Director's Cut (5 page)

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?”

DC Martin James cleared his throat and tried to ignore the

superintendent’s glare. The super hated all things plain-clothed. It
wasn't jealousy, exactly. Billingham had promotional ambitions and
was wise enough to know that chief coppers thought that real
policemen were those in uniform.

“Apart from the fuse I think you've covered it, Sir.”

“Ah yes, the fuse. The fuse was made out of steel tubing so add
ironmongers and builders' merchants to your list. Sgt Wilson will
supply the details.”

The briefing was over. Chairs scraped back, heavy feet smacked the
floor, the plods were on the move. Before long the uniforms would be
on the street where they belonged and the mobiles would be pulling
out and the world – or at least the streets in their part of the city –
would be a safer place. Superintendent Billingham watched it happen.
He was immensely proud of his well-oiled blue machine.
Martin James fought his way through the uniforms to the coffee
machine. Sam Butler was making doubly sure he'd left no change in
the slot.

“Hello Sam. How's the baby?”

“Noisy.”

“You slumming it?”

Butler grinned. “Just passing through.” He stood aside for James
and said, “How'd it go?”

“Same old shit.”

“Things don't change then?”

“Would it make a difference if the super was on speaking terms
with Baxter?”

Detective Superintendent Baxter was Billingham's CID counterpart,
an altogether different character. Not friendly, never that, but less
severe.

“No,” Butler said with some certainty. “Not a bit. Billingham is a
natural bastard. Baxter has to work at it.”

“Anian, you're with me,” DS Sam Butler said. He'd been back at
Hinckley just long enough to catch up with his e-mails and drink a
machine coffee.

DC Anian Stanford jumped at the chance to get away from the
telephone and asked eagerly, “Where to?”

She had spent the last hour double-checking with Centrepoint,
Crisis, Reunite, Shelter, British Red Cross and the London Refuge, all
likely starting points in the search for a missing person. MPS were
supposed to update the police national computer with information from
these places along with cross-referring to all unidentified bodies found
in the UK, but you’d get more joy from the Big Issue or the Black
Sisters. The place was filled with officers taken from the front line or
winding down to their pensions. To the kozzers on the street it had
become a joke. It was almost as funny as Tintagel House on the South
Bank where bad cops faced their day of judgement.

Anian had a restless face with bright dark-brown eyes that were not
particularly friendly. They held a hint of petulance and maybe a
question. Anian worked out, hit the pavements in tracksuit and
Reeboks and burned everything off, including the good bits.
Anian Stanford was a DC based at Hinckley. That she was female
and the colour of antique pine were stumbling blocks in the way of
promotion. She was the only Asian woman in the division. It was
something the top coppers were trying to put right but only because
they'd been ordered to for political reasons.

“Where to?” she repeated as she pulled her jacket from the back of
her chair.

Two PCs looked up from the paperwork they were completing in
triplicate, their dull eyes reflecting the monotony, boring through her
clothes more out of instinct than interest.

“Ticker Harrison," Butler said. “Heard of him?” He was joking, of
course.

She found an arm and struggled with the tight fit. “Sheerham's most
respected resident? Who hasn't?”

Butler picked up some MP forms and stuffed them in his pocket.
“What's happened?”

“His missus has done a bunk.”

“And we go to him?”

“Only cos it suits us, girl. No other reason at all. We’re looking for
a link.”

She nodded thoughtfully but not at all convinced and followed the
DS to the door.

The two PCs watched her go then shared an indifferent glance.
Ticker Harrison lived just off the Ridgeway in North Sheerham, a few
hundred yards on from the Adam and Eve boozer.

They left Butler’s car at the gate and made their way along a gravel
drive curling through rhododendrons and camellias to a double garage
where a silver Corvette Stingray coupe lined up next to a black ash
Mercedes convertible. Their mint condition had Butler stooping for a
peep at the interiors. He was still flicking tears of envy as they reached
the door of a continental-style villa, more in tune with the Costas than
north Sheerham. He used the bell and Anian whispered, “Who said
crime doesn't pay? We're in the wrong business.”

“Would you run away from this?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Who was living with me. Not even Buckingham Palace would
keep me with Ticker Harrison.”

“Charlie?”

“At a push I'd sooner have Charles than Ticker, but only if I didn't
have to meet the relatives.”

“What about the trees? You’d have to talk to the trees.”

Butler's easy smile vanished as the door opened.

Ticker Harrison was five-eight and built for the scrum; no neck but
shoulders a loosehead prop would have been proud of. His grey hair
was crew cut short and sideburns swept below the line of his ears. He
had the dark skin of travellers, eyes that were greyish and humorous.
He was dressed in grey trousers, white cotton shirt that was unbuttoned
down to show his tanned pectorals, a silky blue waistcoat and brown
slip-ons. He took one look at Butler and without giving him chance to
flash his card said, “Come on in.”

Butler closed the door behind Anian Stanford then followed the two
of them across a wide oak-panelled reception into a sitting room. The
furnishings in one small corner could have bought Butler's place.
Harrison turned to face them. His eyes lingered too critically on Anian.
They'd stopped at the skin. He didn't notice her clothes, black jacket
and straight blue skirt over black tights, or how tall she was, fiveeleven
in flat shoes. Instead he looked at Butler with a question in his
eyes.

“DC Stanford,” Butler said. “Watch the lips so you get it in one.
Detective Constable Stanford. I'm Detective Sergeant Butler from
Hinckley nick.”

Harrison shot the woman another glance and shrugged. He said,
“Drink?”

Butler said, “Why not? Scotch will do nicely. No ice, thank you.”
“You're supposed to say no thanks I'm on duty.”

“Bollocks to that. You’ve been watching too much Bill.”

“What about the Indians? Are they allowed alcohol?”

Anian said, “We are. But not if you're buying. And for your
information, the gypsies are related to Hindi. They came from India.”
Harrison didn't hesitate and threw her a grin that flashed white
teeth, “You calling me a pikey? That's well out of order.” He looked at
Butler. “You going to let her get away with that? Racial prejudice in
the police force? That’s diabolical.”

Butler threw up his hands. “I’m saying nothing, Sir. And I wouldn’t
go down that road with DC Stanford if I were you.”

Harrison nodded and said, “I see what you mean.” Whisky hit a
glass and left splashes on the black-lacquered surface of the cellaret.
There was an ivory inlay of Chinese figures. “Now look what you've
made me do. You women are all the same, causing us all kinds of
grief.” The traveller in his blood was irresistible. Little wonder they
were market traders. His smile was disconcerting and as crafty as a
spin doctor’s on a Brighton stage. His wife had disappeared but it
didn't get in the way of humour. Priorities. All that. Some things
couldn't be helped.

Sam Butler said sharply, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He accepted
his drink, a tumbler full to the brim, and spread the forms on a polished
glass coffee-table, easing himself into a cream leather armchair as he
did so. The studded leather was cracked like an old woman's face. He
tapped the leather and said, “Trouble with this colour, it shows up the
dirt.”

“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?”