I Watson: Director's cut

The Indian glowed red through white net and the air outside was filled with the farts the diners left behind. Candles on the window tables shimmered like beacons in a red mist.

The Chinese was brighter. Perhaps it had less to hide, thought Mr Lawrence, but then he remembered the salt used in the cooking and the dark alley, a narrow gap between the restaurant and the shop next door. Dangerous places, alleys, where cats screamed and the air was soaked with piss.

Mr Lawrence had set his mind on Madras but a bunch of youths blocked the pavement so he ducked into the Chinese.

He was settled with 7, 14 and 21, when the young man entered. Albert or the colonel must have mentioned where Mr Lawrence dined. The young man who had just got out had come in to make a beeline for his table. On his face was a look of surprise, the coincidence of meeting him again, and the softer look of friendship.

Out of the darkness a copper's cheap lighter flared and in an icy wind sparks shot away. The JPS felt heavy in Rick Cole's chest. He breathed white into the night and coughed a smoker's cough. River water slapped impatiently against concrete and in the distance flames leapt from steel drums and threw a pale glow on the lonely figures surrounding them.

A villain's voice came out of the darkness. “A bit Pearl Harbour, boy. A nip in the air. Thank Gawd for global warming otherwise it might be really chilly.”

“Forget the Nips. I’ll lay odds there’s a bunch of skags clocking us.”

“Those cunts wouldn't recognize themselves in the mirror.”

The wind gusted again and more angry flames burst from the drums. In a few days the missions would open and for a week at least, for the shadows, there'd be a mattress and a guaranteed dawn. The cold smacked the DI’s face.

Seriousness crept into the villain’s tone, “The city’s a dangerous place, always has been, but not for us, never was. Think about it. We're the dangerous fuckers around here and people know it.” Cole grunted indifference.

“It's been a long time. So what’s happening?”

A pause, then Cole relented, “Shovelling the same shit. A city full of yobs and villains and now you can add the fucking terrorists. We always had the micks but this is different. These fuckers don’t mind killing themselves to make a point. The average man is in more danger now than he was during the war.” “There’s a few dirty fuckers I know who wouldn’t mind topping themselves if they thought they could shag a hundred and fifty virgins on the other side.”

“Ton and a half?”

“Inflation. Why should heaven be any fucking different?” Another pause sharpened the darkness, a chuckle, then, “So, it was on the news. The bomb. Who'd want to bomb a deserted shed?” “Maybe it was being kept there. Who knows?”

“The arse in the air brigade? Bastards get everywhere. That’s the trouble with this country Rick. I don’t even understand some of the cunts on the BBC News nowadays, never mind the weather. Every fucking arse is a potential launch pad, right?”

“Bomb Squad say not. This was amateur.”

“Another Nazi nail bomber, then. Maybe it was a test. Everyone's got to start somewhere.” He was referring to the London bombing campaign against Asians, blacks and gays. The Admiral Duncan pub explosion, as well as Brixton and Brick Lane, had used up a lot of man-hours. The older coppers wouldn’t forget David Copeland in a hurry. The younger ones had probably never heard of him. The villain rubbed his hands together. “So, your people killed any more innocent Brazilians lately? I thought dumdums were illegal?”

He was referring this time to Jean Charles de Menezes.

“They were hollow point, not soft-headed. In any case, they’re only illegal in war, against the enemy. You can still use them against civvies.”

“Yeah, well, that makes a lot of fucking sense, I’m sure. They must have taken his fucking head off. I heard there were eleven shots but only eight hits. How could they miss three times from two feet? Even my guys would manage to hit something from two feet away, especially if it was pinned to the fucking floor!”

Cole wasn't drawn. He said, “So what do you want?”

“You ain't changed, Rick. You got no sense of small talk or self-preservation. People like you, people who don't give a fuck, are the scariest people on earth. Go ask the psychiatrists, they should know. Even I'm scared of you, and I'm the fucking crown jewels around here. One day I'll find out what turned you against yourself.”

“You'll never come close.”

“Guarantee there was a woman involved.”

“Let's get on with it.”

“This is important, Rick. It upsets me to ask you for help.”

“Course it does.”

“Helen's done a runner.”

It didn’t show or, rather, it wasn’t heard, but Cole was surprised. He managed, “Go to relate.” “This isn't funny. I can't have people taking the piss, understand?

It's hard enough running a business as it is. You people are not doing your jobs. I've got hassle with the youngsters who believe in free enterprise, the Maltesers are playing up again – God knows why with that shithouse of a fucking place they come from – and every black bastard in town is packing enough hardware to start world war three.

And now the fucking Albanians are trying it on. They're into everything going and they're organized. You've got to blame Blair for letting all these fuckers in. Talk about the blind leading the fucking blind. Asylum seekers. These fuckers are controlling half of London's dope and they've only been in the country two minutes. Even the Chinese are getting pissed off. And they're hurting me too. Passing off their toms as Spanish and Italians. They need the fucking trade description act thrown at them. Pay up front for a Latin quarter and find you've got two fingers up a Balkan arse, it ain't funny. It's like going to a Gordon Ramsey and being dished up condemned meat. Well out of order. It's not right. There's no fucking respect anymore. She's been gone a week.”

He slipped it in, out of the blue, and tightened Cole’s features.

“A week?”

“She's never left before. I put the word out, my own people, but they couldn't find a fucking nigger on the North Pole. Kicking the shit out of someone they can do, but using their bonces… They ain't so hot on subtlety, you know? Like fucking Barclays. Big doesn’t appeal if it’s out of the bedroom. The cunts think pie and mash comes with an alcoholic beverage. What can I do? All the good guys have gone soft in middle age or they're banged up. They talk about the old days, but the old days were never that tasty, we know that. Those old bastards wouldn't make second division today. Not with the fuckers I’ve got to deal with. These bastards today have got no style at all, Rick. You think you’ve cut a deal, they’ll go to the shithouse, come back looking like they’ve stuck their hooters in a tray full of baking powder and start blasting away. How can you do business like that? We need to build another iron curtain just to keep these fuckers out and that includes the cunt who bought my football team.”

“I didn’t know you were a Chelsea fan.”

“It’s not something you spread around, Rick. Who admits to a sack-and-crack job?”

“This is important and you’re taking the piss. I can't afford a scene; not when I've got every fucker in town trying to muscle in. This has come at a bad time for me. At the moment I'm talking, being very reasonable, but these fucked-up foreigners aren't reasonable people. As for the youngsters, what the fuck do they teach them nowadays? A month out of school and they think they can run a deal on my manor. This country has gone to the fucking dogs, Rick. Fuck New Labour and all their fucking promises. These little fucks are actually squatting in some of my properties while they deal and half the fuckers are on benefits. Can you believe that? That's a fucking liberty.”