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  That we can't have Sunday dinner together.”

  The gangster, Ticker Harrison, was even more concerned than he made out. He wouldn't have involved Cole unless he was really worried. He'd read about the missing women. It was hard to miss them. They'd been all over the papers these last few months. There were photographs of them in shop windows and stuck to bus shelters. Have you seen this person, they asked. They meant the police hadn't got a clue. The Helen Harrison that Cole remembered might well have run away, but not for a slap in the mouth, and even then she would have taken with her everything she could have carried. Helen was thirty-six and she'd been around. For a slap in the mouth she'd have just gone out the next day and spent five grand on his credit card. They parted, strangers again, as far apart as men could be but in the same business, on the same ladder. Lie some ladders on the ground it’s difficult to tell top from bottom.

  But the villain had got it right. Cole had turned against himself and there had been a woman involved. The memory of it was bitter; it ground his edge, sharpened his indifference, increased the force he used when digging low-life in the kidneys.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday morning started early.

  Just a few minutes after the bells chimed six and still an hour before the break of a cold dawn, another explosion shook the capital and could be heard as far away as Calais. But this wasn’t another garden shed. The oil storage terminal at Buncefield in Hertfordshire went up in the UK’s biggest peacetime fire and a plume of black smoke began to fill the north-western sky. Although the authorities were shaken from their beds to begin an emergency evacuation of the surrounding area, it was quickly established that the cause of the blaze was down to the failure of a number of safety features and not more terrorist activity. In Sheerham, under the darkening smoke-filled sky, life went on. And death.

  Outside his window a heavily pregnant woman paused to search in her handbag and in his shop doorway a man sheltered from a sharp December wind to light a cigarette. ront gardens.

  Above the shop and the studio was the flat where he lived. Mrs Puzey cleaned the shop and the flat above; she was barred from the studio. Mrs Puzey and her tribe of five children. She was a Caribbean lady of huge proportions, quite frightening, really. She and her children made a living cleaning five or six shops in the High Road.

  Her husband was a jazz musician who had disappeared along with his sax about five or six years ago. They arrived daily brandishing Hoovers and feather-dusters and black bin-liners. They arrived in a fit of laughter and chatter and for an hour there was bustle and chaos and when they had gone the silence was wonderful and the place was clean. Mrs Puzey's eldest daughter, Laura, supplemented her income with a little night work. She worked out of the endless bar of The British. Her clientele was small, restricted to married men who remained faithful to her. Mrs Puzey and her brood didn't clean on Sundays. On Sundays they went to the Pentecostal church. They marched past the shop in their Sunday clothes with Mrs Puzey in front and the children behind in descending order of height. On Sunday they prayed. On Saturday night, against his better judgement and because he needed some Christmas help, Mr Lawrence said, “You can stay until next weekend, no longer, and only if you make yourself useful in the shop.”

  Good deeds bring bad fortune – an old Chinese proverb. He should have remembered. He woke up suddenly and knew he'd been snoring. There was a handful of froth on his chin. You could touch the Sunday dawn. You could walk through the grey light and feel its weight on your shoulders.

  The aftermath of the Saturday night war, the takeaway cartons and broken beer bottles, littered the road. Puddles of vomit and urine were stirred by the weak vitamins of the winter sun to burst with an occasional bubble of British gas.

  One of his two bottles of milk had been stolen by a considerate thief or the milkman had short delivered again.

  Mrs Puzey waddled along in her Sunday blue suit and her Sunday hat. Her children followed; ducklings following their mother to the water: in this case, blessed holy water. She saw him and hurried past without acknowledgement. Only Laura, third in line, gave a half-smile of recognition. Laura, the black vixen of The British.

  He closed his door again and threw the bolts and was at the counter when the thumping began. Through the glass, beyond the security bars, open-mouthed and puzzled at his inability to gain entry, the young man peered in. His features were flattened grotesquely against the glass.

