“I’m not playing at anything,” Susan said, waving the picture at him. “With all respect, sir, I don’t care if you are my senior officer, I won’t bloody well have it!”
A hint of a smile came to Hatchley’s eyes. “Calm down, lass,” he said. “You’ve got steam coming out of your ears. Maybe you’re being a bit hasty?”
“No, I’m not. It’s offensive. I don’t see why I should have to work with this kind of thing stuck to the walls. You might think it’s funny, but I don’t. Sir.”
“Susan. Look at it.”
“No. Why-”
“Susan!”
Slowly, Susan turned the picture over and looked at it. There, in all her maternal innocence, Carol Hatchley, with her long blonde hair hanging over her shoulders, held her naked, newborn baby to her breast, which was covered well beyond the point of modesty by a flesh-tone T-shirt. Susan felt herself blush. All she had seen were the woman’s face, hair, and a lot of skin color. “I… I thought… ” She could think of nothing else to say.
“I know what you thought,” said Hatchley. “You thought my daughter’s head was a tit. You could apologize.”
Susan felt such a fool she couldn’t even bring herself to do that.
“All right,” Hatchley said, putting his feet up on the desk, “then you can listen to me. Now, nobody’s ever going to convince me that looking at a nice pair of knockers is wrong. Since time immemorial, since our ancestors scratched images on cave walls, men have enjoyed looking at women’s tits. They’re beautiful things, nothing dirty or pornographic about them at all.”
“But they’re private,” Susan blurted out. “Don’t you understand? They’re a woman’s private parts. You don’t see pictures of men’s privates all over the place, do you? You wouldn’t like people staring at yours, would you?”
“Susan, love, if I thought it would make you happy I’d drop my trousers right now. But that’s not the point. What I’m saying is it’s my opinion that there’s nowt wrong in admiring a nice pair of bristols. A lot of people agree with me, too. But you don’t like it.” He held up his large hand. “All right, now I might not be the most sensitive bloke in Christendom, and I certainly reserve my right to disagree with you, but I’m not that much of a monster that I’d use my rank to expose you to something you feel offends you day in, day out, however wrongheaded I think you are. I respect your opinion. I don’t agree with you, and I never will, but I respect it. I can live without.
“And another thing. I know you’re a bugger about smoking. I’ll try and cut down on the cigarettes in the office, too. But don’t expect miracles, and don’t expect it’s going to be all bloody give and no take on my part. You don’t like my smoke. I don’t like your perfume. It makes my nose itch and it’s probably rotting my lungs as we speak. But for better or for worse, lass, we’ve got to work together, and we’ve got to do it in the same damn little cubby-hole for the time being. Mebbe one day we’ll have separate offices. Myself, I can hardly wait. But for now, let’s just keep the window open and make a bit of an effort to get along, all right?”
Susan nodded. She felt all the wind go out of her sails. She swallowed. “All right. Sorry, sir.”
Hatchley swung his legs to the floor and rubbed his hands together. “We’ll say no more, then. Now, about that wadding?”
“Yes, sir?”
Hatchley burped again and put his hamlike hand to his mouth. “Shaved pussies. Smooth and shiny as a baby’s bottom.”
“Yes, sir.” Susan felt herself blush again and hated herself for it. Hatchley smiled at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself. Her spirits sank. She had thought for a moment that he might be getting serious about the case, but here he was simply creating another opportunity to embarrass her.
“Aye. Now, I know that’s not a lot to go on, but at least we know it’s not kiddie porn or the bum brigade. And we’ve got penetration and a clear image of ‘a penis in an excited state,’ as it says in the book, so this is definitely under-the-counter stuff.”
“True, sir.”
“And as far as I can tell,” he went on, “there’s no sign of dogs or cats, either.”
“Sir, can you get to the point?” Susan couldn’t keep the impatience out of her voice.
“Hold your horses, lass.” He started to laugh. “Get that? No animals. Hold your horses? Never mind. The point is, shaved pussies aren’t exactly ten a penny, though if we’d come up with something really kinky it would have made my job a lot easier. I mean, there aren’t many people sell photos of Rottweilers bonking thirteen-year-old girls that we don’t know about.”
“I still don’t see what you’re getting at, sir,” said Susan, a little calmer. She should have known that, if anyone was, Hatchley would be an expert on pornography. “Surely most of that stuff is sent through the mail from abroad, or from London?”
“Not all of it. There’s a fair chance it was bought under the counter somewhere. When I did my stint on Vice with West Yorkshire a few years back, I made one or two useful contacts. Now, if we’re assuming these lads were at all local, the odds are they’re from the city, as there aren’t that many killers-for-hire living in rural areas. Too exposed. That means Leeds, Bradford, Manchester, maybe Newcastle or Liverpool at a stretch. Now if the boss thinks this Clegg chap from Leeds was involved, then Leeds is as good a choice as any, agreed?”
Susan nodded. “Yes. The daughter, Alison, thought the man had a Leeds accent. She could be wrong about that, of course. Not everyone’s accurate on voices. I don’t reckon I could tell the difference. But it looks like they’ve found the car used for the job there. Anyway, as I’ve already told you, West Yorkshire ’s got some men asking around. Have had for days.”
“Well, you know how I hate sitting idle,” Hatchley said. “Guess where I’ve been this lunch-time.”
“The Queen’s Arms, sir?”
Hatchley smiled. “Not far off. We’ll make a detective of you yet, lass. I’ve been having drinks with an old informer of mine in The Oak, that’s what.” He touched the side of his nose. “Lives in Eastvale now, but he used to live in Leeds. Gone straight. See, I thought I probably remembered a few purveyors of this kind of porn – if they’re still around, that is – and it’s odds on that some wet-behind-the-ears young pansy DC fresh from university doesn’t even know they exist. There aren’t as many as you think, you know, at least not selling shaved pussy porn. It is something of a specialist taste. Anyway, there’s still plenty prefer the friendly old corner shop to the impersonal supermarket, if you get my drift. I’m not talking about sex shops – I imagine they’ve all been checked already – just regular newsagents that sell a bit of imported stuff from under the counter along with their Woman’s Weeklys and gardening magazines. Harmless enough. Hardly any reason for our lads to be interested, really. So I asked my old friend.”
“And?”
“Yes. They’re still in business, still selling the same kind of stuff to the same old customers. Some of them, anyway. A couple have retired, some have moved on, and one’s dead. Heart attack. Not business related. The point is, I knew these blokes were a bit bent, but I left them alone. In exchange, they’d pass on the odd tip if anyone came hawking really serious stuff, like kiddie porn or snuff films. Live and let live. Now, what I propose is that you and me go to Leeds and ask a few questions of our own.” He looked at his watch. “Tomorrow, of course. Don’t worry, I’ll arrange permission from the super and from West Yorkshire CID. Are you game?”
Susan was aware of her jaw dropping. He made sense, all right, and that was the problem. She was about to go on a porn hunt with Sergeant Hatchley, she could feel it in her bones. But it could pay off. If it led to the owner of the wadding, that would be feathers in both their caps. She swallowed.
“It’s a hell of a long shot,” she said.