her from the club. That person has probably been hanging around for some time, waiting for a likely customer. Get the picture? It's your patch. You know what goes on down there. Women are getting hurt, big time. The next one might be someone you know and care about. This bastard is cutting them to bits. Before long, a woman is going to get killed. It’s only luck that it hasn’t happened already.” He threw up his hands to emphasize the point. “Maybe you can help us, maybe not. If you can give us some faces, anyone, then maybe we can stop it happening. That's why we need your help. This isn't about you. You go your own way, if that's what you want. Do a bunk like you've done before. Go and get mashed again. Why should we care? Think about it. If you stay with Social overnight you’ll still be rattling for a huff by the time you can leg it.” The youngster's mouth dropped open.
Maynard said, “Talk to me, Brian. Don’t worry about them.” Keeping his eyes on Brian he threw a little nod toward the police officers.
“What about my punter?”
“He's a nobody, right? You don't owe him a thing. Men like that should be put out with the rubbish. Wouldn’t know which bin to use though. It wouldn’t be glass or plastic, would it? Probably dog shit.” The lad grinned.
“What about these other girls? Can you help me out?” Maynard made it personal. ‘Me’ left the others out of it.
“I know them all, and so do your lot. Go ask Sergeant Wilson. He knows them.” He frowned and raised a finger. “But there was one I hadn't seen before and the others didn't like it.”
Maynard smiled. “Now that's the one I'm interested in.”
“She was different.”
“How come?”
“Classy, if you know what I mean. Sort of. My mates even fancied her. It was like, she wasn't, you know, playing the game. I don't know. It didn't look right. Maybe in a hotel. Not on the streets. I hadn't seen her before.”
“Could you point her out?”
“Maybe. She was different.”
“But you'd recognize her again?”
“Maybe.”
“What about men? Did you see any men?”
“Only punters. Nothing special.”
“Did she go off with any?”
“Not that I saw. I could ask around.”
“We can’t ask you to do that. If we did we’d all be in trouble. But you could point out this woman for me. There's got to be the price of a burger in it, right?”
He looked at Donna for confirmation. She shrugged and nodded. And Brian, or Jason, said, “OK.”
In the corridor something rather nasty was heading toward Sergeant Mike Wilson, eating up the distance between them. The duty social worker, incandescent, was firing threats loud enough for him to hear. ‘Juvenile’, ‘presence’ and ‘appropriate adult’ were just some of the words he snatched from the vibrating air.
He thought on his feet. Fuck that, he thought and, without losing momentum, as though he’d remembered something urgent and hadn’t noticed her frantic bid for his attention, performed a sudden about-turn and hurried toward the exit to the car park and garages.
For the copper, like the married man, the garage, like the garden shed, was a refuge, perhaps not consecrated, but as holy as any church. As Rodney Grant was led out of the building, released from police custody, he saw the social worker’s angry face and said to the uniform beside him, “Blacks, mate, all the same. And black dykes, fucking nightmare time! We should send them back to Wolverhampton or wherever the fuck they come from.”
The kozzer agreed.
The six o’clock news had just begun when Jack Wooderson caught up with Butler in Hinckley’s tiny canteen. The headlines were depressing, as grey as the December sky. The flickering lights in the shop windows had not done the trick. People did not believe the government's feelgood rhetoric. Plastic stayed in their pockets. And the shopkeepers were nervous. The street traders selling cheap wrapping paper, ten for a quid, were on a roll.
“Prelims in,” Wooderson said. “Nothing. The garden hasn’t been touched this century and the cellar’s clean. They’ve found cobwebs down there that are older than the missing women. Dig up the floor and the only things you’ll find are prehistoric. Their words, not mine. All the walls are solid, crumbling but solid. They've sent some samples to the lab, but don't expect a return. If we want excavation we'll need the chief's OK. But it will be a waste of time.”
DS Butler groaned. They'd been counting on the shop, certain that evidence would be found.
“So what have we got?” The inspector asked, then answered his own question. “He's got form, fancies himself with a knife and was once known as the Underground Slasher. We can place two of the women in his shop. Truth be known, in just about every shop in the High Road. That's it. It's not half enough. Fact is, Sam, you’re sitting on fuck all.”
Butler didn't need telling. “Let's see what he's got to say.”
Wooderson glanced at the television and saw that it was after six. He said, “You’ll have to manage. I have a meeting.”
Butler wondered what boozer the inspector used. He hadn't seen him in the locals.
As he made his way to Hinckley's only interview room, Sam Butler picked up on DC Stanford’s questioning expression and paused by her desk. “The shop's as clean as… It's clean.”
“What were you going to say?”
“A whistle.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It sounds old-fashioned.”
“Sam, you are old-fashioned.”
Anian had seen the shop and the studio behind with its little kitchenette, but she was surprised that the cellar hadn't produced a return.
“They're bringing him up now. Stay out of the way.”
She didn’t need reminding.
He turned to a DC sitting in front of a screen. The indexers called it a day at five. No commitment. They weren't in the job. “Rob, you're with me.”
DC Robert Foster jumped to his feet, eager to have a go at the Underground Slasher, and followed DS Butler into the corridor. John Lawrence sat at the table relaxed and concentrating on his polished brogues. He looked up as the two detectives walked in. They sat down and went through the preliminaries. DC Foster busied himself with the machine while Butler arranged some papers on the table. Butler gave the recorder their names, time and date and then: “Mr Lawrence.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Butler. Or is it evening yet? One does lose track of time in here.”
“You know why you're here?”
“Indeed. The other officer, what was he called? The custody officer, he explained.”
Carefully, Butler spread four photographs on the desk.
“I'm showing Mr Lawrence the photographs of Margaret Domey, Helen Harrison, Linda Brookes and Jenny Fielding. Do you recognize these women?”
He was holding back the photograph of Imelda Cooke. She was the odd one out, on two counts. She wasn't pregnant and she had two children.
Lawrence leant forward to examine the photographs. He took his time, concentrating on each in turn. Eventually he said, “Yes, I think so. I painted Mrs Harrison's portrait, and this one called into the shop yesterday. The others I'm not sure about. Their photographs, these photographs, are stuck to every shop window in the High Road. Mine included. But they may well have been in the shop.” His voice was calm and slightly seductive. It put you to sleep, almost, just like his eyes, unless you had a question, and knew he was guilty as hell. Butler tapped Margaret Domey's coloured image, an enlargement of her PIT. “Did Mrs Domey purchase anything?”
“She was interested in an antique cooking pot, but it was out of her price range. She wanted to haggle. I explained that my shop was not a souk in the middle of Tunisia and she left. Fortunately, that was the last I saw of her.”
