Director's Cut (43 page)

“Right,” the manager snapped in his efficient mode. “Be right there.” He turned to the probationer. “Make
notes in your notebook. Be back in a mo’.” He paused, for Miss Knightley had made all the difference
and they were now a brotherhood, and added, perhaps in confidence, “It’s probably the lottery. It causes
more trouble than it’s worth.”

Then he was gone and the door, a fire door that swung shut automatically, swung shut.
And First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason was left alone in the stockroom with the mannequin that
looked like Keira Knightley and, come to that, a dozen other stars that graced the silver screen.
He made a few notes, height, colouring, no obvious blemishes and so on and his closer insp ection got
closer still and, given the circumstances, to obtain a complete picture, he pulled aside her pants.
And that was when the door swung open and Mr Solomon, the manager, and the occupants of CB1, PCs
Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones, stood framed in the doorway. The manager raised an ominous eyebrow,
the brotherhood forgotten instantly, and together, as one, the PCs burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Shit street. There’s one in every town.

As he walked through the police car park to the rear entrance no one seemed to notice him. The uniforms
strolled to their cars without giving him a second glance. In the corridor much was the same, not a glance
or a knowing look. Until, that is, Sergeant Mike Wilson stopped him. He looked after the probationers.
His uniform was too big and flapped around his legs.

“Where are they?”

“What’s that, Skipper?”

“The cigs, lad, the cigs?”

“The cigs?”

“Listen, lad, you’re sent out on a Friday night for one reason
only. You work the precincts and you collect the cigs from the little hooligans
who hang around them. Confiscate the cigs. Share them out with the lads. A dozen
packs or so should do it, depending on how full they are.” “No one told me.”

“No one told you? You’re going to be the bloody flavour of the month if we’ve got to start buying our
own cigs. Have you never heard of initiative? It’s what good coppers are made of.”

The sergeant checked hi s wat ch. “Now, after your break, go out again and check the arcades. Some of
the little bastards won’t have gone to bed yet.”

PC Thomason realized his mouth had dropped again. He closed it quickly and said, “Skipper, it’s the end
of my shift.”

“Wrong. You got it wrong again. It would have been if you’d used your initiative. See?”
The PC nodded gloomily.

“Just remember,” his sergeant went on. “The older kids have wised up so go for the eleven and
twelve-year-olds. And boys, not girls. The girls give you too much lip and it can cause a
scene. It’s the hormones in the food.”

“Right.”

“Oh, and by the way, a word in your shell-like.”

“Skipper?”

“Had a call from the manager of the supermarket. Didn’t use your spray on the model, did you?”
Consternation shook Thomason’s head. He stammered, “No, no!”

“That’s good. We only use that on pensioners.” Sergeant Wilson
nodded. “No problem. I talked him out of making a complaint. Told him you were
still learning the trade. Anyway, get out there and do your stuff. Remember,
keep in mind that the enhancement of a charge is good for the figures, that
abusive behaviour or drunk and disorderly can be written as resisting arrest
and assault on a police officer. It’s a simple spelling mistake. We call it
poetic licence. In the job we’re all fucking poets. Right?”

PC Thomason watched the flapping uniform move off down the corridor and was still thinking about CS
spray as he pushedopen the door to the canteen.

In the canteen everything seemed normal, as though nothing had happened, the other coppers hadn’t
heard about it.

He caught sight of Wendy Booth and Carrie Jones in front of full English breakfasts and they barely
acknowledged him.

First Year Probationer PC Simon Thomason breathed a tremendous sigh of relief as he joined the queue at
the stainless steel counter. Behind him the first snigger began to spread and various faces reddened as
laughter was held in. Lips trembled as they tightened and cheeks blew out until it all became too much.
And then in the room of twenty or more uniforms the uncontrolled laughter cracked the faces and shook
the uniforms beneath them.

PC Simon Thomason stood rooted to the spot, plastic tray in trembling hands, dying a death that awaited
all first year probationers. It was a playground, a vast nation-wide playground, and it was playtime again.

