“Of course. She stayed a few minutes. She was going off to buy… Hang on, it will come back to me.”
“A nineteenth-century cooking pot.”
“That's it.”
“She's had her eye on it for some time. There's a place on the dining-room wall that's been earmarked.”
A silence came between them. Something cold caressed Cole's back. He said, “John, get back to me, will you, when she shows up? I'd like to know that she's OK.”
“Will do. Absolutely.”
Cole hung up, considered the call for a few moments then glanced at the paperwork in front of him. He sighed. This wasn’t police work. It was something, but it wasn’t police work.
Mid-afternoon Butler found the note from night shift and made the call.
When Anian arrived just after five he called her to his desk, showed her the note and said formally, "I'm going to go with Cole on this. We'll concentrate on the pregnancies. You check the index, I’ll check Catchem.”
Catchem controlled the national database on sex crimes and killings of girls and young women.
He went on, “And that painting in Ticker's living room…” “It was porn.”
“Art, girl, art. But obviously Helen Harrison spent a long time with the artist, right? Just a thought.”
Anian hesitated then said quickly, “Actually, Sam, I've already paid him a visit. He's painting my picture.”
Butler frowned. “Go on?”
“I said I was a friend of Mrs Harrison, saw the painting and wanted something well… Not like that.”
“You didn't flash your warrant card?”
“No. Should I have done?” She fell in and reddened.
“You should have told me. We're supposed to be a team, Anian.” “I know, I know. It was such a long shot. You’re not angry?” “No, surprised. It's done now. What's he like?”
“He's an old man, sixty or thereabouts and old-fashioned, weird but harmless. I've got a couple more sessions booked. If nothing else comes of it I've got a painting. He's really very good.”
Butler nodded. “OK, see how you go. But keep me informed.” His voice didn’t betray him but apprehension edged into his thoughts. They worked through the evening towards the last bell. Eventually Butler called a halt. His mood had lifted. He said, "Come on girl, I'll buy you a drink. Just in case you do get transferred you better know where the watering hole is.”
She checked the office clock. “You seen the time?”
“I know this little place that's open all night.”
Chapter 13
The White Horse was thick with smoke and the smell of smoke and booze. Dog-ends spilled from ashtrays and glasses stuck to tables. It was a British boozer.
A smoker’s bar.
It was a place that, like many that coppers frequented, hadn’t needed an extension to its licensing hours because they had never been observed anyway.
It was, therefore, an hour after the last bell had closed the doors and pulled the curtains on the dim lights. The place was busy with stale kozzers on the back-end of their shift doing what kozzers did best and that meant that the jovial old owner with his proud belly hanging over his leather belt and his sour-faced, thin-haired wife were full-time pulling pints and jerking shorts. There were a few others in the bar beside the policemen, good-as-gold regulars who made no noise when they left and wouldn’t even cough if they thought it might cause offence, and that was good enough. ence than would otherwise have been the case, “That sounds like a cracking good idea.”
Chas Walker, ex-army, REME, went on, “You need it strong to put up with the job nowadays. In our squad we’ve got two fucking dyslexics that take twenty minutes to read a caution and a Muslim who stops chasing villains to get his prayer-mat out.”
Their conversation took an unlikely turn as they saw a tall rangy man carrying his drink toward Cole's table.
Walker frowned. Company and Cole didn't go together. Not for a while.
Martin James nodded as memory put a name to the face and he put them right. “That’s Geoff Maynard,” he said soberly. “A dangerous bastard.”
“Him and Cole together,” Walker mused for he had heard the stories. “Should be interesting.”
Martin James nodded and, as his eyes dulled, he said seriously, “Maybe, as long as you don't get caught in the flak. And there's always plenty of that.” He was remembering back to another case when rules were written for someone else.
Geoff Maynard found Rick Cole at a table at the back, partly secluded from the bar and the woodentops by a couple of thick timber stanchions treated to make them look ancient. They'd even got some dummy woodworm holes drilled in. It was a barrier of Cole's choosing. Geoff Maynard said, “What are you going to do when they ban smoking in public places?”
“They wouldn’t dare, would they?”
“You never know with these clowns.”
“God save us from the meddlers and their junk-free lifestyles. The graveyards are full of them, smokeless, vegetarian, composting like the rest of us.”
Maynard smiled. “You take the average family and they haven't got a clue about what goes on, not the things we see. We see things that no one should see; we hear things that no one should hear. Tell me how police officers hold on to their sanity?”
“Do they?”
“You're right. They don't. That's why they never make real friends. That's why their marriages seldom work. No one can live with them, except nurses, maybe, who see the results.”
Maynard eased into a chair opposite and placed his drink on the table.
“Hello Geoff.”
“Rick.”
“You're not a police officer.”
“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.