Butler glanced at his hand. “You hurt yourself?”
“A little accident with the guillotine, nothing much.”
“Well, it’s starting to bleed again. You should get it seen to.” “My goodness, you’re right.”
“Did you talk to Sandra, Sir?”
“Of course I did, and more than once. Her palette was entirely wrong for the subject. To be honest, I think the twins should think about another pastime. Art is not for them. It never has been. They should be out enjoying themselves in clubs with loud music and class A drugs.”
They used the studio to take their statements. Finally, Mr Lawrence said, “That’s my blood on the table, by the way. Not Sandra’s. To my knowledge Sandra never cut herself here. I’d like to make that quite clear. Perhaps you could write that down in one of your pocketbooks. Those little books that you people always refer to in court. The books that are filled with your little white lies.”
“I think I can remember the notebooks that you’re referring to, Sir.” Butler threw him a tight smile. “But I’m not sure about your little white lies. In the notebooks that I have seen there has been nothing little or white about them.”
“I like you, Mr Butler. You have a stripe or two. You’re a professional. It’s your average plod that I’m concerned about, and they’re really not very good, are they?”
Butler smiled. “You worry about the coppers like me, Sir. Not the others.”
Mr Lawrence nodded and smiled back. “In that case I shall look forward to seeing you again. It has always been a pleasure.” Superintendents Baxter and Billingham shared a car to Hinckley. Given their uneasy relationship it was a measure of the heat they were feeling from the top floor. There was nothing like a common enemy in the building of a united front.
Cole was already there. He had left early to give Wooderson the nod and provide a few precious minutes to tidy the office. In the CID office and with Billingham at his side, Baxter addressed the small team. “You’ve narrowed the field. You’ve made up your minds and you’ve broken the first rule in good detective work and that is to keep an open mind.”
Billingham nodded his agreement, his sharp eyes shifting from Wooderson to Butler and lingering on Anian Stanford who sat at her desk looking dark and uncomfortable.
“You’ve made this personal,” Baxter went on. “Every woman on your list will have visited every shop in the High Road. They will have visited the supermarket every week, if not twice a week, since it was opened. So what makes Lawrence your prime suspect? What makes him so special? His previous? That was over thirty years ago. I’ve seen your reports. The guy lives between his shop and The British and he has done for years. He visits the barbers once a month and the supermarket once a week.”
Billingham couldn’t help himself. “Consider the form for a moment. It never involved missing women. Yes, back in seventy-six he attacked them and, yes, they were pregnant, but as Lawrence has pointed out, he never hid his handiwork!” at might give you a lead. Do not even think about a tea break unless you take it on the job.” Although their faces hid it well, the members of the team knew that everything the super had mentioned had already been covered. They were still working through the CCTV images for Sandra, and that would take them another day at least, but they were on top of it. The prospect of starting over sank whatever enthusiasm they might have had and they didn’t have much to start with.
Baxter turned to Butler. “What happened at the shop?”
Butler said sheepishly, “Nothing new, Sir. We’ve taken statements from Lawrence and his lodgers.”
“The lodger who was in prison at the time some of these women went missing and the girl who’s off her trolley?”
“Yes Sir.” Butler stood his ground. Cole was impressed. The DS went on, “We need to see the husband again and her sister, and we’re following up with the members of the art class.”
Detective Superintendent Baxter nodded thoughtfully then said, “Right, follow that up and then start again.” He glanced at Billingham. “Anything to add, John?”
“I’ve not seen anything from the hospital regarding Margaret’s visit. Are we absolutely satisfied she never got there?”
Butler answered, “She didn’t show, Sir. We’re still checking CCTV footage of the reception area and the car parks, but they are spread out.”
Billingham said, “Another missing car? Do my people know about it? Are they actually looking for it?” He shook his head. “Sidetracked again, no doubt. Sam, get your bloody act together.” He glanced at Wooderson. “John, I’m very disappointed.”
“So am I, Sir,” said Wooderson.
Billingham turned back to Baxter. “That covers it, I think.” “Good,” Baxter nodded. “Right, twice daily updates to DI Cole who will personally brief us at nine and six.”
Butler said, “I would like to put Lawrence under surveillance, Sir.” The senior policemen shared a glance then Baxter said, “Not necessary. He’s not going anywhere. And that reminds me, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton wants to know who authorized those specialist shit-sniffers rather than the bog standard police sniffer dogs. Apparently they cost a fortune and someone is going to pay for it.” They all looked at Butler but he remained tight-lipped.
“Right,” Baxter said. “You all know what’s required. Let’s get on with it.”
The meeting was over.
In the corridor Cole said to DS Butler. “Don’t take it personally, Sam. They’re just making sure they’re fireproof, that’s all. They like the sound of their own voices. It’s what senior coppers do.” He left the detective sergeant staring down at his own feet. Geoff Maynard spent most of his day revisiting the SOCs; he needed to be there, away from the distractions of the office, absorbing every detail of the surroundings, the hunting grounds, searching for the slightest detail they might have missed, perhaps an indication of the assailant’s state of mind, arousal, impulse, anything. The questions were endless but, like he’d told Donna, even an empty road could give up some answers.
The youngster's voice brought him back.
“That's her,” Brian Lara said and pointed across the High Road toward a slim woman with spiky blond hair. She wore a short burgundy shift – any year's colour – and a black jacket. Not a lot for a freezing night. “That's the one. Classy, like I said.”
“Classy,” Maynard agreed.
They'd left the car twenty minutes earlier to mingle with the toms, the punters, the pissheads, and the passers-by who hadn’t got a clue what was going on. It was close to closing so between the four pubs in the Square the drinkers hurried to get in their last orders. A north-easterly scoured the road and sent plastic bags and front pages demanding the return of the plod scudding past. It lifted hemlines and drew tears from the eyes so that the light from shop windows seemed oddly scattered. Overhead the festive lights swung on their cables. Higher still the sky growled angrily and the ragged clouds were the colour of congealed blood.
The pavements were packed yet it was still a lonely place. Maynard said, “Are you sure?”
“I'm sure. That's the one.”
“That's it, then. You've done your bit.” He stuffed a twenty in the lad's hand. “Burger, right? Just remember what I told you. You can walk away. You do have a choice.”
The score lit up Brian Lara’s eyes. “Right” he said.
He watched the big man cross the road then checked out the note again.
A youngster wearing a hood and oversized clothes appeared from the shadow of a doorway.
“All right, Jay?”
“It's Brian.”
“Yeah, cool.”
“What you wearing that for?”
“It’s the thing, innit?”
“You look like a dickhead. It’ll never catch on.”
The youngster pulled a face and dropped the hood. He said, “What's happening?”
“Tick tock, dick dosh, dick, dick, dosh, dosh, you know?” “Yeah.”