I Watson - Director's cut

During the night there had been an explosion and it wasn't an allotment shed or children with reconstructed fireworks. It had brought down the roof of a house in a terraced row. An old exhausted run-down place that needed demolishing anyway. According to initial reports the cause was a gas leak. It happened, more than people knew. The Fire Brigade was out in force and uniforms were cordoning the area. Safety experts were examining the scene. Two men had died. Blown to bits and the bits burned beyond recognition. In time there would be neighbours and scraps of documentation and dental records and reconstruction and numerous items that would give them the background, but for the moment they were just casualties of the night, written off as accidental deaths. It meant paperwork and time they didn’t have and, hopefully, an uncomplicated transfer to the coroner.

In the car, in the morning, as they passed what was left of the house and skirted the flapping police tape, DS Sam Butler said, “With a bit of luck forensics will have something for us on Helen Harrison's car. And we do need something.” He paused, then: “Did you enjoy the show?” If Anian heard it didn't register. She said, “I almost went round to Rick Cole's last night.”

Sam Butler was staggered, speechless. All he could do was shake his head in disbelief and keep the car from veering.

“Did you hear me?”

Eventually he found his voice, but it still came out sounding like someone else. “I'm having trouble with it. Tell me again.” “It's true. I was a bit pissed after the show. Couldn't help it. Wanted to. Couldn't. Stupid, isn't it?”

“Why?”

He sensed her shrug. “I don't know. Nothing makes sense anymore. He made it quite clear the other night that he’s not interested. Maybe that was it. The challenge. The old behavioural protocol becomes activated, doesn’t it? Pride, anger, you name it. In a negative way it’s still intoxicating. I'm getting hurt here, but I can't help myself.” “Back off, for Christ sake. I thought you'd had your fill of office romances. Think about it.”

She sighed. “You're right. But that's not me, is it? All my life I've jumped in head first and lived to regret it. I wish I hadn't told you.” He nodded reluctantly, unable to make sense of what he'd heard. He said, “So do I.”

“You're angry?”

“Leave it alone, Anian. I was surprised, that's all.”

After a moment he added, “For a while back there I forgot I was married with a little girl that's keeping me up all night. All right?” “That's fine. I understand.”

He shot her a glance. Her dark eyes were on the road. He wondered whether she did understand, that back there, for a moment, jealousy – pure, irrational, blood-rushing jealousy – had got the better of him. He drove in uncomfortable silence for five minutes then pulled up in a wide, well-maintained street the other side of the park. No line of parked cars here, just clean pavements and drives to every door. “St George’s Way,” Anian said quietly. “Imelda Cooke?” “Right,” Butler said and climbed out of the car.

She followed him up the drive toward a two-storey detached. Joseph Cooke had reported his wife missing three months ago. He had given up his job in the city to take care of the children. When he opened the door and recognized the police officers, the expectation of the bad news he’d been dreading drained his features and left a terrible stain in his eyes.

Butler had seen the look many times before – the certainty, the disbelief, the helplessness, the realization of all those nightmares, and he was quick to reassure him. “It's all right, Joe. There’s been no development.”

Relief flooded back. “Thank God for that. I thought…”

“I know. There should be a way of ringing you first to let you know that nothing's happened. I'm sorry. Are the kids at home?” “No. They're staying with their nan. I get a break from time to time. Come on in.”

They followed him into the hall.

“Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“No, no, thank you,” Butler said. “Listen, Joe, this is a bit delicate,” Joseph Cooke looked puzzled.

“You remember we asked you whether Imelda was pregnant, or not?”

“I remember. She wasn't.”

“Well, we have a number of missing women in the area and, with the exception of Imelda, the others are pregnant. I don't know what it means, exactly. I don't know why we're here, exactly.”

Joseph Cooke smiled sadly, “Clutching at straws?”

"Yes, that's it exactly.”

Anian stood aside, watching the detective sergeant as he skirted the issue, and the man beside him whose life had been shattered. Cooke offered, “You want to look at her things again? I've already done it a thousand times, but I don't mind. They're just as she left them. Nothing's been moved.”

“Yes, Sir,” Butler stammered. “That's what I really came for.” Cooke waved towards the stairs. “Help yourself. I'll be in the sitting room. Are you sure about the drink? I'm having one. And it's stronger than coffee.”

“In that case, Sir, scotch will do nicely. What about you Anian?” “Nothing for me, thanks. It’s a bit early.”

Cooke glanced at his watch and nodded. “So it is,” he said and left them to it.

As they climbed the stairs Anian asked, “What are we looking for, Sam?”

“Anything. Something we missed. A letter maybe, an appointment to a private clinic. If she kept it from him, it's hidden. Think about it.” “Kept the pregnancy from him?”

“Something like that.”

Anian shook her head and murmured, “In that case I hope we don't find it.”

They didn't. They went through the bedroom methodically but found nothing of interest. It was always difficult for coppers invading the privacy of innocent parties and they felt embarrassed going through the drawers, particularly those containing underclothes.

They hit the landing again, ready for the stairs, when a little tug of memory caught Butler between steps.

“What is it?”

“Just a thought. When Janet did her test, she left the box and instructions on top of the bathroom cabinet. We hadn't got Lucy at the time but maybe it was instinctive, you know, a place where the kids couldn't get to it, out of the way. Every time I had a shave I noticed it. The bloody thing became a fixture. You never throw away old pills and medicine bottles, do you? I’ve got some chilblain ointment I used the other day then noticed the use-by date was November ninety-four. Seemed to work though.”

“Too much information, Sam. You’re spoiling the image.” Together they moved into the bathroom, a green-tiled bathroom complete with avocado bidet and shower cubicle and double-door bathroom cabinet. And on top of the cabinet, where it had lain for over three months, disturbed only occasionally by a Maltese cleaner, hidden by familiarity and a pink plastic bottle of baby lotion, was a white oblong box.

The detectives shared a look of amazement.

“There's no kit here,” Anian said. “Just the box.”

“In this case an empty box is good enough,” Butler said and shook his head in disbelief. “And it makes five out of five.”

In Paul’s bedroom there were six TVs in two stacks of three and he was back watching them. He sat cross-legged on the end of his bed. Sky News and ITV and BBC covered the same story. Paul's eyes were wide, his mouth open, his attention held by the six screens. There was no sound. He had the sound turned down. The colours of east Africa slid across the cuts and bruises on his face. His ear was torn and his clothes were stained red in various places.

On the six screens a migration had begun. Women carried dead babies and babies that were dying. Men staggered on makeshift crutches. Children held their extended bellies. Flies crawled into eyes. Behind them a war continued. Ahead of them was another African border with trenches and mines and guns. The Dark Continent had never looked so cruel. There was no oil in this African country. It didn’t even have a name that anyone could remember.