I Watson - Director's cut

“She’s got some bottle, I’ll give her that, but she’s the luckiest girl in the world.”

“She passed out so didn’t see him leave. Geoff reckons that once Lawrence realized she wasn’t pregnant that was the end of it. He never killed for killing’s sake.”

“Very considerate of him. But how could he tell?”

Cole shrugged again. “I think he knew all along. This was just an ego trip or to teach her a lesson.” “I’ll go for the ego trip. He was taking the piss from the start. I can’t imagine he’d waste much effort on a DC, a slip of a girl. This has all been a fucking joke and, somewhere, he’s laughing out loud. At us, at me in particular.”

“The final count was two men, unidentified, and six women he’d operated on. Cause of death almost certainly blood loss or physiological shock.”

“Why didn’t the radar handsets find the cellar?”

“Good question and it’s already been asked. There’s a few red faces in Tech Support but apparently they don’t penetrate areas they’re not pointed at. The operating theatre was twenty feet away from the Gallery’s own cellar accessed by a narrow corridor that was bricked up.”

Butler nodded again and flinched again.

“Well, anyway, that’s about it. There’s someone in the corridor that wants to say hello.” “Janet?”

“And Lucy, of course.”

Sam Butler smiled. He watched Cole move to the door then said, “Rick.”

With the door half-open Cole hesitated and turned to face his old colleague. “Forget it, Sam.” Butler nodded.

“We need you back. There’s been a whole bunch of shit come in.”

“Like?”

“Like our slasher’s had another go. Big time. This time she killed someone in the underpass. Cut him to bits. I say him, but he was dressed as a woman, a fucking cross-dresser would you believe. We’re working on the theory that she got a bit pissed-off when she discovered it wasn’t a woman and really went to town.”

“What else?”

“The gas explosion.”

“Go on?”

“It wasn’t. Or rather, it was, but detonated with an explosive charge made of aspirin.” Butler whistled. “Jesus, that’s a big step from allotment sheds. A double murder. What’s happening to Sheerham? Cross-dressing, transvestites coming out the woodwork, bombings, slashers, murders. It’s becoming a dangerous place to live.”

“Yep. That’s what comes from taking the plods off the street.”

The DS grinned. “Have there been any results at all?”

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“Remember the mannequin nicked from the supermarket? Found her. Took her back. The manager had to give her a bath to get rid of some unwanted hair.”

Butler frowned, wanting more.

Cole smiled, not giving any.

And the white door with its square window swung shut.

He’d been dying.

He’d given up without a fight. He’d watched his blood spreading out and he just lay there, not caring one way or the other. He needed help. He needed someone like himself to help him.

He was giving in too easily.

The midnight light caught the boy’s face and turned it as smooth as ivory. His eyes had darkened and his eyelashes seemed incredibly long. His slim frame leant toward the window.

“I know you, don’t I? Yeah, yeah. It’s you. I thought you might be back, some day. One day. Like, you know, don’t you? Dosh, dosh, dick, dick. Gotta be it. Can’t hide it. Not really. But you don’t hang around here, do you? Or didn’t you know?” The voice was confident, older, and faintly taunting. This was his turf, after all, and there was someone in the shadows listening in. “What happened to your face?” “Doesn’t matter.”

“Nice one. Bet it wasn’t shaving. Well, shall I get in, or what?

Dick, dick. Make up your mind?”

“You’ve got the wrong idea, just like before.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Honest I do. Well, time’s ticking. Time is dosh. Dosh, right? Dick dosh, dick dosh. No time to chat, right?”

The street was surprisingly busy. But maybe not that surprising. Revellers staggered from the boozers toward the clubs, green bottles swinging. It was party night and it had to last until New Year’s Eve. “Get in.”

He pulled open the door, waved to the shadow who watched from a shop doorway then slid into the passenger seat. Closer, lost in the leather, he seemed even slimmer than before. The sweet scent of weed filled the car. Female leaf or maybe pollen. It was strong. It was on his hands and in his clothes. The car pulled out into traffic and neon strip washed the windscreen. In the car the lights slid across their faces. The boy stirred nervously, his feet tapping the devil’s dance, his laced fingers opening and closing. It was always a gamble. You could never tell. Psychos looked like the man next door. This one worked with the coppers but that didn’t mean a thing. He knew this one, but you never knew, not really.

“Tick tock, dick dosh.”

“What do they call you now? Has it changed?”

“Anything you like.”

“You choose?”

“Noel then. I like Noel.”

“Christmas?”

“Oasis. Noel Gallagher.”

Maynard smiled into the darkness. Another strip blinked red as they passed a fried chicken takeaway. It flared on his stitches. He asked, “How old are you?” The red went out and left him in green from the dash.

“Thirteen if you like. Or sixteen. Or eighteen if it bothers you. I’m easy. I know a place. Supermarket car park is good, at the back. Empty at this time. Dick, dick. That’s the place. The barrier’s always up.” Maynard shook his head. He skirted Lover’s Wood and pulled in at the back, beyond a line of shivering firs. The floor beneath was thick with needles and cones that crunched under the wheels. The car pushed through grass and bramble that swiped at the windows and sprang up behind them. He turned off the engine and they sat in the dark listening to the wind. The woods creaked and the grass brushed against the car.

Patches of night sky freed itself from the rushing clouds and glistened enough to glow on the boy’s delicate features.

Maynard said quietly, “It’s almost Christmas Day.”

The boy glanced at the dash clock. “Yeah, that’s a thing, innit? I’m going to be your Christmas present.”

They had cleared out the Warren.

The kids had gone along with the weird bastard who looked out for them. When Ticker Harrison and his men arrived it was silent.

There was no peace on earth and goodwill – and definitely no rest – for Ticker Harrison’s merry men. They knew who paid the bills and for this year at least the herald-angels kept their hallelujahs in check. They broke open a door and marched in, ready to knock the shit out of anything that moved. But they’d gone.

Breathless Billy said, “Told you I had it all in hand, Boss. We didn’t need to check, not on a night like this. For fuck sake, I can take care of a bunch of fucking…kids!”

“Yeah, you’re right Breath, but the cunt that was with them, there was something about him I didn’t like. He was a fucking nutter and you never know what’s going on in a nutter’s head.”

Ticker had coped with the news of his wife’s death better than anyone expected. There had been no mourning, not that they had seen.

As far as Ticker was concerned, she’d had an affair with some fucker in Spain, more likely than not a greasy fucked-up paella type with a mouth from here to Barcelona. She’d had her affair, come back, gone to the shop, and that’s where Lawrence had gutted her. Lawrence, that old fucker, had saved him the bother. He would have shaken his hand, the one with the missing finger. He had even taken down her picture from that place above the fireplace. Given it to a charity shop. They had sold it the same day to a man in brown shoes, for two pounds and fifty pence.