As Jack stepped out into the street, he heard the unmistakeable deep throbbing of a Ferrari. Like most other people in the street, he stopped and stared to watch the red 375 MM Coupe Scaglietti slow down and pull into the underground car park. And there it was. A personalised number plate: VOE 1. Behind the Ferrari was a white convertible Mercedes. Both cars paused just outside the car park and waited for the barrier to rise for them. The female driver of the Merc got out of her car, strode over to the Ferrari, and bent down to speak to the driver. As she did so, her short, figure-hugging red dress pulled tight across her backside, briefly drawing all the male attention away from the cars. All male attention, that was, except Jack’s. His eyes were fixed firmly on the driver of the Ferrari. But from where he was standing, all he could see was the back of the driver’s head. The woman then returned to her Merc, allowing the Ferrari to drive down the darkened slope and disappear into the underground car park. She then did a clumsily executed U-turn, temporarily stopping all traffic in both directions, and sped away.
As the Merc disappeared, Jack took a quick snap of the number plate, then headed back into the café and ordered another cup of tea.
Jack accessed the HOLMES database on his mobile and checked the details of the white Mercedes. It was owned by a 28-year-old Brazilian woman called Betina Barro. He got her home address from the DVLA and then went to her Instagram account. Here, he found thousands of selfies of Betina from all over the world, standing next to various iconic landmarks, or on picturesque beaches in a tiny bikini. She was absolutely stunning, but Jack wondered how much of her was real, and how many hours it took her each morning to look that perfect.
In any case, he preferred the more natural look. Maggie rolled out of bed in the morning with no make-up and her hair like a bird’s nest, but he fancied the pants off her every single time. She oozed contentment and happiness and that was sexy in a way that Betina, even with her perfect figure, was not. She looked untouchable, like a priceless piece of artwork, and – as such, she was breathtaking at first sight, but wouldn’t remain interesting for very long.
From Betina Barro’s Facebook page, Jack learnt more about her background: her father owned a chunk of their home country the size of Wales and she had a brother, renowned polo player, Alberto Barro. Alberto seemed to have been a star of the polo world in his younger days, but at 38 was now a player-for-hire with no real loyalty to any particular team; he went where the money took him and, in his career, had played for numerous teams across Europe and in the UK, where he once apparently played against Prince William. It was telling that he didn’t stay with one team for very long, suggesting that he perhaps wasn’t an easy man to be around.
Alberto’s photographs showed a fit-looking, handsome man with coal black hair. But, like his sister, his flawless look made him appear fake. Jack thought the beautiful owner of the Merc, and her playboy brother, would easily blend in among the posh horsey set at the annual equestrian event in the Cotswolds.
Jack made his way back across the road, towards the underground car park, where he was stopped at the barrier by the security guard, who asked him for ID. This was a private car park for Emporium businesses only, and the guard knew that Jack did not belong.
Jack played the affable passer-by. ‘No worries, mate, I just saw the Ferrari pulling in and wanted to see if it was a Scaglietti. Never seen one close up . . .’
The security guard assured Jack in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t going to see this one close up either, and to please move on. He sniggered at his own joke and his friend over on the main door to the emporium, joined in. Jack could see that his tradesman’s attire, that had served him so well in the café across the road, was now letting him down.
Jack did as he was asked. But both security guards’ faces were firmly locked in his memory. At some point, he’d be back to set the record straight.
On his way to the bus stop that would take him home, Jack popped into a local newsagent where he bought copies of Vogue, Tatler and GQ. Then he went to a small, pop-up street booth that specialised in selling all of the things you never knew you needed. Jack bought a packet of cigarillos and a fake Bentley key ring. He loved how London catered so openly for those who wanted to adorn themselves with the trappings of wealth, at a fraction of the price. London was all about looking the part: you didn’t have to actually have anything of substance to back it up.
Back home, in the little box bedroom on the first floor, Jack pushed all of the boxes still to be unpacked against the wall and laid an old pasting table across the top of them, in order to make a temporary desk. This room was completely Jack’s responsibility, as it was going to be his office. Which was why everything was still in boxes.
