Maybe he's a selfappointed marriage guidance counsellor.”
“If Margaret Domey wasn't in the frame I'd say you had a point. But she wasn't running anywhere.”
The PC persisted. “Can we be sure of that? Who knows what goes on in private? How many times have friends and family surprised us? My brother was divorced. I hadn't got a clue until it was, basically, all over. I thought they were happy as… you know?”
For a moment Butler thought about his own marriage and his wife's affair, but time dulled the pain, turned it to something else.
“We'll keep it in mind, Joe, but for the moment we'll assume the worst.”
In another office a phone was ringing. Eventually someone answered.
DC Stanford suggested, “Maybe the women are driving him.” “Forced?”
“Not necessarily. But does it matter if he's getting to where he wants to go?”
“Fair point.”
“No it's not,” the plod interrupted again. “Linda Brookes didn't drive.”
Anian Stanford turned on him. “OK, so they might have caught a fucking bus.”
The copper shrugged. “Anian, it was just a suggestion. It wasn't to win fucking Mastermind.”
She backed off and threw him a quick apologetic smile.
Butler put an end to it. “So he might be meeting them in this other place. Let's widen the net. Use some initiative. Get your sources to ask around. He's a regular at The British. Does he drink anywhere else? He must have a warehouse or a lockup someplace. I know we’ve been here before but let’s try it again. We must have missed it. Get back to the friendly bank manager. Go through the statements again, line by line.”
The plod said, “What about surveillance?”
Butler hesitated. Cole had been quite clear. He said, “I’m still waiting for the green light on that. Let’s not jump the gun.”
Anian pulled her jacket from her chair and reached for her handbag. She smiled sweetly at Butler. “Tell me what you decide in the morning. I’m on an early night. A bath, a long one, then the theatre.” Butler nodded. Even though she’d mentioned it a dozen times he’d completely forgotten. “Bikini Line,” he acknowledged. “Anthea Palmer. I used to like her on the weather.”
“You and half the male population.”
“One minute she’s standing in front of the British Isles telling us it’s going to rain tomorrow, the next she’s cart-wheeling over everything in sight. She was on the front page this week or, at least, her knickers were. They snapped her getting into a car. A diabolical liberty, really. Maybe there should be a law against it. Invasion of private parts. Trespass by lens.”
“Schoolboys enjoyed the picture. I doubt that many men did.” Butler pulled a face. “You know nothing about men, then, Anian.” “What paper was it in? The Sun? The Mirror?”
“I don’t read crap.” Butler smiled. “The Sunday Sport!”
She smiled back and said, “It’s rare that a girl will show you her knickers unless she wants you to see them. And that includes photographers.”
His glance was a double take. She had surprised him.
A uniform poked his head around the door. “Sarge,” he addressed Butler. “Just had CB3 on. They've found Helen Harrison's car. Two roads up from the Gallery.”
Anian hesitated.
Butler said, “Get out of here. Go and enjoy yourself.”
She flashed him another sweet smile and let the door swing shut behind her.
The phone went. Cole said, “Cole.”
“It's me.”
“Right.”
“Read between the lines.”
“Right.”
“You were right. He spilled the lot. Helen's got herself a lover. My fucking wife has run off with another geezer. Can you believe that? Even I don't believe that. She's shagging Jesus fucking Christ and she runs off with John the fucking Baptist. That fucker's going to lose his fucking head. She's carrying my fucking baby for fuck's sake. She's in the fucking Costas, can you believe that? Soaking up the sun? I can't believe that. Treated this Lawrence cunt as some kind of confidant. They got real fucking close during the painting sessions. It ain't surprising, though, not really, considering the pose. They say love is blind, don't they? Know what I mean? It takes a brain dead, lungless fucker like Breathless to point it out. I should of seen it, Rick. I mean, for fuck’s sake, she had one leg on each arm of the fucking sofa. Anyway, she's still in contact. Going to ring him when she gets back. He'll let me know. Then I'll be paying her a fucking visit.” “Does he have an address?”
“Spain, but Spain's a fucking big place. I mean, I take her on a fucking boat to that other place. What was it again?”
“Greece.”
“Right. I take her there in a luxury boat and she settles for paella and fucking chips.”
“When Lawrence gives you the nod, you let me know.”
“I'll think about that one.”
“Think about this. Is Lawrence OK?”
“Yeah, I'd say, given the circumstances. Unfortunately he had an accident with his painting hand. Got a finger caught up in a guillotine. He uses it to cut the prints to size. Told him it was fucking dangerous, without a guard, but did he listen?”
“OK, take care of yourself.”
“Too fucking right. I owe you one now.” His emphasis was on the you.
“Isn't that a treat?”
Cole hung up. For a moment he wondered how much of the call was incriminating. All of it, he imagined. But it was too late to worry, so he set it aside.
But Helen Harrison running off to Spain? Not a chance. Helen Harrison was dead and John Lawrence had got her tucked up some place, getting off on whatever he got off on. But it was coming to a head.
It wasn’t often that Anian Stanford went out with her housemates. Getting their shifts to coincide was almost impossible but somehow, through luck and feminine wiles, they had managed it. The Royal Free nurses had come by a box at the Carrington Theatre. A consultant from Nigeria was making an impression on the youngest of them and Anian guessed it wouldn’t be long before they’d be advertising an empty room. But for the moment they made hay.
In the bath she drank some wine – why did it always seem so wickedly indulgent? – and getting ready she drank some more and perhaps that was why, as they settled in their box seats, she was less than discreet.
She said, “Five rows in, three from the centre aisle, see him? Next to the black girl.”
As Anian held back, the other girls eased forward.
“Mr John bloody Lawrence. He’s got those women somewhere.” “Oh my God! The missing women?” The youngest of them, the consultant’s target, spoke with that feigned enthusiasm at which all young nurses – perhaps young women in general – were adept. Anian nodded. “He’s got a poster in his shop window. Maybe a couple of freebee tickets came with it.”
“Like us then,” the nurse giggled. “But the girl – the black girl – must be thirty or forty years younger.”
“She's a tom, works out of The British. A tart with a heart. She even gives discounts to pensioners.”
“Oh my God,” the nurse said then, more seriously, “Why take a prostitute to the theatre? If you're paying for it you should be on the job.”
Anian laughed out loud. “I don't know. You tell me about men and what they've got to prove?”
The nurse leant forward for another look. “What’s he got on his hand? It looks like a glove puppet.”
Anian took another peep. “It is a glove puppet. It’s got red lips.” The nurse shrugged and shook her head. “This is not normal behaviour.”
Anian searched for Chief Superintendent Marsh but couldn't find him. Had she glanced at the other boxes she would have seen him sitting comfortably next to the Mayor. Gilly Brown had gold hanging from his neck. And at the back of the theatre, in the deep shadows, Assistant Chief Superintendent Deighton and his wife were finding their seats along with the councillors.
