Director's Cut (16 page)

“True. But I can’t get away from it. People like you keep calling me
back.”

Cole nodded. “You're paid a lot more than we are.”

“Agreed.”

“And you make more on top of that writing your True Crime books.
And most of that's bollocks.”

“They make less than you think. And come to think of it there are a
few coppers around who get off on the same bend.”

“Their books are bollocks too.”

Maynard threw him a harmless smile. “So what have we got? More
of the same? Fantasies, the fat dogs will tell you, can do no harm.
Well, you go tell them that fantasy is where the sex crime starts.
Fantasy is the fuse. The explosion comes when the fuse is used up.”
“So tell me something new? That was in one of your books too.”
“I didn't know you read my books.”

“Only one of them. Couldn't get on with the first person. He did it
all by himself.”

Maynard smiled again. “That's not true. I turned you into a
celebrity, photograph and all.” He reached out and tapped Cole's glass.
“Anyway, the coppers on the Jill Dando case were banned from
drinking alcohol for the duration.”

Cole lifted his glass and said, “I could get the wrong man without a
drink. It would be that easy.” He lost two fingers and returned his glass
to the table. “The idiots who come up with ideas like that are about as
useful as a special.”

“I'm not arguing,” Maynard said and made a suitable noise. “But do
I detect a fractured and disconnected discourse within the Met? God
forbid!”

Cole grinned and said, “What can we do? Our commissioner is so
far up Tony Blair’s arse his favourite line is he’s having a Blair on
Blair. We’ve got
Vote Labour
stickers on police cars and we’ve lost
over one hundred detectives from the Murder Squad to boost
neighbourhood policing. And that’s apart from the shambles at
Stockwell. Forget Condon who just about destroyed CID, this guy has
destroyed the reputation of the entire force. Protecting the public has
become a national joke. At least Stevens was on our side, fighting our
pitch, not bowing down to the human rights and politically correct
lunatics who run this government. You can’t run a police force when
the government is on the side of the criminal. Welcome back.”
Maynard’s glance skirted the scythes and other farming implements
hanging from the walls, faintly sinister reminders of a cold-blooded
time. There was something about the swish of the scythe, maybe
because of its association with Death, that sent a shiver down his spine.
The place hadn't changed. They had, the detective and the therapist,
but the surroundings were fixed in the past.

Maynard’s sleepless eyes came to rest on Cole. They were warm
but held a trace of mischief. “So what is Ian Blair up to?”
“He’s blaming everyone else, as usual.”

“Menezes?”

“That’s part of it but that had more to do with the people who took
out David Kelly than SO19.”

Maynard nodded. “That makes sense. It explains a lot, and why the
commissioner’s take made less than sense.”

“It doesn’t do SO19 any favours though, having to cover for those
incompetent bastards.” Through the smoke of his JPS Cole threw him
a smile. They knew each other too well. He said, “Where are you
staying?”

“Just got in. The gear's in the boot. I was hoping your spare room
was still spare.”

“I think you've still got the key.”

“Guessed it might come in handy.”

It had been years but it felt like yesterday. They'd worked a nasty
case and it had bonded them. Old soldiers knew about camaraderie and
the shared experience. That's why sixty-five years on the few that were
left were still going back to Dunkirk.

“So!” Maynard said. “What’s happening in the real coppering
world? You've got yourself a serial slasher?”

“A bit premature for a serial, but maybe. A bomb builder too.”
“Let's talk about the slasher. It’s more my line. Have you got
anything at all?”

“Not that counts. You’ve seen the front pages and you can imagine
our senior policemen knee-jerking like a bunch of geriatric rockers.
Nothing changes. The arseholes remain in charge.”

Maynard's smile was cut short as Sam Butler arrived carrying a tray
of drinks. Standing next to him, rock solid on two-inch heels, was the
slim figure of Anian Stanford. Her dark eyes were smarting.
“Hello Geoff.” Butler met Maynard's friendly smile. “Heard you
were in town. Same old story, is it? Women in trouble.”

“It seems that way.”

“We're not interrupting, are we?”

Maynard half-emptied his seat. “Not at all. Join the party.”
Sam Butler glanced sideways at the DC. “This is Anian.” His
glance must have caught Cole for Maynard picked up on it. Nothing
obvious, just a slight flicker of the eyes.

