by I K Watson
“Does she know I'm coming?” A long silence answered the question. Eventually Cole asked, “What time?”
“Make it eight.”
Butler sat with the phone tapping against his chin before he nodded purposefully and said to Anian, “You're coming to dinner tonight, eight o'clock. It's business.”
“Overtime, Sarge?”
“Don't take the piss, Anian, there's a good girl.”
Chapter 7
Rick Cole showered and changed and downed a large Teacher's before driving out towards the Butler's place. To get there he had to drive across town.
Cole knew the city. A lifetime ago he had plodded there, to begin with under the guidance of a parent constable. Now they were called street duty PCs. A dozen years later he was wearing plain clothes at the Yard but those days were so distant that he sometimes wondered if they’d really happened. For one reason or another everything had come unstuck and he had ended up at Sheerham. It could have been worse. He was acting up and had an office to himself and that in itself was a luxury for a DI. It wouldn’t last indefinitely and the grapevine buzzed with rumours of a fresh-faced DCI coming over from the Yard. Driving through town most people would use the main road that passed through the south on its way to the city, and they'd find it one of those places that didn't register. Perhaps unconsciously, they'd closed their eyes. The south was where most of the blacks lived and was congested,, noisy, filled with litter. It was a place to leave behind.
The MP was black, Gilly Brown, and his heart was still in the West Indies. He controlled the council, or at least his siblings who made up the majority, and on his behalf they spent more council tax on coffee mornings than libraries, more on banning the black from blackhead than bus passes for the elderly. But he was laughing at the system. His pockets were comfortably lined. Gilly Brown was living proof that enough split votes would let in the wackos. He'd swear allegiance to the Queen and country, Princess Anne too. He'd swear to anything that moved so long as it added to his bank balance.
Tower blocks littered the skyline, council estates were run down. Finer roads ran through the north of the town where properties had their own drives and bordered a well-maintained parkland. Most of the Jews – outside of Hampstead Garden and Golders Green – lived there along with the Maltese gangsters and Gilly Brown. And Ticker Harrison.
The Sheerham High Road ran through the centre of town. It was the main shopping precinct which was dominated by the Carrington Theatre, a huge red-brick building that once, long ago, attracted the stars. Narrow side-streets criss-crossed the High Road but the shops on these petered out quickly to the odd Asian grocery that sold everything day and night and Christmas Day. Then it was row upon row of terraced housing. The front gardens were about a yard wide and out back was enough room to keep the lawnmower. Most of these buildings were in poor shape, windows were cracked or boarded and doors were blistered. It was a place covered in graffiti and litter. It was the place that produced most of the criminals and the highest unemployment figures.
As the night fell and the neon took over, the pensioners barricaded themselves indoors and the youngsters came out to play. It happened in every town and city across the country yet here it was concentrated, the overspill from the city, and the energy was frightening. The bars and clubs were packed with young drinkers slamming down their highpowered bottles.
This was Sheerham.
Cole's patch.
While he waited at the crossroads before the Carrington Theatre he noticed that something from the past was stirring. Lottery money and local taxes had revamped the Class A building and given it an exotic quality. The red brick glowed like a furnace and threw out a ray of comfort over the Romanian beggars as they pushed their smack-faced kids at the box-office queue. There was a woman on the billboard, eight-feet high, in skimpy black underwear and high heels.
Rick Cole took a second glance at the cardboard blonde, Anthea Palmer, ex-weather girl, and while traffic lights held him back he decided that the smile on her face was as false as the promise of the theatre’s new dawn.
Janet Butler was forty and a rinsed blonde. She might have walked in from the sixties. She had settled comfortably into motherhood, surprising most who knew her, including her husband. She'd met Cole on a dozen or so occasions, mostly police functions when Cole used to go to them. Her eyes, like only an older woman's could, promised everything and nothing at all. She flirted and he let her. It was all very cosy, like an afternoon tea dance without the afters. Safe and easy and none of it serious. At the door she gave him a decorous little hug and her perfume touched a memory.