  Mr Lawrence groaned. Oh God, it hadn't been a dream. He really had invited him to stay. He threw back the bolts again and opened the door to the young man's wide grin. The young man waited until the old bell finished and then quickly moved forward as though afraid that Mr Lawrence might change his mind. His leading foot skidded in a puddle, the plastic bag he carried was projected forward and ended up in Mr Lawrence's arms and the young man, Paul, Paul Knight, ended up sitting in the wet.

  “Stone the crows, Mr Lawrence,” he said as his finger hovered just below his nose. “Some dirty bastard's pissed in your doorway!” He paused, then: “There’s a fire out there. The sky’s turning black. You can smell the smoke. It might be the end of the world!”

  “Hey! Like it! What's it do?” Paul reached up to a steel hook and chain that extended from a ceiling runway.

  “It carries the crates from the back of the shop. At one time we carried a range of sculptures, some by Henry Moore…”

  “I know. I Know. Don’t tell me! He was the geezer who had his head…You know, by the king? Religion, innit?”

  “I think that might have been Thomas More who wrote Utopia.”

  Paul stuck out a wagging finger. “Utopia, yeah, that's the geezer.

  These old sculptures then, they were pretty old, eh?”

  Mr Lawrence raised a blown eyebrow. “Yes, I suppose so.

  Anyway, they weighed a ton, hence the block and tackle.”

  “Nice word, that, Mr Lawrence. Tackle. I like that.”

  Mr Lawrence felt the plastic bag. “Is this all you've got?”

  “Left some at the squat. I'll bring it round.”

  “What about clothes?”

  “Still got to go shopping, see? In the squat there's no point in having anything. You have to sleep with your shoes on in there.” “My goodness, it sounds like a dreadful place.”

  “Yeah, that's it.”

  Mr Lawrence led the way. Paul followed, unsticking his jeans as he went.

  “Like the Tate, innit?” He paused to admire one of the cast bronze ballerinas and stooped slightly to check out her underwear. He showed no sign of disappointment as he followed Mr Lawrence to the stairs. “I’m a bit surprised, with respect of course, that you are acquainted with the Tate Gallery.”

  Paul threw him an off-the-shoulder look and a smile made his lips flutter. “It is a bit surprising, I suppose. But me and the Tate, mate…” “Through there is my studio."

  Paul followed the line of the older man's finger to the closed door at the bottom of the stairs.

  “It's out of bounds. No entry. Strictly no entry!”

  “No sweat. Perfectly understood. Don't come to you with the best of references. I know that. We've got to learn to trust one another. Right?”

  On the stairs Mr Lawrence paused to consider the statement and Paul stumbled against him.

  “Trust, that's the main thing.” He stood on the stairs carrying his Robot City plastic bag. “Don't nick nothing from no one who does you a turn. Ain't that it?”

  Mr Lawrence narrowed his eyes. Too many negatives, too many for a Sunday morning, anyway. He went onward and led the youngster through the flat.

  In the sitting room Paul stood rooted, shocked.

  “There’s no streamers, Mr Lawrence, and no Christmas cards!” “I didn’t get any cards this year. A couple came addressed to the shop but they weren’t personal, simply prints of old favourites and nothing to do with Christmas or the birth of Christ. One had little girls in tutus and the other was a scene of the Thames before the London Eye. It mi
ght even have been before the fire of London.”

  “There’s no glittering balls and no fairy on top of your Christmas tree. Oh, Mr Lawrence, you haven’t even got a tree!”

  “No, no tree and no…fairy.”

  “But everyone has a tree. It isn’t Christmas without a tree.” “I like to paint trees, but not in the parlour, and certainly not coniferous trees. The dreaded fir has become a dividing line between council-house back gardens. They are not real trees. They don’t shut down in autumn like real trees. There is no decay and death, nothing to stimulate the artist.”

  Paul gave him an exaggerated frown, as children do, and said, “We even had a Christmas tree in the…”

  “Prison?”

  “That’s it. But there were no pressies under it.” He explored further, then, “There’s no TV?”

  “You’re right. No TV.”

  “In for repair, is it?”

  “No.”

  “How can you live without a TV?”

