I Watson: Director's cut

Butler was part of Inspector Jack Wooderson's team at Hinckley nick, transferred from Sheerham when sleepless nights had arrived with his daughter. Every minute in bed counted and Hinckley was five minutes closer to home. Lately he'd seen little of Cole and it came as a surprise when the DI asked him to call into HQ, off the record. They'd worked together in the past but they'd never been close. No one ever got close to Rick Cole.

The office brought back memories, serious incidents. A copper's mind was notched with memories of results, good and bad. Putting them aside was the difficult bit. It was too easy to lie there and get off on them again. You could never get away from the job. It followed you around like a shadow and it threw a shadow over everything else too. Butler said, “Heard about the bomb.”

Cole tried a smile. “You're lucky. It rattled our windows. Marsh has taken it very personally.”

Marsh was the chief superintendent who took everything personally.

The DS grinned. “A garden shed?”

“On the allotments.”

“Strange.”

“Schoolboys. A chemistry set for Christmas or, more likely, leftover fireworks; broke them open and put all the powder together in a bog roll or, in this case, some steel tubing. We've all been there.” “Still…"

"Barry Scot's looking after it. He'll be pleased to see you.” Butler nodded and said, “I thought there was another one yesterday. Another seven-seven.”

“Didn’t we all. Half the plods are still over at Buncefield. It doesn’t help when you close the M1.”

“Shame it can’t be permanent.”

“I know what you mean.” Cole paused. The informalities were over. “Are you getting anywhere with these missing women?” Butler's hesitation went on too long. Between the detectives there were boundaries you didn't cross. Guarding your own investigations became a way of life.

“Jesus, Sam. We know each other better than this.”

Butler relaxed. His shoulders fell. He threw Cole a careless wave. “You're right. I don't know what the hell's the matter with me lately. Put it down to lack of sleep.”

Without saying so they both knew the problem. Left behind at Hinckley Inspector Jack Wooderson had turned resentment into an art form.

Butler concentrated on the subject. “Frankly, we've got zilch. You know Jack. He gets one idea in his head and we're despatched to all parts of the country. I was in Worthing. Have you ever been to Worthing in the winter?”

Cole shook his head. “Not even the summer.”

“It's not a place I'd recommend.”

“So what's in Worthing?”

“They’ve got ten missing women. Teenagers, mostly black, all vanished in the last eighteen months. It sounds like the skin trade. They’re convinced they'll surface in northern Italy. Most of them come from Nigeria, Liberia and every other messed up African country. Interpol, the Refugee Council and Immigration are all involved. It's not for us. I could have told him the MO was different without the pleasure of seeing the place.”

“Have you got anything at all?”

Butler shrugged weakly. “I’ve had my fill of MPS if that’s what you mean. People end up there when no one else wants them. The joke in the office is that half the missing people we’re looking for are probably hiding on the Victoria Embankment…”

He was referring to the location of the Territorial Policing Headquarters where Operation Compass – the MPS Central Missing Persons Unit – was set up to coordinate the investigations of missing people across London.

He continued, “We haven't found a single connection. Credit cards not maxed, no apparent debts, no life insurance worth mentioning, no affairs as far as we can tell, no suspicion of crime. To be honest, Guv, unless something breaks very soon it'll be scaled down. The official line is no interest. Jack doesn’t actually live the ACPO values. CID only investigate crimes that have already been committed, not those that might be committed, or incidents that might not even be a crime – which is what we’ve got here. Prevention is for someone else and suspicion isn’t even logged. Missing persons are way down his list.” “Hate to say it but he’s got a point. Has Margaret had a look?” Margaret Domey was the resident psychologist based at Sheerham but her remit covered the substations.

“For a connection, you mean?” Butler shook his head again but this time resignation was mixed with curiosity. “You haven't heard?” Cole frowned.

“Margaret's at home with her head down the pan. Morning sickness.”

That he hadn’t heard shouldn’t have surprised Cole. He kept out of her way. He said, “I didn’t know.”

Butler grinned. Not many people would miss the psychologist. Not unless she'd changed a lot since his transfer. Margaret Domey didn't use ice in her drinks. She just breathed on them.

Cole said, “It must be catching.”

“What's that, Guv?”

“It's the second pregnancy I've heard about in as many days. The first belonged to Mrs Ticker Harrison.”

Butler's features firmed up.

“And unless there's been a change of circumstances you can add her name to your list of missing women.”

“Helen Harrison is missing?”

Cole nodded. “Unless she’s turned up since last night.”

“Did Ticker report it? Christ, I’d like to have been a fly on the wall.”

“It's all unofficial, you understand?”

Butler pulled an unkind face. Most of the kozzers would have given a month's pay to nick Ticker Harrison.

“It might be worth checking out with a quiet visit. Probably a waste of time but it might throw up a connection.”

Butler nodded thoughtfully.

“It was a whisper, nothing more.”

“Right.”

He got up to leave.

“You don't need an invitation to call in, Sam.”

The DS hesitated. “Right,” he said again, softly this time, remembering the old days, then he headed for the door.

Once out of there, curiously, he felt relieved.

C13 Anti-Terrorist Branch were full of themselves, a bit like the Flying Squad of the sixties. Since the IRA had calmed down they had been kept under wraps but with the weapons of mass destruction on the agenda they were back, enjoying the attention.

Once it was discovered that terrorists were not involved in the explosion they quickly lost interest and moved back to their shadowy world. They left their prelim report and an officer to explain it, and left forensics to get on with it.

In the briefing room they had covered the fire at Buncefield and a vicious knife attack on a young woman and had moved to their own explosion. Superintendent Billingham in his crisp uniform sat tightlipped, square-shouldered and cross-armed as he watched Inspector John Knight go through the motions. The uniforms seemed strangely restless. The obligatory plain-clothes observer sat to one side of the crowded room, detached, bored by the drawn-out custom. On the CID side DS Barry Scot and DC Martin James were handling the case but the DS was too wily to get caught up in the briefing. He was out interviewing schoolboys he knew had a penchant for fireworks. Back in November he'd interviewed the same lads for stuffing Roman candles through the letterboxes of some pensioners who'd stopped them playing football on the road outside their homes. For DS Barry Scot those kids were favourite for the shed but his hunch meant that Martin James had pulled the briefing.

The inspector's address was winding down. “All chemists, garden centres and shops that might stock garden chemicals or children’s chemistry sets to be visited today.” He glanced at Sgt Mike Wilson. “Sgt Wilson will be coordinating this exercise. Do not sit on any information. The trail is still warm, the crater is still smoking. I want this sorted before some children turn up at the hospital minus their arms.” He turned to the DC. “Anything to add, Martin?”