“Rick, it's been a long, long time.”
She was warm and familiar. It took him a moment to adjust. To remember that beneath it all she was as cold as the rest of them. That once upon a time she'd had an affair and left her husband devastated. “Too long, Janet. You're looking good.”
“Better than good. Take another look.”
She gave him a little twirl.
“Agreed. How's the baby.”
“The baby's name is Lucy and she's good too. If you're very, very quiet you can take a peep into her bedroom. That'll be a treat for you. Come on in.” She fumbled for his hand, more of a caress really and, rubbing his hand all the way, led him into the dining room. Cole heard voices before the door was opened so finding another guest was hardly a surprise. Discovering that it was DC Anian Stanford definitely was.
She stood by the CD, glass in hand, while Butler knelt searching through a pile of discs. In place of her working clothes were black jeans, brown vest and sneakers that left a strip of olive instep. There was nothing under the vest. Her nipples stuck out like a couple of filter-tips that looked good enough to smoke. Her hair was down, black as tar and elbow length. He noticed for the first time how tall and skinny she was.
Janet spread her hand and said matter-of-factly, “You know Anian?”
Cole nodded briefly. Anian returned his acknowledgement with a quick nervous smile.
Butler found his CD and waved the disc toward his guest. “Guv.” “Sam.”
The DS struggled to his feet. “Drink?”
“Good idea.”
Leaving Anian to load the music, they moved to the drinks cabinet, out of earshot, and while he poured, Butler said, “Anian's working the case with me.”
“Right.”
“You don't mind?”
“You should have mentioned it, that's all.”
Butler tut-tutted the idea. “Didn't seem important.”
“She's not my type.”
Butler fell in. “Colour? You?”
“Figure. She hasn't got one.”
“Nor have the fashion models. It’s the fashion."
“I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
Butler smiled and raised his glass. “To old times, Guv.”
Cole nodded. “I'll go with that.” He emptied half his glass. Butler held on to the bottle, waiting, then topped up as Red Red Wine filled the room.
“I want her to be in on this. She's done most of the legwork.” “Talking shop. Janet will love you.”
“I've primed her. We'll get shot of it while she's serving up. That all right with you?”
Cole shrugged and wondered whether he'd made a mistake. He was already feeling the limb that he knew Butler was going to put him on. The women were on the sofa, drinking Jacob’s Creek and jabbering like women do. Their conversation ended abruptly as the men approached.
“I've been telling her all about you, Rick. Everything. She's been at Hinckley… How long?”
“Almost a year.”
“And you've barely said hello. That's disgraceful. It really, really is.”
“Sweetheart,” Butler put in. “It's not like that.”
“Yes it is. It's exactly like that. Give a man rank and you create a monster.” She turned to Anian. “The days have gone when men were men and women were proud of them. Agreed?”
Anian's laugh was forced and apprehensive.
/> Cole caught Janet's exaggerated look of indignation and laughed out loud.
Janet moved into the kitchen. Butler topped the glasses again before he turned to Cole.
“So how was Ticker?”
Butler shrugged weakly. “Anian held her own.”
Cole glanced at the girl and murmured, “I expect she did.” Butler put in quickly, “Jack's not interested, told me to put it to bed.”
“So what's the problem?”
“The problem, Guv, is that three of the four women are pregnant. What are the odds on that happening? It'd make the lottery look good. On our patch we've got four missing women, forget the kids, the runaways. Just concentrate on adult females. We've got four.” “And three are pregnant?”
“Right,” Butler said earnestly. “And statistically, pregnant women – those with a partner – don’t take off. Single, yes. They run from parents or the perceived shame. And the forties and fifties, they take off after the kids have left, looking for the last-chance saloon, looking for something better or someone better, or maybe they’re wanting space again, I don’t know. But not when they're pregnant. Not unless the father lives someplace else.”
“How pregnant?”
“They range from a few weeks to four months. Helen Harrison only just found out. You know that.”