She slid into a chair and lifted her glass of red wine and only then
looked at Cole. “Guv,” she murmured.

Cole’s nod of acknowledgement only served to increase Maynard’s
curiosity.

Butler said, “I promised Anian that I'd show her the local, just in
case she's moved over here.”

Maynard asked, “So what's happening at Hinckley?”

“We've got some missing women.”

“But unfortunately,” Cole cut in. “They haven’t got a case!”
Out of earshot the Sheerham kozzers stole glances at Cole's table while
Chas Walker filled them in. “She nearly killed Jack Wooderson over at
Hinckley. He had to call it a day. He was going home smelling like a
chicken Madras every night and his old girl was getting suspicious.”
Peter Ward said, “She'll do me.”

“You've got no chance, son,” Walker said seriously. “Anyway,
apart from Jack Wooderson even the fucking tide wouldn’t take her
out!”

Some of the uniforms propping the bar overheard and edged
forward for more.

From the back DC Martin James put in, “It's all the Kama, isn't it?
The bow and arrows, the bowstring of bees.”

Vacant looks required an explanation.

“Saw the video.
Kama Sutra
. Watched it with the missus. She
wasn't all that. Standing on her head with a banana up her arse didn't
appeal. She said we could try it again if we get double glazing. Funny,
though, it wasn't Pakis in that. Still, I'd give her one…” James nodded
toward Anian.

Chas Walker looked surprised.

“Well, wouldn't you?”

The DC looked from James to Ward and back again. He said, “You
two are supposed to be married and pillars of the community. But no, I
wouldn’t. Apart from the colour, she’s too skinny.”

“She'd be perfect for the part of Rosalind.”

Ward's ears picked up. “
As You Like It
,” he said and looked pleased
with himself. “The daughter’s reading it for the GCSE.”

“Yes, mine too. Forcing me to play half the parts. Surprised at how
much cross-dressing old Shakespeare got up to. Quite a party they had
in those days. Gwyneth Paltrow's tits…”

Walker wagged a finger. “Now you’re making sense.”

Two shots over the limit, Butler gave the DC a ride back to Hinckley
where she shared a flat with two nurses who worked at the Royal Free.
Their shifts were all over the place, worse even than Anian's, so life
was noise free. There was always someone sleeping or trying to. In the
car she said, “Tell me about him?”

Butler knew immediately that she was referring to Cole. “He’s a
DI at Sheerham.”

“I know that much.”

“What then?”

“Tell me.”

“His wife left him some years ago. Went off with an American.
Blamed the job, as you do. He was involved in a couple of high profile
cases that… Well, they were pretty bloody nasty. He spent too much
time on them and not enough on her. You know the score. Christ,
Anian, you're in the job.”

“What else?” She sounded tired, as if talking was keeping her
awake.

“Nothing else.”

“I heard some rumours, a certain policewoman.”

Butler nodded and checked the mirror. The roads were quiet,
washed with lonely electric. The silent shop displays blazed the
Christmas message of false hope

“I heard them too.” Gossip had never come easily to Sam Butler.
“Well?”

“I don't know. They might have got a bit too close, but they saw
sense, backed off. She's married, happily I believe, moved back to
Ipswich. End of story.”

“No, no, you're not getting off there. Was it an affair?”

“I wouldn't put it like that. A daydream, maybe, a mental lapse, a
day off. That's it, a day off. That's how I'd put it. Everyone's allowed a
day off, just once. It's all forgotten now. It was a long time ago.”
Under cover of darkness Anian Stanford nodded thoughtfully and
smiled.

The phone became part of Cole’s dream.

“Guv, you better get over here.”

DS Peter Ward’s voice was vaguely familiar. “What’s happened?”
“John Domey’s been on. Margaret hasn’t been home all night. He’s
panicking. Rang the hospitals…”

“Give me half an hour. You better let the super know.”

“He’s already here, with the chief, and he’s not a happy chappy.”
“Go on?”

“Nasty TA in the High Road. Fatality outside The British.
Pedestrian was hit and dragged fifty yards. Took most of the night to
pick up the pieces.”

A TA wasn’t going to bring out the super, never mind Chief
Superintendent Marsh, so it had to be more than that and Margaret
Domey was odds-on.