  “I manage.”

  “Grief!” The thought shook Paul's head. “Still, it's a big place, I'll give you that. You could put up four people here, without bother.” Mr Lawrence put in quickly, “It's a small flat, suitable for one.” “Absolutely,” Paul agreed and offered a winning smile. “One and a lodger.”

  They moved into the smaller of two bedrooms.

  “This is it,” Mr Lawrence said as Paul bounced on the bed. “There's a walk-in wardrobe here where you can hide, if you like. The airing cupboard is outside your door. Blankets, pillows and sheets in there.”

  “Brilliant. This is the first time I've had a room to myself in months. Not since I did a month in solitary.” He continued to bounce. “Solitary?”

  “I put some bleach in the screw's coffee. He wasn't a happy screw after that.”

  “Goodness me. What happened to him?”

  “Well, screw became screwed. He went to see the doctor, Mr Lawrence, with a bit of a tummy upset.”

  Paul noticed the older man's concern. He stopped bouncing and said, “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll make myself useful, you'll see. Anything you want doing… Electrics, cooking, you name it. I'm the man. I'll be out most evenings. Chess, go to the chess club, see?” Mr Lawrence backed out.

  “Just one thing,” Paul continued. “I'm back late. How about a key?” “Yes. If it's late you'll need a key.”

  “It is late. Wouldn't want to disturb you.”

  “No noise.”

  “No noise,” he agreed. “Quiet as a…lamb, innit? Baby, sleeping baby! You won't even know I'm here.”

  Mr Lawrence closed the door and reached the kitchen when the sounds of Madonna's Like a Virgin rattled the dishes. The noise came from one of the two items held in the Robot City plastic carrier bag. The other item was a toothbrush.

  Mr Lawrence hated Sundays.

  Chapter 5

  DS Sam Butler thought that Cole was a workaholic, perhaps an alcoholic too. A man full of bitter memories of a wife who'd gone off with another man. The thought was painful. He’d gone through a similar state of affairs but his wife hadn’t gone off. Instead she had presented him with a daughter. His, so she said, and he believed her or, rather, wanted to. It seemed a long time ago but it never went away, not completely, and you could never forgive, not entirely, but if you cared enough, then you could live with it. It was more of a strength than a weakness.

  Butler was part of Inspector Jack Wooderson's team at Hinckley nick, transferred from Sheerham when sleepless nights had arrived with his daughter. Every minute in bed counted and Hinckley was five minutes closer to home. Lately he'd seen little of Cole and it came as a surprise when the DI asked him to call into HQ, off the record. They'd worked together in the past but they'd never been close. No one ever got close to Rick Cole.

  The office brought back memories, serious incidents. A copper's mind was notched with memories of results, good and bad. Putting them aside was the difficult bit. It was too easy to lie there and get off on them again. You could never get away from the job. It followed you around like a shadow and it threw a shadow over everything else too. Butler said, “Heard about the bomb.”

  Cole tried a smile. “You're lucky. It rattled our windows. Marsh has taken it very personally.”

  Marsh was the chief superintendent who took everything personally.

  The DS grinned. “A garden shed?”

  “On the allotments.”

  “Strange.”

  “Schoolboys. A chemistry set for Christmas or, more likely, leftover fireworks; broke them open and put all the powder together in a bog roll or, in this case, some steel tubing. We've all been there.” “Still…"

  "Barry Scot's looking after it. He'll be pleased to see you.” Butler nodded and said, “I thought there was another one yesterday. Another seven-seven.”

  “Didn’t we all. Half the plods are still over at Buncefield. It doesn’t help when you close the M1.”

  “Shame it can’t be permanent.”

  “I know what you mean.” Cole paused. The informalities were over. “Are you getting anywhere with these missing women?” Butler's hesitation went on too long. Between the detectives there were boundaries you didn't cross. Guarding your own investigations became a way of life.

  “Jesus, Sam. We know each other better than this.”

  Butler relaxed. His shoulders fell. He threw Cole a careless wave. “You're right. I don't know what the hell's the matter with me lately. Put it down to lack of sleep.”

