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.
Ticker Harrison sighed and said reflectively, “Maybe I should take up politics.”
“I don't see any point, Boss. You already make up the rules around here. We got our own laws and, come to think of it, taxes too. Some people might call it protection, but it's the same, ain’t it? No different. And they get more for their money from us than they do from that fucking Brown cunt. He ain’t fucking human, Boss.”
“He comes from fucking Scotland, that’s why. But since when have you paid any fucking taxes?”
“It's the principle, Boss, the fucking principle.”
“But I'd take up fucking politics, Breath, to get some accountability back into life, not because of the fucking taxes.”
“I don't see where you're coming from, Boss.”
“I told you I wanted her found. I didn't give a fuck what it cost or how many people got hurt. Take out half of Sheerham if you had to, I said, but find my fucking wife. I am fucking suffering here. I can't sleep, I can't eat and, sooner or later, maybe sooner, some fucker is going to get fucking hurt. You hearing me now? Is that fucking clear enough? You remember me telling you that?”
Breathless Billy's expression was shaped by painful haemorrhoids; a permanent grimace, even when he smiled, and that wasn't often. He said in a voice cut by emphysema and chastisement in equal measure, “Right, Boss. I think I get the message. I've got faces on the street. I've got faces in every fucking…you know, wherever they can fucking get, and we'll find her. But it takes time. And we got other things going on. This business is getting in the way of…business. What shall I do about the kids? You know what's going on in there. I'm telling you, Boss, Gilly will pull out and we'll be fucked. I've got major problems here. And you won't thank me for them! In case you hadn’t realized, Boss, Christmas is coming and we said we’d have the place cleared by Christmas.”
“Kids! Squatters! How can I think about kids when my wife is missing? It's all right for you, you ain't got a fucking wife. You don't know what I'm going through. Look!” Ticker pointed toward the painting of Helen. “Let's have some fucking priorities around here, eh? You're trying to change the subject. I ask you to do one simple thing, find Helen, and nothing. It's left to me to come up with something.” Breathless Billy checked out the painting and shook a sad head. What had Helen been thinking of to pose like that? And what was Ticker thinking of putting it on public display?
Ticker noticed his right-hand man's uneasiness and relented. “I'm sorry, Breathless, but this shit is getting to me. I never realized how much I'd miss her. Christ, I feel like someone's gutted me. Look, take a couple of guys and throw some weight about in Avenue Road. Let them know we're serious.”
Breathless Billy nodded. “OK, Boss, I'll do that. But what you said there, before, you heard something?”
Ticker said slyly, “Maybe, maybe I have. It's more than you lot have. You and me, we're going to have a look around an art gallery. You in to art? Picasso, Raphael, Flaubert? Flaubert said that one must sense the artist everywhere, but never see him.”
“Fuck me, Boss, I didn't know that. I thought Flaubert was a writer. You know, that Bovary tart. Just shows you, doesn’t it? Never see him, eh? That is interesting. They probably hide behind the fucking screen, the easel, when they're fucking, you know, doing the business, with the paint.”
“Well, do you like the paintings?”
Breathless pulled a face. “I can take it, you know? The Tate. Never been there, mind. Fucking don't, do you? Fuck that. Walking around with a stiff neck. Pay to get in. Half the cunts don't make fucking sense. I can't see it. Painting half black, half white, call it black and white and bung a fifty-grand tag on it. And the women in the pictures. Fattest fucking tarts I've ever seen. And they're floating, right? In fucking heaven or some place, with fucking angels. Little fat fucking kids with wings that wouldn’t hold up a fart-filled balloon, right? I'm telling you, Boss, these artist people have got their brushes up their own arseholes. Sooner have a dead fish stuck on the wall.” “That's art!” Ticker pointed to the painting of Helen.
“Yeah, it's something. That's for sure. This ain't a criticism, Boss, no fucking way, but no way would I have my missus on show like that. Not so's anyone else would get to see it anyway. I mean, that's real. Any closer and you'd be giving it a tongue job. With respect, that is.” “I ain't got a problem with that. Helen didn't either. If you've got a problem then it's your fucking problem.”
“Right. I was just saying – ”
“No! No you weren't.”
“Boss, it's a fucking turn-on. Do you want other geezers walking out of here with a fucking cruise missile sticking out in front of them? That's the question. If it was me, I'd want to keep it all to myself. For fuck's sake, I mean, the cunt's either made a smudge or that's the clit hanging from here to Southend.”
“You always were a selfish cunt, Breath. You probably got Scottish ancestors like that fucker Brown.” Ticker grinned. “Only kidding. Even you ain't that tight! Come on, let's go and look at some other paintings.”
“I'm with you, Boss. Always have been, you know that. But I hope it's scenery, like trees or wild animals, tigers or ducks. Ducks is good. I ain't into all these acres of skin. Puts a shiver up my arse. Brings back memories of when I didn't have to pay for it.”
“We all pay for it, Breath, one way or the other. We all fucking pay.”
“Ain't that the fucking truth?”
Breathless looked at the painting of red bricks and said, “See what I mean, Boss? That’s a bunch of fucking building bricks, right, and the bastard’s put a grand tab on it. Now what the fuck is the world coming to?”
The heavy old-fashioned blade of the guillotine came down and left Lawrence's index finger on the table. The three men stared at it for some moments. It moved. Some little nerve ends were left alive, or a tendon flicked back
