Free Director's Cut by I. K. Watson Page B

the terraced row was well lit by street lamps.
    The officers moved in, crouching low beneath garden walls and
hedges, holding their batons like they might have held shotguns. The
steel ram, the key, was used and, with two thrusts the front door was
smashed aside. Then silence was irrelevant. Commands were shouted,
lights were thrown on, heavy boots thumped on the stairs and officers
crowded into every room. They found two children in the small
bedroom, the adults in the rear. Rodney Grant was allowed to dress
while his girlfriend screamed abuse. Cuffed and flanked by two eager
PCs he was marched to the nearest police car. Lights in neighbouring
houses were switched on. More curious neighbours watched from their
front gardens.
    In the car in front the buzz increased the volume. It was like alcohol
on an empty stomach. The thrill was real. The bust was great and the
anticlimax of the paperwork hadn't yet kicked in.
    Chas Walker told Peter Ward and anyone else who was listening,
“That tart had so many rings on her face you could've hung a fucking
curtain on it.” He was referring to Rodney Grant's girlfriend.
In the back seat Donna Fitzgerald remained tight-lipped. At the
beginning of the day, just like at the end of it, all men were bastards.
Right?
    Rodney Grant was scrawny, tattooed, no more than nine stone and no
taller than five-seven. And the closest he'd come to forty-quid
aftershave was in his girlfriend's catalogue. He reeked of stale beer,
tobacco and tooth decay.
    Cole's eyes were sleepless. By the time he arrived at interview room
3 he was already shaking his head in the knowledge that they had the
wrong man.
    He toyed with the notion of giving the interview to Fitzgerald and
Carter. It was always a good idea to keep the big guns until later.
Watch it through the screen, perhaps. See what the body language told
you, the nervous scratch on the nose, the unconscious hiding of the
lips, the sweat, that sort of thing. But he needed to move this one
forward without wasting time. He wanted Grant TIED so they could
concentrate on the real thing.
    A uniform stood aside as Cole entered. Donna Fitzgerald sat before
Rodney Grant. Grant was smoking, elbows on the table, faded tattoo of
a snake wrapped around a knife on his left forearm, not at all fazed. He
was a regular and police interviews were no big deal. He was almost
bored by the proceedings.
    Cole took in the sunken features, the sharp eyes and the lines of
corruption that etched his face. He sat opposite.
    Grant blew him some smoke and said calmly, “Can we get on with
this? I'm tired. I was up early.”
    “This is a no-smoking area so put that fucking thing out.”
Grant's eyes widened. He looked for an ashtray then ground the butt
beneath his heel.
    He said, “Happy?”
    Cole said, “No, I'm not. And most of it's down to little toerags like
you.”
    PC Fizgerald reached to the recorder.
    Cole said, “You don't want a brief?”
    “No need.”
    “What do you do for a living, Rodney?”
    “This and that. At the moment I'm caretaker at the Carrington. Get
you some tickets if you like. You'd get to see Anthea take her clothes
off.”
    “Day before yesterday, around eight in the evening?”
    “I was out.”
    Cole waited. His eyes grew colder.
    “Walking, you know? Contemplating the state of the nation, that
sort of thing.”
    “That's good.”
    Donna watched Cole with more interest than was healthy, but she
couldn't help herself. She was in free fall, helpless, caught up in some
chemical reaction that was beyond logic.
    Cole continued, “I want you to think carefully about your next
answer.”
    Grant looked into Cole's eyes and recognized something he didn’t
like at all. He shifted in his seat. The lines on his face looked painful.
His lips twisted and he rubbed the snake tattoo so that it appeared to
slither around the dagger.
    “Right," Grant said suddenly. "I've thought. Call it community
spirit.”
    Cole nodded, “That’s good. I do like it when