theory,
but you need more, or you can leave it to MPS.”
Butler's nod was resigned.
From the kitchen Janet called, “I'm coming through.”
Cole threw Butler an appraising look. “Come back to me with
something solid, concentrate on Helen Harrison. Her trail is fresh.
Don't waste time. If Jack decides to call it quits I won't be in a position
to argue. You'll have to find me something to use.” He nodded and
repeated, “Helen Harrison. Get to know her better than Ticker does.
He's obviously missed something that's right under his nose.”
Butler topped Cole's glass again and watched as his old colleague
made small work of it. They sat at the table where Janet was pouring
Australian white. Anian sat opposite Cole and he stole a glance. Her
nipples still poked through. They hadn't changed. He had. The scotch
was doing the trick and lifting away the curse of Orpheus.
His phone went.
Janet looked horrified and said, “Shit!”
Butler pulled a face.
Anian looked at Cole over her wine glass and smiled sweetly. She
knew something; maybe she'd caught his earlier glance.
ain be set aside. He caught his dimly lit reflection in the
rear-view and something blue-eyed and colder than the December
night looked back.
Chapter 8
CB1 was Charlie Bravo One, an Astra hatchback panda, driven
by PC 7231 Wendy Booth. The car was three years old but looked older. Wendy
Booth was twenty-nine but felt older. She had been on the job for ten years
and on driving duties, which was her choice, for the last five. She was on the
late shift, which she preferred, for it was the shift most likely to involve
both ends of society: the brain-dead yobs who thought they controlled the streets
and the pinstriped suits who probably did. At 21:15 she was parked up in a lay-by
smoking one of her twentyaday Silk Cuts that occasionally ran to thirty, listening
to the excited voices on the radio and waiting for the shout to come her way.
It came at 21:23 and five minutes later she picked up the skipper, Sergeant
Mike Wilson. He was tall, slim and forty-two. All boots, bollocks and baggy
uniform, was how Wendy described him to her friends. His face was friendly,
big nose, soft eyes, easy smile and tufts of ginger
whiskers that he’d missed in the shaving mirror. In the old days, he would
have made a perfect plod. Everyone loved him and he had a big boot for the local
troublemakers. Unfortunately his day was done and, sooner or later,
one of the automatons from Westminster or, more likely, the Hague,
would have him out of the job.
At 21:31 she was moving along the High Road to the Square and
the leisure centre. She saw the flashing cars and vans, the streamers of fluttering
police tape and the army of plods spreading out from the SOC. The ambulance
had already left. As they passed she saw the white boiler-suited SOCOs beginning
their fingertip search. Another woman had been attacked, the second in two days
and, by all accounts, it was the same MO. A bad one.
A psycho had used a knife, one of the personality disorders that the
experts on the various committees decided were no longer a danger to
the public. Care in the community. Keep taking the pills, my son, and
off you go.
If there was one thing that upset the police more
than anything it was the need to collar the same bastard twice.
They drove into the Square where the red lights from the dirty
bookshops and sex shops with their DVD booths still flickered. Gangs
of teenagers spilled into the road and the drunks zigzagged across the
pavements.
Sergeant Mike Wilson said soberly, “Where do these people come
from?”
“I don’t know where they come from, Skip, but for most of them
this is the end of the line.”
He grunted.
“What exactly are we doing here, Skip?”
“We’re showing a police presence. It’s good for the troops on the
ground and the front pages in the morning. And of course, we can keep
our eyes open for weirdos. Not the weirdo, mind you,
but you need more, or you can leave it to MPS.”
Butler's nod was resigned.
From the kitchen Janet called, “I'm coming through.”
Cole threw Butler an appraising look. “Come back to me with
something solid, concentrate on Helen Harrison. Her trail is fresh.
Don't waste time. If Jack decides to call it quits I won't be in a position
to argue. You'll have to find me something to use.” He nodded and
repeated, “Helen Harrison. Get to know her better than Ticker does.
He's obviously missed something that's right under his nose.”
Butler topped Cole's glass again and watched as his old colleague
made small work of it. They sat at the table where Janet was pouring
Australian white. Anian sat opposite Cole and he stole a glance. Her
nipples still poked through. They hadn't changed. He had. The scotch
was doing the trick and lifting away the curse of Orpheus.
His phone went.
Janet looked horrified and said, “Shit!”
Butler pulled a face.
Anian looked at Cole over her wine glass and smiled sweetly. She
knew something; maybe she'd caught his earlier glance.
ain be set aside. He caught his dimly lit reflection in the
rear-view and something blue-eyed and colder than the December
night looked back.
Chapter 8
CB1 was Charlie Bravo One, an Astra hatchback panda, driven
by PC 7231 Wendy Booth. The car was three years old but looked older. Wendy
Booth was twenty-nine but felt older. She had been on the job for ten years
and on driving duties, which was her choice, for the last five. She was on the
late shift, which she preferred, for it was the shift most likely to involve
both ends of society: the brain-dead yobs who thought they controlled the streets
and the pinstriped suits who probably did. At 21:15 she was parked up in a lay-by
smoking one of her twentyaday Silk Cuts that occasionally ran to thirty, listening
to the excited voices on the radio and waiting for the shout to come her way.
It came at 21:23 and five minutes later she picked up the skipper, Sergeant
Mike Wilson. He was tall, slim and forty-two. All boots, bollocks and baggy
uniform, was how Wendy described him to her friends. His face was friendly,
big nose, soft eyes, easy smile and tufts of ginger
whiskers that he’d missed in the shaving mirror. In the old days, he would
have made a perfect plod. Everyone loved him and he had a big boot for the local
troublemakers. Unfortunately his day was done and, sooner or later,
one of the automatons from Westminster or, more likely, the Hague,
would have him out of the job.
At 21:31 she was moving along the High Road to the Square and
the leisure centre. She saw the flashing cars and vans, the streamers of fluttering
police tape and the army of plods spreading out from the SOC. The ambulance
had already left. As they passed she saw the white boiler-suited SOCOs beginning
their fingertip search. Another woman had been attacked, the second in two days
and, by all accounts, it was the same MO. A bad one.
A psycho had used a knife, one of the personality disorders that the
experts on the various committees decided were no longer a danger to
the public. Care in the community. Keep taking the pills, my son, and
off you go.
If there was one thing that upset the police more
than anything it was the need to collar the same bastard twice.
They drove into the Square where the red lights from the dirty
bookshops and sex shops with their DVD booths still flickered. Gangs
of teenagers spilled into the road and the drunks zigzagged across the
pavements.
Sergeant Mike Wilson said soberly, “Where do these people come
from?”
“I don’t know where they come from, Skip, but for most of them
this is the end of the line.”
He grunted.
“What exactly are we doing here, Skip?”
“We’re showing a police presence. It’s good for the troops on the
ground and the front pages in the morning. And of course, we can keep
our eyes open for weirdos. Not the weirdo, mind you,
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