SHUFFLING
       SOUND... He opens his eyes, alert, turns to the door...
       On the carpet inside the door; ‘THE LOS ANGELES TIMES’...
 
       Now Lombard is back at the window...  L.A. IS WAKING UP: shapes
       move in many of the Hyatt’s windows... A ROADSWEEPER with an air
       blower blasts dust away from the hotel entrance...
 

       EXT. MONDRIAN RESTAURANT TERRACE. MORNING.
 
       BRIGHT SUN, a terrace overlooking L.A.  Lombard sits by a sky blue
       pool, smoking, leafing through ‘The LA Times’... A bustling
       EFFEMINATE HISPANIC WAITER turns to him.
 
                             EFFEMINATE WAITER
                 Good morning, sir. How can I help you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 A coffee and a couple of croissants.
 
                             EFFEMINATE WAITER
                 Crow what?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Croissants.
 
                             EFFEMINATE WAITER
                 I’m sorry, sir. Could you try that again?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, irritated)
                 Croissants. Like that...
 
       And he points to the croissants at A YOUNG COUPLE’s table.
 
                             EFFEMINATE WAITER
                 Oh! Crescents.
 
       Lombard looks the waiter up and down, raises his brows:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The word for those things is croissants.
 
                             EFFEMINATE WAITER
                 Not in America, sir. You must be from
                 Europe.
                   (off Lombard’s frown; smiling)
                 So, black coffee and a couple of
                 crescents.
 
       Incredulous, Lombard watches the waiter strut away, then turns
       back to his newspaper.  His eyes fall on...
      
       A HEADLINE: “Child Agency Chief In Attack On Defense ‘Expert’.”
      
       Lombard’s gaze shifts to... A B&amp;W PHOTOGRAPH: A WOMAN PUSHING PAST
       REPORTERS, hair wild, eyes blazing in fury...
       The CAPTION reads:  “MS Emily Stewart, Leaving Court.”... 
       Back to the article... WE READ: “Ms Emily Stewart, Chief Executive
       of the Orlando Bright Child Foundation, gave evidence today in the
       case that has...”
       Reading, Lombard pulls his Gitane stub from his lips and flicks it
       absent- mindedly away behind him...
      
       HISSS... IT LANDS IN THE POOL... 
 

       INT. ROOM 405, MONDRIAN. DAY/DUSK.
 
       Lombard is back at his window, scanning the Hyatt again, on the
       phone again...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Does Mr Gluck call for his messages?
 
                            HYATT OPERATOR (OS)
                 Absolutely, sir. As a matter of fact he
                 called this morning, sir.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Next time he calls tell Mr Gluck he better
                 be there to take his calls at 9 tonight or
                 at 9 in the morning if he cares about his
                 puppies. Got that?
 
                            HYATT OPERATOR (OS)
                 Got it. Puppies.
 
       Lombard hangs up... looks at his watch - 14:30... sighs...
      
       DUSK.  SILENCE. Lombard is sound asleep on the bed, his head on
       the crumpled LA Times...
      
       IN ON THE DOOR - A KNOCK... IN ON THE PHONE - RING RING... Lombard
       opens his eyes, sits up, groggy... The phone goes on ringing. 
       Another knock at the door... He checks his watch - 20:15 - frowns,
       clears his throat, stands, picks up the receiver; ‘Hallo?’
 
                               DEBORAH (OS)
                 Mr Lombard. Mrs De Moraes...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Uh... Wait a moment, Mrs De Moraes...
 
       And he puts the receiver down and makes for the door...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What is it?
 
                             MAN’S VOICE (O.S.)
                 This is the hotel supervisor, Mr Lamont.
                 I’m terribly sorry to disturb you but
                 there’s been a mix-up with our bookings
                 which you might be able to help us
                 resolve.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What are you talking about?
 
                             MAN’S VOICE (O.S)
                 We need a double-room and as I understand
                 you’re here alone we’d be much obliged if
                 you’d agree to move to a single room...
 
       Annoyed, Lombard peers at... HIS DOUBLE BED... Opens the door...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I asked for a room facing...
 
       TWO MEN IN PORTER UNIFORMS, a small HISPANIC, a big BLOND...  The
       Hispanic grins, steps forward... Lombard frowns... The Hispanic
       JABS A STUN GUN INTO HIS STOMACH... A CRACKLE... Lombard cries
       out, is shoved back... hardly sees the TRUNCHEON in the big
       Blond’s hand...
      
       It CRACKS against his skull - BLACK OUT...TOTAL SILENT BLACK OUT.
 

       INT.  CAR TRUNK.  NIGHT.
 
       RISING, THE ROAR OF A CAR IN LOW GEAR.  BAD SUSPENSION THUMPS OVER
       ROUGH GROUND.  In the darkness, becoming visible, Lombard’s head
       pounding against car metal... blood glistens... his eyes glint... 
       Moaning, he wraps his arms around his head, enduring until...
       THE CAR COMES TO AN ABRUPT HALT.  Lombard crashes into the metal
       with a cry...  THE ENGINE DIES... A COUPLE OF DOORS OPEN AND SLAM
       SHUT...  THE SOUND OF MUFFLED CONVERSATION... 
       The trunk swings open... A BLINDING TORCH BEAM hits Lombard... He
       shields his eyes behind bloody hands, his face and hair also wet
       with blood... We hear FRIEDMAN’S VOICE (the German-accented
       ‘puppies’ voice).
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 What is this blood? I told you not to
                 injure him.
 
                             HISPANIC MAN (OS)
                 We didn’t do that. He must have gotten
                 thrown around on the last stretch of road.
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Huh! Do you have his belongings?
 
                               BIG MAN (OS)
                 Yeah.
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Get him out.
 
       Two pairs of hands grab hold of Lombard, lift him out and...
      
       EXT. NIGHT. ...he hits the sandy ground in front of a pair of
       polished shoes. 
       Lombard tries to look up from the shoes, is blinded by a torch
       beam, lifts his hands to shield his eyes...  Above, through the
       dazzle of the torch, against the dark sky, the shape of a head and
       shoulders...  He groans:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Friedman...
 
       The torch is thrust closer to his face... Now, at the edge of its
       beam, Lombard sees... A MAN’S MOUTH, tight-lipped.  The lips
       move... a throat clearing sound... the lips open...
       SPLATTT... A thick spurt of spittle lands on Lombard’s hand...
 
                              FRIEDMAN (OS) 
                 Imbecile!
 
       A kick in the head sends Lombard onto his front, face in the sand. 
 
                               FRIEDMAN (OS)
                 Go ahead!
 
       And someone sits on Lombard’s back, pins down his arms...  LOMBARD
       CRIES OUT...  IN ON Lombard as, teeth gritted, winded by the
       weight on his back, he cranes his head up and around to see...
       In the torchlight - A NEEDLE STUCK INTO HIS ARM through his shirt,
       the brownish liquid in the syringe slowly being emptied into him.
       His eyes fill with horror... He wails: ‘Non...’
       The syringe is empty, the needle yanked out of his arm...
       A DEAFENING HUM AS WHITE LIGHT FLOODS THE SCREEN...  Lombard cries
       out again: ‘Nonnnn...’ his voice A DISTANT CRY...
 

       DRUG-INDUCED SEQUENCE.
      
       INT. PARKED RENAULT, PARIS. DAWN.
 
       A DAWN NIGHTMARE... ALL SOUNDS ECHOING... 
       A SUDDEN HUSH... THEN, COMING CLEAR... FOOTSTEPS PATTERING... THE
       SOUND OF BREATHING...
       SNAP!  Red fingernails snap an elastic band around a pony-tail of
       blond hair...
       A goodlooking woman, MARTINE, checks her lipstick in the rearview
       mirror..
       A GROAN... On the back seat: TWO CHILDREN, a boy and a girl, sleep
       under a white blanket...
       CLATTER... Martine’s hands clear the cluttered dashboard of maps,
       sunglasses, cigarettes...  CLICK... She opens the glove
       compartment... 
       IN ON Martine... A PISSED OFF FROWN....
 
       EXT. RENAULT.  Martine’s arm is out the passenger window, a
       HANDGUN hanging limp from between her thumb and forefinger...
 
                               MARTINE (OS)
                 Laurent...
 
       IN ON a man’s hand, WITH WEDDING BAND, clasping a rope...
       IN ON the man, Lombard - a different man, younger, softer, with
       longish hair.  A Gitane burns in his mouth as... with his hands on
       the ropes that fasten the canoes and fishing rods to the car’s
       roofrack, he peers stoically at the gun...
 
       EXT. AVENUE.  FOOTSTEPS ECHOING.  Lombard carries the gun into an
       apartment building 20 yards along from the Renault...
 
       INT. RENAULT.  CLACK... as Martine pushes a tape into the cassette
       player: SINATRA SINGS: #... Let’s take it nice and easy...#
 
       INT. FOYER.  SWISHH... The lift doors slide open... Lombard gets
       in... reaches for button 5, as...
       THE ERRATIC PURR OF A CRUISING CAR OUTSIDE... IN ON Lombard; a
       frown... a thought... a look of dread...
 
       EXT. AVENUE.  Lombard bursts out into the street and stops dead...
       Sinatra sings: #...The problem now of course is, to simply hold
       your horses...#
       A PEUGEOT, coming towards Lombard, nears the Renault with its
       passenger door SLIGHTLY OPEN... 
       SILENCE as Lombard stares at.... A man’s hand clutching an object
       under the door... The fingers let go... TOC, TOC, TOC... A GRENADE
       GENTLY BOUNCES ON THE TARMAC AND ROLLS UNDER THE RENAULT...
       SINATRA SINGS ON.  Lombard looks up... Martine is reaching into
       the back of the Renault, unaware... THE PEUGEOT TYRES SCREAM...
       Lombard turns... IN ON THE TWO MEN LOOMING BEHIND THE WINDSCREEN
       of the fast approaching Peugeot... GRINNING AS THEY LOCK EYES WITH
       LOMBARD who... throws himself between parked cars to avoid being
       hit... The Peugeot roars past and away... Lombard jumps back to
       his feet...
       IN ON Martine through the windscreen; bewildered, she gapes at...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 MARTINE! Get out! Get the Hell out!
 
       Martine understands, moves as if to open her door and... 
       BOOM... SHE IS ENGULFED IN A BALL OF FIRE.  SILENCE AGAIN.
 
       EXT. DESERT. DAY.  IN ON Lombard; head against sun-baked sand,
       shaggy-haired, lips cracked and sand-caked, he gazes up at...
       A HAZY VISION: a YOUNG BOY peering down in fascination... A YOUNG
       GIRL appears beside him; a scowl of fear and disgust...
       Lombard’s lips move as he tries to speak... He cannot... IN ON his
       WEDDING-BAND HAND; he lifts it from the sand.  It flops back...
       Now, WIDE FROM ABOVE - Lombard, dressed in BAGGY JEANS, A
       ‘BUDWEISER’ T-SHIRT AND WORN-OUT SNEAKERS, lies prostrate, lost in
       the wilderness.  The two children stand over him...
 
       EXT. STREETS, PARIS. DAWN.  SOUND OF SOBBING THROUGH RUNNING
       FOOTSTEPS.  Lombard, CRYING, runs along an empty street... Now
       along a boulevard... Running... Running...
 
       EXT. ‘LA SANTÉ’ PRISON. DAWN.  PANTING AND RUNNING FOOTSTEPS.  The
       prison, peaceful in the dawn... Lombard runs into shot...
 
       INT. PRISON RECEPTION. DAWN.  SILENCE.  With a shaky hand but his
       face dead calm, Lombard signs a form, pushes it to a WARDER...
 
       INT. PRISON CORRIDOR.  FOOTSTEPS ECHOING, GATES CLANGING SHUT. 
       Lombard follows ANOTHER WARDER...
 
       INT. PRISON VISITING ROOM.  SILENCE.  Lombard peers at... Across a
       sea of empty tables, an INMATE, in pyjamas, a sneer on his sleepy
       face... Lombard waits for the warder to leave, pulls out his gun
       and makes for the inmate, the gun held out in front in both
       hands....
 
       EXT. DESERT. DAY.  IN ON Lombard; HATRED, as he murmurs:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I should’ve killed you when I first laid
                 hands on you, scumbag! Your little brother
                 just missed me! Your little brother just
                 missed me...
 
       IN ON A CHILD HANDS prising the wedding band from Lombard’s
       finger.
 
       INT. PRISON VISITING ROOM.  The inmate sits petrified, eyeing...
       Lombard’s gun nearing him... A COMMOTION from the doorway...
       Lombard stops, looks back over his shoulder...
       In the doorway, INSPECTEUR MOREAU, in a sweat, looks straight back
       at him, eyes pained: ‘Don’t do it...’
       IN ON Lombard staring at Moreau; DEAD EYES...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Je sais, Moreau. But I can’t die. I
                 can’t...
 
       IN ON his finger, pulling the trigger.  BANG!... THE SCREEN FLOODS
       RED...  FLAMING RED... A FLAMING SUN... BEATING DOWN...
 
                                                     END OF SEQUENCE
 

       INT. BEDROOM, RANCH. DAY/EVENING.
 
       A SPEAR OF SUNLIGHT FALLS ACROSS COLD BLUE ADOLESCENT EYES
       WATCHING... Lombard’s head against a white pillow, cleaned up and
       shaven but covered in sweat, muttering wildly to himself with his
       eyes closed... Now he opens his eyes, stares, sits up
       (barechested) and sees...
       The adolescent (jeans, T-shirt), a rifle across his lap, eyes him
       from a chair... He stands, hurries out, leaving the door open.  We
       hear his feet on the stairs...
       Lombard scans the room... He’s in an old timber bed with a home-
       made quilt... bare floorboards, patterned fabrics, papered walls,
       a jug and bowl, an oil lamp beside the bed - all old and clean, as
       if he’d arrived in the past... He examines his arm... A bruise
       where he was stabbed with the needle...  He turns to...
      
       The window; a FEW CHILDREN play by a shabby PICK-UP TRUCK parked
       near a stone well... A donkey and some bony cattle graze lazily in
       pasture... Beyond, a colourless desert landscape... WE HEAR a
       MAN’S VOICE:
 
                              MAN’S VOICE (OS)
                 You’re no citizen of these United States,
                 are you?
 
       Lombard turns... AN OLD COWBOY in a leather waistcoat eyeballs him
       from the doorway, a rifle hanging at the end of his arm...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 And you ain’t neither one of those damned
                 Mexicans who end up littering the
                 landscape after getting ripped-off by
                 their friendly cross- border guides, are
                 you, mister?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he clears his throat, then:)
                 No...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                   (walking into the room)
                 I didn’t think so. The rags on their sorry
                 backs are the only wordly possessions
                 those wretched creatures are ever found
                 with...
                   (he stops by the bed, searching his
                    waistcoat pocket)
                 I don’t wanna know who you are or how come
                 you ended up roasting in Owl Canyon. But
                 you might as well know I’d have let you
                 fry to a buzzard meal if not for this...
 
       And he tosses... LOMBARD’S WEDDING BAND lands on the quilt...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 Now, can you stand up?
                   (off Lombard’s puzzled look: ‘What?’)
                 Can you use your legs and stand up?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I... How long have I been here?
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 Three days and that’s three days too
                 many.Come on. Get your ass up.
 
