and cross-armed as he watched Inspector John Knight go through the motions. The uniforms seemed strangely restless. The obligatory plain-clothes observer sat to one side of the crowded room, detached, bored by the drawn-out custom. On the CID side DS Barry Scot and DC Martin James were handling the case but the DS was too wily to get caught up in the briefing. He was out interviewing schoolboys he knew had a penchant for fireworks. Back in November he'd interviewed the same lads for stuffing Roman candles through the letterboxes of some pensioners who'd stopped them playing football on the road outside their homes. For DS Barry Scot those kids were favourite for the shed but his hunch meant that Martin James had pulled the briefing.
The inspector's address was winding down. “All chemists, garden centres and shops that might stock garden chemicals or children’s chemistry sets to be visited today.” He glanced at Sgt Mike Wilson. “Sgt Wilson will be coordinating this exercise. Do not sit on any information. The trail is still warm, the crater is still smoking. I want this sorted before some children turn up at the hospital minus their arms.” He turned to the DC. “Anything to add, Martin?”
DC Martin James cleared his throat and tried to ignore the superintendent’s glare. The super hated all things plain-clothed. It wasn't jealousy, exactly. Billingham had promotional ambitions and was wise enough to know that chief coppers thought that real policemen were those in uniform.
“Apart from the fuse I think you've covered it, Sir.”
“Ah yes, the fuse. The fuse was made out of steel tubing so add ironmongers and builders' merchants to your list. Sgt Wilson will supply the details.”
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?