The only thing that was unpacked and ready to be used was the leather office chair. With his makeshift desk now in place, Jack set about making the longest wall of this room into an evidence board, so that he could run this end of the Cotswolds operation from here. It was at this point that Maggie entered carrying a cup of tea and a sandwich.
‘What the hell are you doing?!’ Jack didn’t understand her dismay, as he thought he’d made quite a good job of things. ‘Why are you using a pasting table on boxes as an office desk, when the boxes contain your actual office desk?’ Maggie continued. Jack had no idea that he even owned an office desk. ‘It was one of the first things you bought when we moved in, Jack.’
Jack’s mobile phone suddenly started buzzing away to itself from on top of a copy of GQ as DI Lee called him for the fourth time that morning. Jack ignored it.
‘It’s only Lee. Look, Mags, I need your help. I need a surveillance cover so that I can—’
‘DI Lee?’ Maggie interrupted. ‘Is he the arrogant one or the prick? Never mind. But why are you ignoring him? Remember what I said about egos and working out how to deal with them. Ignoring probably isn’t the best way.’
‘I’m not ignoring him. I’ll call him back in a bit. Listen, Mags, Ridley and I are running this end of things and we speak all the time. The Cotswold team’s DCI has daily briefings with Ridley. No one’s being ignored or left in the dark, honestly. Oh, and you’ll like this, Ridley and their DCI, Hearst she’s called, fancy each other. I mean, Ridley will take months to do anything about it, so nothing will happen, but at least we know he’s human.’ Once Maggie had been placated, he steered the conversation back on course. ‘So, my surveillance cover. I need to create this sort of look.’ Jack dumped all of the magazines into her arms. ‘Help me, Mags.’
*
Jack had never taken a great deal of interest in clothes, which Maggie didn’t mind because it saved them money, and she genuinely thought he looked great in anything. She loved nothing more than looking at Jack’s shoulder muscles beneath a tight white T-shirt.
Today, Maggie took Jack into shops he didn’t even know existed. He hated all of them from the second they entered, because a sales assistant immediately pounced and then proceeded to follow them around, despite the fact that Maggie said firmly that they didn’t need any help. Jack assumed that the assistant suspected them of being shoplifters, who couldn’t be trusted to wander without supervision.
In a Paul Smith shop, Maggie picked out a white linen shirt with a rounded collar. An assistant sprang from behind a rack of trousers, slapped the palms of his hands together in excitement and commented on how distinguished ‘Sir’ would look in this particular shirt, especially if it was underneath a casual navy Harrington jacket. Maggie sniggered as Jack squirmed in the hands of this overzealous salesman, but eventually put him out of his misery by telling the assistant that they did not need the jacket, but that they would buy the shirt. Maggie pointed out to Jack that this particular shirt was in the sale, reduced from £140, to £115. ‘Fuck me, Mags!’ Jack whispered as they queued to pay. ‘I’m not paying £115 for a shirt.’ Maggie said that she’d keep the receipt and, once his surveillance op was over, she’d bring it back.
As Maggie really got into the swing of things, Jack�
��s day went from bad to worse. In the next shop, she made him buy a pair of fawn corduroy trousers and a pair of navy suede loafers from Hackett’s. Jack couldn’t believe how much they’d spent in less than one hour. He had to bring the shopping spree to an end when Maggie tried to make him buy a £20 pair of socks – insisting that it was the latest fashion to go sockless.
Still, on the way home, Maggie spotted a Vivienne Westwood couture shop and tried to convince Jack that he needed a £350 man-bag, but he took her firmly by the hand and dragged her away before she could argue with him.
