“I might be seconded to HQ,” she said in a downbeat voice that came at you full of London Town.
DS Sam Butler tut-tutted the idea. He was the only man on the team she trusted. She could talk to him and know that it would go no further. With him there was no innuendo, no eye contact that went on too long and meant something else, no flirting whatsoever. Talking to him was like talking to family. Safe and easy. And predictable. Once Cole had gone and dinner had finished the booze had made conversation easy. The baby had cried and she'd seen him as a father. Some men, not many, were made for the job. Sam Butler was one of them. She'd wondered fleetingly, what sort of father Cole would have made. Not very good, very absent, was her guess. She'd held the baby. Lucy. Arms and legs and big eyes that had stayed blue and a little smile that was wind that kicked you in the middle.
“When?”
Butler's question dragged her back. “Monday, unless we can come up with something new. Oh, Sam, we've got to. This is a real shit.” “Don't worry. We've got a few days yet. I'll think of something.” The DS gave her his best smile of encouragement but it wasn't convincing.
She lowered her voice, “Jack's being an absolute arsehole.” “Expected nothing less, did you?” Butler resisted an impulse to mention office affairs and shrugged. “Men of his age, and mine come to think of it, we tend to panic when we know it's all gone by and there's fuck all in front.”
She threw him a grin. It came from nowhere and changed her mood and his. Still smiling she said, “How can you say that with Lucy and all?” She turned toward the door. “Think of something, Sam. Quickly.” “I will, but in the office you shouldn’t be so familiar – you’ll get people talking and they do enough of that already. You should try sergeant or DS Butler or even skipper. I'm easy.”
She turned back. “You've always been easy Sam.” She stuck out her tongue. It was pink, girlish, and caught Butler right where it hurt. The door swung shut.
Hinckley nick was quiet; it was that time of the morning, the uncivilized hour, the time when milkmen filching double rounds started out. The few patrolling coppers were parked up in their favourite corners, taking turns to close their eyes. A PC on the front desk yawned and stretched. It was close to the end of his shift and he was winding down, as he had been for the last two hours. The desk phone rang. He listened for a few moments then pressed hold. Or at least he meant to. Instead, he cut the line.
“It's Missing Persons, Sarge, about a message sent this afternoon.” Sergeant Mills groaned. He'd been hoping for a quiet end to the shift, now paperwork loomed large. He said, “Missing Persons? At this hour? Are they taking the piss, or what? Who filed it?”
“Came from next door. Sam Butler.”
“Well?”
“Well what, Sarge?”
“Well, what do they say?”
“Oh, yes.” He examined the note he’d scribbled on his pad. “They've made a link with these missing women and two more out of area. The other two are pregnant.”
The Sergeant shook his head. “Pregnant? Are you sure it's for us? Sounds like a wrong number to me. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll leave a note on DS fucking Butler's desk asking him to get back to… Did you get a name?”
The kozzer drew a quick breath.
“It's always a good idea to get a name, son, particularly if you're going to ring them back. Stick with me. You'll learn something every day.”
Margaret Domey was based at Sheerham and known in the office as the psychologist from hell. When all five-four and slightly swollen belly of her breezed into the nick the duty sergeant pretended to be doing something else. Bollocks to that for a living. She wore a grey two-piece, low heels, and thin lips. She wasn't unattractive and with her slightly fuller figure a lot of the kozzers took more notice than usual.
As she made her way to Cole's office uniforms stood aside and in the IR the conversation died and male defences went up along with the eyebrows.
“Margaret.”
“Rick.”
“Are you back?”
“Tomorrow. Heard a rumour about Geoff Maynard. Tell me it's not true?”
“It's true, but it has nothing to do with your absence. I'll show you.” Cole led her back into the incident room. The team pretended to be hard at it, paperwork, screens, not looking up. She took in the action boards and skimmed through the crime reports before shaking a bemused head. “Interesting. What does Geoff say?”
“Nothing yet. We'll see.”
“But he is coming?”
Cole shrugged.
“He'll come. Sex and violence, it's irresistible. Of course he'll come.”
In Cole's office again and with the door closed she said, “I did think he was in the past. It was a comforting thought.”
He smiled easily, “I know what you mean.”
She said tightly, “He got too close last time. I'll make sure it doesn't happen again.”
“A lot of us feel the same way but the second attack sealed it. You should take a closer look.”
“Tomorrow. I'll have a look tomorrow. They're letting me back for a couple of hours a day.”
“Sam's been on. He'd like you to spend some time at Hinckley. The missing women.”
“That old chestnut. For goodness sake, he's got – ”
Cole cut her short. “He's got an idea or two. I think you'll be able to help him and – ”
“And Sam needs all the help he can get. Tell me something new?” Cole smiled. A couple of weeks with her head down the pan hadn't softened her at all.
“How are you, Margaret?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You want it in one?”
“Go for it.”
“Pregnancy is shit. Don't let anyone ever tell you any different.” “Sounds good to me.”
Her eyes narrowed further. “I know why I like you, Cole. It's your sense of humour.” She smiled. Her lips filled out and for just a moment she looked just right. “I'll see you tomorrow. Right now I'm going to make the most of today. I'm going to spend some money which is every woman's favourite pastime. I've got my eye on a very old chestnut cooking pot.”
Cole remembered that she had an interest in antiques. He guessed her home was cluttered with old things and that there would be little room for a child.
“You know the shop, down the road from the Indian? The Gallery?”
“I know it. Never been in, of course.”
“Of course. But that's where I'm going now. I want the chestnut pan. But I want the feel-good factor too. I want to spend.” Cole laughed. Maybe he liked her, after all.
There was another man on the way whose feelings toward her had never been made clear. And she was frightened of him because he knew too much. He was the only man in the world who had ever made her feel inadequate. More than that even, for she had been quite happy with the subservient role. And now, with Geoff Maynard’s return more than just a possibility, her feelings were edged with apprehension. There was the challenge, certainly, but with that came the possibility of failure. And failure, for Margaret Domey, was not an option. It was some time later when the phone rang and Margaret Domey featured again.
“Ricky?”
“Yes.”
“John Domey.”
“Hello, John. How are you?”
“Good. Listen, old boy, you haven't seen my wife, have you? She mentioned she was popping in.”
“Yes. This morning. Is there a problem?”
“No, not at all. It crossed my mind she'd got involved in something over there and forgotten the time. You know how she is? Once she gets involved with work everything else goes by the board.”
Cole waited for more.
“We had an appointment at the hospital, that's all.”
“Nothing serious, is it, John?”
“No, no, no. A touch of blood pressure, a scan, nothing serious. But I expected her back. She's probably gone directly there, forgot that I was going to go with her. You know what she’s like.”