I Watson - Director's cut

“Not in hospital. Why?”

“If she doesn't she'll be able to tell you if he does. Even forty quid aftershave can't hide it.”

She glanced at Walker. “Nor can Africa.” She looked back at Cole. “Right, Guv. How long do I stay with her?”

“As long as it takes. It's down to you to get us something useful. Did you get to see Carol Sapolsky?”

“Briefly. Nothing more to add. Came at her from behind. She didn't get a look.”

“Try her again, Donna. It's a long shot but if there's a connection between the two women…”

Donna nodded. She hadn't worked with Cole before but she’d heard about him. He came with danger signs. Her sashay from the room was even more decided and Chas Walker found it difficult not to follow. Once she'd gone he shook away her image and said, “Not much.” Cole nodded, “Depends what you’re referring to.”

“Experience, Guv. She’s a uniform. Maybe a more experienced…” “Forget it. Don’t even go there.”

Walker was a copper who went through the motions but he would never climb the ranks. Sooner or later he would move over to security which would suit him better. He'd arrived from the army with a squaddie's attitude and six years on the job hadn't made a difference. Cole headed for the coffee machine. He found Donna standing next to it, head slightly bowed, shoulders stooped, her coffee making waves.

“You all right?”

“I'm all right. I was up late.”

“Of course you were.”

“And the couple of hours I managed weren't good. Just little things. Some bastard holding me around the neck while he…”

Cole stopped her there. “Right.”

“It just got a bit too close. Elizabeth Rayner had everything going for her; looks, job, everything. In thirty seconds, wrong time, wrong place, she's destroyed.”

Empathy was beyond Cole. He was a copper. He put a coin in the slot and pressed 13, with and with. The machine groaned and dropped a plastic cup.

Donna said, “Say something, like do you need counselling, or something.”

Cole picked up his coffee and raised it towards her. “You're very beautiful, you know that?”

Her face broke into a smile. She said, “Not at the moment, but catch me at the right time…”

Cole smiled back.

“What?” she asked.

“You married?”

She flashed him a ring. A tiny diamond glittered. “Engaged,” she said.

“Pity.”

The signs were right.

She said, “Yeah.”

Cole was updating Detective Superintendent Baxter when DS Peter Ward knocked on the door.

“Boss, a result. One of the instructors at the fitness club has come up with a name. Apparently he's been hanging around for some time, using the coffee shop. Elizabeth Rayner complained about the way he was staring at people and they threw him out. He shouted that he'd get her. Quite a few people heard.”

Baxter was on his feet.

They followed Ward to the IR where the team gathered around Carter on the screen. Donna Fitzgerald saw their approach and, remembering her earlier banter with Cole, smiled a quick acknowledgement.

The screen moved upward. Carter said, “Rodney Grant, forty-six. A string of previous. Look at this! GBH, burglary. Bailed. Any takers that he's done a runner?” He hadn't noticed the super. As he made eye contact he muttered, “Right, sorry.”

Defusing it, Cole said, “What else?”

“Here we go. Indecent assault and cruelty, two USIs and a sod on an eleven-year-old boy, did three. Got out last year.”

USI is unlawful sexual intercourse.

Chas Walker muttered, “He doesn't care, does he?”

Cole said impatiently, “Come on, David. Let's have an address?” “Bail address, Guv. Girlfriend.”

Cole nodded thoughtfully.

Walker put in, “Shall I get firearms in, Sir?” The GBH count made the difference.

Baxter spoke quietly, mostly to Cole. “I don't think we need any more Brazilians shot full of holes, do you? They'll just muddy the pitch, as they do. Let's go for surprise. Mess up some paintwork. HET will suffice."

Most coppers treated the firearms support units with a little circumspection.

HET is the heavyweight House Entry Team. They came complete with helmets and shields, secured the house then handed over to the incident team. They were everyone's friends because they took the shotgun in the face.

Cole agreed and glanced at his watch. “Right. Four AM.

Everybody here at three-thirty. No excuses.” He turned to the super. “Anything to add, Sir?”

Baxter shook his head and smiled briefly. “Let's make this work. Then we can concentrate on Christmas shopping.”

The murmur of laughter and anticipation filled the IR but it was edged with disquiet. It was all too effortless. They hadn't worked for it. It was just a feeling, but it was nagging.

There's a road or street in every district known to Social Services and FPU. It's a place where perhaps people with learning difficulties are housed, where the more vulnerable members of society live, a place where children are more likely to be left unprotected. It's also the place where Schedule One offenders take lodgings, among the easy pickings. In Sheerham, that road was Shephall Way.

Police cars making their way along Shephall Way crunched on the glittering surface. Uniforms led the way to the front and rear of number six. They had their batons out and they wanted to use them. The front of the terraced row was well lit by street lamps.

The officers moved in, crouching low beneath garden walls and hedges, holding their batons like they might have held shotguns. The steel ram, the key, was used and, with two thrusts the front door was smashed aside. Then silence was irrelevant. Commands were shouted, lights were thrown on, heavy boots thumped on the stairs and officers crowded into every room. They found two children in the small bedroom, the adults in the rear. Rodney Grant was allowed to dress while his girlfriend screamed abuse. Cuffed and flanked by two eager PCs he was marched to the nearest police car. Lights in neighbouring houses were switched on. More curious neighbours watched from their front gardens.

In the car in front the buzz increased the volume. It was like alcohol on an empty stomach. The thrill was real. The bust was great and the anticlimax of the paperwork hadn't yet kicked in.

Chas Walker told Peter Ward and anyone else who was listening, “That tart had so many rings on her face you could've hung a fucking curtain on it.” He was referring to Rodney Grant's girlfriend. In the back seat Donna Fitzgerald remained tight-lipped. At the beginning of the day, just like at the end of it, all men were bastards. Right?

Rodney Grant was scrawny, tattooed, no more than nine stone and no taller than five-seven. And the closest he'd come to forty-quid aftershave was in his girlfriend's catalogue. He reeked of stale beer, tobacco and tooth decay.

Cole's eyes were sleepless. By the time he arrived at interview room 3 he was already shaking his head in the knowledge that they had the wrong man.

He toyed with the notion of giving the interview to Fitzgerald and Carter. It was always a good idea to keep the big guns until later. Watch it through the screen, perhaps. See what the body language told you, the nervous scratch on the nose, the unconscious hiding of the lips, the sweat, that sort of thing. But he needed to move this one forward without wasting time. He wanted Grant TIED so they could concentrate on the real thing.

A uniform stood aside as Cole entered. Donna Fitzgerald sat before Rodney Grant. Grant was smoking, elbows on the table, faded tattoo of a snake wrapped around a knife on his left forearm, not at all fazed. He was a regular and police interviews were no big deal. He was almost bored by the proceedings.