       Lombard frowns, then proceeds to get out of bed, slowly,
       grimacing... until he stands on shaky legs, in a pair of shorts...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 Huh... I guess you ain’t quite ready for
                 civilisation yet... I’ll give you one more
                 day, a meal, and then you’re on your way.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Los Angeles?
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                   (a beat, he raises his brows)
                 Los Angeles is 100 miles away.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he frowns, sits back on the bed)
                 I’d appreciate it if I could use your
                 phone.
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 I’m sure you would. But if I had one, I
                 wouldn’t let you near it. Now you tuck
                 back in and rest until you’re told
                 otherwise.
                   (he turns, makes for the door)
                 And for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t try
                 anything that might be construed as
                 unappreciative of my hospitality. I’d
                 sooner shoot you than have you upset me...
 
       And the Old Cowboy leaves, closing the door behind him... Lombard,
       sombre, picks up his wedding band, puts it back on his finger,
       eyeing... ON A WICKER CHAIR, a neat pile; the jeans, T-Shirt and
       sneakers he was found in...
 
                                                            CUT TO:
 
       EVENING. By the light of the oil lamp (a half-eaten steak on a
       plate beside it) Lombard sits up in bed, trying to roll a
       cigarette...from below WE HEAR...
 
                     OLD COWBOY, WOMAN &amp; CHILDREN (OS)
                 ...For what we are about to receive, may
                 the Lord make us truly thankful...
 

       EXT. DESERT. DAY.
 
       The shabby pick-up truck travels in a cloud of dust along A DIRT
       TRACK...
 

       EXT. ROADSIDE. DAY.
 
       A straight Tarmac road cuts through the desert. The pick-up truck
       idles where the dirt track meets the road, the Old Cowboy at the
       wheel.  Lombard (back in Bud T-shirt, jeans, sneakers) stands in
       the open passenger door...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 Barstow’s 30 miles to the left. Los
                 Angeles a hundred to the right. Wherever
                 you’re heading, I reckon somebody’ll pick
                 you up.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 (squinting in the direction of LA)
                 Huh... I suppose the idea of a one day
                 trip to Los Angeles doesn’t appeal to
                 you...
 
                                OLD COWBOY
                 Is that where lawyers toil for an industry
                 that turns serial killers into heroes who
                 give thrills to young women who write
                 erotic novels about psychopaths and
                 rapists?
                 (off Lombard’s look: ‘Is it?’)
                 You go to your world, I’ll stay in mine.
                 So long, Mister.
 
       Lombard peers at the old cowboy... grins and slams the door... The
       old cowboy revs away, does a U-turn and drives back along the
       track in a cloud of dust...  Lombard sighs... peers right where
       the road joins the horizon...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Los Angeles, à droite...
 

       EXT. HYATT/MONDRIAN, SUNSET BOULEVARD. DAY.
 
       Lombard stands at the kerb peering up at...  The Hyatt, across the
       boulevard... The BROCHURE is still there in Friedman’s window... 
 

       INT. RECEPTION/LOBBY, MONDRIAN. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard waits at the desk, ignoring the looks from GUESTS and
       STAFF around him, his eyes on...  A YOUNG RECEPTIONIST, on the
       phone... He mutters a ‘Thank you’, hangs up, turns to Lombard with
       a tight smile.
 
                             YOUNG RECEPTIONIST
                 I’m sorry, Mr Lamont. According to our
                 records no personal property was found in
                 room 504 after settlement of the account.
 
       Lombard nods, put out but not surprised... asks:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Could you tell me who settled my bill?
 
       The receptionist pulls a face, taps into the desk’s terminal...
 
                             YOUNG RECEPTIONIST
                 No. It was a cash payment. I’m sorry.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat; he nods again)
                 Let me see your phone directory, will you?
                   (off the receptionist’s look,
                    snapping)
                 Your phone directory!
 
       CUT TO: Lombard’s hand ripping a page from a telephone directory.
 

       EXT. OCEAN AVENUE, SANTA MONICA. AFTERNOON.
 
       Santa Monica pier stretches out into the Pacific... Strollers
       stroll... A cluster of scheming YOUNG MALES... VAGRANTS watch
       rollerblading TEENAGERS display their skills around cones along
       the promenade... WE FIND...
      
       Lombard, on the kerb, peering at...  A SMALL MULTI-STOREY
       BUILDING... IN ON A PLAQUE by the door;
         “... 4th Floor: ORLANDO BRIGHT CHILD FOUNDATION...” 
 

       INT. CORRIDOR. AFTERNOON.
 
       ANOTHER PLAQUE, on a metal door: “ORLANDO BRIGHT CHILD...”
       A SECURITY GUARD dozes at a desk beside it (a desk clearly not
       meant to be there: it restricts access to further down the
       corridor)... THE SOUND OF LIFT DOORS OPENING... The Guard looks
       up... Lombard steps out... peers at the guard (already
       suspicious)... sees the plaque... makes for the desk...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Mrs Stewart?
 
                              SECURITY GUARD
                 You got an appointment?
 
       Lombard glances at the door... NO HANDLE... it can only be opened
       with a key or electrically perhaps... He grins at the guard...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Could you tell Mrs Stewart that Mr Paul
                 Lamont wants to see her. It’s important.
 
       The guard eyeballs Lombard... pushes an intercom button...
 
                              SECURITY GUARD
                 There’s a Mr Lamont out here for Ms
                 Stewart. Says it’s important but no
                 appointment...
 
       Silence as Lombard and the guard eyeball each other, waiting...
       The door opens, revealing... a BESPECTACLED YOUNG MAN (genial
       type); he smiles at the guard, turns to Lombard; a sceptical frown
       forms on his face...
 
                           BESPECTACLED YOUNG MAN
                 Er, good afternoon, Mr Lamont... Ms
                 Stewart is in a meeting right now. Perhaps
                 if you could let me know what you wish to
                 discuss I could arrange an appointment for
                 you to see her.
 
       Lombard peers over the young man’s shoulder through the door...
       A BRIGHTLY COLOURED RECEPTION - cheerful posters and children’s
       drawings on the walls... Jars of sweets... 
       Lombard eyes the young man... the guard... turns to the lift...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Tell Ms Stewart I’ll be outside. And she
                 better come if the purpose of this set-up
                 of yours is to help kids rather than to
                 provide you with an easy living.
 

       EXT. PROMENADE, SANTA MONICA. AFTERNOON/EVENING.
 
       Lombard sits on a bench, gazing pensively across the beach... 
       Beyond the rollerblading teenagers, A YOUNG COUPLE IN SWIMSUITS
       argue near the ocean...
 
                                EMILY (OS)
                 Mr Lamont?
 
       Lombard looks up, squinting in the sun...
       EMILY (30s, attractive, well-dressed, a huge battered handbag over
       her shoulder) stands above him, the Security Guard beside her...
      
       IN ON Emily; she frowns, not liking what she sees... Then, hard,
       professional:
 
                                   EMILY
                 Emily Stewart. The ‘easy living’ lady. If
                 this concerns a child or children’s well-
                 being, I suggest you contact the police.
                 The foundation is not a law enforcement
                 agency.
 
       Lombard smiles his charming smile... gets to his feet, holds out a
       hand.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m afraid it’s not that simple. Good
                 afternoon, Miss Stewart.
 
       She hesitates, grabs his hand, shakes it with a nod, pulls her
       hand away.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (to the security guard)
                 I’d rather speak to Miss Stewart alone.
                 You can watch from the next bench if you
                 like.
 
       The guard turns to... Emily eyeballs Lombard... decides to... She
       signals to the guard it’s okay... The guard scowls at Lombard and
       walks away...
       Lombard and Emily watch him cross the street back towards the
       building, then turn back to face each other... He smiles... She
       sends him an icy grin...
 
                                   EMILY
                 May I ask where you’re from, Mr Lamont?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Europe...
                   (off her look)
                 France. I’m French but I live in London...
                   (deliberately elaborating)
                 ... England.
 
                                   EMILY 
                   (surprise, then scepticism in her
                    eyes)
                 You’re a long way from home...
 
       Lombard nods, grins... indicates the bench and sits down himself,
       asking:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You wouldn’t have a cigarette, would you?
 
                                   EMILY
                 I don’t smoke. If you could get to the
                 point...
 
       Lombard grins again...  peers at her, thinking... He glances at...
       Her hands, clutching her handbag to her skirt...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You’re sure you won’t sit down, Miss
                 Stewart?
 
                                   EMILY
                 I’m fine standing, thank you.
 
       Lombard nods... goes for for it...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Am I right in thinking someone in your
                 line of work is aware of the existence of
                 child traffickers, Miss Stewart?
 
       Emily stares down at him, intrigued... She nods...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good...
                   (a beat)
                 I’m a private investigator. I’m here on
                 the trail of an Austrian child procurer. I
                 cannot say if his operation extends to
                 your country but I doubt he’s here to
                 enjoy the sunshine.
                   (pauses to let her take in his words)
                 I believe he killed a man I was hired to
                 find back in London. A few days ago he
                 also tried to kill me. He didn’t succeed
                 but it’s left me stranded without money,
                 passport or a decent wardrobe in this
                 distant land... I need help to finish what
                 I came here to do, Miss Stewart - to find
                 him and, perhaps, see to it that he
                 doesn’t hurt anyone again... Your help,
                 Miss Stewart.
 
       IN ON Emily; her expression shifting with conflicting thoughts...
       Her eyes move down to his T-shirt... She glares...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Is this some kind of sick stunt? Let me
                 guess.  You want money, right?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 A small loan would be welcome. More
                 urgently, I need access to a telephone and
                 an address where things can be sent to me.
 
       IN ON Emily, something close to hate in her eyes... She turns to
       the ocean, as if to shake her thoughts, muttering angrily:
 
                                   EMILY
                 I can’t believe this...
                   (back to Lombard)
                 What’s coming now, eh? If I don’t pay all
                 Hell’s gonna break loose, is that it?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (with a mystified frown)
                 Well, I’d sooner mug an old lady...
 
                                   EMILY
                 You... (She screams:) Jesus Christ!
 
       The rollerblading kids nearby stop and turn to them as Emily leans
       forward, pointing a finger in Lombard’s face:
 
                                   EMILY
                 Listen and listen well, Mister! I don’t
                 care if you’re just sick or if some other
                 sick mind put you up to this. Either way,
                 don’t you ever come to my office or cross
                 my path again, you hear? Ever!
 
       And, as she turns to go, Lombard swiftly grabs hold of her wrist,
       pulls her back, glares into her eyes...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Maybe you didn’t hear me right, so I’ll
                 say it again; I need help, Emily. Maybe my
                 creep’s kids don’t come from your streets.
                 And maybe you don’t care much about boys
                 and girls in faraway places being
                 sodomised and killed. Hey, this is
                 America, right! But just now the  man is
                 here. Amongst your children. And wherever
                 he goes, his poison follows. Have a nice
                 walk back to your office, Emily.
 
       And Lombard let’s go of her... The rollerblading kids stand
       gawking around them... IN ON Emily; a flustered stare... IN ON
       Lombard; a flicker of hope...
       Emily grimaces, something almost grotesque, turns and storms
       away... Lombard watches her go... turns back towards the
       promenade...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Merde!
                   (to the gawking teenagers)
                 Keep on playing, you little shits!
 
       And he glares beyond them to... The couple on the beach, still
       arguing...
       We see him briefly from behind, perhaps from Emily’s POV, his bent
       back as he slumps forwards, bringing his hands up to his face...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (wearily rubbing his eyes)
                 Merde, merde et remerde...
 
       A RUSTLING NOISE; Lombard looks sideways through his fingers...
       Emily sits on his bench, rummaging in her bag... He lowers his
       hands, prepares to speak but... from the resolve in her face he
       decides to let her lead...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Okay. The woman just can’t walk away...
                   (a beat)
                 I want straight answers. No hesitation or
                 I walk for sure. Why can’t you go to your
                 Embassy?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 French people need a visa to enter this
                 country. That takes time and I didn’t have
                 any. I used a British passport. My name’s
                 not Lamont but Lombard. Xavier Lombard.
 
       Emily stops searching her overflowing handbag, turns to him,
       guffaws: ‘Huh!’... then resumes her search...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Where were you staying before the attempt
                 on your life and why can’t you go back
                 there?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The Mondrian, room 504. I was checked out
                 in my absence.
 
                                   EMILY
                 By your Austrian?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Yeah.
 
       At last she pulls A PEN AND NOTEPAD from her bag... turns to
       Lombard, scrutinizes him, and...
 
                                   EMILY
                 You don’t know why he’s come to Los
                 Angeles?
                   (off Lombard’s look; ‘No’)
                 The man you say he killed? Who was he? A
                 colleague of his?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No. A poor little rich boy who thought
                 he’d save a few kids from their retailer.
                 He disappeared on his second shopping
                 expedition.
 
       Emily tightens her lips; she finds his choice of words
       distasteful... She holds out the pen and notepad...
 
                                   EMILY
                 I need a few numbers where I can check you
                 out. And don’t tell me you can’t.
 
       Lombard nods, grins, takes the notepad... opens it on his lap and
       starts writing...  Emily watches him writing for a moment, then...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Have you never heard of collect calls,
                 Mr...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Lombard...
                   (he understands, grins...)
                 It will take a few days for the things I
                 need to get here. Meanwhile I’d sooner not
                 draw police attention walking the streets
                 like a hungry dog...
 
                                   EMILY
                 There are over 4 million people in this
                 city - why me?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I thought you’d never ask... As I was
                 having my coffee and crescents at the
                 Mondrian the other morning I spotted your
                 photograph in the Los Angeles Times...
                 There’s a tough lady, I thought. Just the
                 kind who might help me...
 
       Emily frowns. Lombard hands back the notepad... As she looks over
       his list:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Jane’s infatuated with me, so try not to
                 shatter her dreams. Mr Oak’s my landlord,
                 so I’d rather you didn’t call him.
                 Nathalie is... Nathalie is Nathalie. And
                 Moreau is a cop. He’s in Paris, the others
                 in London. Sorry, that’s all I can do. I
                 don’t have that many friends...
 
       Emily raises her brows - ‘Really!’- shoves the notepad into her
       bag...
 
                                   EMILY
                 You know where to look for your Austrian,
                 right?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I know where to look.
 
                                   EMILY
                   (she gets to her feet)
                 I might come back, I might not. But if I
                 do, it won’t be for a couple of hours.
 
       Lombard grins...  She turns away and starts towards her
       building... Lombard turns back towards the ocean, frowns, turns
       and calls after her:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Emily?
                   (she turns back)
                 I could do with a cigarette and something
                 to eat... I’ll pay you back.
 
       IN ON Emily; she hesitates... sighs... starts searching her
       handbag...
      
       EVENING. MOONLIGHT plays on the choppy sea... SWISH: A MATCH FLAME
       HELD TO A CIGARETTE BETWEEN A VAGRANT’S LIPS... ‘Thanks, man’. 
       Lombard, on his bench, a cigarette between his lips, waves bye
       to... the vagrant strolls away tugging a loaded trolley behind
       him... A SHOUT:
 
                                EMILY (OS)
                 Mr Lombard!
 
       Lombard looks back... then up... A FOURTH FLOOR WINDOW: Emily...
 

