Lawrence offered a sly little smile. “That she was pregnant, you mean?”
Butler said stonily, “I didn't think it was that noticeable.”
“Didn’t you? You have to know what to look for, of course, and it's more than just the rounded belly. The skin takes on a radiance. The eyes take on a secret sparkle as though no one else is suppose to know. It is a woman thing, a thrill that we can only guess at. One needs to play around with colour and oil to bring out the lustre.”
“Let's talk about Mrs Harrison.”
“Fine. I'd like that. I liked Mrs Harrison.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“She came in to pick up the painting about a week after the last sitting. The paint needs time to dry. Do you know anything about art?” “No.”
“I insist on a week, more if possible. But Mrs Harrison could be very persuasive. Did you know her?”
“No.”
“She was a very beautiful woman. Stunning, I'd say. Not that I’m anything of a judge. The date of her last sitting will be in one of my diaries. I have two. They’re kept in the shop under the counter. Perhaps one of your officers can collect them, unless, that is, you have already confiscated them as evidence. It was about a month ago, no more than that. But time is an oddity. A day is a week and a week is a day. But it was about a week after her last sitting.”
“And has she been back since?”
“Mrs Domey hasn't. I don't think I'll see her again.”
“Mrs Harrison?”
“Oh, Mrs Harrison. I haven't seen her. I've taken on an assistant. He might have seen her.”
“Paul Knight.”
“Yes, that's his name. He might have seen her. He has an eye for the girls. Particularly the pretty ones.”
“Paul has a little form, as well, doesn't he?”
“Indeed he does. He will tell you it was a miscarriage of justice, that it was down to corrupt policemen. I had no truck with that. I told him that our policemen were the best. That in Britain we simply don't have corrupt policemen. I don’t think he believed me.”
Butler looked for the sneer but if it was there he missed it. He turned to his notes. “You were released on parole in 1984.” “That's true. I had to attend a clinic. It will be in your records. It seems a long time ago. My goodness, it is a long time ago.” “Things have a way of coming round.”
“I think I know what you're suggesting, Mr Butler. But you're quite wrong. I did have a problem. I was diagnosed schizophrenic but in those days that covered a multitude of sins.”
“It’s the legal loophole, isn't it?”
“I see, the Hare Test, the accepted scientific proof of a psychopathic personality disorder and that only people with treatable disorders can be kept in hospital? For fifteen years I've been running my shop. I spend my time either there or in the British. You can find me in the British most lunchtimes and evenings and, if I'm not there, I'll be at the shop. Everyone will tell you. That is my routine and it hasn't changed in all that time. I was ill and I attacked those women on the underground. But now everything is fine and I’m no more a danger to the general public than you are.”
Butler’s smile was forced. He said, “That’s good, but unfortunately we have some missing women and the thing they have in common is that they're all pregnant.”
“All of them? I didn't know that. Goodness me. That is a coincidence. But the women, before, they never went missing. I always left them on the underground platforms. I agree that they weren't in, you know, tiptop condition, but I always left them there. They were never…missing. But I do get your point and I suppose that is why I am here. I suppose your computer has thrown me up, as they do. I don't understand them, myself, but perhaps that’s an age thing. They sound absolutely marvellous.”
“The missing women visited your shop.”
“Did the computer throw that up too?”
“Forget the computer.”
“I'd like to but, unfortunately, they won’t allow us that luxury. They put us on to a spreadsheet, they give us credit or they don’t, and what is more, when you speak to them on the phone, they speak in Indian accents. But, yes, you’re right, two of the women did visit my shop.” “I think you've got them somewhere. Not on your premises, but somewhere else.”
“Do you really think so? I hope you’re not going to fit me up like those other policemen did to young Paul.”
“I'm not going to charge you at the moment, Mr Lawrence, but I will get the proof and you will be back.”
“Does that mean I can go? Will I get a lift back to the shop? I do so enjoy being taken for a ride. Do you?”
“He's as mad as a fucking hatter,” Butler said down the line. He was angry with himself. He had let Lawrence get to him.
Cole answered, “Bailed?”
“Could have kept him overnight but what's the point? He isn’t going anywhere. He's enjoying himself too much.”
“Is he the one, Sam?”
“I've never been so certain of anything.”
“That's good enough for me. What now?”
“We’ll continue to dig. I want to know about everything since his release. I’ve asked for a search of the warehouses and garages at the back of his gaff even though I’ll guarantee they’ll be as clean as the shop. All we’ll find over there are smackheads and their cooking equipment.”
“The plods are going to love you.”
“One way or another we'll get him.” Butler’s sigh carried down the line. He said, "Unfortunately we still haven't got a crime. You said it yourself. If it wasn't for Margaret we wouldn't have got the warrant to search the shop. And we certainly haven't got enough to take it to pieces. Not that it matters. The prelims suggest it’s hopeless. They had the dogs in there. Apparently, in the cellar they got so excited they were performing back flips. It turned out to be decomposing rats and a couple of dead cats.”
Cole didn’t need telling. He had already heard.
“I was thinking about surveillance.”
Cole's pause went on too long.
“Guv?”
“Yes, sorry. I'll get back to you on that. It'll be down to the super. Don't count on it.”
Butler frowned into the phone. That wasn't like Cole at all. He was up to something. Surveillance would bugger his pitch. He knew the DI from old.
“OK, Sam. Fuck knows what I’ll tell the super. I promised him a result.”
The DS sighed. He said, “I'll see you in the morning.” Then hung up.
Rick Cole toyed with the handset for a moment. The DS had been right. He did have an idea. He left the building and drove to a public telephone. His mobile was out of the question. You couldn't be too careful lately. The Yard was spending twenty million a year investigating its own. CIB3 was now the biggest single-purpose investigative unit in the Met. Add that to CIB2 and you could see why there were so few coppers on the street. What was more, since the Investigatory Procedures Act 2,000 police officers were regularly bugged, more to discover whether they were racist or sexist rather than bent.
“It's me.”
Ticker Harrison responded, “Yeah, recognize those London tones anywhere. You got something for me?”
“The art shop in the High Road, guy named Lawrence.”
“I've heard of him. He painted Helen. Got it hanging in the sitting room. Good painter. Caught her just right.”
“I think he knows something. More than he's telling us.”
“Leave it to me, my son.”
“Let me know.”
“Fucking right.”
Cole sat in the car for some minutes, filling it with JPS smoke. Now it was a matter of waiting. If the old man did know something then Ticker would get it out of him. One way or the other.
Chapter 16
Ticker Harrison had known for some time that if you wanted something doing well then you had to do it yourself, that accountability was something of the past. He blamed the politicians for trashing the old-fashioned values, loyalty in particular, and it came down to them letting in the foreigners so that national identity was lost. For fuck’s sake, there were places in England where you’d be hardpressed to find an Englishman.