I Watson - Director's cut

“I think I know what you're suggesting, Mr Butler. But you're quite wrong. I did have a problem. I was diagnosed schizophrenic but in those days that covered a multitude of sins.”

“It’s the legal loophole, isn't it?”

“I see, the Hare Test, the accepted scientific proof of a psychopathic personality disorder and that only people with treatable disorders can be kept in hospital? For fifteen years I've been running my shop. I spend my time either there or in the British. You can find me in the British most lunchtimes and evenings and, if I'm not there, I'll be at the shop. Everyone will tell you. That is my routine and it hasn't changed in all that time. I was ill and I attacked those women on the underground. But now everything is fine and I’m no more a danger to the general public than you are.”

Butler’s smile was forced. He said, “That’s good, but unfortunately we have some missing women and the thing they have in common is that they're all pregnant.”

“All of them? I didn't know that. Goodness me. That is a coincidence. But the women, before, they never went missing. I always left them on the underground platforms. I agree that they weren't in, you know, tiptop condition, but I always left them there. They were never…missing. But I do get your point and I suppose that is why I am here. I suppose your computer has thrown me up, as they do. I don't understand them, myself, but perhaps that’s an age thing. They sound absolutely marvellous.”

“The missing women visited your shop.”

“Did the computer throw that up too?”

“Forget the computer.”

“I'd like to but, unfortunately, they won’t allow us that luxury. They put us on to a spreadsheet, they give us credit or they don’t, and what is more, when you speak to them on the phone, they speak in Indian accents. But, yes, you’re right, two of the women did visit my shop.” “I think you've got them somewhere. Not on your premises, but somewhere else.”

“Do you really think so? I hope you’re not going to fit me up like those other policemen did to young Paul.”

“I'm not going to charge you at the moment, Mr Lawrence, but I will get the proof and you will be back.”

“Does that mean I can go? Will I get a lift back to the shop? I do so enjoy being taken for a ride. Do you?”

“He's as mad as a fucking hatter,” Butler said down the line. He was angry with himself. He had let Lawrence get to him.

Cole answered, “Bailed?”

“Could have kept him overnight but what's the point? He isn’t going anywhere. He's enjoying himself too much.”

“Is he the one, Sam?”

“I've never been so certain of anything.”

“That's good enough for me. What now?”

“We’ll continue to dig. I want to know about everything since his release. I’ve asked for a search of the warehouses and garages at the back of his gaff even though I’ll guarantee they’ll be as clean as the shop. All we’ll find over there are smackheads and their cooking equipment.”

“The plods are going to love you.”

“One way or another we'll get him.” Butler’s sigh carried down the line. He said, "Unfortunately we still haven't got a crime. You said it yourself. If it wasn't for Margaret we wouldn't have got the warrant to search the shop. And we certainly haven't got enough to take it to pieces. Not that it matters. The prelims suggest it’s hopeless. They had the dogs in there. Apparently, in the cellar they got so excited they were performing back flips. It turned out to be decomposing rats and a couple of dead cats.”

Cole didn’t need telling. He had already heard.

“I was thinking about surveillance.”

Cole's pause went on too long.

“Guv?”

“Yes, sorry. I'll get back to you on that. It'll be down to the super. Don't count on it.”

Butler frowned into the phone. That wasn't like Cole at all. He was up to something. Surveillance would bugger his pitch. He knew the DI from old.

“OK, Sam. Fuck knows what I’ll tell the super. I promised him a result.”

The DS sighed. He said, “I'll see you in the morning.” Then hung up.

Rick Cole toyed with the handset for a moment. The DS had been right. He did have an idea. He left the building and drove to a public telephone. His mobile was out of the question. You couldn't be too careful lately. The Yard was spending twenty million a year investigating its own. CIB3 was now the biggest single-purpose investigative unit in the Met. Add that to CIB2 and you could see why there were so few coppers on the street. What was more, since the Investigatory Procedures Act 2,000 police officers were regularly bugged, more to discover whether they were racist or sexist rather than bent.

“It's me.”

Ticker Harrison responded, “Yeah, recognize those London tones anywhere. You got something for me?”

“The art shop in the High Road, guy named Lawrence.”

“I've heard of him. He painted Helen. Got it hanging in the sitting room. Good painter. Caught her just right.”

“I think he knows something. More than he's telling us.”

“Leave it to me, my son.”

“Let me know.”

“Fucking right.”

Cole sat in the car for some minutes, filling it with JPS smoke. Now it was a matter of waiting. If the old man did know something then Ticker would get it out of him. One way or the other.

Ticker Harrison had known for some time that if you wanted something doing well then you had to do it yourself, that accountability was something of the past. He blamed the politicians for trashing the old-fashioned values, loyalty in particular, and it came down to them letting in the foreigners so that national identity was lost. For fuck’s sake, there were places in England where you’d be hardpressed to find an Englishman.

Ticker Harrison sighed and said reflectively, “Maybe I should take up politics.”

“I don't see any point, Boss. You already make up the rules around here. We got our own laws and, come to think of it, taxes too. Some people might call it protection, but it's the same, ain’t it? No different. And they get more for their money from us than they do from that fucking Brown cunt. He ain’t fucking human, Boss.”

“He comes from fucking Scotland, that’s why. But since when have you paid any fucking taxes?”

“It's the principle, Boss, the fucking principle.”

“But I'd take up fucking politics, Breath, to get some accountability back into life, not because of the fucking taxes.”

“I don't see where you're coming from, Boss.”

“I told you I wanted her found. I didn't give a fuck what it cost or how many people got hurt. Take out half of Sheerham if you had to, I said, but find my fucking wife. I am fucking suffering here. I can't sleep, I can't eat and, sooner or later, maybe sooner, some fucker is going to get fucking hurt. You hearing me now? Is that fucking clear enough? You remember me telling you that?”

Breathless Billy's expression was shaped by painful haemorrhoids; a permanent grimace, even when he smiled, and that wasn't often. He said in a voice cut by emphysema and chastisement in equal measure, “Right, Boss. I think I get the message. I've got faces on the street. I've got faces in every fucking…you know, wherever they can fucking get, and we'll find her. But it takes time. And we got other things going on. This business is getting in the way of…business. What shall I do about the kids? You know what's going on in there. I'm telling you, Boss, Gilly will pull out and we'll be fucked. I've got major problems here. And you won't thank me for them! In case you hadn’t realized, Boss, Christmas is coming and we said we’d have the place cleared by Christmas.”

“Kids! Squatters! How can I think about kids when my wife is missing? It's all right for you, you ain't got a fucking wife. You don't know what I'm going through. Look!” Ticker pointed toward the painting of Helen. “Let's have some fucking priorities around here, eh? You're trying to change the subject. I ask you to do one simple thing, find Helen, and nothing. It's left to me to come up with something.” Breathless Billy checked out the painting and shook a sad head. What had Helen been thinking of to pose like that? And what was Ticker thinking of putting it on public display?