I Watson - Director's cut

Cole took in the sunken features, the sharp eyes and the lines of corruption that etched his face. He sat opposite.

Grant blew him some smoke and said calmly, “Can we get on with this? I'm tired. I was up early.”

“This is a no-smoking area so put that fucking thing out.” Grant's eyes widened. He looked for an ashtray then ground the butt beneath his heel.

He said, “Happy?”

Cole said, “No, I'm not. And most of it's down to little toerags like you.”

PC Fizgerald reached to the recorder.

Cole said, “You don't want a brief?”

“No need.”

“What do you do for a living, Rodney?”

“This and that. At the moment I'm caretaker at the Carrington. Get you some tickets if you like. You'd get to see Anthea take her clothes off.”

“Day before yesterday, around eight in the evening?”

“I was out.”

Cole waited. His eyes grew colder.

“Walking, you know? Contemplating the state of the nation, that sort of thing.”

“That's good.”

Donna watched Cole with more interest than was healthy, but she couldn't help herself. She was in free fall, helpless, caught up in some chemical reaction that was beyond logic.

Cole continued, “I want you to think carefully about your next answer.”

Grant looked into Cole's eyes and recognized something he didn’t like at all. He shifted in his seat. The lines on his face looked painful. His lips twisted and he rubbed the snake tattoo so that it appeared to slither around the dagger.

“Right," Grant said suddenly. "I've thought. Call it community spirit.”

Cole nodded, “That’s good. I do like it when the public cooperate.” “What then?”

“Simple. Let's run thought it, shall we? Why were you in the fitness club and why did the instructor find it necessary to ask you to leave?” Grant pulled a face. “I suppose you know already.”

“Maybe, but just for the record.”

“By the pool, right? Clocking the latest fashions.”

“On the kids?”

“Right, see? I'm into fashion.”

Donna frowned. Cole's voice pulled her attention.

“And what about the woman who complained?”

“What about her?”

“You threatened her?”

“Just an idle threat. It wasn’t meant. She caused me grief, that’s it.” “Now tell me about the evening?”

“Well, what time, eight wasn't it?”

“That'll do to start.”

“Yeah, a bit later maybe. Got to do it, haven't you? Pulled in the square.”

“Rented?”

Grant made eye contact with Donna, enjoying the moment. “That's what I mean. He took the money.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Supermarket. Car park.”

“Did you get his name?”

“I call him Jason, but you can call him anything you like. He lets you choose.”

“He's a regular?”

“He’s been around.”

“A local boy?”

“Maybe. Who knows? No accent on him that I picked up.” “You could pick him out?”

“I could do that.”

“You know him well?”

“No, only bits of him, you know?”

“I know.”

“What are you? A social worker? What do you care? He’s got a menu. Bareback costs an extra score!”

“Have you seen anyone else hanging around the club, a stranger, anything unusual?”

The lips contorted, made the nostrils flare, showed off strands of black hair that would hold the bead of snot. Eventually he shook his head. “I go to the Square to see the kids, don't I? That's all I'm clocking. Jason would know. He knows everything that's going on. Every new face is business, right?”

“That's a pity. It means you're going to have to find this rent boy for me. Let's call him Jason. If you can find him, and if he confirms your story, then you can go home.”

“Fair enough. I can do that. He's always there, on the Square. Good as gold.”

“Is now a good time?”

Grant shook his head and spread his hands. “It's got to be later, maybe seven.”

“In that case you can catch up on your sleep. There’s a room downstairs that’s very quiet and no one will disturb you.” Donna Fitzgerald had her eyes on Cole anyway, so they didn't need to move. She said, “I'll wake him, Guv.” As she spoke she fingered her engagement ring, pulled it up and down her finger and, for just a moment, almost off. Her prior arrangements for the evening to make up for the one she missed – sweet and sour and the rest – never crossed her mind.

Free fall. They call it. And the rip-cord was slippery.

In the corridor she said, “Why didn’t you mention Carol Sapolsky. Why not tie up Grant's alibi once and for all?”

“He's not our man. This kid, Jason or whatever he's called, is probably our best bet. We need to find him. Not for Grant. For the other faces he can give us.”

“Guv, the sarge knows all the toms by name. It’s his patch and he keeps both eyes on what goes on.”

“Mike will be out there doing his bit and so will every other copper. But that doesn’t mean we can’t help. Let’s find this kid. You’d be surprised just how much kids notice that adults don’t.”

Donna struggled, not at all convinced.

Cole reported back to Chief Superintendent Baxter. The super sighed and said reluctantly, “Your earlier thoughts, Rick. Perhaps you better get in touch with your old mate. We've got a psychopath knocking on our door. We need someone to open it.”

Cole nodded.

“And you better find out if Margaret Domey's feeling any better. In for a penny, I suppose. If we're going to have these people under our feet she might as well be a part of it. She might learn something.” “It won't be modesty, not from Geoff Maynard.”

Baxter groaned and tucked in to a sandwich. Thick smoked ham from Yorkshire with English mustard and real Anchor butter on freshly baked crusty bread – none of your supermarket shit. And on the side, a manly slab of Lincolnshire pork pie. Forget the job, the super was in heaven. His wife knew how to keep a man happy.

So in the happy hour, when doubles were the price of one and pints were pegged at a pound, the coppers hit the High Road and the streets behind where single lights blinked red and where boys and girls from eight to eighty were trading. It was a growth industry; from about four to eight, if you were counting in inches, more if you were black and slightly less in cold weather. Or so they said.

Chas Walker had pulled the short straw and he drove and Rodney Grant checked out the faces and in the back Donna Fitzgerald wondered what the DI would feel like inside her. The thought was exciting, disorientating and heightened by lack of sleep. She wondered whether he was still working. He’d still been in the office when they left and she’d caught a fleeting – speculative – glance. In what was it? Three days? The kozzer in his dark suit had turned her world on its head. She was a teenager again, straight out of fourth form, full of uncertainty, looking forward to bed so she could think slow thoughts of him and nothing else.

This Sheerham is a crazy old place, where people lie in bed alone listening to the person beside them, where heaven wears suspenders and a come-on smile and is suspended twelve feet off the ground. Anthea Palmer, ex-weather girl, lit up in soft neon, looked out across the town. Her stockings glistened and the gap between her thighs sent shivers down the backs of the passers-by. These admen knew a trick or two.

And a queue formed at the box office.

That night, Jason, for want of his real name, took the night off, and they didn't find him.

The song from the show went: “Oh, Mr Lawrence, I really missed you…”

And incredibly, given the old-fashioned lyrics, it was climbing the Christmas charts.