by I K Watson
The inspector's address was winding down. “All chemists, garden centres and shops that might stock garden chemicals or children’s chemistry sets to be visited today.” He glanced at Sgt Mike Wilson. “Sgt Wilson will be coordinating this exercise. Do not sit on any information. The trail is still warm, the crater is still smoking. I want this sorted before some children turn up at the hospital minus their arms.” He turned to the DC. “Anything to add, Martin?”
DC Martin James cleared his throat and tried to ignore the superintendent’s glare. The super hated all things plain-clothed. It wasn't jealousy, exactly. Billingham had promotional ambitions and was wise enough to know that chief coppers thought that real policemen were those in uniform.
“Apart from the fuse I think you've covered it, Sir.”
“Ah yes, the fuse. The fuse was made out of steel tubing so add ironmongers and builders' merchants to your list. Sgt Wilson will supply the details.”
The briefing was over. Chairs scraped back, heavy feet smacked the floor, the plods were on the move. Before long the uniforms would be on the street where they belonged and the mobiles would be pulling out and the world – or at least the streets in their part of the city – would be a safer place. Superintendent Billingham watched it happen. He was immensely proud of his well-oiled blue machine. Martin James fought his way through the uniforms to the coffee machine. Sam Butler was making doubly sure he'd left no change in the slot.
“Hello Sam. How's the baby?”
“Noisy.”
“You slumming it?”
Butler grinned. “Just passing through.” He stood aside for James and said, “How'd it go?”
“Same old shit.”
“Things don't change then?”
“Would it make a difference if the super was on speaking terms with Baxter?”
Detective Superintendent Baxter was Billingham's CID counterpart, an altogether different character. Not friendly, never that, but less severe.
“No,” Butler said with some certainty. “Not a bit. Billingham is a natural bastard. Baxter has to work at it.”
Chapter 6
“Anian, you're with me,” DS Sam Butler said. He'd been back at Hinckley just long enough to catch up with his e-mails and drink a machine coffee.
DC Anian Stanford jumped at the chance to get away from the telephone and asked eagerly, “Where to?”
She had spent the last hour double-checking with Centrepoint, Crisis, Reunite, Shelter, British Red Cross and the London Refuge, all likely starting points in the search for a missing person. MPS were supposed to update the police national computer with information from these places along with cross-referring to all unidentified bodies found in the UK, but you’d get more joy from the Big Issue or the Black Sisters. The place was filled with officers taken from the front line or winding down to their pensions. To the kozzers on the street it had become a joke. It was almost as funny as Tintagel House on the South Bank where bad cops faced their day of judgement.
Anian had a restless face with bright dark-brown eyes that were not particularly friendly. They held a hint of petulance and maybe a question. Anian worked out, hit the pavements in tracksuit and Reeboks and burned everything off, including the good bits. Anian Stanford was a DC based at Hinckley. That she was female and the colour of antique pine were stumbling blocks in the way of promotion. She was the only Asian woman in the division. It was something the top coppers were trying to put right but only because they'd been ordered to for political reasons.
“Where to?” she repeated as she pulled her jacket from the back of her chair.
Two PCs looked up from the paperwork they were completing in triplicate, their dull eyes reflecting the monotony, boring through her clothes more out of instinct than interest.
“Ticker Harrison," Butler said. “Heard of him?” He was joking, of course.
She found an arm and struggled with the tight fit. “Sheerham's most respected resident? Who hasn't?”
Butler picked up some MP forms and stuffed them in his pocket. “What's happened?”
“His missus has done a bunk.”
“And we go to him?”
“Only cos it suits us, girl. No other reason at all. We’re looking for a link.”
She nodded thoughtfully but not at all convinced and followed the DS to the door.
The two PCs watched her go then shared an indifferent glance. Ticker Harrison lived just off the Ridgeway in North Sheerham, a few hundred yards on from the Adam and Eve boozer.
They left Butler’s car at the gate and made their way along a gravel drive curling through rhododendrons and camellias to a double garage where a silver Corvette Stingray coupe lined up next to a black ash Mercedes convertible. Their mint condition had Butler stooping for a peep at the interiors. He was still flicking tears of envy as they reached the door of a continental-style villa, more in tune with the Costas than north Sheerham. He used the bell and Anian whispered, “Who said crime doesn't pay? We're in the wrong business.”
“Would you run away from this?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who was living with me. Not even Buckingham Palace would keep me with Ticker Harrison.”
“Charlie?”
“At a push I'd sooner have Charles than Ticker, but only if I didn't have to meet the relatives.”
“What about the trees? You’d have to talk to the trees.”
Butler's easy smile vanished as the door opened.
Ticker Harrison was five-eight and built for the scrum; no neck but shoulders a loosehead prop would have been proud of. His grey hair was crew cut short and sideburns swept below the line of his ears. He had the dark skin of travellers, eyes that were greyish and humorous. He was dressed in grey trousers, white cotton shirt that was unbuttoned down to show his tanned pectorals, a silky blue waistcoat and brown slip-ons. He took one look at Butler and without giving him chance to flash his card said, “Come on in.”
