I Watson - Director's cut

Brian, for want of a better name, was pale, smooth and blond, with long eyelashes and a slim figure, and Walker had been right, he looked no more than twelve or thirteen. He had big innocent eyes that were as innocent as hell and a look that could lead you, if that was your bend, to hell. There was a redness around his nose and eyes and he sniffed the symptoms of a common cold.

Right away they knew it wouldn't be easy.

He was streetwise, as familiar with the police and police procedure as was his punter, Rodney Grant. He'd wait for the duty social worker, get an overnight accommodation and then leg it. He'd done it a dozen times before. No big deal. When it came to kids the police were helpless, strapped by so many rules it made it impossible. The system helped them back on to the streets. Secure accommodation, even when it was available, was a joke. Social Services were in the same boat as the police. At the end of the day it came down to funding, or lack of it, and the years of restraints or, more to the point, indifference, to the street kids and a society in free fall, would take years to redress. Donna placed a Coke on the table.

“Thanks,” he said and pulled the ring. He took a gulp as if it were life or death.

Donna said, “Brian, we need your help.”

He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his grubby sweatshirt. “Remember the guy with the tattoo? The snake wrapped around the dagger?”

He sniffed, “So what?”

“He's a regular. You should. You turned a little trick in the supermarket car park, remember?”

He shrugged and slouched further into the chair.

“He picked you up in the Square, your usual patch outside the fitness club.”

He remained blank.

“Can you remember what time it was? Or what day?”

Another shrug of his bony shoulders, then, “Eight, nine maybe.” “What about the day?”

He shook his head.

“Was it last week?”

“Maybe.”

“What day?”

“Think it was the weekend.”

“Can you think of something you did before, or after, that might help you remember exactly?”

Nothing.

“We're looking for someone who might have been acting suspiciously, watching the members of the fitness club as they came and went. Did you notice anyone at all?”

“Can't think. Might have done. It is the place.”

“Try to remember, Brian. Someone hanging around?”

He shook his head again and swallowed some more Coke. He placed the can on the table and said, “Just the usual, the girls, you know?”

“The girls? The prostitutes?”

“It's the place.”

“Do you know them?”

He pulled a face and shrugged again.

“Would you recognize them?”

“Maybe.”

Maynard couldn't resist it. He broke in. “Brian, it doesn’t suit you. Jason’s better. Your real name would be better still. How long have you been huffing, Jay?”

The lad shot him a frown. “It ain't Jay. It's Brian.”

“OK, my mistake, but you’re still taking it up the nose as well as up the arse, aren’t you?”

For a moment Donna was stunned. She gave Maynard a dark backoff look.

Peter Ward turned in his seat, uncertainty in his eyes, checking that the tape was off.

This was going pear-shaped.

Not at all perturbed Maynard went on, “You heard about these women who've been attacked?”

The lad's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“One of these women was a member of the fitness club. We think that the person who attacked her followed her from the club. That person has probably been hanging around for some time, waiting for a likely customer. Get the picture? It's your patch. You know what goes on down there. Women are getting hurt, big time. The next one might be someone you know and care about. This bastard is cutting them to bits. Before long, a woman is going to get killed. It’s only luck that it hasn’t happened already.” He threw up his hands to emphasize the point. “Maybe you can help us, maybe not. If you can give us some faces, anyone, then maybe we can stop it happening. That's why we need your help. This isn't about you. You go your own way, if that's what you want. Do a bunk like you've done before. Go and get mashed again. Why should we care? Think about it. If you stay with Social overnight you’ll still be rattling for a huff by the time you can leg it.” The youngster's mouth dropped open.

Maynard said, “Talk to me, Brian. Don’t worry about them.” Keeping his eyes on Brian he threw a little nod toward the police officers.

“What about my punter?”

“He's a nobody, right? You don't owe him a thing. Men like that should be put out with the rubbish. Wouldn’t know which bin to use though. It wouldn’t be glass or plastic, would it? Probably dog shit.” The lad grinned.

“What about these other girls? Can you help me out?” Maynard made it personal. ‘Me’ left the others out of it.

“I know them all, and so do your lot. Go ask Sergeant Wilson. He knows them.” He frowned and raised a finger. “But there was one I hadn't seen before and the others didn't like it.”

Maynard smiled. “Now that's the one I'm interested in.”

“She was different.”

“How come?”

“Classy, if you know what I mean. Sort of. My mates even fancied her. It was like, she wasn't, you know, playing the game. I don't know. It didn't look right. Maybe in a hotel. Not on the streets. I hadn't seen her before.”

“Could you point her out?”

“Maybe. She was different.”

“But you'd recognize her again?”

“Maybe.”

“What about men? Did you see any men?”

“Only punters. Nothing special.”

“Did she go off with any?”

“Not that I saw. I could ask around.”

“We can’t ask you to do that. If we did we’d all be in trouble. But you could point out this woman for me. There's got to be the price of a burger in it, right?”

He looked at Donna for confirmation. She shrugged and nodded. And Brian, or Jason, said, “OK.”

In the corridor something rather nasty was heading toward Sergeant Mike Wilson, eating up the distance between them. The duty social worker, incandescent, was firing threats loud enough for him to hear. ‘Juvenile’, ‘presence’ and ‘appropriate adult’ were just some of the words he snatched from the vibrating air.

He thought on his feet. Fuck that, he thought and, without losing momentum, as though he’d remembered something urgent and hadn’t noticed her frantic bid for his attention, performed a sudden about-turn and hurried toward the exit to the car park and garages.

For the copper, like the married man, the garage, like the garden shed, was a refuge, perhaps not consecrated, but as holy as any church. As Rodney Grant was led out of the building, released from police custody, he saw the social worker’s angry face and said to the uniform beside him, “Blacks, mate, all the same. And black dykes, fucking nightmare time! We should send them back to Wolverhampton or wherever the fuck they come from.”

The kozzer agreed.

The six o’clock news had just begun when Jack Wooderson caught up with Butler in Hinckley’s tiny canteen. The headlines were depressing, as grey as the December sky. The flickering lights in the shop windows had not done the trick. People did not believe the government's feelgood rhetoric. Plastic stayed in their pockets. And the shopkeepers were nervous. The street traders selling cheap wrapping paper, ten for a quid, were on a roll.

“Prelims in,” Wooderson said. “Nothing. The garden hasn’t been touched this century and the cellar’s clean. They’ve found cobwebs down there that are older than the missing women. Dig up the floor and the only things you’ll find are prehistoric. Their words, not mine. All the walls are solid, crumbling but solid. They've sent some samples to the lab, but don't expect a return. If we want excavation we'll need the chief's OK. But it will be a waste of time.”