       INT. SEQUENCE. ORLANDO BRIGHT FOUNDATION. EVENING.
 
       THE RECEPTION AREA - dimly lit and deserted at this hour... 
       Lombard follows Emily who talks in rapid, professional mode...
 
                                   EMILY
                 The foundation was set up 8 years ago by
                 Orlando Bright’s parents. Orlando died as
                 a result of repeated sexual abuse and a
                 systematic draining of his blood in what
                 pathologists could only describe as a
                 ritual sadistic killing. He’d vanished
                 while riding his bike to school...
 
       A CORRIDOR - more cheery posters and children’s drawings...  Emily
       goes on walking, Lombard following behind her...
 
                                   EMILY
                 When his body was found in a wood four
                 weeks later, his ankle was broken and bore
                 the scar of a tight shackle. He was
                 nine...
 
       She pauses at a door marked: ‘INTERVIEW ROOM’, calls inside: 
 
                                   EMILY
                 I’ll be in my office...
 
       Over her shoulder Lombard glimpses... A brightly painted
       conference room... A BOY sits on a carpet scattered with toys. 
       WHITNEY (young, tired-looking) kneels beside him... She nods...
       Emily shuts the door and walks on...
 
                                  EMILY 
                 Our team includes doctors, therapists,
                 social workers and volunteers. We try to
                 help abused kids cope with their
                 memories,...
 
       ANOTHER CORRIDOR, similar to the last.
 
                                   EMILY
                 ...Offer what support we can to the
                 families of disappeared children. Monitor
                 court cases. Compile dossiers of
                 disturbing information that comes in, and
                 spend way too much time trying to raise
                 funds and convince law enforcement
                 agencies of the reality of the perverse
                 practices that go on in this beautiful
                 world...
 
       She opens a door, switches on the light, motions for Lombard to go
       in...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Fortunately some corporations think it’s
                 good PR to be associated with a child-care
                 agency.  Their support allows us to go on
                 waging our war. And a war it is...
 
                                                     END OF SEQUENCE
 

       INT. EMILY’S OFFICE. EVENING.
 
       Crammed with filing cabinets.  One large desk, computer
       terminal...  Emily shuts the door, makes for a coffee machine,
       still talking...
 
                                   EMILY
                 There’ve been 7 international treaties
                 since 1904 aimed at preventing child
                 slavery. But still no worldwide body
                 dedicated to investigating the
                 maltreatment of children used in sexual
                 exploitation. Officially, it’s just not
                 called for. Sit down. Can I offer you some
                 coffee?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I wouldn’t mind. Thank you.
 
       As Emily busies about the coffee machine, Lombard settles in a
       chair in front of the large desk, scanning the walls...
       POSTERS everywhere: one lists the center’s sponsors: McDonalds,
       Toshiba, Disney... Another advertises the Anti-Slavery Society...
       A wall is papered with posters of MISSING CHILDREN, issued by The
       National Center For Missing And Exploited Children; each with
       about 30 SMILING LITTLE FACES... 
       Sitting at the desk with a coffee in a DISPOSABLE CUP, Emily
       follows Lombard’s gaze towards... A HUGE SAFE with a combination
       lock.
 
                                   EMILY
                 A recent acquisition. We’ve had four break-
                 ins this year alone; files stolen,
                 computers wrecked, faeces smeared on
                 walls. The good guys dismiss us as
                 alarmist do-gooders; the bad guys will
                 risk prison to intimidate and rob us. An
                 easy living indeed, Mr Lombard.
                   (she grins, pushes the coffee to
                    Lombard)
                 I got through to Moreau and Jane. I left
                 your landlord out of it. Your flat’s been
                 broken into. Jane wants you to call her
                 back.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Hah... What about Nathalie?
 
                                   EMILY
                 No answer. You have no passport and your
                 Embassy’s out. How do you plan to leave
                 the U.S., Mr Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat as he is taken aback; then:)
                 I’m sure I’ll find a way.
 
                                   EMILY
                 Like you’ll find a way to stop your
                 Austrian killing you a second time round?
 
       Lombard grins, but there’s irritation in his eyes... He reaches
       for the coffee...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you for the guided tour, but would
                 you mind telling me what we’re doing here?
 
                                   EMILY
                 How come you’re alive? Child traffickers
                 usually achieve what they set out to do.
                   (off Lombard’s frown)
                 What am I really looking at here, huh?
                   (off Lombard’s scowl)
                 Are you really not just a lousy private
                 eye? Am I really looking at some kind of
                 cunning dispenser of justice in disguise?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, peering into her eyes)
                 Did you call me up here to enjoy yourself,
                 Emily, or to let me use your phone?
                 Because we seem to have a slight
                 problem...
 
                               WHITNEY (OS)
                 We’re the ones with a problem, Mr Lombard.
 
       Lombard turns to...  Whitney eyes him from the doorway...
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 You and you alone know of a child
                 trafficker who you say might be here
                 plying his trade. We don’t think that’s
                 right. We want his name, his addresses in
                 LA and London, and anything you have on
                 any of his associates... In short,
                 everything you know.
 
       IN ON Lombard; a bemused frown...  He turns back to Emily...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Whitney Armstrong, my deputy. What
                 Whitney’s trying to say is that you might
                 not live to tell the tale next time you
                 meet your Austrian...
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 And losing you, we’d lose him. And that
                 would be a shame, don’t you agree?
 
       Scowling, Lombard watches Whitney settle onto the chair beside
       him.
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 Hi...
 
                                   EMILY
                 If you have hard evidence about a child
                 trafficker, we want it, Mr Lombard. And we
                 want it before you get yourself killed...
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 Most of our information comes out of the
                 mouths of babes, Mr Lombard - confused and
                 frightened victims. It’s all too easily
                 discredited, you understand. Now, you
                 might be just what we’ve been waiting for.
                 Your information could be enough to make
                 ‘em sit up and listen.
 
       Lombard peers at Whitney, teeth clenched...
 
                                   EMILY
                 It’s give and take time, Mr Lombard. You
                 need help, we need information. You didn’t
                 really expect me to put my ass on the line
                 helping a criminal just for the thrill of
                 it, did you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat; he swallows hard)
                 A criminal?
 
                                   EMILY
                 Did you not enter this country illegally?
 
       Lombard glares... Then, between clenched teeth, screwing up his
       eyes...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Huh... I have no... (a beat)... hard
                 evidence...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Come on, Mr Lombard. You tailed your man
                 all the way here from Europe. You told me
                 you knew where to find him, remember? Or
                 didn’t I hear you right?
 
       IN ON Lombard; rage... IN ON his fingers tightening around the
       paper cup in his hand. It caves in: COFFEE SPILLS OVER HIS T-SHIRT
       AND LAP... He curses... ‘Nom de...’
       He turns to Emily, grinning, doing his best to sound calm...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 As I recall, you asked if I knew where to
                 look for him, Emily. I said I did. Even in
                 English that doesn’t mean ‘I know where he
                 is.’
                   (he slams the crushed cup on her desk)
                 Now, I appreciate what you ladies are
                 doing here. But I have nothing for you. I
                 wouldn’t worry, though. The man is slimy.
                 I reckon when I find him I’ll find slime.
                 I promise I’ll share it with you... 
                 Before I die...
 
       SILENCE. Emily and Whitney exchange a heavy glance... Emily is not
       convinced, turns back to Lombard, unflinching...  IN ON Lombard; a
       rueful grin... Now Emily gently rocks her head to and fro...
       glances back at... Whitney purses her lips, shakes her head - ‘I
       Don’t know’ - ... and Emily turns back to Lombard, opens a drawer,
       pulls out a box of tissues, tosses it to him...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Dry yourself up...
                   (she turns the phone and a notepad to
                    him)
                 The address is my home. Which I guess is
                 also where you’ll be sleeping tonight.
                   (she stands, signals Whitney to
                    follow)
                 You’ll find us next door when you’re done.
                   (off Lombard’s furious look: ‘Is that
                    it?’)
                 Huh. We wouldn’t want you to go out and
                 mug an old lady, would we? 
 
                                                            CUT TO:
 
       Lombard is on the phone...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 ... OK, Moreau. Bon, écoute, j’ai besoin
                 d’un passport...
 

       INT. SPARE BEDROOM, EMILY’S HOUSE. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard’s phone calls carry over:
 
                            LOMBARD (VOICE OVER)
                 Uh huh... Yes, Jane... Thank you... My
                 microwave is still there?... Good. Now
                 calm down and listen...
 
       Lombard, in TIGHT PYJAMAS, looking tired, hair wet from a shower,
       slowly buttons his pyjama top, his eyes idly scanning...
       Against a wall: BOXES AND BOXES OF LITERATURE, JOURNALS AND
       PAMPHLETS... SOME ARE LABELLED... ‘PAEDIKA’... ‘NAMBLA’...
 
                                EMILY  (OS)
                 Nambla - North American Man Boy Love
                 Association.
 
       Lombard turns... Emily is in the doorway, nods towards the boxes:
 
                                   EMILY
                 Fund raising material. Some people will
                 only believe what they see... And some
                 won’t even believe that. Too decent, I
                 guess...
 
       Lombard smiles... She looks him up and down, smiling sadly.
 
                                   EMILY
                 A little too tight, eh?
                   (off his shrug: ‘They’re okay.’)
                 ...They were my son’s. Only thirteen and
                 already six feet tall. A real lanky boy...
                   (she breaks off, smiles nervously)
                 I... There’s some cold chicken salad in
                 the fridge if you’re hungry.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you. But I think I’ll go to bed.
                 It’s been a long day.
 
                                   EMILY
                   (she nods; a beat, then:)
                 Right... Well, I’ll get your money first
                 thing in the morning, okay?
                   (off Lombard’s smile: ‘Okay’)
                 Okay. Goodnight then.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (smiling kindly rather than warmly)
                 Yeah. Goodnight, Emily.
 
                                   EMILY
                 Don’t fall asleep with your hair wet.
 
       Alone, Lombard reaches for a booklet from a box...
       OVER HIS SHOULDER, the booklet in his hands: titled ‘WONDERLAND’,
       printed by ‘THE LEWIS CAROLL COLLECTOR’S GUILD’... He leafs
       through it... DRAWINGS OF CHILDREN... he pauses...
       IN ON... ‘THE FAMILY THAT PLAYS TOGETHER STAYS TOGETHER’.
       Lombard tosses it back in its box and peers at a glossy
       publication in another:
       ‘SEX BY AGE EIGHT - OR IT’S TOO LATE’ by THE RENÉE GUYON SOCIETY,
       Los Angeles, 5,000 members.
       IN ON Lombard...
 

       EXT. EMILY’S HOUSE. NIGHT.
 
       A suburban street.  Emily stands in her doorway under a starry
       sky...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Kitty, Kitty, Kitty... Come on, Kitty...
 
       WRAAOWWW. IN ON A CAT, all claws and teeth, fighting another
       cat...
 

       EXT. CENTURY CITY SHOPPING MALL. MORNING.
 
       BRIGHT SUNSHINE... A PONTIAC pulls up outside the gleaming mall.
       The passenger door swings open... Lombard (still in T-shirt and
       sneakers, now with a two-day stubble) climbs out, shuts the door
       and leans in the window:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 If the cops get to you, don’t get into
                 trouble denying you know me. I picked you
                 up in a restaurant and you fell for my
                 Gaelic charm. You thought I was a
                 businessman and had no idea I’d used your
                 address as a mail box. Could you live with
                 the shame?
                   (Emily nods, worried...)
                 My money should get here tomorrow. The
                 passport might take a little longer. I
                 have to send a photograph...
 
       Emily just looks back at him, not knowing what to say.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well... I’ll be in touch.
 
       Lombard turns, squints into the sun, starts towards the crowds of
       SHOPPERS...
 
                                   EMILY
                   (leaning out the car window)
                 What am I to do with the packages if...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he stop, thinks, turns...)
                 Burn the passport and keep the money.
                 Think of it as a donation to the cause...
 

       INT. CUBICLE, MEN’S ROOM. SHOPPING MALL. MORNING.
 
       The floor around the toilet, strewn with... LOMBARD’S OLD CLOTHES,
       EMPTY SHOPPING BAGS, TORN PRICE TAGS AND LABELS, THE OLD SNEAKERS
       IN A NEW SHOEBOX... Through the open door, WE SEE...
       By the sink; A DISPOSABLE RAZOR, SHAVING FOAM, abandoned...
 

       INT. CENTURY CITY SHOPPING CENTER. MORNING.
 
       A PHOTO BOOTH.  A soft ‘CLUNK’... A strip of photos drops into the
       tray... IN ON Lombard’s hand picking them up; a new watch on his
       wrist...
       Lombard - SHAVED, IN A NEW BLACK SUIT, WHITE SHIRT - looks deadpan
       at the four shots of his grim face... pockets the strip... puts on
       a NEW PAIR OF SUNGLASSES and turns into the stream of shoppers...
 

       EXT. SECOND-HAND CAR POUND, LOS ANGELES. DAY.
 
       WIDE VIEW.  Lombard stands over an OLD BLUE FORD MUSTANG, watching
       A CAR SALESMAN demonstrate the wipers, etc...
 

       EXT. STREET, DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES. DAY.
 
       WIDE VIEW.  A rough part of town, figures loiter in doorways...
       The Blue Mustang and... Lombard stands with a gang of young
       HISPANICS, chatting relaxedly with a dry grin... Another YOUTH
       joins them... holds out a paper bag to Lombard... He peers inside,
       reaches into his pocket, holds out money...
 

       EXT. STREET OFF SUNSET BOULEVARD. DAY.
 
       The Mustang wheel screeches to a stop along a kerb...
 

       INT. PHONE BOOTH, SUNSET BOULEVARD. DAY.
 
                           LOMBARD (ON THE PHONE)
                 Tell Mr Gluck the needle man still wants
                 to talk and will get his puppy farm closed
                 down unless he answers his next call at
                 noon tomorrow...
 

       EXT. PHONE BOOTH, SUNSET BOULEVARD. DAY.
 
       Lombard steps out the phone booth, puts on his sunglasses...
       WIDE VIEW as he lights a cigarette... The phone booth is on the
       same side as the Hyatt, which stands 50 yards away... The Mustang
       is parked at the end of a small sidestreet OPPOSITE THE HYATT, a
       block along from the Mondrian...
       Lombard stands there, surveying his surroundings, as if this
       section of Sunset is now his own, the cars rolling up and down
       just meaningless intruders...
 

       INT/EXT. MUSTANG/SUNSET. SEQUENCE. DAY/NIGHT/DAY. 
 
       INT. STATIONARY MUSTANG. DAY.  Lombard is at the wheel, looking
       down at... In his hand; A SEMI-AUTOMATIC HANDGUN...
 
       EXT. MUSTANG/HYATT. DUSK.  A spectacular SUNSET...  A lonely
       DOORMAN paces in front of the Hyatt, gloved hands behind his
       back...
 
       INT. MUSTANG. NIGHT.  The RADIO is on: late night babble about
       sex...  Two takeaway cups of coffee on the dash... A burger bag on
       the passenger seat... Lombard, head against his shoulder, stares
       out from hooded eyes at...  Through the windscreen, a couple of
       staggering HOOKERS and their PIMP...
 