Cole hung up and checked his clock. Seven. He’d had three hours
sleep. Self-inflicted, he knew, but the thought made things worse. On
his way to the shower he banged on his guest’s door and heard a groan.
In the mirror he faced his red eyes. Something had to give, the job, his
liver, something… It felt like he’d taken a heavy boot in the side. He
turned the shower to hot, until it hurt and took away the pain. It
sobered him up, like it always did, as though the water was purifying.
It washed away the corruption.

He was in the kitchen when Maynard appeared. Coffee was making
noises and bursting bubbles. The therapist looked even worse than he
did.

Maynard pulled a can of Diet Coke from the fridge. “Why the air
raid siren? Tell me it’s the end of the world, at least?”

“Remember Margaret?”

“Margaret Thatcher’s twin sister? I’ll never forget her.”

“Remember Sam’s missing women, all but one pregnant?”
“It’s coming back. Last night remains a little hazy.”

“Margaret Domey is pregnant and last night she didn’t come
home.”

Maynard nodded and said quietly, “A sobering thought.”

Cole went on, “And she didn’t do a runner. That’s out of the
question. So go through the possibilities: she’s ill, in hospital, she’s
fallen through a crack in the pavement or she’s gone the way of these
other women.”

Maynard’s features firmed up. “There’s a shed load of possibilities

– memory loss, disorientation, medication not taken, mental
impairment, pre-natal depression and a whole bunch of psychological
illnesses that aren’t necessarily obvious. Panic for one. Panic can send
you to any place and reason won’t come into it. And then there’s the
game of hide-and-seek: come and find me – I need some attention.
Maybe she just wants some time to herself. It’s a bit early to speculate.
But I do know what you mean. Most of it doesn’t fit the Margaret we
know.”

“Let’s go and find her. I’ve had enough of this shit. Someone’s
throwing bombs around, girls getting cut to bits, missing women. It’s
time to take the gloves off.”

“Like the old days then?”

Cole levelled his gaze and nodded and in that moment the
psychologist was glad that he was on Cole’s side.

Detective Superintendent Baxter’s features were set in concrete and
carried the same shade of grey. He’d spent forty minutes on the top
floor concentrating on the thin lips of Chief Superintendent Marsh as
he weighed in with the gravity of the situation. Marsh’s deputy,
Assistant Chief Superintendent Bob Deighton, involved in costeffective
management, stood at the window, watching the crisp dawn
break and wringing his hands at the sound of overtime. But he agreed
with the chief that Margaret Domey was to be given top priority. She
was, after all, part of the firm.

On his way to the office Baxter collected a coffee, left some of it in
the corridor and, at the door of the incident room and with a sideways
nod of the head, summoned Cole.

Settled behind his desk Baxter said, “You can tell the others that
she wasn’t the most popular girl on site but Margaret is one of ours.
She’s as good as on the job. Christmas has been cancelled. I know
you’re busy but you’ve got to keep a close eye on Hinckley. Jack
Wooderson…” He shook a downbeat head then more abrasively said,
“And Sam isn’t going to win any inspirational awards, is he?”
Cole knew what he meant but it wasn’t going to be easy. Coppers
treated interference the same as anyone else.

Baxter went on, “We’ve got a dilemma here. No crime. Not even
the suspicion of one. But we all know Margaret. She’s not going to
take a hike. I’ll talk to John Domey and make sure everything’s OK.
But you get Sam to pull his finger out and make sure that Jack knows
the top floor’s looking over his shoulder. I want everything buttoned
up, watertight. No one coming back to say we missed something.”
“I’ve got Geoff Maynard here.”

Baxter had forgotten. His hesitation betrayed him. He nodded and
said, “Let him loose. That’s what he’s here for. Let’s see what he
comes up with. Officially, the assaults still take priority. Unofficially,
one of our own is missing.”

Cole paused at the door. “Jack isn’t going to like it.”

Baxter stressed, “Frankly, I won’t lose any sleep about hurting Jack
Wooderson’s feelings. Go and find Margaret. Whatever it takes. What
you do best. Right? Just, be careful. In this day and age a loose cannon
is not appreciated. This is a one-off, a rare gift, and it didn’t come from
me. I want this little woman found, and quickly.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And Rick, one other thing. You should have followed up John
Domey’s visit yesterday. That wasn’t good.”