I Watson: Director's cut

“You should know,” the villain said. “You don't earn in a year what this fucking thing cost. Not that the cost means nothing. It's all relative, right? Who gives a fuck apart from the fuckers who haven't got it? I could feed half of India with the bread I paid for this, but who gives a fuck about half of India?”

He latched on to Anian again and stayed there for a moment, then added, “Or Pakistan.”

Butler smiled. “You're probably right, about the wages. But it still shows up the dirt, and there's a lot of it around here. Right?” Harrison nodded slowly, weighing up the DS, then he turned back to Anian. “You sure I can't tempt you, coke or tea? I do a great line in tea – Assam, Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong, camomile, even Indian.” She flashed him an odd look that Butler couldn’t work out. It might have been perplexity, but he wasn’t sure.

Harrison shrugged and offered a little smile of resignation then sat on the sofa to face the DS over the coffee table. He leant forward, his massive hands cupping his glass.

“OK, person who logged the report,” Butler said with his pen poised. He was finding it difficult to accept that Harrison was top of Sheerham’s hit-list and one of the most dangerous villains in the capital. Yet he knew it was true. Harrison had been behind some of the nastiest headlines in the last twenty years and that the coppers hadn’t been able to nail him was down to fear. It would take a brave man or a man with a death wish to grass on Ticker Harrison.

“That's me.” He pulled a face at DC Stanford.

She tightened her lips, trying not to smile.

Butler dragged them back. “Harrison, fine. Ticker?”

“Edward. But don't spread it around. I don't want people mixing me up with that geezer who married Sophie.”

“I can see your point. Easy mistake to make.”

Anian was having trouble. Her eyes betrayed her.

Butler went on, “Relationship husband. Full name of missing person?”

“Helen Anne Harrison.”

“Is that with an E?”

“Two Es.”

“Anne?”

“Oh, yeah, with an E.”

The DC had to turn away but her silent laugh still shook her shoulders.

Butler ignored her and proceeded with the rest: DOB, age, place of birth, height, weight, physical peculiarities.

Harrison said, “What the fuck do you mean? She's perfect.” “Freckles, tattoos, scarring from an operation or an injury, maybe?” “Oh. No, no freckles. Maybe one or two on her shoulders, after the sun.”

“False teeth?”

“Are you taking the piss?”

“No, but I am enjoying it. Birthmarks?”

“One, not that you'll ever see it.”

“Well, you know? Just for the record.”

“A little thing on the side of her fanny, shaped like a pear.”

“Is that an American fanny or a British fanny?”

“What?”

“Front or back, boot or bonnet?”

Anian turned back to them. She seemed a little more composed but her eyes still sparkled and Butler knew it wouldn’t take much to start her off again. What annoyed him most was that she was laughing with Ticker Harrison and not at him. She smiled sweetly.

“Front for fuck's sake.”

“English then. Top of her leg?”

“No, no, next to the old BBC.”

“Shepherd's Bush, then. You wouldn't have a photograph of it, would you, Sir?”

Harrison's eyes turned to slits.

“No, right. What side would the birthmark be on? Right or left?” “As I'm looking at it, right.”

“That would be her left?”

“Right.”

“How big?”

Harrison made a hole with his finger. “The size of a pea, maybe, the colour of…” he nodded toward the DC.

“DC Stanford?”

“Right.”

“Nescafe, then, with cream.”

“You know Cole, don't you?”

“DI Cole?”

“He taught you how to take the Irish?”

“No, Sir. I'm self-taught.”

“Well, Sergeant…”

“Butler. Detective Sergeant Butler.”

“Well, Detective Sergeant Butler, do yourself a favour and teach yourself something else. Things have a way of coming round. One day you're going to need a favour and somebody's going to take the piss out of you…”

“Right,” Butler said. “Let's carry on.”

They went through the rest, friends or relatives, places she might have frequented, health or medical conditions and so on.

Butler said, “Does she have a driving licence?”

“Yeah, she's got a licence.”

“Does she have her own car?”

“You kidding? The way she drives there's no way she's driving mine.”

“She took it with her?”

“Well, of course she did. She'd drive to the fucking bathroom if that was possible.”

From the side of the room Anian said, “Is this Helen?” She stood gazing at a framed painting of a naked woman. An oil, subdued, heavy paint where the light shone through, lots of knife.

Ticker Harrison said, “That's Helen. Now tell me, if you can, that she ain't perfect?”

Butler's interest picked up. Maybe it was the woman's lack of inhibition; there wasn't much left to the imagination. He was surprised he hadn't noticed it before. It was a pose guaranteed to draw the eye. He asked, “When was this painted, Sir?”

“Finished about a month ago. No more than that. Paint's hardly dry. What do you think?”

Butler turned back to Harrison and said, “You’re right, you do have a very beautiful wife and your description of the birthmark was spot on. If you can give us a recent photograph and a car registration, we'll go and try to find her.”

On their patch three women were officially missing; Helen Harrison would make it four. ht. A healthy stalk, tall or short, fat or thin, was essential to the hearty bush. Abduction was way down, the least likely scenario. . As though reading Sam Butler's mind Inspector Jack Wooderson said, “Is there any crime you might read into this?”

“Apart from Imelda Cooke, no Guv.”

“I've looked at it; we've spent a lot of man-hours, more than the books can afford.”

“She had kids.”

Wooderson nodded thoughtfully. It was not a good sign when women went missing without taking their children. But it did happen. And just lately it was happening more and more. Responsibility was something of the past.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Then put it to bed. We've exhausted every line on this and there’s nothing else to do. Unless you can come up with something new then let's not waste any more time.”

It grieved Butler to know that his inspector was absolutely right. And yet he had a feeling about this one – the sixth sense that was the mark of a good kozzer.

An experienced copper's intuition was often more important than the evidence, or lack of it. Here, there was nothing concrete, not even a crime, yet Butler's gut tightened. It was the feeling you had the morning after the night before that you couldn't remember. A sickening feeling, just before you slept again, that somehow you'd messed up. Here, save for Helen Harrison, and who could blame her for leaving Ticker, the other women didn't fit the pattern to take a walk. And yet, at the back of his mind, was the knowledge of how little he'd known about his own wife when she'd had her affair. It had gone on for months. Things had drifted, become commonplace, and it wasn't until the final few weeks that he suspected there was something wrong. He was a copper, damn it, and even he hadn't realized what was going on under his own roof, in his own bed. It had just been a gut feeling that had led him home. Intuition. The copper's best friend. And there they were, the after-blast of coition burning their faces. Until they saw him. Then the glow faded quickly. But had he not found them then he was certain that one day he would have gone home to an empty house. Just like Ticker Harrison. Just like Rick Cole.