Director's Cut by I. K. Watson Read Free Book Online

cupping his glass.
    “OK, person who logged the report,” Butler said with his pen
poised. He was finding it difficult to accept that Harrison was top of
Sheerham’s hit-list and one of the most dangerous villains in the
capital. Yet he knew it was true. Harrison had been behind some of the
nastiest headlines in the last twenty years and that the coppers hadn’t
been able to nail him was down to fear. It would take a brave man or a
man with a death wish to grass on Ticker Harrison.
    “That's me.” He pulled a face at DC Stanford.
    She tightened her lips, trying not to smile.
    Butler dragged them back. “Harrison, fine. Ticker?”
    “Edward. But don't spread it around. I don't want people mixing me
up with that geezer who married Sophie.”
    “I can see your point. Easy mistake to make.”
    Anian was having trouble. Her eyes betrayed her.
    Butler went on, “Relationship husband. Full name of missing
person?”
    “Helen Anne Harrison.”
    “Is that with an E?”
    “Two Es.”
    “Anne?”
    “Oh, yeah, with an E.”
    The DC had to turn away but her silent laugh still shook her
shoulders.
    Butler ignored her and proceeded with the rest: DOB, age, place of
birth, height, weight, physical peculiarities.
    Harrison said, “What the fuck do you mean? She's perfect.”
“Freckles, tattoos, scarring from an operation or an injury, maybe?”
“Oh. No, no freckles. Maybe one or two on her shoulders, after the
sun.”
    “False teeth?”
    “Are you taking the piss?”
    “No, but I am enjoying it. Birthmarks?”
    “One, not that you'll ever see it.”
    “Well, you know? Just for the record.”
    “A little thing on the side of her fanny, shaped like a pear.”
    “Is that an American fanny or a British fanny?”
    “What?”
    “Front or back, boot or bonnet?”
    Anian turned back to them. She seemed a little more composed but
her eyes still sparkled and Butler knew it wouldn’t take much to start
her off again. What annoyed him most was that she was laughing with
Ticker Harrison and not at him. She smiled sweetly.
    “Front for fuck's sake.”
    “English then. Top of her leg?”
    “No, no, next to the old BBC.”
    “Shepherd's Bush, then. You wouldn't have a photograph of it,
would you, Sir?”
    Harrison's eyes turned to slits.
    “No, right. What side would the birthmark be on? Right or left?”
“As I'm looking at it, right.”
    “That would be her left?”
    “Right.”
    “How big?”
    Harrison made a hole with his finger. “The size of a pea, maybe, the
colour of…” he nodded toward the DC.
    “DC Stanford?”
    “Right.”
    “Nescafe, then, with cream.”
    “You know Cole, don't you?”
    “DI Cole?”
    “He taught you how to take the Irish?”
    “No, Sir. I'm self-taught.”
    “Well, Sergeant…”
    “Butler. Detective Sergeant Butler.”
    “Well, Detective Sergeant Butler, do yourself a favour and teach
yourself something else. Things have a way of coming round. One day
you're going to need a favour and somebody's going to take the piss
out of you…”
    “Right,” Butler said. “Let's carry on.”
    They went through the rest, friends or relatives, places she might
have frequented, health or medical conditions and so on.
    Butler said, “Does she have a driving licence?”
    “Yeah, she's got a licence.”
    “Does she have her own car?”
    “You kidding? The way she drives there's no way she's driving
mine.”
    “She took it with her?”
    “Well, of course she did. She'd drive to the fucking bathroom if that
was possible.”
    From the side of the room Anian said, “Is this Helen?” She stood
gazing at a framed painting of a naked woman. An oil, subdued, heavy
paint where the light shone through, lots of knife.
    Ticker Harrison said, “That's Helen. Now tell me, if you can, that
she ain't perfect?”
    Butler's interest picked up. Maybe it was the woman's lack of
inhibition; there wasn't much left to the imagination. He was surprised
he hadn't noticed it before. It was a pose guaranteed