“And do they play around?”
Anian raised her eyebrows and shook her head.
“It's a fair question,” Cole said sharply. “You're a copper, not a social worker. Coppers can't afford the luxury of being politically correct or non-judgemental. A spade is a spade and around here, like everywhere else, married women do fuck around.”
She didn't like it but she nodded.
Butler didn’t like it either for it touched an open wound. He sighed and said, “You tell me about Helen. But the others, who knows? How the hell do you tell? My guess would be that they don't, play around that is, but what do I know?”
Cole smiled at the detective sergeant's wry humour. Selfdeprecation suited the worry lines on his face.
“Does Jack know about the pregnancies?”
Butler shook his head. “Until we knew about Helen it was only two out of three and it didn’t even register. Two’s a coincidence but three’s a wake-up call.”
Cole said, “So, talk to me. What do you want?”
Anian sat listening intently, steadying her glass on the arm of the sofa, her fierce eyes more on the DI than the DS.
Butler spread his hands. “I'm in a fix. I've got a gut feeling about it, Guv.”
Cole nodded. “Get on to the index and spread out. Go back a few years and find some common ground, anything. There might be some cold files knocking around. If you come up with something then stick it under Jack's nose. If he's not interested then come back to me. But it won't come to that. If you find something then he'll be interested. But you should have mentioned the pregnancy connection. It seems pretty relevant, particularly in view of your earlier comments. You’ve been looking for a connection and you’ve got one.”
Anian said abruptly, “So what are we looking for? Prenatal clinics? Marie Stopes? There’s an awful lot of places around here where you can turn up with five-hundred quid and an overnight bag and get in line with the girls from Dublin?”
The DI glanced at Butler. “I think that might be jumping the gun. But it might be worth having another look at the odd one out. Clutching at straws, but that's what we do best. If you can eliminate her then all your girls are pregnant. I’m still not sure it will get you anywhere. Jack does have a point. To be honest, pregnancies or not, I'm leaning towards him on this. You're not looking for a villain here, you're looking for a crime. At the moment you haven't got one and we’ve got plenty of others to concentrate on. It can't go on indefinitely.”
“Christ, Rick, it was you who asked me to see Ticker!”
“You’re right, and it has added weight to your pregnancy theory, but you need more, or you can leave it to MPS.”
Butler's nod was resigned.
From the kitchen Janet called, “I'm coming through.”
Cole threw Butler an appraising look. “Come back to me with something solid, concentrate on Helen Harrison. Her trail is fresh. Don't waste time. If Jack decides to call it quits I won't be in a position to argue. You'll have to find me something to use.” He nodded and repeated, “Helen Harrison. Get to know her better than Ticker does. He's obviously missed something that's right under his nose.” Butler topped Cole's glass again and watched as his old colleague made small work of it. They sat at the table where Janet was pouring Australian white. Anian sat opposite Cole and he stole a glance. Her nipples still poked through. They hadn't changed. He had. The scotch was doing the trick and lifting away the curse of Orpheus. His phone went.
Janet looked horrified and said, “Shit!”
Butler pulled a face.
Anian looked at Cole over her wine glass and smiled sweetly. She knew something; maybe she'd caught his earlier glance. ain be set aside. He caught his dimly lit reflection in the rear-view and something blue-eyed and colder than the December night looked back.
Chapter 8
CB1 was Charlie Bravo One, an Astra hatchback panda, driven by PC 7231 Wendy Booth. The car was three years old but looked older. Wendy Booth was twenty-nine but felt older. She had been on the job for ten years and on driving duties, which was her choice, for the last five. She was on the late shift, which she preferred, for it was the shift most likely to involve both ends of society: the brain-dead yobs who thought they controlled the streets and the pinstriped suits who probably did. At 21:15 she was parked up in a lay-by smoking one of her twentyaday Silk Cuts that occasionally ran to thirty, listening to the excited voices on the radio and waiting for the shout to come her way. It came at 21:23 and five minutes later she picked up the skipper, Sergeant Mike Wilson. He was tall, slim and forty-two. All boots, bollocks and baggy uniform, was how Wendy described him to her friends. His face was friendly, big nose, soft eyes, easy smile and tufts of ginger whiskers that he’d missed in the shaving mirror. In the old days, he would have made a perfect plod. Everyone loved him and he had a big boot for the local troublemakers. Unfortunately his day was done and, sooner or later, one of the automatons from Westminster or, more likely, the Hague, would have him out of the job.