       INT. PHONE BOOTH. NIGHT.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You sure you passed on my message?
 
                            HYATT OPERATOR (OS)
                 I certainly did, sir...
 
       Lombard hangs up, freezes as... A lone POLICE CAR cruises past...
 
       EXT. HYATT. DAWN.  A ROADSWEEPER blasts dust off the pavement
       around the hotel entrance... 
 
       INT. MUSTANG. DAY.  THE SUN BEATS DOWN.  Lombard, looking rough
       now, searches the radio - Pop, rap, rock, inane talk, news,
       country music - settles for LOUIS ARMSTRONG: ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’...
       He checks his watch - 11:20 - sighs, peers out, lights a Gitane,
       reaches for a cup, gulps some cold coffee with a grimace, leans
       back in his seat, peers out again... stiffens...
       Through the windscreen: TWO MEN (dark, ITALIAN-LOOKING, in
       immaculate suits) walk away from the Hyatt’s door...
       IN ON Lombard; a frown as he peers at...  Swaying at the end of
       one of the men’s arms; THE LEATHER TRAVELLING BAG AND HEATHROW
       DUTY-FREE BAG FROM FRIEDMAN’S ROOM... 
       The men climb into a waiting 4x4 JEEP with tinted windows...
       Lombard throws his coffee out the window, puts on his sunglasses,
       starts the engine...  THE MUSIC carries over...
 

       INT/EXT. TAILING SEQUENCE. DAY.
 
       EXT.  A road sign: “SAN BERNARDINO”... The Jeep with the Mustang
       in tow cruise past...
       Now the two cars drive through rich fields with sprinklers...
       Another road sign: FREEWAY 215 - Victorville: 30; Barstow: 62; Las
       Vegas: 216...
 
       INT. MUSTANG.  Ahead, the Jeep changes lane... Lombard peers at a
       road sign: ROUTE 395... EDWARDS AIR FORCE BASE: 40 miles...
       EXT.  Scrub and dried-up lakes... a straight road through this
       lifeless landscape... A lizard basks in the sun... The Jeep drives
       past... then, AFTER WHAT FEELS LIKE AN ETERNITY, the Mustang...
       INT. MUSTANG.  A frown on Lombard’s face as he eyes... A sign
       where a track cuts through the HIGH CHAIN-LINK FENCE flashing past
       his window...
       “CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC”
       EXT.  The Jeep and Mustang (now separated by another car) cruise
       along yet more chain-link fencing, stretching forever...
       INT. MUSTANG.  Lombard slows... Far ahead, the Jeep takes a
       turn...
       Lombard slows right down now, peering after... The Jeep, rolling
       away along a dusty road into the desert... No fence here, just an
       old weatherbeaten sign:
       “CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC”...
       Lombard turns to the road ahead... In the far, far distance, on
       the other side of the road... A SMALL CLUSTER OF BUILDINGS...
 
                                                     END OF SEQUENCE
 

       EXT. GAS STATION/RED MOUNTAIN MOTEL-BAR. AFTERNOON.
 
       IN ON a dusty sign: ‘RED MOUNTAIN MOTEL-BAR’...  The old PUMP
       ATTENDANT fills up the Mustang’s tank...  Lombard takes off his
       sunglasses... mops his brow, put his dumb face on. 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Hot...
                   (the attendant nods: ‘Sure is.’)
                 These roads all round here, closed to the
                 public... Why’s that? Military bases?
                   (the attendant grunts)
                 Huh. I guess there’s space enough for war
                 games... Must be good for business.
 
                                 ATTENDANT
                 Must it?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 All those soldiers out there... getting
                 bored, thirsty. Come out here for
                 refreshment or female company perhaps?
 
                                 ATTENDANT
                 Ain’t nobody out there, Mister.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Nobody? Huh!... How come?
 
                                 ATTENDANT
                 Maybe for the same reason that made
                 someone somewhere not consider this a spot
                 to build the Getty Museum...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Ha-ha... Yeah...
                   (motioning to where the jeep went)
                 What about that road back there, though?
                 It says ‘closed to the public’, doesn’t
                 it?
 
                                 ATTENDANT
                   (scrutinizing Lombard)
                 You a tourist?
 
       Lombard nods with a grin... The attendant shakes his head, pulls
       the nozzle out of the Mustang and hooks it back on the pump.
 
                                 ATTENDANT
                 Used to lead to a detention camp for
                 Japanese Americans, but that was during
                 world war two.  Whatever’s down there now,
                 I’m sure it ain’t worth a detour...
                 That’ll be 11 dollars and 34 cents.
                 Anything else I can do for you, Mister?
 

       INT. MOTEL BAR. LATE AFTERNOON.
 
       A JUKEBOX plays TONY BENNETT...  Lombard, holding a cold beer
       bottle to his neck, is at the PAYPHONE by the door, waiting for an
       answer, looking out at the desert beyond the parking bay where his
       Mustang sits... No answer.  He hangs up, picks up a piece of paper
       from above the phone, folds it, puts it in his breast pocket,
       drains his beer, turns and peers at...
       TWO GIRLS (rucksacks, sparkling country eyes, on their way to LA
       in search of decadence) scribble letters over sodas...
 

       EXT. DESERT SEQUENCE. DAY/DUSK/NIGHT.
 
       THE SIGN: ‘Closed to the Public’... Lombard, jacket slung over his
       shoulder, walks past and onto the track where the jeep pulled
       off... 
       THE SUN BEATS DOWN... Lombard marches on, shirt soaked with sweat. 
       Now the road narrows to a rough DIRT TRACK over ridges of rock and
       sand... Lombard plods on, the only living thing in sight in the
       vast sandy landscape...
       FOOTPRINTS, clear against tyre marks in the sand...  Lombard,
       following the tyre marks past a dried-up river bed... 
       IN ON Lombard; sunburnt, pouring sweat, he stands peering at... 
       A DERELICT GUARDHOUSE, no door, but a new painted sign:
       ‘RESTRICTED AREA. DO NOT PASS BEYOND THIS POINT’...  Lombard wipes
       the sweat from his face, sets off again, past it...
       Now the track climbs a small ridge... Lombard reaches the top,
       stops...
       40 yards ahead, A GATE through a 15ft CHAIN-LINK FENCE topped with
       RAZOR WIRE that cuts through the desert.  The gate is shut, fitted
       with a SECURITY CAMERA and INTERCOM.  Beyond, the track
       continues...
       Lombard ducks back beneath the brow of the ridge and...
       Reappears 40 yards to the side of the gate, out of camera range...
       THE FENCE. Lombard eyes the razor wire above... the dry sand
       beneath... He gets on his knees and starts digging... IN ON HIS
       hands shifting the sand and...
 
       DUSK. A MAGNIFICENT SUNSET SKY paints the landscape... We find...
       Lombard, covered in sand, is THROUGH THE FENCE, dusting his jacket
       off... He puts it on, spits, lights a cigarette... starts for the
       next ridge...
       IN ON... the burrow under the fence... HUGE; the fence is buried
       deep - about 4 feet - and LOMBARD has had to shift a veritable
       mountain of sand, which now stands outside the fence...
 
       NIGHT.  AN INKY BLACK SKY PEPPERED WITH STARS... A BRIGHT MOON...
       And Lombard, back on the track, marching on, following the tyre
       marks still visible in the moonlight...
       Now he climbs yet another ridge, reaches its brow, stops...
       Below, in a crater-like hollow... AN EERIE SIGHT, light in the
       darkness (we hear the distant hum of a GENERATOR and throb of ROCK
       MUSIC).
       Lombard frowns, as if needing time to interpret the sight...
 
       A SPRAWLING RANCH within a HIGH PERIMETER FENCE marked with
       SPOTLIGHTS.  Light shines from every window of the MAIN BUILDING
       which overlooks a courtyard filled with a FLEET OF LUXURY CARS. 
       Light also shines from the windows of SMALLER BUILDINGS; a HUGE
       SATELLITE DISH dwarfs one; another, a BARRACKS-LIKE BUILDING, is
       FENCED OFF.  Out-buildings - sheds, stables, are in darkness...
       Lombard peers along the track... It snakes sharply down to a
       brightly lit ENTRY GATE - the only way into the enclosure.  TWO
       MEN guard it, small figures in army fatigues armed with rifles...
       Lombard grips his gun, starts down the slope, away from the
       track... 
 

       EXT. THE RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       The Rock Music is loud now...  In the DARKNESS BEHIND A STABLE
       BUILDING WE FIND... Lombard drags himself through a burrow beneath
       the perimeter fence, gets to his feet and peers around the
       building’s corner to....
       The entry gate: the guards quietly smoke and chat... The main
       building 60 or so yards away across a clear expanse: dancing
       figures in the open windows...
       Gun at the ready, he makes a dash for...
      
       THE MAIN BUILDING (Music very loud now)... He flattens himself
       against the wall between two windows, looks inside...
       A GAMES ROOM: ARMED MEN dance with a dozen TEENAGE GIRLS between
       slot machines and gambling tables.  The girls are of various races
       and types but all are at various stages of PREGNANCY and all look
       DOPED. 
       Lombard moves on, ducks beneath another window giving into the
       games room and along to the next...
       A BUSY KITCHEN: A UNIFORMED CHEF puts the final touch to a tray of
       canapés in the hands of a NAKED TEENAGE GIRL.  Around them, COOKS,
       PORTERS and more NAKED GIRLS busy about with drink trays, etc...
       IN ON Lombard; a bemused frown... He moves on, around a corner,
       stops at another window... 
       AN EMPTY OFFICE...  We hear A ROAR OF GENERAL LAUGHTER... Lombard
       turns... It comes from another window... He makes for it...
       A HUGE HALL. Cigarette smoke. A CROWD OF ABOUT 30 MEN (suits,
       polished shoes) and A HANDFUL OF WOMEN (sharp, executive-type). 
       From sofas and armchairs scattered around, some accept drinks and
       canapés from the trays being offered by more naked teenage girls. 
       Most faces are turned towards A MAN ON A DAIS (shirtsleeves,
       smooth)...
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 ... Okay! So there we are, folks. As our
                 Russian friends kindly explained, soon
                 even white kids won’t be worth their skin
                 now those sons of bitches from Eastern
                 Europe are flooding the market...
 
                                RUSSIAN MAN
                   (bawling in a strong Russian accent)
                 Competition is the blood of business. Thus
                 spoke the Americans, no?
 
       Mild laughter around the room.
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 Ha ha... Yes. With prices reaching an all
                 time low, the name of the game has become
                 ‘have-it- where-it’s-at’... As we all
                 know, transportation has always been the
                 costliest and trickiest part of this
                 business... 
 
                          MAN WITH ITALIAN ACCENT
                 Cost what?
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 Costliest!
 
                          MAN WITH ITALIAN ACCENT
                 What’s that? A word?
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 What do you think?
 
                          MAN WITH ITALIAN ACCENT
                 I don’t know. Could be the sound of
                 jewellery hitting a parquet floor, huh?
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 Very funny. Can I go on now?
 
                          MAN WITH ITALIAN ACCENT
                 Sure. But speak English, will ya, ha ha...
 
       As this is going on, Lombard scrutinizes the faces... - most of
       the males are 40- plus, a lot are LATINS, a few clearly look
       RUSSIAN or EAST-EUROPEAN...
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 I’ll try... The future, ladies and
                 gentlemen, is in doing away with
                 transportation. Breeding babies in safe
                 houses in the countries where they’re most
                 wanted not only reduces costs... By doing
                 away with cross-border smuggling of live
                 children and organs it also greatly
                 reduces the risks. This pilot-farm we’ve
                 invited you to is now one year old...
 
       IN ON Lombard; he frowns, peering at... ONE OF THE MEN he followed
       from the Hyatt; he sits in a corner, listening wearily... Then
       goes on searching the room (he’s looking for Friedman)...
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 ...And let me tell you, in that short
                 period both profit margins and demand for
                 our products have increased far beyond our
                 best forecast. By guaranteeing faster,
                 cheaper, more reliable delivery, we’ve
                 begun to wipe out the competition. Word’s
                 getting round. The long term potential is
                 simply huge. In this country alone on any
                 one day in excess of 20,000 good folks are
                 waiting for a replacement organ... Just
                 multiply five percent of this by say
                 $10,000 per kidney, $40,000 per heart,
                 $100,000 per liver, and you might begin to
                 get the picture...
 
       Now Lombard peers at... THE SECOND MAN from the Hyatt; reclining
       in a sofa, he observes the bare bottom of a naked waitress...
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 ...Bringing third-world kids to where the
                 money is is out-of-date. Trying to beat
                 the cops and the clock by smuggling kids
                 and parts across borders is at best
                 haphazard. Trafficking is yesterday’s
                 news, ladies and gentlemen, breeding is
                 tomorrow’s profits...
 
       Lombard moves to another window, hoping for a better view. 
 
                                MAN ON DAIS
                 ... A safe house, an in-house doctor or
                 surgeon, a hot-line to a carefully
                 selected network of doctors, surgeons and
                 lawyers, and a few fuckable girls...
                   (laughter from his audience)
 
       Lombard moves swiftly away, past the fleet of parked cars to...
      
       THE SATELLITE DISH BUILDING. Through a lit window: computer
       terminals... A MAN engrossed in a computer game (DOOM)... a
       flickering TV (a HOLIDAY PROGRAMME)... Through a dark window: more
       computers... TELEPHONES and, through an open door, the man playing
       in the next room...
       Lombard moves on... creeps around the ranch and through a gate in
       the fence enclosing...
 

       EXT. BARRACKS BUILDING, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       Light behind the curtains of BARRED WINDOWS spaced along the
       wall... From inside, SOUNDS OF WOMEN CHATTING, BABIES CRYING...
       Lombard moves swiftly along the narrow alley between the building
       and its fence, searching for a window with open curtains...
       A PANTING SOUND... A GROWL somewhere behind him...  He turns...
       A TOOTHY DOBERMAN looks back at him, ready to pounce, growling...
       IN ON Lombard; FEAR, there’s no escape...  Eyeballing the
       Doberman, he starts to slip off his jacket, softly hushing the
       dog... ‘Chut, petit chien...’
       He drops gently to his knees, holding his jacket open in front of
       him, eyes on the dog...  takes a deep breath, jerks his jacket... 
       THE DOBERMAN LEAPS, going for the throat...  Lombard catches its
       head in his jacket, falls to the ground holding the dog by the
       neck... The dog thrashes, wrestles... Lombard cracks its skull
       through his jacket with his gun butt; once, twice, three times... 
       The Doberman WHINES... weakens... 
       A SHAFT OF LIGHT SPEARS FROM THE WINDOW ABOVE...  Lombard freezes,
       looks up...  The curtain above him is open... Through the bars,
       the top half of A YOUNG WOMAN’s FACE looking out...  The Doberman
       in Lombard’s grip WHIMPERS, shudders violently...
       IN ON the woman searching the darkness... She flicks the curtain
       shut.
       DARKNESS AGAIN.  Lombard turns to... The main gate: the guards
       haven’t moved...  The dog: it’s dead... 
       IN ON Lombard’s hands peeling the jacket from the dog’s head... 
       his jacket glistens with blood...  He yanks it out from under the
       dog, sits up, puts it back on, turns to...  The main building: the
       pregnant girls are still dancing...
       His eyes move to...
       Away, against the perimeter fence: a SMALL STONE BUILDING flanked
       with STACKS OF OIL DRUMS; it seems to be the source of the
       generator hum... Lombard turns back to the main building,
       thinking...
 

