I Watson - Director's cut

“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.

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.