At 21:31 she was moving along the High Road to the Square and the leisure centre. She saw the flashing cars and vans, the streamers of fluttering police tape and the army of plods spreading out from the SOC. The ambulance had already left. As they passed she saw the white boiler-suited SOCOs beginning their fingertip search. Another woman had been attacked, the second in two days and, by all accounts, it was the same MO. A bad one.
A psycho had used a knife, one of the personality disorders that the experts on the various committees decided were no longer a danger to the public. Care in the community. Keep taking the pills, my son, and off you go.
If there was one thing that upset the police more than anything it was the need to collar the same bastard twice. They drove into the Square where the red lights from the dirty bookshops and sex shops with their DVD booths still flickered. Gangs of teenagers spilled into the road and the drunks zigzagged across the pavements.
Sergeant Mike Wilson said soberly, “Where do these people come from?”
“I don’t know where they come from, Skip, but for most of them this is the end of the line.”
He grunted.
“What exactly are we doing here, Skip?”
“We’re showing a police presence. It’s good for the troops on the ground and the front pages in the morning. And of course, we can keep our eyes open for weirdos. Not the weirdo, mind you, he’ll be long gone, but any weirdo will do.”
“They’re all weirdos. Show me someone normal around here.” “She’ll do for a start. Pull over.”
Wendy slid the car to stop beside a forty-something woman. She wore a black miniskirt, black high-heeled pointed boots, black patterned hosiery and
black lipstick that, as she smiled, cut her face in half.
“’Ello Mikey, don’t ‘ave to ask what you’re doin’ daaahn ‘ere, do I? You arfta anover discount, are you?” She leant down toward his open window and rested a thin white arm on the door. Light from the sex shop behind her gathered in the fair hairs on her forearm. “Now, now, Elizabeth, don’t give me Mikey or even the micky. There’s people here who might not understand your sense of humour and go off telling others that I’m a customer.”
“Oooh, Mikey, are you insinuating that I’m a strumpet? Everyone knows that men with a todger as big as yours gets it for free.” She leant down a bit further so that her white blouse sagged and showed him her dark nipples. She looked across at the grinning PC. “’Ello, Wendy darlin’, you all right? You’re not getting sexually harassed by this man are you?”
“I’m all right, Lizzy. I can hold my own.”
“Yes, darling, I’ve heard you can. Better than most, I heard. Well, darling, even so, if he asks you to take it up the arse make sure you get a decent dinner out of it. None of this Big Mac Pizza House shit.” “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Mike Wilson tapped his nose. “You heard about the business back there?”
“Who hasn’t, darling? It’s all over the Square. All the plods knocking about is messing with the trade. We’re thinking of reporting you to the Department of Trade and Industry.”
“Didn’t see anything, hear anything?”
“Not a thing, darling. First we knew about it was the ambulance.” “What about last night?”
“That was just a one-off at the time so it didn’t cause a stir. Oneoffs is happening all the time, you know that. Disgruntled punters or pissed-off managers who think you’re holding back. But these girls are civvies. They wouldn’t know a trick from a treat.”
“Be a good girl and ask around.”
“For you Mikey, anything. If there’s so much as a whisper I’ll be in touch.”
“Appreciate it.”
She gave him an intimate little smile while her eyes brimmed with melancholy. She blinked and looked across at Wendy again. “You take good care of him, Wendy darling. He’s one in a million.” With that she stood upright and faded into a crowd that had gathered outside the sexshop window.