       INT. GENERATOR SHELTER, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       IN ON the roaring GENERATOR lit by...  Lombard stands inside the
       door, holding a match, the dead Doberman under one arm, surveying
       the small interior...  OIL DRUMS AGAINST THE WALLS...
       He dumps the dog...
 

       EXT. THE SATELLITE DISH BUILDING, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard looks in window #1... The man’s still playing on his
       computer, the TV’s still on... He moves to window #2... Eyes the
       phones and, keeping his eyes on the man playing in the next room,
       climbs through the window...
 

       INT. SATELLITE DISH BUILDING, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       ...tiptoes to the phones, picks one up, squats to keep the man
       next door in sight and starts dialling... He stops, frowning...
       pulls the paper from his breast pocket... It’s soaked in blood. 
       He peels it open and, squinting to decipher the numbers, dials...
       HE TRAINS HIS GUN ON THE MAN NEXT DOOR... RINGING TONE... Then:
       ‘Yeah?’
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Get a pen and don’t ask any questions.
 
                                EMILY (OS)
                 Oh. What... Yeah. Okay.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Route 395. Past Edwards Air Force base and
                 about half a mile before a place called
                 the Red Mountain Motel. There’s a dirt
                 track with a ‘Closed to the public’ sign.
                 It leads to some kind of ranch in the
                 middle of nowhere. If you haven’t heard
                 from me by morning send the cavalry, okay?
                 But not before, you hear?
 
                                EMILY (OS)
                 Have you found your man? Is that where he
                 is?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I think so. And if it comes to it, tell
                 the cops anything you think will make them
                 move. Whatever you came up with couldn’t
                 come close to how bad it is. Bye now.
 
       And he hangs up, eyes still firmly on the game player. “...For
       seekers of sun, sea and fun on a tight budget, Brazil is...” says
       the woman on the TV screen...
 

       EXT. GENERATOR SHELTER, RANCH. NIGHT.
       (This building is 60 yards behind the main building, out of view
       of the gate.) 
 
       Lombard walks backward from the door pouring petrol from a drum...
       After 30 yards, he puts the drum down, looks around as he lights a
       cigarette... focuses on... A dark SHED, to one side, half-way to
       the main building...
       He takes a few steps towards the shed, stops, takes a deep drag of
       his cigarette, flicks it away...  THE CIGARETTE FLIES THROUGH THE
       AIR...
       Lombard sprints towards the shed... The cigarette hits the petrol -
       WHOOSH...  Lombard reaches the shed...  A RIVER OF FIRE rushes
       towards the shelter...  Lombard throws himself to the ground
       beyond the shed... ‘WHOOMPH’...  Flames engulf the shelter...
       Lombard curls up, head in his arms...
       BOOM.... The shelter blows up in a deafening conflagration... The
       MUSIC STOPS, all over the ranch the LIGHTS GO OFF...
       Lombard looks up... A ball of fire roars into the night sky...  WE
       HEAR SCREAMS...  He turns to... 
       The main building: SEVERAL MEN, guns at the ready, gape at the
       fire...
       Now Lombard again buries his head in his arms...  BOOM...
       WHOOMPH... as the petrol drums outside the Generator shelter
       blow...  The men outside the main building are thrown to the
       ground... WINDOWS SHATTER...
       Lombard hurriedly crawls to the door of the...
 

       INT. SHED. NIGHT.
 
       IN ON Lombard as he crawls in; a grimace...  He stops, sniffs the
       air, peers into the shed...  In the fire-light coming through the
       shattered window: a BATHTUB... BAGS OF LIME... GALLON
       CONTAINERS...
       He goes on in, kicks the door shut, stands, buries his nose in the
       crook of his elbow and makes for the bathtub...  IN ON Lombard;
       sickened eyes...
       IN THE BATH: the floating remains of A BODY, gruesome, half-
       dissolved, face up; could it be Friedman... IN ON Lombard; he
       scowls... ‘Nom de...’ 
       He turns to...  The gallon containers: ‘SULPHURIC ACID’ read the
       labels... 
       He glances back at the body, crosses to the window, looks out,
       breathing air... 
       Outside:  A strange sight.  A SILENT, 60 STRONG CROWD.  Men in
       suits, naked waitresses, pregnant girls, YOUNG MEN IN ARMY
       fatigues and jeans, men and women in night-clothes, in servant or
       cook uniforms...  A mass of speechless faces all glowing in fire-
       light, mesmerised by the gigantic flames...
       Lombard runs his eyes over the faces...  FINDS... 
       At the back of the crowd: one of the men he followed from the
       Hyatt.
 

       EXT. MAIN BUILDING, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard runs to the front of the main building... Hurries across
       the yard packed with cars... Turns and...
 

       EXT. RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       IN ON the Italian from the Hyatt; hard, dark...
       Behind him... Lombard stops, one of the crowd, listening...
 
                     MEN’S VOICES ABOVE THE FIRE’S ROAR
                 MAN #1: What about back-up? You got back-
                 up juice?
                 MAN #2: Sure, we got a spare generator.
                 But it ain’t much use without fuel, is it?
                 MAN #3: Are you guys saying we got no
                 juice?
                 MAN #4: Who cares, huh! We’ll use candles.
                 It’ll be romantic.
                 MAN #5: Yeah? What kind of romance you got
                 in mind, eh? Fuck me in the dark?
                 MAN #4: Huh! Fuck you? I wouldn’t fuck you
                 if I was blind and had a paper bag over my
                 head.
                 MAN #5: Great. That’s all right then...
                 MAN #1: Hey! Can the funny guys shut up?
                 Okay. What we’re gonna do is syphon gas
                 out the cars to get the spare generator
                 going. Frank, John, get to the gate. Pedro
                 and Stan, take some men to patrol the
                 outer fence. If this fire’s visible from
                 the road some assholes might decide to
                 come this way... Right, everybody,
                 scatter. And someone see if we got
                 candles.
 
       The crowd begins to ripple, small clusters form...
 
       Lombard jabs his gun into the Italian’s back.  Between clenched
       teeth:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You make a sound and we both die.
                   (the man turns; he jabs him again)
                 Let’s go.
 
       The Italian dithers, glances at Lombard’s bloody jacket, frowns... 
       then grins and shrugs, obviously not giving Lombard much chance...
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Sure. Where to, huh?
 
       Lombard jabs the Italian again, steers him towards...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 And keep your head down.
 
       WIDE VIEW; Lombard steers the Italian towards THE STABLE BUILDING
       behind which he dug his way in, through clusters of slowly moving
       people all still too mesmerised with the fire to pay them any
       attention...
 

       EXT. STABLE BUILDING, RANCH. NIGHT.
 
       Lombard shoves the Italian round the corner, grabs him by the
       collar, rams him against the wall, digs the gun into his belly:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Okay, shitbag. I’m only going to ask you
                 this once. Where is Friedman?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Who?
                 (off Lombard’s black look)
                 I don’t know who the fuck you’re talking
                 about, sunshine.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Gluck.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                   (after a beat, he grins)
                 Figlio di puttana. You’re the French
                 asshole who bumped off the London guys...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (slapping him)
                 Five seconds. Then you die.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 (his pride hurt, glaring)
                 Fuck...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 (he slaps him again)
                 Three...
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 (fighting not to retaliate)
                 Gluck’s dead, you sonofabitch!
 
       IN ON Lombard; dread in his eyes...
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 You’re the lantern man, huh?
                   (as Lombard just goes on staring)
                 If you wanna see what’s left of him...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The acid bath?
 
                               THE ITALIAN
                 Huh! You’ve been around, eh?
 
       Lombard looks down, dispirited...  He looks up again, eyeballs the
       Italian, slaps him again and, holding him against the wall, peers
       around the corner... 
       The entry gate: TWO GUARDS, caught in a Jeep’s headlights as it
       leaves... The dazed crowd moving towards the main building...
       and...  The barracks building: FRIGHTENED GIRLS gaze out through
       the barred windows...
       Lombard again eyeballs the Italian - who glares back - quickly
       searches him... and thrusts him to the ground by the burrow under
       the fence and kicks him. 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Crawl!
 

       EXT. THE DESERT. NIGHT.
 
       In the distance, flames lick the night sky... Across moonlit
       sands, WE FIND...
       Lombard, sombre, his gun arm tensed and ready, trudges a few yards
       behind the Italian who stares ahead with murderous eyes.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why did you kill Friedman?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Let me give you a tip, asshole - no one
                 pulls stunts like what you pulled in
                 London and here tonight and hopes to get
                 away with it. It upsets people. It’s
                 wrong. Fucking wrong.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why did you kill him?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Huh! You turned him into a liability,
                 didn’t you know?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Nice way to help a colleague in trouble.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 That’s just it. The sonofabitch didn’t ask
                 for help from his colleagues... 
                   (a beat, then to himself)
                 Testa di cazzo! Hiring some amateur
                 outsiders to fix you... He hasn’t gone to
                 hell too soon... And neither will you, Mr
                 Lamont! 
 
       IN ON Lombard trudging along; a perplexed frown...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Are you telling me Friedman didn’t tell
                 you I was here looking for him?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 If he had, you’d be dead.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 So why didn’t he?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 What do you think, huh?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I think you’d rather not know what I
                 think.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Huh. Maybe he figured the news our London
                 bureau got a visit from a hitman on behalf
                 of a pissed off client wouldn’t go down
                 too well. He only shared his guilty secret
                 last night. And then only ‘cause he was so
                 fucking edgy after calling his hotel we
                 persuaded him to talk.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat; more and more intrigued)
                 So you killed him and went to clean out
                 his hotel room... How did Friedman say he
                 got to know where to find me?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 That’s the beauty. An anonymous call.
                 Makes you wonder how many people know what
                 you’re up to, eh, French-fuck?
 
       Lombard glares, hurries after the Italian, grabs him by the
       collar, pulls him close, puts his gun against his head.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Try again, and this time be polite.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                   (with a snigger)
                 I can only tell you what he told us...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Not even scum like Friedman would go to
                 the trouble of killing a stranger on the
                 strength of one anonymous call.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Some guy called to let him know the
                 Frenchman who’d called the night before he
                 left London was in L.A. looking to kill
                 him. He did his sums and decided to take
                 the call seriously.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What sums?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Two stiffs and a missing kid followed your
                 visit to one of the London hotels. He
                 didn’t need your confession...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You’re sure he said his caller was a man?
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 That’s what he said...
 
       Lombard, thinking hard, holds him a moment longer, then shoves him
       forward... The Italian stumbles, regains his balance, and resumes
       walking...
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 When they realise I’m missing...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Shut up and walk...
 

       EXT. OUTER PERIMETER FENCE. NIGHT.
 
       The fire is just a distant glow now.  Lombard and the Italian near
       the FENCE...  THE ROAR OF AN ENGINE... Lombard turns... 
       In the near distance along the fence; CAR HEADLIGHTS, coming... 
       Lombard thrusts the Italian down and lies beside him, the gun
       pointed right in his face... As the car nears, their faces close,
       Lombard and the Italian stare hard at each other... IN ITALIAN:
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 What you gonna do? Kill me?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Don’t tempt me. The last scumbag who
                 thought I might kill him died soon
                 afterwards.
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Huh. I’m a businessman. What are you, eh?
 
       IN ON Lombard; hatred... IN ON the Italian; hatred...  Lombard
       looks up... A jeep patrolling the fence rolls past...
 

       EXT. DESERT. DAWN
 
       FIRST LIGHT.  Two weary figures plod through the silent sands...
 

       EXT. DESERT/MAIN ROAD. DAWN.
 
       The Italian drags himself over the last sand before the road,
       stops and peers away to...  Coming up behind, Lombard follows his
       gaze...
 
       IN ON Lombard; alarm as he sees... 70 yards away: EMILY’S PONTIAC
       near the track entrance... The door opens... Emily climbs out,
       looking his way.
       Lombard yanks the Italian around, forces him to the ground and,
       holding him down, looks back...  Emily is trotting towards him...
       He shouts:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Get the hell out of here!
                   (Emily stops in the road)
                 Go! Go!
                   (he waves his gun at her)
                 Damn it! Go on, clear off! Wait for me a
                 few miles back, all right? Go! Now!
 
       IN ON Emily; she wavers, mutters: ‘Shit,’... runs back to her car. 
 
                                THE ITALIAN
                 Trouble?
 
       Lombard turns, rams the Italian’s face in the sand, turns back...
       Emily gets into her car, does a U-turn and drives away...
      
       Lombard let’s go of the Italian and kicks him angrily...
 

       EXT. RED MOUNTAIN MOTEL. DAWN.
 
       Lombard’s Ford pulls out of the silent motel forecourt...
 

       EXT. MAIN ROAD, DESERT. DAWN.
 
       The Italian lies trussed up with his own tie and belt, in a ditch
       near the road, his bare-feet strapped to his wrists behind his
       back, socks stuffed into his mouth...
       The Mustang screeches to a halt... Lombard climbs out, OPENS THE
       TRUNK... IN ON the Italian in his ditch; he looks worried now...
 

       INT. MUSTANG. DAWN.
 
       THUMP!  Driving fast, muttering unintelligibly between clenched
       teeth, Lombard repeatedly smashes his fist into the dash...
 

       EXT. MAIN ROAD, DESERT. DAWN.
 
       The Mustang pulls up behind Emily’s Pontiac.  Lombard gets out,
       makes for...
 

       INT. EMILY’S PONTIAC. DAWN.
 
       ...slams the door shut behind him, screaming:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What’s wrong with you, woman!
 
       IN ON Emily (she looks tired, has obviously not slept); she
       returns Lombard’s stare, unperturbed but angry inside...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Look, you don’t tell me about some
                 Godforsaken place where stuff so bad even
                 I couldn’t imagine it goes down and expect
                 me to go quietly to sleep! What happened?
                 Who’s the guy? The Austrian?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Who’s the guy? Who’s the guy! Nom de Dieu!
                   (he turns away, seething)
                 Had the guy got a closer look at you or
                 your number plate I’d have had to kill
                 him.
 
       Emily frowns, unsure... frightened for a moment...
       Lombard glares into her eyes... turns away, taking deep breaths,
       calming himself down...  Emily looks him up and down, uneasy, her
       eyes lingering on... His two-day stubble... His blood-caked
       jacket... The GUN in his belt...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Where did you get...
                   (a beat; she better not...)
                 What-what did you find out?
 
       Lombard goes on frowning out the window, exhausted features
       haunted, AS IF ONLY NOW TAKING IN THE HORROR OF HIS NIGHT...
 
                                   EMILY
                 What...?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What...
                   (a beat; he goes on staring out...)
                 Some kind of organ factory... Pregnant
                 girls doped up. Babies. There’s a lot of
                 people back there. They’re holding a
                 seminar. Trafficking’s the past, breeding
                 the future...
 
       Emily just stares at him, speechless.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Friedman’s dead... They killed him...
 
                                   EMILY
                   (not interested in Friedman)
                 So who... Who’s the man? Where is he?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Some Italian I picked up back there. He’s
                 in the boot of the Mustang.
 
