The briefing was over. Chairs scraped back, heavy feet smacked the floor, the plods were on the move. Before long the uniforms would be on the street where they belonged and the mobiles would be pulling out and the world – or at least the streets in their part of the city – would be a safer place. Superintendent Billingham watched it happen. He was immensely proud of his well-oiled blue machine. Martin James fought his way through the uniforms to the coffee machine. Sam Butler was making doubly sure he'd left no change in the slot.
“Hello Sam. How's the baby?”
“Noisy.”
“You slumming it?”
Butler grinned. “Just passing through.” He stood aside for James and said, “How'd it go?”
“Same old shit.”
“Things don't change then?”
“Would it make a difference if the super was on speaking terms with Baxter?”
Detective Superintendent Baxter was Billingham's CID counterpart, an altogether different character. Not friendly, never that, but less severe.
“No,” Butler said with some certainty. “Not a bit. Billingham is a natural bastard. Baxter has to work at it.”
Chapter 6
“Anian, you're with me,” DS Sam Butler said. He'd been back at Hinckley just long enough to catch up with his e-mails and drink a machine coffee.
DC Anian Stanford jumped at the chance to get away from the telephone and asked eagerly, “Where to?”
She had spent the last hour double-checking with Centrepoint, Crisis, Reunite, Shelter, British Red Cross and the London Refuge, all likely starting points in the search for a missing person. MPS were supposed to update the police national computer with information from these places along with cross-referring to all unidentified bodies found in the UK, but you’d get more joy from the Big Issue or the Black Sisters. The place was filled with officers taken from the front line or winding down to their pensions. To the kozzers on the street it had become a joke. It was almost as funny as Tintagel House on the South Bank where bad cops faced their day of judgement.
Anian had a restless face with bright dark-brown eyes that were not particularly friendly. They held a hint of petulance and maybe a question. Anian worked out, hit the pavements in tracksuit and Reeboks and burned everything off, including the good bits. Anian Stanford was a DC based at Hinckley. That she was female and the colour of antique pine were stumbling blocks in the way of promotion. She was the only Asian woman in the division. It was something the top coppers were trying to put right but only because they'd been ordered to for political reasons.
“Where to?” she repeated as she pulled her jacket from the back of her chair.
Two PCs looked up from the paperwork they were completing in triplicate, their dull eyes reflecting the monotony, boring through her clothes more out of instinct than interest.
“Ticker Harrison," Butler said. “Heard of him?” He was joking, of course.
She found an arm and struggled with the tight fit. “Sheerham's most respected resident? Who hasn't?”
Butler picked up some MP forms and stuffed them in his pocket. “What's happened?”
“His missus has done a bunk.”
“And we go to him?”
“Only cos it suits us, girl. No other reason at all. We’re looking for a link.”
She nodded thoughtfully but not at all convinced and followed the DS to the door.
The two PCs watched her go then shared an indifferent glance. Ticker Harrison lived just off the Ridgeway in North Sheerham, a few hundred yards on from the Adam and Eve boozer.
They left Butler’s car at the gate and made their way along a gravel drive curling through rhododendrons and camellias to a double garage where a silver Corvette Stingray coupe lined up next to a black ash Mercedes convertible. Their mint condition had Butler stooping for a peep at the interiors. He was still flicking tears of envy as they reached the door of a continental-style villa, more in tune with the Costas than north Sheerham. He used the bell and Anian whispered, “Who said crime doesn't pay? We're in the wrong business.”
“Would you run away from this?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Who was living with me. Not even Buckingham Palace would keep me with Ticker Harrison.”
“Charlie?”
“At a push I'd sooner have Charles than Ticker, but only if I didn't have to meet the relatives.”
“What about the trees? You’d have to talk to the trees.”
Butler's easy smile vanished as the door opened.
Ticker Harrison was five-eight and built for the scrum; no neck but shoulders a loosehead prop would have been proud of. His grey hair was crew cut short and sideburns swept below the line of his ears. He had the dark skin of travellers, eyes that were greyish and humorous. He was dressed in grey trousers, white cotton shirt that was unbuttoned down to show his tanned pectorals, a silky blue waistcoat and brown slip-ons. He took one look at Butler and without giving him chance to flash his card said, “Come on in.”
Butler closed the door behind Anian Stanford then followed the two of them across a wide oak-panelled reception into a sitting room. The furnishings in one small corner could have bought Butler's place. Harrison turned to face them. His eyes lingered too critically on Anian. They'd stopped at the skin. He didn't notice her clothes, black jacket and straight blue skirt over black tights, or how tall she was, fiveeleven in flat shoes. Instead he looked at Butler with a question in his eyes.
“DC Stanford,” Butler said. “Watch the lips so you get it in one. Detective Constable Stanford. I'm Detective Sergeant Butler from Hinckley nick.”
Harrison shot the woman another glance and shrugged. He said, “Drink?”
Butler said, “Why not? Scotch will do nicely. No ice, thank you.” “You're supposed to say no thanks I'm on duty.”
“Bollocks to that. You’ve been watching too much Bill.”
“What about the Indians? Are they allowed alcohol?”
Anian said, “We are. But not if you're buying. And for your information, the gypsies are related to Hindi. They came from India.” Harrison didn't hesitate and threw her a grin that flashed white teeth, “You calling me a pikey? That's well out of order.” He looked at Butler. “You going to let her get away with that? Racial prejudice in the police force? That’s diabolical.”
Butler threw up his hands. “I’m saying nothing, Sir. And I wouldn’t go down that road with DC Stanford if I were you.”
Harrison nodded and said, “I see what you mean.” Whisky hit a glass and left splashes on the black-lacquered surface of the cellaret. There was an ivory inlay of Chinese figures. “Now look what you've made me do. You women are all the same, causing us all kinds of grief.” The traveller in his blood was irresistible. Little wonder they were market traders. His smile was disconcerting and as crafty as a spin doctor’s on a Brighton stage. His wife had disappeared but it didn't get in the way of humour. Priorities. All that. Some things couldn't be helped.
Sam Butler said sharply, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He accepted his drink, a tumbler full to the brim, and spread the forms on a polished glass coffee-table, easing himself into a cream leather armchair as he did so. The studded leather was cracked like an old woman's face. He tapped the leather and said, “Trouble with this colour, it shows up the dirt.”
“You should know,” the villain said. “You don't earn in a year what this fucking thing cost. Not that the cost means nothing. It's all relative, right? Who gives a fuck apart from the fuckers who haven't got it? I could feed half of India with the bread I paid for this, but who gives a fuck about half of India?”
He latched on to Anian again and stayed there for a moment, then added, “Or Pakistan.”
Butler smiled. “You're probably right, about the wages. But it still shows up the dirt, and there's a lot of it around here. Right?” Harrison nodded slowly, weighing up the DS, then he turned back to Anian. “You sure I can't tempt you, coke or tea? I do a great line in tea – Assam, Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong, camomile, even Indian.” She flashed him an odd look that Butler couldn’t work out. It might have been perplexity, but he wasn’t sure.