“I’m going to be your Christmas present.”
Maynard reached forward and turned the key. “See, kid, you got it wrong again.”

“What then?”

“Remember the pigs, my mother’s place? Thought you might come up and meet her and spend Christmas
Day with us, that’s all. I’ll drive you back on Boxing Day, if you like.”

“What, like Christmas dinner? Turkey?”

“If you like.”

“Real pigs?”

“You’d have to get used to the smell.”

“That don’t bother me.”

“Well then?”

The wheels skidded on wet grass and they bounced back to the road.

“Left or right? Left is where you came from.” Maynard said. “Your call?”

The clouds had shouldered in again and rain pelted the windscreen. He turned on the wipers, for a
moment blurring the patch of road caught in the headlights.

Jason or Brian or Noel said, “Can I feed the pigs?”

In the darkness Maynard smiled and turned right, north, away from the…city.

……

“OK, guys, thanks a lot. That’s a wrap. See you all next time.
Oh, er, drinks at my place, yeah?”

Thanks to the usual cops and robbers for the insight (they know who they are) and to Dromey Car Sales,
Maltby le Marsh, Alford, for the supply of Ticker Harrison’s classic cars. Thanks
also to Dr Yaya Egberongbe, Consultant in Paediatric Intensive Care, Kings College Hospital, for the
advice on medical matters. Any errors are down to me. Thanks to Andrew Grant for the extracts from
Bikini Line. Apologies to Shayne Ward for supplanting That’s My Goal, the 2005 Christmas Number
One.

Liberties have been taken with the weather conditions during
the weeks leading to Christmas 2005. There was a cold spell from the 11
^th
to
the 15
^th
and northerly winds brought hail and snow to Norfolk on the
17
^th
. From the 21
^st
until Christmas Eve it was mild and
cloudy and the wintry showers did not reach London until the 27
^th
.

The same crime shelves that gave me Paul Johnston’s books also gave me Cops
and other Robbers by I. K. Watson. It’s a nasty book about a nasty subject.
A paedophile has killed one of his victims. Another child is missing. Can the
police find him before this one too is murdered? This is a raw and nasty story
and the writer pulls no punches. No details are omitted, no veil is drawn over
the brutality. It is no secret that I like gory, gruesome books; but this one
was a bit too much even for me.
-
Alan Robson (Coprolithicus)

I picked this one up with apprehension - are we tired of police procedurals?
Not if they have the energy and idiosyncratic detail that Watson specialises
in. Even the now overexposed plot devices (including a hunt for a paedophile)
are handled with a commanding freshness, and it's axiomatic that writers as
talented as Watson can shuffle warmed-over ingredients to produce something
rich and strange. Watson is also good at dealing with the disillusionment involved
in the day to day life of a copper, and DI Rick Cole is a trenchant hero, even
if his drinking is another one of those over-familiar touches. The plotting
is bracingly original, and this deserves to do every bit as well as Watson's
earlier books.
-Barry Forshaw (Crime Time)

This is not a very nice book. It’s peopled by a cast of rank low-lifes and
strungout cops and the villain of the piece is a killer paedophile. You can
almost smell the sweat and stale nicotine in the police canteen, and the panic,
fear and hopelessness on the mean streets you have to walk in Watson’s new novel.
There is a numbing mundaneness to the way the characters talk, reflecting the
fact that the horrors they face, horrors that should turn their stomachs, don’t
any more. Much as you might want to find out exactly why DI Cole had to leave
Scotland Yard for Sheerham, and what happens when the paedophile kidnaps DS
Baxter’s daughter, it won’t be a pleasant journey. This isn’t so much a work
of noir fiction as grise fiction, bleak, soulless and so hardbitten it’s got
no nails left. Dark entertainment, if that’s your fancy.

Serial killers, drug dealers, prostitutes, cat burglars and corrupt coppers
abound in this above-average La Plante-esque crime thriller about a detective
inspector's daughter who goes missing — last seen getting into a car with a
policeman.