                                   EMILY
                   (looking back at the Mustang)
                 Italian? The Mafia...?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Who knows. Who cares...
                   (a beat, he turns to her)
                 You wanted slime. You got slime.
 
       SILENCE.  They look at each other, thoughts passing between their
       eyes...  She opens her mouth to speak but... Lombard pre-empts
       her:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No one saw me but the Italian and a dog. I
                 blew up their generator. They thought it
                 was an accident but by now they must have
                 realised one of their party is missing. It
                 might make them feel insecure enough to
                 decide to pack up...
 
                                   EMILY
                 We’re both thinking the same thing, right?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Do you know a friendly cop?
 
       She nods... They look at each other, briefly,
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Call from the motel and tell him if he
                 moves fast enough there might be something
                 left of a body dissolving in acid.
                   (he opens his door)
                 Can I have the keys to your house?
 
                                   EMILY
                   (after a beat, understanding)
                 That-that won’t do. That’s not the way it
                 goes. You saw it, you tell it, that’s the
                 way...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’m finished here and I’m tired, Emily.
                 You shouldn’t be here. Now don’t make it
                 worse.
 
                                   EMILY
                 A seminar in a baby breeding farm! Bodies
                 in acid! You think I’ll get anywhere with
                 that? Jesus! With luck I might raise a
                 laugh. They might even send a patrol car
                 to check the place out. Whatever, it’ll be
                 too late.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Then find another way. 
 
                                   EMILY
                 Look! Either you talk or the creeps are
                 gonna walk. For god’s sake. What am I
                 supposed to say? I got this from a French
                 guy from England who broke in there to
                 have a chat with an Austrian child
                 trafficker? Is that it?
        
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 I’ll be waiting outside your place.
 
       And he gets out...
 

       EXT. MAIN ROAD. MORNING.
 
       ...slams the door, makes for the Mustang.  Emily gets out after
       him, shouting:
 
                                   EMILY
                 Damn it! You can’t fucking walk away from
                 this!
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It’s up to you whether they walk or not.
 
       As he makes his way around the back of her car towards the Mustang
       driver’s door, Emily blocks his way between the two cars.
 
                                   EMILY
                 Me! Me! Do you know who I am, Mr...
 
       Before she can finish Lombard is on her, his hand over her mouth:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You’re turning into a nuisance, Emily.
                 We’ve got company, remember?
 
       He looks hard at her.  She frowns, understands, glances at the
       Mustang... He holds her a moment longer then lets go.  She goes
       on, whispering now...
 
                                   EMILY
                 ...I’m Emily Stewart. The hysterical
                 female who sees evil everywhere since the
                 day her thirteen year-old boy disappeared.
                 The pain in the ass who cries wolf at the
                 drop of a hat. However I go about this
                 that’s who I am. Do you get what I’m
                 fucking saying, Mr Lombard?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What about your friendly cop?
 
                                   EMILY
                 My ex-husband. My work drove him away.
                 Made his life a misery. He thinks I’m
                 obsessed, punishing myself for what
                 happened to our son.
                   (a beat)
                 But he’s a good guy. He’ll listen to you.
                 He won’t turn you in if I ask him not to.
                 I can pretty much guarantee that. Okay?
 
       Lombard peers at her, thoughtful, then turns to...
      
       THE QUIET EXPANSE OF DESERT towards the ranch...
       IN ON Emily; she waits... IN ON Lombard; he thinks hard... A WAVE
       OF SADNESS crosses his face...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I always wanted to come to America... La
                 Nouvelle-Orléans; Baton Rouge; Le Pays
                 Cajun... Those were magic names to a Paris
                 kid... The far-west, wild and French...
 
       IN ON Emily; What?... IN ON Lombard; he swallows, tight-lipped...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 They’d never let me go. And you’d end up
                 in more trouble than you know for helping
                 me.
 
                                   EMILY
                 You cannot walk away from this. You
                 cannot.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I can... The question is, can you lie to
                 your ex- husband?
 
       IN AND HOLD ON Emily; probing eyes... DISSOLVE AS... 
       RISING: THE WHIRRING OF A HELICOPTER... continues rising over...
 

       EXT. DESERT. DAY.
 
       A convoy of POLICE CARS charges in a cloud of dust through the
       GAPING GATE of the outer perimeter fence... Through the helicopter
       whirr WE HEAR:
 
                              LOMBARD’S VOICE
                 He’ll come. If he ever loved you he’ll
                 come.  You tell him you saw it. You tell
                 him you went in there. You had to. You got
                 a letter at the foundation. You had to
                 check. 
                   (pause)
                 I’ll draw you a map...
 
       Now, A HELICOPTER blots out the blue sky, swoops away towards...
 
                               EMILY’S VOICE
                 What about the Italian. He knows...
 
                              LOMBARD’S VOICE
                 I’ll look after the Italian...
 

       INT. POLICE HELICOPTER. DAY.
 
       A DEAFENING WHIRR NOW.  IN ON A ROUGHLY DRAWN MAP OF THE RANCH AND
       VICINITY HELD IN A MAN’S HAND...
       Emily sits in the back, behind the PILOT and a police LIEUTENANT
       (suit, sunglasses, communication headset, holding the map)...
      
       IN ON Emily, frowning at...
       In the distance, A PLUME OF SMOKE GENTLY RISES INTO THE SKY...
 

       EXT. RANCH. DAY.
 
       SILENCE as we see from above: the ranch in its crater, a WAR
       ZONE... Police cars and CLUSTERS OF COPS move slowly around the
       CHARRED RUINS of the main building and burnt-out remains of the
       wooden outbuildings... Only THE BARRACKS and satellite dish
       building still stand, blackened but intact, smoke billowing from
       their broken windows...
 

       EXT. BARRACKS. DAY.
 
       SILENCE but for... THUMP, THUMP... Emily, the Lieutenant and two
       COPS stand grimly watching a third COP axing through the barracks’
       door...
 

       INT. DORMITORY, BARRACKS. DAY.
 
       Shafts of smoky sunlight: BEDS AND BABY-COTS, blackened but still
       standing, arranged in military style rows along the length of the
       room to a badly charred far wall with a GAPING BLACK HOLE in it -
       once a doorway. The fire was clearly lit beyond it and never quite
       caught in the dormitory. 
       NOW WE SEE... Emily, the Lieutenant and the two cops, just inside,
       gazing at the cots and beds...  The Lieutenant sends Emily a ‘Stay
       here’ look and starts down the centre aisle with the other cops in
       tow.
       We stay with Emily, standing transfixed, watching them head for...
       ...The Lieutenant reaches the burnt out door, peers in, steps
       back, exchanges A HEAVY GLANCE with the other cops, pulls out a
       handkerchief, brings it to his mouth and nose and moves on
       through, the others in tow...
       SILENCE.  EMILY IS ALONE... She turns to look at... 
       A TALL CUPBOARD in the corner of the far wall...  She slowly walks
       towards it... PULLS OPEN ITS DOUBLE DOORS...
       IN ON Emily; a tremor in her cheek, awe in her eyes...
       Inside: STACKS OF COLOURFUL PACKS OF BABY NAPPIES...
       FOOTSTEPS... Emily starts, turns... The lieutenant, peering grimly
       ahead, and his cops, emerge from the charred doorway, march past,
       not seeing her in her dark corner... Emily watches them go on out,
       turns to the charred doorway...
 

       INT. INNER HALLWAY, BARRACKS. DAY.
 
       All soot and smoke, three gaping doorways...
       IN ON Emily; she retches, brings her hand to her nose, turns to...
       One of the doorways: through smoke, A BURNT-OUT SURGERY. Debris,
       AN OPERATING TABLE, SURGICAL INSTRUMENTS, twisted by the heat...
       IN ON Emily; horrified, she now peers towards...
       The open door of a cold-store: a bare foot sticks out from what
       COULD BE an entangled mass of CHARRED ADULT BODIES.  WE HEAR a
       man’s shout:
 
                             LIEUTENANT (O.S.)
                 Emily!
 
       Emily starts, retches, throws up...
 

       INT. BATHROOM, EMILY’S HOUSE. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard’s suit and clothes, washed, hang to dry above the bath...
       WE HEAR:
 
                              NEWSREADER (OS)
                 Acting on a tip-off, police today raided a
                 burnt- out ranch containing the charred
                 remains of...
 

       INT. LOUNGE, EMILY’S HOUSE. AFTERNOON.
 
       IN ON the television set...
 
                                NEWSREADER
                 ... around a dozen bodies near a disused
                 military base in a remote area of Barstow
                 county. In what is so far believed to have
                 been the home of yet another extremist
                 religious or survivalist cult group, it is
                 not yet clear what occurred or whether the
                 deaths are the result of foul play, but
                 early indications are that the ranch was
                 deliberatly set alight and the deceased
                 shot dead before...
 
       Emily, DRUNK, looking awful, slumped on the sofa with a bottle of
       beer, SWITCHES THE TV OFF with the remote (the room is messy - a
       heap of newspapers in a corner, a vacuum cleaner against a wall).
 
       She raises her beer in a toast, slurring...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Hallelujah... Thank God for convenient
                 religious nuts...
 
       Lombard (in pyjamas), sombre, holding a cup of coffee, sits in the
       armchair opposite, eyes on...
 
       On the table; a couple of FED-EX packages, A EUROPEAN PASSPORT, A
       WAD OF POUND NOTES and a HANDWRITTEN NOTE - we glimpse a girlish
       signature: ‘Love, Jane’...
 
                                  WHITNEY
                   (standing grimly by the window)
                 We’ve still got the Italian...
 
                                   EMILY
                 That’s right. Where’s the fucking Italian,
                 eh, Mr French hero?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (after a beat, scowling at Emily)
                 I left him in the Mustang outside a police
                 station, with a covering note tying him to
                 the ranch. Not that he’ll talk.
 
       IN ON Whitney; fear in her eyes as she peers at Lombard...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Of course not. Nothing sticks to slime and
                 what’s new, huh?
 
       She gulps down more beer, eyeing Lombard, confrontational...
       Lombard ignores her, starts counting his money...
 
                                   EMILY
                 Look at him, Whitney. Come all the way
                 from England to clean up California. Huh!
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 Emily...
 
                                   EMILY
                 No. You’re looking at a real Musketeer
                 here, Whitney. Brave and rash. Had to dash
                 in there.  Take a prisoner... Might as
                 well have sent them a notice to quit...
                   (off Lombard’s silence)
                 Come on, Musketeer! Got anything to say?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Nothing sticks to slime, Emily.
                   (tossing money towards her)
                 This should cover what you lent me.
 
                                   EMILY
                 Huh! And they say charity’s only rewarded
                 in Heaven... Hallelujah...
                   (she drinks, retches, staggers to her
                    feet)
                 Christ...
 
       Lombard and Withney watch her stagger out the room... WE HEAR a
       door open... A clatter... hear Emily being sick... Then silence...
       Whitney sighs, peers at Lombard, who is swallowing coffee and
       peering in the passport...
 
                                  WHITNEY
                 Are you going back home, Mr Lombard?
                   (off his look)
                 Aren’t you... Won’t they be looking for
                 you?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I doubt it. The Italian called me
                 Lamont... Whoever tipped off Friedman told
                 him I was a hitman called Lamont.
 
       Whitney peers at him, not sure she understands... Turns to... The
       SOUND OF GLASS SHATTERING in the bathroom...  WE HEAR:
 
                                EMILY (OS)
                 Shit! Fuck! What’s fucking wrong with
                 people!
                   (sound of footsteps)
                 I’m going to bed. And sweet dreams to you
                 to!
                   (door slams shut)
 
                                 WHITNEY
                 She’ll be alright. She’s tough...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (a beat, then, grimly:)
                 Yeah. The tough ones can only break.
 
       IN ON Whitney; she peers back at him, unsure...  
 
                                                            CUT TO:
      
       THROUGH HUSHED SILENCE, THE SOUND OF A TAP RUNNING... The table is
       now clear except for a Gitane-stub in a saucer... The sofa
       empty... Through the open kitchen door: Whitney, glum, washes-up
       at the sink...
       The sound of running water merges into... 
 

       EXT. RIVERSIDE FOOTPATH/FIELD TO RHIAN’S COTTAGE. DAY.
 
       THE SOUND OF POURING RAIN, A ROARING RIVER... IN ON a plastic
       football bouncing with a splash a few times on the grass, rolling,
       and...
       Lombard, standing by the swollen river at the bottom of the field
       leading to Rhian’s cottage watches the ball come to a stop near
       his shoes...
       He looks up... Upfield, the Asian boy (gumboots, in a waterproof
       much too big for him) stands still, staring at him... HE BOLTS for
       the cottage door...
 

       INT. KITCHEN, RHIAN’S COTTAGE. DAY.
 
       IN ON a NEWSPAPER ITEM in the ‘NEWS IN BRIEF’ COLUMN:
 
      
                 “The body of Leonard Spitz, 31, was found
                 hanging from a tree by a man walking his
                 dog north of High Beach in Epping Forest,
                 Essex, yesterday. The body was in an
                 advanced state of decay. High Beach police
                 are treating the death as suicide...”
 
       Lombard, standing, peers at ‘The Guardian’ in his hands, checks
       its date... NOVEMBER 15 199... then up at...  Rhian standing
       across the table...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What’s the date?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 The nineteenth... How come you didn’t
                 know?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ve been away.
                   (a beat, he turns to Rhian)
                 Did Leon speak to you about his sister?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Er... Yes...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Did he ever refer to the hostility between
                 them?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 He... Apparently the hostility was all
                 hers. Leon didn’t... It hurt him. They
                 used to be close...
                   (off Lombard’s look: ‘Is that so?’)
                 Their parents were in their forties when
                 they were born, you see. And mostly away.
                 They grew up in a Scottish mansion with
                 old nannies and servants. He... “Our world
                 was so old and cold, we shone for one
                 another,” Leon used to say. His sister cut
                 him off after she got married. He never
                 understood why but thought it was because
                 she had no children. Was bitter...
 
       Lombard looks at her, thoughtful, throws the paper down.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 The money Leon left for the boy, was it
                 cash?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Yes. Three thousand pounds. I still...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Did he mention anything about having an
                 exhibition of his work?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 ... No.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You sure? What about before he turned up
                 with the boy?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 ... No. In fact, I’d seen him a couple of
                 months earlier. He was quite depressed.
                 His work wasn’t getting anywhere. He said
                 he was going to try something new,
                 realism, London in the nineties -
                 documentary stuff, you know...
 
       IN ON Lombard; a flicker of thought... Rhian goes on, smiling
       sadly now.
 
                                   RHIAN
                 He showed me a book with a picture of a
                 couple caught kissing in a street...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How’s the boy doing?
 
                                   RHIAN
                 Fine...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Good. You needn’t worry about the Austrian
                 anymore. He’s dead. I’ll be in touch.
 
       And Lombard turns to leave... IN ON Rhian; a quizzical frown...
 

       EXT. LEON’S STREET. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard’s Triumph, parked outside Leon’s apartment building...
 

       INT. LIVING ROOM, LEON’S APARTMENT. AFTERNOON.
 
       Lombard stands inside the door, surveying...  Leon’s life has been
       packed away: a heap of boxes in the middle of the floor, the walls
       and shelves bare...
       He makes for the Darkroom door, opens it, switches on the light...
      