Butler closed the door behind Anian Stanford then followed the two of them across a wide oak-panelled reception into a sitting room. The furnishings in one small corner could have bought Butler's place. Harrison turned to face them. His eyes lingered too critically on Anian. They'd stopped at the skin. He didn't notice her clothes, black jacket and straight blue skirt over black tights, or how tall she was, fiveeleven in flat shoes. Instead he looked at Butler with a question in his eyes.
“DC Stanford,” Butler said. “Watch the lips so you get it in one. Detective Constable Stanford. I'm Detective Sergeant Butler from Hinckley nick.”
Harrison shot the woman another glance and shrugged. He said, “Drink?”
Butler said, “Why not? Scotch will do nicely. No ice, thank you.” “You're supposed to say no thanks I'm on duty.”
“Bollocks to that. You’ve been watching too much Bill.”
“What about the Indians? Are they allowed alcohol?”
Anian said, “We are. But not if you're buying. And for your information, the gypsies are related to Hindi. They came from India.” Harrison didn't hesitate and threw her a grin that flashed white teeth, “You calling me a pikey? That's well out of order.” He looked at Butler. “You going to let her get away with that? Racial prejudice in the police force? That’s diabolical.”
Butler threw up his hands. “I’m saying nothing, Sir. And I wouldn’t go down that road with DC Stanford if I were you.”
Harrison nodded and said, “I see what you mean.” Whisky hit a glass and left splashes on the black-lacquered surface of the cellaret. There was an ivory inlay of Chinese figures. “Now look what you've made me do. You women are all the same, causing us all kinds of grief.” The traveller in his blood was irresistible. Little wonder they were market traders. His smile was disconcerting and as crafty as a spin doctor’s on a Brighton stage. His wife had disappeared but it didn't get in the way of humour. Priorities. All that. Some things couldn't be helped.
Sam Butler said sharply, “Right, let�
��s get on with it.” He accepted his drink, a tumbler full to the brim, and spread the forms on a polished glass coffee-table, easing himself into a cream leather armchair as he did so. The studded leather was cracked like an old woman's face. He tapped the leather and said, “Trouble with this colour, it shows up the dirt.”
“You should know,” the villain said. “You don't earn in a year what this fucking thing cost. Not that the cost means nothing. It's all relative, right? Who gives a fuck apart from the fuckers who haven't got it? I could feed half of India with the bread I paid for this, but who gives a fuck about half of India?”
He latched on to Anian again and stayed there for a moment, then added, “Or Pakistan.”
Butler smiled. “You're probably right, about the wages. But it still shows up the dirt, and there's a lot of it around here. Right?” Harrison nodded slowly, weighing up the DS, then he turned back to Anian. “You sure I can't tempt you, coke or tea? I do a great line in tea – Assam, Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong, camomile, even Indian.” She flashed him an odd look that Butler couldn’t work out. It might have been perplexity, but he wasn’t sure.
Harrison shrugged and offered a little smile of resignation then sat on the sofa to face the DS over the coffee table. He leant forward, his massive hands cupping his glass.
“OK, person who logged the report,” Butler said with his pen poised. He was finding it difficult to accept that Harrison was top of Sheerham’s hit-list and one of the most dangerous villains in the capital. Yet he knew it was true. Harrison had been behind some of the nastiest headlines in the last twenty years and that the coppers hadn’t been able to nail him was down to fear. It would take a brave man or a man with a death wish to grass on Ticker Harrison.
“That's me.” He pulled a face at DC Stanford.
She tightened her lips, trying not to smile.
Butler dragged them back. “Harrison, fine. Ticker?”
“Edward. But don't spread it around. I don't want people mixing me up with that geezer who married Sophie.”
“I can see your point. Easy mistake to make.”
Anian was having trouble. Her eyes betrayed her.
Butler went on, “Relationship husband. Full name of missing person?”
“Helen Anne Harrison.”
“Is that with an E?”
“Two Es.”
“Anne?”
“Oh, yeah, with an E.”
The DC had to turn away but her silent laugh still shook her shoulders.
Butler ignored her and proceeded with the rest: DOB, age, place of birth, height, weight, physical peculiarities.
Harrison said, “What the fuck do you mean? She's perfect.” “Freckles, tattoos, scarring from an operation or an injury, maybe?” “Oh. No, no freckles. Maybe one or two on her shoulders, after the sun.”
“False teeth?”
“Are you taking the piss?”
“No, but I am enjoying it. Birthmarks?”
“One, not that you'll ever see it.”
“Well, you know? Just for the record.”
“A little thing on the side of her fanny, shaped like a pear.”
“Is that an American fanny or a British fanny?”
“What?”
“Front or back, boot or bonnet?”
Anian turned back to them. She seemed a little more composed but her eyes still sparkled and Butler knew it wouldn’t take much to start her off again. What annoyed him most was that she was laughing with Ticker Harrison and not at him. She smiled sweetly.