Another sensational novel from Watson. A furiously paced story line leads the
reader from scene to scene whilst the in-depth knowledge of police procedures
lends an air of realism to what at times is an almost frighteningly gruesome read.
The reader is dragged from one horrific scene to the next torn between the
compelling story and the need to escape from the darkest side of human nature.
The cold descriptions add a new depth to the shocking scenes of child abuse and
the reader has no difficulty empathising with the hardened policemen as they
reel from shock at the sights they are forced to endure. An exceptional new
novel from the country's leading crime writer marrying an almost gothic horror
with an in depth guide to police procedures. This book is simply too good to
miss.

GRITTY, GRIMY, FURIOUSLY exciting police procedural in which the squad
at Sheerham nick postpone their own sexual misdemeanours (adultery,
occasional harassment) to pull out the stops which will identify and nail a
paedophile whose crimes culminate in ritual murder. Action counter-pointed
with violent doings of local drug lords. A deeply disenchanted (hence, realistic)
view of our boys in blue who, despite their flaws ranging from graft to ultrahorniness
get the job done, Unlikely to make you sleep more soundly, but well
worth reading if you're lying there, awake and worrying.

Det Insp Rick Cole has an exceptionally dirty case of paedophilia to solve when
it starts to look as if victims are being picked up from school in a police car. The
language and action are uncompromising. Only for strong stomachs.

This twin-themed novel part police procedural hunt for child killer, part gangster
turf war — is an uneasy mix in places, but gripping, and packed with
gruesomely authentic detail.

"You're alive today because you do not interfere."
Not since Ted Lewis's Get Carter has there been such a
tough, uncompromising novel about the realities of life
in the British underworld.

If you like your crime writing on the tough uncompromising side, then IK Watson
is the man for you.
His second novel, Wolves Aren't White tells the story
of tough guy villain Paddy Delaney, who is back in
town. He likes to hurt people, especially men who
make a pass at his little sister Julie. Not surprisingly,
he gets the hump when Lennie Webb, singer with the Wolves Aren't White jazz
band, gets fresh - but Julie wants Lennie, that's the trouble.
In fact, Lennie finds himself in trouble not only from Paddy, but from Julie's
nasty habit of lighting matches in the middle of the night. Caught in a situation
from which he can't escape, Lennie is forced to unravel a web of deception and
murder that has made Julie's life a nightmare.

Hard boiled crime in the tradition of the late Ted Lewis.

The Smiths are London's leading crime barons, but Dave Smith's old man is
close to death and the family empire, suffering from its past refusal to enter
the drug trade, is under siege. The Liverpool mob is in town for a spot of whoring
on an up-market Thames barge. The Scots contingent, led by Mad Mick McGovern,
is getting out of hand, and the pushy Americans, who want some of the U.K. drug
trade, include Tony Valenti, who once caught Dave servicing his centerfold wife
and isn't about to forget it. The book, which recalls Barrie Keeffe's The Long
Good Friday... Features several scenes of nasty brutality...

It was "like the marriage of two royal families" when Tom Smith's son wed
Coddy Hughes's daughter, a union that joined two of England's most powerful
crime dynasties. But even the best families fall out, and in his sleek first novel,
Manor, I. K. Watson gives a cool account of the savage mob wars that erupt
when business alliances are compromised by nasty domestic quarrels. Ten years
after that royal wedding, Tom Smith is dying, Coddy Hughes is fading fast, and
the younger generation may not be ruthless enough to turn back the barbarians.
"The end of an era was drawing in," says Dave Smith, to whom his father's
empire has fallen. "The men, the legends, were dying out." Without softening
these hard men or adulterating the cruelty of their crimes, Mr. Watson has us
rooting for the royal scum.

I.K. Watson, a British writer, tells a great story in his debut novel, Manor, of the
Smith family. They're the modern inheritors of the crime kingdom of the Krays
and Richardsons who now find themselves under siege in this hard-boiled crime
novel that I feel is destined to become a classic.

A good, old-fashioned gangster story of revenge and factions warring
over who controls what, where and for how much…