       THE DARKROOM: stripped bare... He turns off the light.
      
       SITTING ROOM. The boxes now sit scattered around, their contents
       littering the carpet; books, records, photographic equipment... WE
       FIND...
       Lombard, emptying another box - more photographic stuff, prints,
       rolls of film, chemicals...  He pulls out A BOX-FILE, opens it...
       Inside: CONTACT SHEETS, SHOTS OF LONDON SCENES...  He leafs
       through, stopping now and then to scrutinize one or the other... 
       STROLLERS IN PARKS... MORE PARK SCENES...  Finally, he pulls one
       sheet out and brings it close to his eyes.
       IN ON the contact sheet: more park scenes; two strips of shots
       follow A TRAMP carrying bulging bags along a park fence with a
       busy road beyond...
       Lombard scowls, seeing... THREE SEQUENTIAL SHOTS: BEYOND THE
       ADVANCING TRAMP, THE FAMILIAR FACADE OF THE DIPLOMAT, its sign
       clearly readable, first to the tramp’s left, then half concealed
       behind his head, then to his right...
       IN ON Lombard glaring at... the strips of shots of the tramp’s
       progress along the fence... HIS FACE STIFFENS AS HE SEES...  A
       shot of the tramp, now facing the camera, angry, swearing at the
       photographer... 
       Lombard brings the sheet even closer, peers hard at it, turns,
       scans the floor... picks up a photographer’s magnifying block from
       the carpet, makes for the window, places the magnifying block on:
       THE SWEARING TRAMP THROUGH THE MAGNIFYING BLOCK: to the right of
       the tramp’s head, parked cars in a side street; among them, the
       distinct contours of an ASTON MARTIN...
       Lombard flicks the contact sheet over...
                          ‘PENRHYNDEUDRAETH’, in his handwriting...
       Lombard is livid. “Merde...”
 

       INT. OFFICE, LOMBARD’S FLAT. DUSK.
 
       The gold fish swim serenely in their aquarium... Still in his
       jacket, smoking, angry, Lombard is at his desk, on the phone:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 ...Je vous remercie, Charles.
 
       He hangs up, crosses a name from a long handwritten LIST OF NAMES
       AND PHONE NUMBERS - a third are already crossed out - and dials
       the number beside the next name - JEAN PROVOST. 
       Waiting for an answer, he stubs out his cigarette, lights another,
       blows out smoke and rubs his eyes peering at... the contact sheet
       on his desk.  THE SOUND OF A KEY IN THE LOCK...  Lombard
       stiffens...
 
       The door opens... Jane stands in the doorway holding a white
       bundle - A BABY.  She beams, comes in...
 
                                   JANE
                 Savieer! You’re back!
 
       Lombard sends her a stony smile, signals her to be quiet...  Jane
       quickly murmurs something to a young man who has appeared beside
       her - TIM - then calls in a whisper:
 
                                   JANE
                 I came to feed your fish. I didn’t know...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (signalling her to shut up again)
                 Oui, bonjour, Jean... Oui, très bien,
                 merci. Dites-moi, pourriez-vous me dire si
                 vous avez recommandémes services
                 àquelqu’un récemment... Vous êtes
                 certain... Non, non...  Je vous
                 remercie...
                   (hangs up, crosses out Provost’s
                    name...)
 
                                   JANE
                 Hello there. How’s the flat. I cleaned...
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Jane, there was an envelope in my desk.
                 The one I’d given you and then got back,
                 remember? I can’t find it. Do you know
                 where it is?
 
                                   JANE
                   (she stares, thrown by his briskness,
                    then:)
                 No... I told you on the phone. Whoever
                 broke in messed-up all your papers. I put
                 everything back where I thought it ought
                 to be.
                   (nodding to a pile of papers)
                 Maybe it’s there with...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It’s not.
 
                                   JANE
                 Well, I’m sorry. I...
                   (a cry from the baby in her arms; she
                    smiles at it, then at Lombard)
                 This is my nephew... And my brother, Tim.
                 I’ve got the week off and he’s come to
                 stay.
 
       Tim waves a hand, mutters ‘Hello’, Lombard ignores him, staring
       instead at the baby in Jane’s arms... Jane sends him a nervous
       smile now...
 
                                   JANE
                 Anyway. You see, your lock’s fine. I don’t
                 know how they got in. So, how was L.A.,
                 eh?
 
       Lombard just goes on eyeing the baby... Jane looks more and more
       uneasy.
 
                                   JANE
                 I-I’m sorry about your envelope, okay?
 
       Now he glances quickly at her, then back at his list, saying:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you, Jane. I’m busy.
 
       And he starts dialing...  FLUSTERED, Jane retreats to the doorway,
       where Tim is already moving away.
 
                                   JANE
                 Well, excuse me!
 
       She slams the door behind her... Waiting for his call to be
       answered, Lombard once again peers at THE CONTACT SHEET...  A
       FROWN... He looks up...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No children...
 
       He slams the phone down, thinks hard... eyes the contact sheet
       again, dials again...
 
                                BUTLER (OS)
                 Good afternoon. De Moraes’s residence.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Could I speak to Carlos or Deborah?
 
                                BUTLER (OS)
                 I’m afraid they are out at the moment,
                 sir.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 When will they be back?
 
                                BUTLER (OS)
                 Mr De Moraes is due back from Brazil late
                 this evening. Mrs De Moraes is out and not
                 expected before eight. Do you wish...
 
       Lombard hangs up, thinks hard again... checks his watch: 18:35...
 

       INT. LANDING, LOMBARD’S FLAT. DUSK.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (calling up from his doorway)
                 Jane!
                   (no reply; he moves to the stairs)
                 Come on, Jane!
 
       We hear A DOOR OPENING, then a shout:
 
                                 JANE (OS)
                 Piss off!
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (he frowns, then:)
                 Thanks for cleaning my flat and sending my
                 money, all right?... Come on, I need you.
                 It’s important.
 
       Silence. Lombard waits... SOUND OF FOOTSTEPS UPSTAIRS...
 

       INT. OFFICE, LOMBARD’S FLAT. DUSK.
 
       Lombard puts on his coat talking to Jane who stands at his desk
       eyeing his list...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Just ask if they can recall recommending
                 my services to anyone in the recent past.
                 Say you’re my secretary, all right?
 
                                   JANE
                 Your secretary, huh!
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (picks up the contact sheet, walks
                    away)
                 I’d appreciate it if you could do this for
                 me. If you can’t, don’t worry about it.
                 I’ll call in about an hour anyway. Sorry
                 but I’m in a hurry.
                   (he steps out the door)
 
                                   JANE
                   (alone, shouting after him in
                    frustration)
                 What are you up to, eh, Savieer? I mean,
                 not this but... Money, passports, a gun in
                 a microwave? Who are you, eh? Who are you?
 

       EXT/INT. REDDINGTON ROAD, HAMPSTEAD/TRIUMPH. DUSK.
 
       EXT.  TWILIGHT. HEAVY RAIN. THE PURR OF AN IDLING CAR ENGINE... A
       cigarette hits the wet tarmac with a spray of sparks...
       INT. STATIONARY TRIUMPH.  Lombard peers out through his swishing
       wipers at... THE DE MORAES’ MANSION... NO CARS IN THE DRIVE... He
       checks his watch... 19:10... 
 

       EXT. DE MORAES’ MANSION DRIVEWAY. DUSK.
 
       The Triumph crunches across the gravel into the empty drive... CUT
       TO:
       The butler stands in the doorway, frowning at... Lombard, climbing
       the steps with a tired grin...
 
                                  BUTLER
                 Good afternoon, Mr Lombard. I’m afraid...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I know, Laurence. Your Mistress isn’t
                 expecting me ‘till eight. But as I was in
                 the area I thought I might as well wait.
 
       And he pushes his way in past the butler,...
 

       INT. HALLWAY, DE MORAES MANSION. DUSK.
 
       ...wipes his feet on the mat, makes for the drawing room and stops
       as the butler reluctantly closes the front door...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 By the way, Laurence, were you here last
                 time your mistress’s brother came over?
                 You know, just before he disappeared?
 
                                  BUTLER
                   (heading stiffly for the drawing room)
                 I work here, sir. I’m here most of the
                 time.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (following the butler)
                 You wouldn’t recall if the brothers-in-law
                 left together, would you?
 
                                  BUTLER
                 You will have to ask Mr De Moraes that,
                 sir.
                   (opens the drawing room door, steps
                    aside)
                 Would you like a drink while you wait?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 No. Thank you. I’ll be fine...
 
       And Lombard steps into the...
 

       INT. DRAWING ROOM, DE MORAES MANSION. DUSK.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Mrs De Moraes must have taken it hard, eh?
                   (off the butler’s blank look)
                 Her brother’s death.
 
                                  BUTLER
                 Dial O-O-O on the telephone if you change
                 your mind about the drink, sir.
 
       And the butler shuts the door... Lombard puts his ear to the door
       ... FOOTSTEPS LEAVING... carefully opens the door...
       The hall is empty, distant sounds of kitchen activity from a
       corridor...
 

       INT. HALLWAY/STAIRWELL. DUSK.
 
       Lombard hurries across the hall and up the curving carpeted
       stairway to...
 

       INT. FIRST FLOOR CORRIDOR. DUSK.
 
       Moving fast, he barely pauses as he opens and peers into the doors
       along his way, turning the lights on and off, searching for...
       Now he turns on the light in yet another room... goes in...
 

       INT. DEBORAH’S BEDROOM. DUSK.
 
       ...Carefully closes the door behind him, surveying...
       A feminine bedroom (RED PREDOMINATES): fourposter bed, dressing
       table, a Constable landscape, an oil portrait of Deborah,
       majestic; two doors...
       Lombard opens one: A MARBLE BATHROOM...  The other: a masculine
       bedroom (pastel colours, modern, spacious) - CARLOS’S BEDROOM...
       Now he searches Deborah’s bedside table drawer (Marlboro packs,
       ear plugs, tissues, sleeping pills, etc.)...
       Rifles through the drawers of the dressing table covered with
       expensive cosmetics; in the drawers, more cosmetics; one contains
       nothing but LIPSTICKS (ALL THE SHADES OF RED), another jewellery.. 
       Steps into a WALK-IN CLOSET: fur coats, suits, lots of shoes...
       Opens the wardrobe: a lot of seductive LINGERIE, SOME STILL WITH
       PRICE TAGS, NEVER WORN... IN ON Lombard; an intrigued frown.
 

       INT. EN-SUITE BATHROOM. DUSK.
 
       Lombard scans the contents of the medecine cabinet: the usual
       household medecines, plus TEMAZEPAM... NITRAZEPAM... VALIUM...
       Now he opens and closes the drawers of a dresser... One, two,
       three... He keeps the last one open, focusing inside...
       Boxes of tampons and panty liners...
 

       INT. DRAWING ROOM, DE MORAES MANSION. DUSK.
 
       Lombard is at the phone, dialling...  A ring then: ‘Hallo’.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Hello, Jane. It’s me.
 
                                 JANE (OS)
                 Really? And how are you, eh?
                   (Lombard sighs, waiting...)
                 Someone called Pierre Dreyer said that a
                 month ago he had dinner with a Brazilian
                 friend of...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Carlos De Moraes?
 
                                 JANE (OS)
                 Yes. How did...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Thank you, Jane.
 
       He hangs up, stares thoughtfully in front of him for a moment,
       drawn and dispirited, all of a sudden looking VERY, VERY TIRED... 
       He turns to...
      
       THE PHOTOGRAPH OF THE TRIUMPHANT CARLOS ON THE WALL...
 

       EXT. DE MORAES DRIVEWAY. EVENING.
 
       Deborah’s Aston Martin pulls up beside the Triumph...
 

       INT. DRAWING ROOM, DE MORAES MANSION. EVENING.
 
       Lombard sits placidly peering ahead, his back to... Through the
       window: the butler escorts Deborah from her car, sheltering her
       with his umbrella, talking...
       HOLD ON Lombard, expressionless as... WE HEAR the front door
       close, heels move quickly across the hall... The door opening...
       IN ON Lombard; a stony grin... Deborah stands stiffly in the
       doorway, in black, wearing sunglasses, with a new hairstyle (A
       FRINGE covers most of her forehead), holding a handbag and a
       HARRODS SHOPPING BAG...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Mr Lombard...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How are you, Mrs De Moraes?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 When did you get back?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why don’t you ask when I left the
                 Mondrian?
 
       She hesitates... steps in, makes for the table and... keeping her
       back to Lombard, reaches for her cigarettes, doing her utmost to
       sound calm:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I was going to phone you. We...
                   (a beat as she lights her cigarette)
                 Leon is dead. He hung himself... They
                 found him in Epping Forest... Five days
                 ago...
 
       Lombard stays silent...  She turns to face him, sends him a
       nervous grin, sits at the table and starts searching her handbag
       with jerky movements...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I can’t say it came as much surprise.
                 Still...
                   (she seems lost for words)
                 I’m sorry no one called you. You must have
                 come for your money. How much do we owe
                 you?
 
       She pulls a cheque book and pen from her bag, opens the cheque
       book, looks up at Lombard... He just looks at her, coldly.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I’m really sorry you were not called...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You’re repeating yourself, Mrs De Moraes.
 
                                 DEBORAH 
                 I... Well, we’re burying Leon tomorrow
                 and... Look, I wish I had more time, but
                 it’s late and with the funeral...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (dark grin)
                 Aren’t you curious to know about Friedman?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I... If you don’t mind, I do not think he
                 matters now. It... Things turned out to be
                 as we thought; Leon was weak. There’s no
                 point in delving into his sad life
                 anymore. Now, will you please tell me how
                 much we owe you?
 
       IN ON Lombard; a cruel glimmer as he peers at... The pen in her
       hand: she’s so tense she’s burying its tip in the cheque book...
       He looks up again...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Black suits you.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Sorry?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (signalling towards the Harrods bag)
                 What’s in the bag? Underwear? To seduce
                 your husband? Or is it for your own
                 recreation?
                   (off her mystified silence)
                 Tell me, how come such a handsome couple
                 sleep in seperate bedrooms? Is it because
                 he does it with little children?
 
       He glances at... she holds the pen so tight her fingers have gone
       white... He looks up, giving her no time...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Or is it the other way round? The children
                 are needed because you can’t satisfy him?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You... You are out of order, Mr Lombard.
                 I...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (jumping to his feet, SHOUTING)
                 You what, Mrs De Moraes? YOU WHAT?
 
       She just sits, startled... He glares at her, calms himself down...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 How did you break into my office, Deborah?
                 Ladies of your standing don’t learn to
                 pick locks between shopping trips.
                   (off her startled silence)
                 Come on, Deborah! Acting dumb doesn’t suit
                 you! Who knew I’d found dirt on your
                 brother, huh? Who knew it was in an
                 envelope? Taking me for dead, who’d want
                 to make sure it didn’t fall into the wrong
                 hands?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You’re mad...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I’ve had a long and unpleasant day. I’m
                 tired and I’m angry. But mad? Not yet.
                   (a beat)
                 I paid Leon’s boy a visit this morning.
                 Found him alive and well. Why haven’t you
                 told your husband where he is since
                 reading my note, eh?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Why... I don’t know what you’re talking
                 about.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You know he’d have had him killed, don’t
                 you? Does a conscience still burn
                 somewhere inside your sore mind, Deborah?
                 Or is it just cold expediency? Could the
                 boy perhaps come in useful when and if the
                 day ever comes for you to face up to the
                 man you married?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Have you finished?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 When did you learn about his taste for
                 kids, huh? On your honeymoon? Or was it
                 later, when bitterness set in and you
                 turned against your beloved but weak
                 little brother? How did you find out? Did
                 he confess? Try to convert you perhaps? Or
                 was it woman’s intuition? Or just the way
                 he fucked you?
 
