high heels.
Rick Cole took a second glance at the cardboard blonde, Anthea
Palmer, ex-weather girl, and while traffic lights held him back he
decided that the smile on her face was as false as the promise of the
theatre’s new dawn.
Janet Butler was forty and a rinsed blonde. She might have walked in
from the sixties. She had settled comfortably into motherhood,
surprising most who knew her, including her husband. She'd met Cole
on a dozen or so occasions, mostly police functions when Cole used to
go to them. Her eyes, like only an older woman's could, promised
everything and nothing at all. She flirted and he let her. It was all very
cosy, like an afternoon tea dance without the afters. Safe and easy and
none of it serious. At the door she gave him a decorous little hug and
her perfume touched a memory.
“Rick, it's been a long, long time.”
She was warm and familiar. It took him a moment to adjust. To
remember that beneath it all she was as cold as the rest of them. That
once upon a time she'd had an affair and left her husband devastated.
“Too long, Janet. You're looking good.”
“Better than good. Take another look.”
She gave him a little twirl.
“Agreed. How's the baby.”
“The baby's name is Lucy and she's good too. If you're very, very
quiet you can take a peep into her bedroom. That'll be a treat for you.
Come on in.” She fumbled for his hand, more of a caress really and,
rubbing his hand all the way, led him into the dining room.
Cole heard voices before the door was opened so finding another
guest was hardly a surprise. Discovering that it was DC Anian
Stanford definitely was.
She stood by the CD, glass in hand, while Butler knelt searching
through a pile of discs. In place of her working clothes were black
jeans, brown vest and sneakers that left a strip of olive instep. There
was nothing under the vest. Her nipples stuck out like a couple of
filter-tips that looked good enough to smoke. Her hair was down, black
as tar and elbow length. He noticed for the first time how tall and
skinny she was.
Janet spread her hand and said matter-of-factly, “You know
Anian?”
Cole nodded briefly. Anian returned his acknowledgement with a
quick nervous smile.
Butler found his CD and waved the disc toward his guest. “Guv.”
“Sam.”
The DS struggled to his feet. “Drink?”
“Good idea.”
Leaving Anian to load the music, they moved to the drinks cabinet,
out of earshot, and while he poured, Butler said, “Anian's working the
case with me.”
“Right.”
“You don't mind?”
“You should have mentioned it, that's all.”
Butler tut-tutted the idea. “Didn't seem important.”
“She's not my type.”
Butler fell in. “Colour? You?”
“Figure. She hasn't got one.”
“Nor have the fashion models. It’s the fashion."
“I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
Butler smiled and raised his glass. “To old times, Guv.”
Cole nodded. “I'll go with that.” He emptied half his glass. Butler
held on to the bottle, waiting, then topped up as Red Red Wine filled
the room.
“I want her to be in on this. She's done most of the legwork.”
“Talking shop. Janet will love you.”
“I've primed her. We'll get shot of it while she's serving up. That all
right with you?”
Cole shrugged and wondered whether he'd made a mistake. He was
already feeling the limb that he knew Butler was going to put him on.
The women were on the sofa, drinking Jacob’s Creek and jabbering
like women do. Their conversation ended abruptly as the men
approached.
“I've been telling her all about you, Rick. Everything. She's been at
Hinckley… How long?”
“Almost a year.”
“And you've barely said hello. That's disgraceful. It really, really
is.”
“Sweetheart,” Butler put in. “It's not like that.”
“Yes it is. It's exactly like that. Give a man rank and you create a
monster.” She turned to Anian. “The days have gone when men were
men and women were proud of them. Agreed?”
Anian's
Rick Cole took a second glance at the cardboard blonde, Anthea
Palmer, ex-weather girl, and while traffic lights held him back he
decided that the smile on her face was as false as the promise of the
theatre’s new dawn.
Janet Butler was forty and a rinsed blonde. She might have walked in
from the sixties. She had settled comfortably into motherhood,
surprising most who knew her, including her husband. She'd met Cole
on a dozen or so occasions, mostly police functions when Cole used to
go to them. Her eyes, like only an older woman's could, promised
everything and nothing at all. She flirted and he let her. It was all very
cosy, like an afternoon tea dance without the afters. Safe and easy and
none of it serious. At the door she gave him a decorous little hug and
her perfume touched a memory.
“Rick, it's been a long, long time.”
She was warm and familiar. It took him a moment to adjust. To
remember that beneath it all she was as cold as the rest of them. That
once upon a time she'd had an affair and left her husband devastated.
“Too long, Janet. You're looking good.”
“Better than good. Take another look.”
She gave him a little twirl.
“Agreed. How's the baby.”
“The baby's name is Lucy and she's good too. If you're very, very
quiet you can take a peep into her bedroom. That'll be a treat for you.
Come on in.” She fumbled for his hand, more of a caress really and,
rubbing his hand all the way, led him into the dining room.
Cole heard voices before the door was opened so finding another
guest was hardly a surprise. Discovering that it was DC Anian
Stanford definitely was.
She stood by the CD, glass in hand, while Butler knelt searching
through a pile of discs. In place of her working clothes were black
jeans, brown vest and sneakers that left a strip of olive instep. There
was nothing under the vest. Her nipples stuck out like a couple of
filter-tips that looked good enough to smoke. Her hair was down, black
as tar and elbow length. He noticed for the first time how tall and
skinny she was.
Janet spread her hand and said matter-of-factly, “You know
Anian?”
Cole nodded briefly. Anian returned his acknowledgement with a
quick nervous smile.
Butler found his CD and waved the disc toward his guest. “Guv.”
“Sam.”
The DS struggled to his feet. “Drink?”
“Good idea.”
Leaving Anian to load the music, they moved to the drinks cabinet,
out of earshot, and while he poured, Butler said, “Anian's working the
case with me.”
“Right.”
“You don't mind?”
“You should have mentioned it, that's all.”
Butler tut-tutted the idea. “Didn't seem important.”
“She's not my type.”
Butler fell in. “Colour? You?”
“Figure. She hasn't got one.”
“Nor have the fashion models. It’s the fashion."
“I’m an old-fashioned guy.”
Butler smiled and raised his glass. “To old times, Guv.”
Cole nodded. “I'll go with that.” He emptied half his glass. Butler
held on to the bottle, waiting, then topped up as Red Red Wine filled
the room.
“I want her to be in on this. She's done most of the legwork.”
“Talking shop. Janet will love you.”
“I've primed her. We'll get shot of it while she's serving up. That all
right with you?”
Cole shrugged and wondered whether he'd made a mistake. He was
already feeling the limb that he knew Butler was going to put him on.
The women were on the sofa, drinking Jacob’s Creek and jabbering
like women do. Their conversation ended abruptly as the men
approached.
“I've been telling her all about you, Rick. Everything. She's been at
Hinckley… How long?”
“Almost a year.”
“And you've barely said hello. That's disgraceful. It really, really
is.”
“Sweetheart,” Butler put in. “It's not like that.”
“Yes it is. It's exactly like that. Give a man rank and you create a
monster.” She turned to Anian. “The days have gone when men were
men and women were proud of them. Agreed?”
Anian's
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