“Front for fuck's sake.”
“English then. Top of her leg?”
“No, no, next to the old BBC.”
“Shepherd's Bush, then. You wouldn't have a photograph of it, would you, Sir?”
Harrison's eyes turned to slits.
“No, right. What side would the birthmark be on? Right or left?” “As I'm looking at it, right.”
“That would be her left?”
“Right.”
“How big?”
Harrison made a hole with his finger. “The size of a pea, maybe, the colour of…” he nodded toward the DC.
“DC Stanford?”
“Right.”
“Nescafe, then, with cream.”
“You know Cole, don't you?”
“DI Cole?”
“He taught you how to take the Irish?”
“No, Sir. I'm self-taught.”
“Well, Sergeant…”
“Butler. Detective Sergeant Butler.”
“Well, Detective Sergeant Butler, do yourself a favour and teach yourself something else. Things have a way of coming round. One day you're going to need a favour and somebody's going to take the piss out of you…”
“Right,” Butler said. “Let's carry on.”
They went through the rest, friends or relatives, places she might have frequented, health or medical conditions and so on.
Butler said, “Does she have a driving licence?”
“Yeah, she's got a licence.”
“Does she have her own car?”
“You kidding? The way she drives there's no way she's driving mine.”
“She took it with her?”
“Well, of course she did. She'd drive to the fucking bathroom if that was possible.”
From the side of the room Anian said, “Is this Helen?” She stood gazing at a framed painting of a naked woman. An oil, subdued, heavy paint where the light shone through, lots of knife.
Ticker Harrison said, “That's Helen. Now tell me, if you can, that she ain't perfect?”
Butler's interest picked up. Maybe it was the woman's lack of inhibition; there wasn't much left to the imagination. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. It was a pose guaranteed to draw the eye. He asked, “When was this painted, Sir?”
“Finished about a month ago. No more than that. Paint's hardly dry. What do you think?”
Butler turned back to Harrison and said, “You’re right, you do have a very beautiful wife and your description of the birthmark was spot on. If you can give us a recent photograph and a car registration, we'll go and try to find her.”
On their patch three women were officially missing; Helen Harrison would make it four. ht. A healthy stalk, tall or short, fat or thin, was essential to the hearty bush. Abduction was way down, the least likely scenario. . As though reading Sam Butler's mind Inspector Jack Wooderson said, “Is there any crime you might read into this?”
“Apart from Imelda Cooke, no Guv.”
“I've looked at it; we've spent a lot of man-hours, more than the books can afford.”
“She had kids.”
Wooderson nodded thoughtfully. It was not a good sign when women went missing without taking their children. But it did happen. And just lately it was happening more and more. Responsibility was something of the past.
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Then put it to bed. We've exhausted every line on this and there’s nothing else to do. Unless you can come up with something new then let's not waste any more time.”
It grieved Butler to know that his inspector was absolutely right. And yet he had a feeling about this one – the sixth sense that was the mark of a good kozzer.
An experienced copper's intuition was often more important than the evidence, or lack of it. Here, there was nothing concrete, not even a crime, yet Butler's gut tightened. It was the feeling you had the morning after the night before that you couldn't remember. A sickening feeling, just before you slept again, that somehow you'd messed up. Here, save for Helen Harrison, and who could blame her for leaving Ticker, the other women didn't fit the pattern to take a walk. And yet, at the back of his mind, was the knowledge of how little he'd known about his own wife when she'd had her affair. It had gone on for months. Things had drifted, become commonplace, and it wasn't until the final few weeks that he suspected there was something wrong. He was a copper, damn it, and even he hadn't realized what was going on under his own roof, in
his own bed. It had just been a gut feeling that had led him home. Intuition. The copper's best friend. And there they were, the after-blast of coition burning their faces. Until they saw him. Then the glow faded quickly. But had he not found them then he was certain that one day he would have gone home to an empty house. Just like Ticker Harrison. Just like Rick Cole.
As far as Helen Harrison was concerned Butler guessed that she was seeing another man. Putting distance between herself and her husband was all that she could do. There could never be an amicable arrangement with a man like Ticker, and for his wife, unto death would be exactly that.
DC Anian Stanford turned on the light and the flickering strip made him blink, made him realize how much time had been lost while the early afternoon gloom had closed in. He acknowledged her with a quick smile then tuned into the report again, hoping to find that illusive connection, wondering whether he should break the unwritten rule. Taking a chance wasn't like him at all. Reluctantly, he lifted the telephone and after a few moments said, “Guv, it's Sam.”
“How did you get on with Ticker?”
Butler double-checked that Wooderson's door was closed then in a lowered voice said, “Listen, can we meet up tonight? Better still, come to dinner.”
“This isn't like you, Sam. You seem worried?”
That was a joke although Butler didn't get it. The DS wasn't happy unless he had something to worry about.
“I saw Ticker, filed the report.”
“Good.”
“Come to dinner. Janet would love to see you again.”