Back home, Jack put all of his new clothes on and looked at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of their bedroom door. He turned and checked out his backside in the perfectly fitted trousers, and Maggie couldn’t resist running her hands over his buttocks just to make sure. As his wife admired his dashing new look, Jack stood tall with one foot pointing forwards and the other pointing outwards, like he’d seen male models do in catalogues. An image, quite uninvited, popped into his head. It was an old photo of Harry Rawlins taken at an art gallery opening back in the mid-80s. As usual, Harry’s face had been partially hidden from the camera behind a carefully placed champagne glass, but his clothing was on full display. His camel hair coat had hung elegantly over a dark tailored suit, and he wore brown Christian Louboutin Oxford shoes, that Jack now knew must have set him back somewhere in the region of £500. In that old photo, Harry stood exactly as Jack was standing now, in a pose that said, ‘I know I’m worth looking at, but, be careful.’ In that second, Jack knew that his temporary new look was exactly right. This man could infiltrate De Voe’s world. This man would be respected. The clothes made Jack look like Harry but, more to the point, they made him feel like Harry.
Whilst Jack had been admiring himself, Maggie had left the bedroom, and now came back. She handed him a fake Rolex watch bought by Charlie when they were in St Lucia. Jack snapped out of his daydream: in a single gesture, Maggie had highlighted the difference between Jack’s dads. Who was he trying to kid? He was Charlie Warr, not Harry Rawlins.
Maggie slid her arms around Jack’s waist and kissed him. She squeezed his buttocks and whispered, ‘Do you know what I want to do to you now?’
*
Jack stood in the empty bath like Da Vinci’s ‘Vitruvian Man’, wearing just his white Armani boxers, whilst Maggie spray-tanned his ankles. His face, neck and hands were already turning a healthy shade of bronze. ‘When you’re dry and you put those clothes back on, keep your sleeves rolled down, ’cos there’s not enough left in the can to do your whole body.’ Maggie stepped back to admire her handiwork. ‘Don’t get dressed for twenty minutes or it’ll come off.’
‘I’ve got to stand here naked, for twenty minutes!’
Maggie considered Jack’s options. Then she locked the bathroom door and started to undress. ‘All this James Bond stuff is exciting. People will look at you, Jack. Women. And they’ll wish you were theirs.’ Jack stepped out of the bath and, as he lowered his hands to remove his white boxers, Maggie took over and did it for him with a seductive smile on her face.
Making love on the bathroom floor felt like a decadence that they’d neglected for months. They took their time, as though they were the only two people in the world. In truth, they weren’t even the only two people in the house, but that didn’t matter. As Penny and Hannah napped downstairs, Jack and Maggie silently enjoyed each other, for as long as time would allow. Afterwards, Maggie lay on Jack’s chest and, as she listened to his heart slowly come back to its normal rhythm, she purred the words ‘I love you’.
It was another ten minutes before they heard Hannah’s hungry cry from the lounge directly beneath them, and the real world insisted that they return.
CHAPTER 19
DI Lee sat at the desk that used to be Jack’s and stared out of the window. The picturesque view did not lighten his mood.
The rest of the room was a hive of activity as they hunted down the gang’s bolt-hole. No B&B, no hotel, no caravan park, no camping or glamping site had ever booked them in. No lorry parks had registered any unexpected overnighters. No private landowners reported any unwelcome travellers. The best suggestion was from Bevan, who speculated that they probably bedded down in the trailers they hired, an idea that irritated Oaks, as he recalled the stench of bleach that had come from Goodwin’s trailer. If Bevan was right, then he’d missed a trailer full of evidence by one hour! Then Oaks unfortunately murmured a thought out loud: ‘We’re just not thinking like them. Jack would be able to get inside their heads.’
Lee bounced to his feet, sending his swivel chair sliding into Oaks’s desk and spilling his tea. ‘If you think DS Jack Warr sees us as anything more than his country bitches, you’re wrong.’ Lee stormed out of the squad room.
Oaks mopped at his spilt tea with a tissue. ‘DS Warr knows his stuff,’ Oaks mumbled, not caring who heard. Mason looked at him thoughtfully. He didn’t disagree. Outside the window, Lee was pacing the car park, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Mason knew he hadn’t smoked in seven years and didn’t own a lighter, but the feel of a cigarette between his lips calmed him in times of extreme stress. Lee felt out of control of his own investigation and he hated it. Mason knew that, and that it wasn’t something he’d tolerate for long.
*
Jack took the Underground to the police station. His ‘disguise’ was neatly contained inside a long suit cover, folded in half.
