I Watson - Director's cut

“Spain, but Spain's a fucking big place. I mean, I take her on a fucking boat to that other place. What was it again?”

“Greece.”

“Right. I take her there in a luxury boat and she settles for paella and fucking chips.”

“When Lawrence gives you the nod, you let me know.”

“I'll think about that one.”

“Think about this. Is Lawrence OK?”

“Yeah, I'd say, given the circumstances. Unfortunately he had an accident with his painting hand. Got a finger caught up in a guillotine. He uses it to cut the prints to size. Told him it was fucking dangerous, without a guard, but did he listen?”

“OK, take care of yourself.”

“Too fucking right. I owe you one now.” His emphasis was on the you.

“Isn't that a treat?”

Cole hung up. For a moment he wondered how much of the call was incriminating. All of it, he imagined. But it was too late to worry, so he set it aside.

But Helen Harrison running off to Spain? Not a chance. Helen Harrison was dead and John Lawrence had got her tucked up some place, getting off on whatever he got off on. But it was coming to a head.

It wasn’t often that Anian Stanford went out with her housemates. Getting their shifts to coincide was almost impossible but somehow, through luck and feminine wiles, they had managed it. The Royal Free nurses had come by a box at the Carrington Theatre. A consultant from Nigeria was making an impression on the youngest of them and Anian guessed it wouldn’t be long before they’d be advertising an empty room. But for the moment they made hay.

In the bath she drank some wine – why did it always seem so wickedly indulgent? – and getting ready she drank some more and perhaps that was why, as they settled in their box seats, she was less than discreet.

She said, “Five rows in, three from the centre aisle, see him? Next to the black girl.”

As Anian held back, the other girls eased forward.

“Mr John bloody Lawrence. He’s got those women somewhere.” “Oh my God! The missing women?” The youngest of them, the consultant’s target, spoke with that feigned enthusiasm at which all young nurses – perhaps young women in general – were adept. Anian nodded. “He’s got a poster in his shop window. Maybe a couple of freebee tickets came with it.”

“Like us then,” the nurse giggled. “But the girl – the black girl – must be thirty or forty years younger.”

“She's a tom, works out of The British. A tart with a heart. She even gives discounts to pensioners.”

“Oh my God,” the nurse said then, more seriously, “Why take a prostitute to the theatre? If you're paying for it you should be on the job.”

Anian laughed out loud. “I don't know. You tell me about men and what they've got to prove?”

The nurse leant forward for another look. “What’s he got on his hand? It looks like a glove puppet.”

Anian took another peep. “It is a glove puppet. It’s got red lips.” The nurse shrugged and shook her head. “This is not normal behaviour.”

Anian searched for Chief Superintendent Marsh but couldn't find him. Had she glanced at the other boxes she would have seen him sitting comfortably next to the Mayor. Gilly Brown had gold hanging from his neck. And at the back of the theatre, in the deep shadows, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton and his wife were finding their seats along with the councillors.

The nurse beside her touched her arm and pointed to the stage. The curtain was going up.

The curtain went up to reveal a street scene and a gang of youngsters, dancing to the right or left and pushing the passers-by aside. They shouted abuse across the steaming road. One of them daubed paint on a brick wall: Kill the Bill. And the gang began to sing:

There were a few skirmishes last night but nothing much

Just a few friendly little fights but nothing much

We gave the residents a fright but nothing much…

The passers-by joined in. First the Politician as he introduced the others:

He's a criminologist and she's a sociologist

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

He's a police-inspector and she's a social worker

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

I'm into crime prevention, stop the windows being broken

And I'm a politician, vote for me.

And with that slimy offering the politician flashed white teeth and produced a red, white and blue banner which read: Vote for me! And the gang sang:

We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.

The gang's all here, born out of fear, you see…

Passer-by: Alienated youth, violence on TV, poverty, bad-housing, boredom and page three…

Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me…

Street Cleaner: I'm a street cleaner and I hose away the blood

Council Worker: I’m a council worker and I make the windows good

Vicar: I'm the local vicar and I'm mis-under-stood

Politician: And I'm a politician, vote for me.

And the gang sang:

We're the pill-popping, heavy-drinking, glue-sniffing gang from hell.

The stage was a frenzy of movement and colour. The first half-dozen rows were all but hidden by smoke. Anian Stanford didn’t really notice. She was watching Lawrence, trying to make out his features in the dimmed lighting and wondering if the girl hugging his arm was aware of the danger she was in.

Geoff Maynard was still out and the house was strangely silent. He’d mentioned earlier that Donna had come back with a nil return on the CCTV images and Cole guessed he was in the Square again, checking out the faces.

In just a few days the psychologist’s domesticity had left a mark; silly things, like the dishcloth left hanging to dry instead of squeezed and left on the drainer, the Teacher's safely tucked away in the cabinet instead of its usual place at the foot of Cole's armchair. Cole switched off the light and carried a glass to the bay window. The lawn, in its winter coat and orange wash, looked thick and spongy. The wind was up, sweeping through the volcanic light from the street lamps, rushing through the trees and beating the fluttering, flame-like winter shrubs into submission. He felt the familiar bite of the Teacher's and shivered, waiting for it to lift his mood. This was no life, annihilated every night, dealing with filth every day. No intermission. Another day, another meeting, another seeing, speaking, sleeping. Just going through the motions without a purpose, apart from one, waking up to do it all again.

A car rolled to a slow stop at the end of his drive. He recognized it and checked his watch. It had turned eleven. He watched her lock the car and start up his path. She was biting her lower lip, ready to turn and run, searching for a light in the house and frowning at the darkness. Maybe she'd already checked out the White Horse and drawn a blank. She wore a grey jacket and a short navy-blue skirt that fanned in the wind. A sudden gust gave him even more of her legs. Almost casually, she reached down and held on to the hemline. He turned on the porch light and opened the door as she was about to ring.

For a few moments they stood in silence.

She levelled her gaze.

With a slight tilt of the head he beckoned her inside.

She hesitated for a second more then stepped over the threshold. In the bedroom window the stars dissolved in the condensation. In the volcanic light the hard-edged trees rounded like candle wax under a flame.

“You take them off,” she said as she plucked the elastic below her navel.

He did and, some time later, lay back nursing a semi-skimmed dick. In the morning the night was just a blur. Teacher's, before and after, got in the way of clarity. He remembered the stars as they found their cruel brilliance again as the condensation wept away.