  Without saying so they both knew the problem. Left behind at Hinckley Inspector Jack Wooderson had turned resentment into an art form.

  Butler concentrated on the subject. “Frankly, we've got zilch. You know Jack. He gets one idea in his head and we're despatched to all parts of the country. I was in Worthing. Have you ever been to Worthing in the winter?”

  Cole shook his head. “Not even the summer.”

  “It's not a place I'd recommend.”

  “So what's in Worthing?”

  “They’ve got ten missing women. Teenagers, mostly black, all vanished in the last eighteen months. It sounds like the skin trade. They’re convinced they'll surface in northern Italy. Most of them come from Nigeria, Liberia and every other messed up African country. Interpol, the Refugee Council and Immigration are all involved. It's not for us. I could have told him the MO was different without the pleasure of seeing the place.”

  “Have you got anything at all?”

  Butler shrugged weakly. “I’ve had my fill of MPS if that’s what you mean. People end up there when no one else wants them. The joke in the office is that half the missing people we’re looking for are probably hiding on the Victoria Embankment…”

  He was referring to the location of the Territorial Policing Headquarters where Operation Compass – the MPS Central Missing Persons Unit – was set up to coordinate the investigations of missing people across London.

  He continued, “We haven't found a single connection. Credit cards not maxed, no apparent debts, no life insurance worth mentioning, no affairs as far as we can tell, no suspicion of crime. To be honest, Guv, unless something breaks very soon it'll be scaled down. The official line is no interest. Jack doesn’t actually live the ACPO values. CID only investigate crimes that have already been committed, not those that might be committed, or incidents that might not even be a crime – which is what we’ve got here. Prevention is for someone else and suspicion isn’t even logged. Missing persons are way down his list.” “Hate to say it but he’s got a point. Has Margaret had a look?” Margaret Domey was the resident psychologist based at Sheerham but her remit covered the substations.

  “For a connection, you mean?” Butler shook his head again but this time resignation was mixed with curiosity. “You haven't heard?” Cole frowned.

  “Margaret's at home with her head down the pan. Morning sickness.”

  That he hadn’t heard shouldn’t have surprised Cole. He kept out of her way. He said, “I didn’t know.”


  Butler grinned. Not many people would miss the psychologist. Not unless she'd changed a lot since his transfer. Margaret Domey didn't use ice in her drinks. She just breathed on them.

  Cole said, “It must be catching.”

  “What's that, Guv?”

  “It's the second pregnancy I've heard about in as many days. The first belonged to Mrs Ticker Harrison.”

  Butler's features firmed up.

  “And unless there's been a change of circumstances you can add her name to your list of missing women.”

  “Helen Harrison is missing?”

  Cole nodded. “Unless she’s turned up since last night.”

  “Did Ticker report it? Christ, I’d like to have been a fly on the wall.”

  “It's all unofficial, you understand?”

  Butler pulled an unkind face. Most of the kozzers would have given a month's pay to nick Ticker Harrison.

  “It might be worth checking out with a quiet visit. Probably a waste of time but it might throw up a connection.”

  Butler nodded thoughtfully.

  “It was a whisper, nothing more.”

  “Right.”

  He got up to leave.

  “You don't need an invitation to call in, Sam.”

  The DS hesitated. “Right,” he said again, softly this time, remembering the old days, then he headed for the door.

  Once out of there, curiously, he felt relieved.

  C13 Anti-Terrorist Branch were full of themselves, a bit like the Flying Squad of the sixties. Since the IRA had calmed down they had been kept under wraps but with the weapons of mass destruction on the agenda they were back, enjoying the attention.

  Once it was discovered that terrorists were not involved in the explosion they quickly lost interest and moved back to their shadowy world. They left their prelim report and an officer to explain it, and left forensics to get on with it.

  In the briefing room they had covered the fire at Buncefield and a vicious knife attack on a young woman and had moved to their own explosion. Superintendent Billingham in his crisp uniform sat tightlipped, square-shouldered 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.