       Deborah whips off her glasses - ONE OF HER EYES IS BRUISED...  She
       says, haughtily, too haughtily:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You do have a vivid imagination, Mr
                 Lombard. I only wish you’d use it
                 fruitfully instead of in being obnoxious.
                 I fail to understand your purpose in this.
                 Still, say what you’re owed if you still
                 wish to be paid or get out, all right?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (peering at her bruised eye)
                 I guess the news you’d sent me after
                 Friedman didn’t go down too well, eh?
 
       She glares... replaces her cheque book and pen in her bag.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why did you send me after Friedman,
                 Deborah?
 
       She stubs out her cigarette, RISES TO HER FEET.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Whatever the reason, I’m sorry I did.
                 Goodbye, Mr Lombard. I believe you know
                 your way out.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You knew he had nothing to do with your
                 brother’s disappearance, didn’t you?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Huh! Don’t you recall convincing me he
                 had?  You should learn to live with your
                 mistakes, Mr Lombard. There is some merit
                 in it.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I take it you learnt to live with yours
                 then. Take it all the mind-dulling pills
                 in your medicine cabinet are surplus to
                 your well-being... 
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 How... When did you...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 It must be tough being married to Adonis
                 to end up sleeping alone every night.
                 Sleep must be hard coming. What’s harder?
                 The thought of the fine litter you two
                 could have bred if? Or imagining what he
                 does with his children?
 
       IN ON Deborah; HATRED in her eyes. Her lip twitches, she opens her
       mouth to speak... but holds back...
       SILENCE. They eyeball each other, Deborah filled with scorn,
       Lombard with disgust... She takes a deep breath...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 What exactly did you come here for, Mr
                 Lombard?
 
       IN ON Lombard; a frown of disbelief... He shakes his head, pulls
       the contact sheet from his pocket, makes for her unfolding it,
       flattens it on the table, turns it round, pushes it towards her:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What were you satisfying? Morbid
                 curiosity? Was it gratifying?
 
       She stares at the contact sheet... Looks up, mystified.... He puts
       his finger onto the shot with the Aston Martin...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Look closely, Deborah! How many Aston
                 Martin DB6 do you think there are in
                 London, huh?
 
       IN ON Deborah; DREAD IN HER EYES... She looks down again...
       Lombard takes a couple of steps back to watch her peer at the
       shot, searching...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Tell me, did he kill his little victims
                 too?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 No!
 
       SILENCE.  She looks towards him but not at him... Lombard snarls,
       watching her realise she has slipped...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What do you mean, ‘No’, Mrs De Moraes?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 My brother hung himself.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Does the name Pierre Dreyer mean anything
                 to you? He’s a client of mine and a friend
                 of your husband.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Leon hung himself.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Adonis thought your brother’s body’d be
                 found reasonably quickly when he hung it
                 in Epping Forest, didn’t he? Seemed like a
                 good idea. An ex-junkie, obsessed with
                 death; the perfect candidate for suicide.
                 He just forgot one thing: forest ramblers
                 are rare during your average blustery
                 English November. An Englishman might have
                 thought of that, but a Brazilian...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Leon hung himself...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Leon’s not found, your parents worry, talk
                 of hiring help to find him, even mention
                 their manhunter friends perhaps... and
                 Adonis panics, takes control, brings me in
                 reckoning a small- time detective is
                 unlikely to dig up anything awkward, not
                 before Leon’s found anyhow. He must have
                 kicked himself when he learned I’d
                 exceeded his expectations.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Leon hung himself...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Leon didn’t hang himself, Deborah. Your
                 husband killed him and made his death look
                 like suicide. How did he do it, eh?
                 Strangulation? Drugs? No doubt an autopsy
                 will tell.
 
       IN ON Deborah; FEAR...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Maybe... If Leon didn’t hang himself,
                 maybe Friedman killed him. Maybe Friedman
                 has your envelope....
 
       IN ON Lombard; amazement... She can’t help fighting.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I doubt Friedman ever even met Leon,
                 Deborah. Friedman dealt with select
                 customers. As for my envelope, had he know
                 where it was he wouldn’t have mistaken me
                 for a hitman called Lamont when we met in
                 Los Angeles.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 ...You-you spoke to him?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Not in the strict sense of the word, no.
                 He was in too much of a hurry to kill me
                 when we first met and too wasted in acid
                 when I caught up with him later.
 
       SILENCE. Deborah sends him a long look... IN ON her; a flicker of
       relief... IN ON Lombard; he scowls, understanding...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Yes. You’re safe. He swallowed the bait
                 and paid for it by dying. Was the hitman
                 story your idea or Adonis’s, huh?
                   (off Deborah’s silence)
                 What was the trouble? Friedman might have
                 told me he didn’t know your brother? I
                 might have told him who I worked for...?
 
       SILENCE... Deborah stares at him, expressionless.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Your brother stumbled upon Adonis’s little
                 secret, didn’t he? And traded his silence
                 for a kid and some cash. And Adonis fell
                 for it, bought him his kid, sent him away,
                 and then killed him when he came back for
                 more.
                   (a beat)
                 Leon didn’t come here to borrow money for
                 prints. He came to extort a second kid’s
                 life. Your flunkey let him in, so his
                 visit couldn’t be concealed, hence the
                 exhibition story. There was no exhibition.
                 Just as you suspected. Remember, Deborah?
                 “Leon does his own prints. Wouldn’t want
                 anyone to interfere with his ‘Art’”.
                   (off her silence)
                 I should have paid more attention to your
                 words. Perhaps it’s the way you say
                 them...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                   (turning to the contact sheet)
                 If-if my car is there, I could be the one
                 who... Why don’t you accuse me of killing
                 my brother?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Kids are not your thing, Deborah. You’d
                 have been ready for me when I turned up
                 with ‘Sleeping Beauty’. Damn it! Then too
                 I should have paid more attention. “Not
                 Leon,” you said. It struck me at the time,
                 but obviously not hard enough. You didn’t
                 say ‘My God!’, or whatever else well-bred
                 ladies squeak on hearing Uncle Henry
                 misbehaved. “Not Leon.” Who then?
                   (a beat)
                 You sure were right about one thing,
                 Deborah, the job was too formidable for
                 me. I should have thought a little more
                 before I left for Los Angeles. But there I
                 was focused so hard on Friedman I’d
                 stopped thinking. Nothing added up - Leon
                 soliciting money for prints while buying
                 kids at £15,000 a go; infiltrating the
                 world of child traffickers; duping
                 Friedman into selling him a little boy...
                 You sure were right. The job was too
                 formidable for me. But you knew that,
                 didn’t you?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Leon could still have hung himself.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Oh no. At long last Leon had found a
                 mission. He’d never have killed himself
                 when glory beckoned. Your husband killed
                 your brother. And thanks to you, almost
                 got me killed too.
 
       SILENCE. Deborah stares at him... and... as if suddenly drained,
       falls back in her chair... She lights a cigarette with a trembling
       hand, takes a deep drag...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Poor Leon... How typical of him to be in
                 the wrong place at the wrong time...
                   (a beat)
                 When I called you in Los Angeles... I
                 wanted to warn you. Maybe I would have if
                 you hadn’t left me waiting on the line. I
                 hung up...
 
       IN ON Deborah; tears well up her eyes...  IN ON Lombard; a cold,
       mean spark deep in his eyes... IN ON Deborah; she goes on looking
       up at him, resolute...
       Lombard pushes his hands deep into his pockets, turns, makes for
       the window, and says, staring into the darkness outside:
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Don’t cry. I might become nasty...
 
       Deborah eyes him through tearful eyes... then turns to the contact
       sheet:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You’re wrong about my being there, though.
                 Carlos borrowed my car that day, his had
                 broken down...
                   (a beat, she wipes away a tear)
                 Leon saw it, like you, assumed I was
                 there, thought he’d wait to ask for a
                 lift. But Carlos turned up, with the tape
                 you found...
                   (she wipes away another tear)
                 Leon got his lift, and accidentally picked
                 up the tape with his photo equipment when
                 he got out. He watched it, confronted
                 Carlos, threatened to tell the police
                 about the hotel... I don’t know how he
                 knew about the hotel. Perhaps Carlos
                 talked too much... My husband did not tell
                 me... You more or less guessed the rest...
                   (looks up, peers hard at Lombard’s
                    back)
                 I didn’t know any of this before you left
                 for Los Angeles.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (keeping his back to her)
                 You don’t say.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 That my brother, my husband and your Mr
                 Friedman were linked, that much I had
                 guessed. But that my husband had killed
                 Leon? No.
 
       IN ON Lombard; he could kill her... but keeps his back to her...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Why did you send me after Friedman? To
                 atone for your sins?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I didn’t know my husband and Friedman knew
                 each other. I just...
                   (off his silent back)
                 Do you think we spoke about it? I’ve known
                 for five years. He’s known I’ve known for
                 five years... But not once have we spoken
                 about it. There are things one just
                 doesn’t speak about...
 
                                 LOMBARD 
                   (turning to her, sickened)
                 One just doesn’t... Tell me, what does one
                 speak about, huh?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Think what you like. But don’t presume to
                 understand.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 I don’t.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Good.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Is there anything to understand?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Why do I feel I needn’t answer that?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Rich. Young. Beautiful. You must at least
                 get a kick out of what he does to his
                 kids.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You bastard...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Five years of it. Surely, you’d have
                 divorced him if he disgusted you?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You splendid bastard...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Are there truly no extenuating
                 circumstances?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 ...We’re turning in circles.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 And you still haven’t told me why you sent
                 me after Friedman.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Maybe I wanted to give my husband a
                 fright.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 A fright?... Five years of cowardice led
                 to your brother being murdered and you
                 wanted to give his murderer a fright?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I didn’t know who or what had happened to
                 my brother yet, Mr Lombard!
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What was the idea? Husband is filled with
                 fear when he learns his child supplier’s
                 being tailed?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Something like that.
 
                                 LOMBARD
                 Something like that?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Something like that.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 What happened? Adonis slapped you about a
                 little and you reverted to cowardice?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Here we go again.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Where is that?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Simplify and damn.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Don’t you believe in simplicity?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Should I?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 We all have to like what we become.
                 Cowards included. We achieve this by
                 complicating things a little. But it’s
                 never that complicated really.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 You seem to know what you’re talking
                 about.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Perhaps it came to me while dying in a
                 Californian desert because a woman set
                 upon giving her husband a fright got
                 slapped about a little.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 My husband didn’t need to slap me about,
                 Mr Lombard. I volunteered... 
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 To get me killed...?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 I didn’t intend it that way... It just
                 happened.
                   (off his look: ‘Just happened...?’)
                 He heard from Laurence that you’d been
                 back.  That we’d argued. He asked why and
                 it just happened; I told him everything...
                 I couldn’t help it. Wanted to see him
                 scared. I had never seen him scared
                 before, you see...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Perhaps I did... Until fear turned into
                 panic. That’s when he hit me, and told me
                 he’d killed my brother... “You don’t know
                 what you’ve done,” he said.  “We’re in
                 deep trouble,” he said. “We,” he said.
                 “We.”
                   (a beat as she sneers)
                 We’d both be killed if Friedman ever found
                 out you were working for us, he said. We
                 had to stop you and Friedman meeting...
 
       IN ON Lombard; sickened... She sends him a proud, contemptuous
       glance...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Fear is contagious. I don’t know if you
                 can or want to understand, but I didn’t
                 want to die because of what he’d done...
                 It was you or us...
 
       SILENCE.  They stare at each other... She finally says, somewhat
       menacingly:
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Well, now you know, what do you propose we
                 do, eh, Mr Lombard?
                   (off Lombard look of incredulity)
                 My brother and Friedman are dead.
                   (nodding towards the contact sheet)
                 That proves nothing. Indeed, you have no
                 proof of anything. And even if you did,
                 you wouldn’t really go to the police,
                 would you, Inspecteur Laurent Delfosse?
 
       IN ON Lombard; his eyes darken...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 The real Xavier Lombard died six years ago
                 in a car accident in Southern France... As
                 you know we have friends. We asked them to
                 do some research, for just such a
                 contingency as this.
                   (a beat)
                 You could have been more imaginative in
                 your choice of a new profession.
                 Especially since you made the front page
                 for shooting dead a convict in a prison
                 waiting room.
 
       She eyeballs him... Lombard scowls, then grins, a sickened grin.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 You know something? I’ve just seen so much
                 ugliness I don’t think I’d mind four walls
                 and dinner served every night at a regular
                 time.
                   (he turns and makes for the phone)
                 I’d hoped to have a private word with
                 Adonis, but if that’s the way you want it.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 What are you doing? You can’t. I...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (starting to dial)
                 Do you think the boy you saved might
                 identify your husband as his purchaser,
                 Deborah? And then, your brother’s not
                 buried yet. As I said earlier, an autopsy
                 will...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 He... He is dead!
                   (he goes on dialling; SHE STANDS...)
                 MY HUSBAND IS DEAD!
                   (Lombard turns to her, sceptical)
                 Call my parents. They’ll tell you. Call
                 them!
 
       Lombard hesitates, hangs up...  IN ON Deborah; she suddenly looks
       gaunt and tired...  Tears once again well-up in her eyes...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 Do you think we’d let him get away with
                 the murder of my brother?
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 We? You and your parents killed your
                 husband?
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 No. Not us...
 
       She looks dazed for a moment, reaches for a new cigarette, lights
       it with a trembling hand... Lombard just peers at her, waiting...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 They found his body yesterday. In the pool
                 at our house in Sao Paulo. He drowned.
                 Drank too much, went for a swim and
                 drowned.
 
                                  LOMBARD
                   (with a frown of disbelief)
                 Your flunkey said he was expected back
                 tonight.
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 The staff don’t know yet...
                   (off his baffled look)
                 I called my parents, told them
                 everything...
                   (she sits down again, too weak to
                    stand)
                 I just couldn’t take any more...
 
                                  LOMBARD
                 Get to the point, will you...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 My parents flew back from Israel... Told
                 him they would get him killed unless he
                 flew back to Brazil immediately and agreed
                 to a divorce. He flew back to Brazil...
                   (she drags deeply on her cigarette)
                 And his drowning was arranged...
 
       Lombard just goes on looking at her...
 
                                  DEBORAH
                 He took away five years of my life and my
                 brother. He was sick, but perhaps it
                 wasn’t his fault... His parents bought
                 young girls for him when he reached the
                 age. For him to gain sexual experience.
                 When he had finished or grew tired of
                 them, they were sold off to procurers and
                 replaced. It’s common practice in Brazil,
                 he said. The wealthy buy the children of
                 starving parents. He got a taste for it...
 
       Lombard just watches her... no sympathy whatsoever