I Watson - Director's cut

As she made her way to Cole's office uniforms stood aside and in the IR the conversation died and male defences went up along with the eyebrows.

“Margaret.”

“Rick.”

“Are you back?”

“Tomorrow. Heard a rumour about Geoff Maynard. Tell me it's not true?”

“It's true, but it has nothing to do with your absence. I'll show you.” Cole led her back into the incident room. The team pretended to be hard at it, paperwork, screens, not looking up. She took in the action boards and skimmed through the crime reports before shaking a bemused head. “Interesting. What does Geoff say?”

“Nothing yet. We'll see.”

“But he is coming?”

Cole shrugged.

“He'll come. Sex and violence, it's irresistible. Of course he'll come.”

In Cole's office again and with the door closed she said, “I did think he was in the past. It was a comforting thought.”

He smiled easily, “I know what you mean.”

She said tightly, “He got too close last time. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.”

“A lot of us feel the same way but the second attack sealed it. You should take a closer look.”

“Tomorrow. I'll have a look tomorrow. They're letting me back for a couple of hours a day.”

“Sam's been on. He'd like you to spend some time at Hinckley. The missing women.”

“That old chestnut. For goodness sake, he's got – ”

Cole cut her short. “He's got an idea or two. I think you'll be able to help him and – ”

“And Sam needs all the help he can get. Tell me something new?” Cole smiled. A couple of weeks with her head down the pan hadn't softened her at all.

“How are you, Margaret?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You want it in one?”

“Go for it.”

“Pregnancy is shit. Don't let anyone ever tell you any different.” “Sounds good to me.”

Her eyes narrowed further. “I know why I like you, Cole. It's your sense of humour.” She smiled. Her lips filled out and for just a moment she looked just right. “I'll see you tomorrow. Right now I'm going to make the most of today. I'm going to spend some money which is every woman's favourite pastime. I've got my eye on a very old chestnut cooking pot.”

Cole remembered that she had an interest in antiques. He guessed her home was cluttered with old things and that there would be little room for a child.

“You know the shop, down the road from the Indian? The Gallery?”

“I know it. Never been in, of course.”

“Of course. But that's where I'm going now. I want the chestnut pan. But I want the feel-good factor too. I want to spend.” Cole laughed. Maybe he liked her, after all.

There was another man on the way whose feelings toward her had never been made clear. And she was frightened of him because he knew too much. He was the only man in the world who had ever made her feel inadequate. More than that even, for she had been quite happy with the subservient role. And now, with Geoff Maynard’s return more than just a possibility, her feelings were edged with apprehension. There was the challenge, certainly, but with that came the possibility of failure. And failure, for Margaret Domey, was not an option. It was some time later when the phone rang and Margaret Domey featured again.

“Ricky?”

“Yes.”

“John Domey.”

“Hello, John. How are you?”

“Good. Listen, old boy, you haven't seen my wife, have you? She mentioned she was popping in.”

“Yes. This morning. Is there a problem?”

“No, not at all. It crossed my mind she'd got involved in something over there and forgotten the time. You know how she is? Once she gets involved with work everything else goes by the board.”

Cole waited for more.

“We had an appointment at the hospital, that's all.”

“Nothing serious, is it, John?”

“No, no, no. A touch of blood pressure, a scan, nothing serious. But I expected her back. She's probably gone directly there, forgot that I was going to go with her. You know what she’s like.”

“Of course. She stayed a few minutes. She was going off to buy… Hang on, it will come back to me.”

“A nineteenth-century cooking pot.”

“That's it.”

“She's had her eye on it for some time. There's a place on the dining-room wall that's been earmarked.”

A silence came between them. Something cold caressed Cole's back. He said, “John, get back to me, will you, when she shows up? I'd like to know that she's OK.”

“Will do. Absolutely.”

Cole hung up, considered the call for a few moments then glanced at the paperwork in front of him. He sighed. This wasn’t police work. It was something, but it wasn’t police work.

Mid-afternoon Butler found the note from night shift and made the call.

When Anian arrived just after five he called her to his desk, showed her the note and said formally, "I'm going to go with Cole on this. We'll concentrate on the pregnancies. You check the index, I’ll check Catchem.”

Catchem controlled the national database on sex crimes and killings of girls and young women.

He went on, “And that painting in Ticker's living room…” “It was porn.”

“Art, girl, art. But obviously Helen Harrison spent a long time with the artist, right? Just a thought.”

Anian hesitated then said quickly, “Actually, Sam, I've already paid him a visit. He's painting my picture.”

Butler frowned. “Go on?”

“I said I was a friend of Mrs Harrison, saw the painting and wanted something well… Not like that.”

“You didn't flash your warrant card?”

“No. Should I have done?” She fell in and reddened.

“You should have told me. We're supposed to be a team, Anian.” “I know, I know. It was such a long shot. You’re not angry?” “No, surprised. It's done now. What's he like?”

“He's an old man, sixty or thereabouts and old-fashioned, weird but harmless. I've got a couple more sessions booked. If nothing else comes of it I've got a painting. He's really very good.”

Butler nodded. “OK, see how you go. But keep me informed.” His voice didn’t betray him but apprehension edged into his thoughts. They worked through the evening towards the last bell. Eventually Butler called a halt. His mood had lifted. He said, "Come on girl, I'll buy you a drink. Just in case you do get transferred you better know where the watering hole is.”

She checked the office clock. “You seen the time?”

“I know this little place that's open all night.”

The White Horse was thick with smoke and the smell of smoke and booze. Dog-ends spilled from ashtrays and glasses stuck to tables. It was a British boozer.

A smoker’s bar.

It was a place that, like many that coppers frequented, hadn’t needed an extension to its licensing hours because they had never been observed anyway.

It was, therefore, an hour after the last bell had closed the doors and pulled the curtains on the dim lights. The place was busy with stale kozzers on the back-end of their shift doing what kozzers did best and that meant that the jovial old owner with his proud belly hanging over his leather belt and his sour-faced, thin-haired wife were full-time pulling pints and jerking shorts. There were a few others in the bar beside the policemen, good-as-gold regulars who made no noise when they left and wouldn’t even cough if they thought it might cause offence, and that was good enough. ence than would otherwise have been the case, “That sounds like a cracking good idea.”

Chas Walker, ex-army, REME, went on, “You need it strong to put up with the job nowadays. In our squad we’ve got two fucking dyslexics that take twenty minutes to read a caution and a Muslim who stops chasing villains to get his prayer-mat out.”