He’d been awake half the night, thinking of the best way to engage with De Voe. Looking the part was half the battle, but there was no point in just meeting the man by pretending to be a customer. Jack wanted to catch De Voe’s eye. He wanted De Voe to think that Jack was a man he needed to know. And the best way to do that was not through his legitimate business dealings.
Jack signed himself into the evidence store.
*
The Wimbledon Prowler, Damien Panagos, had been arrested and was now looking at nine years on seventeen counts of burglary. However, not all of the stolen items had been recovered, as Panagos had already had time to sell some of them on. So, the outstanding items went onto a list that dealers like De Voe would have been asked to keep an eye out for.
One such item was a seven-inch platinum and diamond antique bracelet worth around £2,500. This item had finally been found in Glasgow just one week earlier and was currently in the evidence store waiting to be returned to its rightful owner. Jack knew that De Voe wouldn’t know this and would still think the bracelet was missing. Jack pocketed the bracelet and left the evidence store – he’d return it before anyone knew it had gone.
As Jack headed down the corridor towards the main entrance, he was aware of the clock ticking. He wanted to get to the emporium as soon as possible. He also needed to get changed into his ‘disguise’, which he’d have to do in the public toilets as there was no way he was walking out of his police station looking like a rich playboy. As he walked, he ordered an Uber.
‘How’s it going, Jack?’ Behind him, Laura Wade was closing the door to a small briefing room. As Jack turned to face his partner, her eyes widened. ‘Bloody hell, I see you’ve had time to do a bit of sunbathing over there!’
Jack had completely forgotten about the fake tan. It was nothing over the top – Maggie knew what she was doing on that score – but he was certainly more golden-brown now than when he’d left. Jack laughed it off, saying that he often chose to walk instead of drive when in the beautiful Cotswold countryside. He also confirmed that the case was coming to a head and that, yes, he hoped he’d soon be returning to London, because he was really missing the family. Laura smiled. ‘I’m so happy for you and Maggie. Hannah’s such a beautiful baby.’
At the end of the corridor, Ridley briefly came into view as he paused to sign something before moving on, but for those few seconds, Laura’s attention was fixed on him.
‘Laura?’ Jack said, but she didn’t seem to hear him.
So now she’s got the hots for Ridley, he thought to hi
mself.
Laura turned back to him, a flush spreading over her face, as she realised she’d been sussed. Jack’s mobile buzzed to say that his Uber was pulling into the car park. ‘You’d better be quick, Laura,’ he said with a wink. ‘Someone else has her eye on him.’
*
Lee sat in front of Hearst, relaxed and calm. He knew he was in the right. ‘My last instruction, which I made very clear, was to keep me, his DI, in the loop. Now, either his mobile isn’t on, or he’s deliberately ignoring me.’
Hearst sighed. This part of the job was utterly draining. They were meant to be righting wrongs, not bickering. She sat with her elbows on the arms of her chair, and her hands together in concentration. This was her ‘I’m listening’ pose, and seemed to be working because Lee was still talking. His obviously rehearsed speech finally came to an end. ‘If I can’t control every aspect of the case, then I can’t control the outcomes, so blame someone else if all of this goes tits-up.’
Hearst lowered her hands and laid them flat on the desk. ‘You could have come in here and spun a story that left me no choice but to send DS Warr back to London. But you didn’t. You don’t want me to get rid of him; you want me to show him that you’re the boss.’ Lee opened his mouth to speak, but she had no intention of letting him. ‘Now, my question is, why can’t you do that yourself? What I see here, Eamonn, is chest-beating. Showing him that you have the big guns on your side. Well, you do. But I’m disappointed that you feel you need to play that card.’ Lee stayed silent, but felt his colour rising. ‘There is no blanket approach to command, Eamonn. Treat each officer in the way that you need to, in order to get the best out of them. Some of them walk to heel, like good little doggies and others will need one of those bloody annoying extendable leashes to give them a sense of freedom – but at the other end of that leash is you. Let him run for now. Don’t reel him in just for the sake of it.’
Judas Horse Page 18
