Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020)

by LaPlante, Lynda

  ‘You sure it’s me you should be saying that to and not Jack?’ Anik quipped, rather pleased with himself. Laura spun her chair and glared at him.

  ‘I’m positive, DC Joshi. You know, being a sergeant is about understanding your team and how to get the best from them. With that in mind, I’m going to put the kettle on and make you a green tea to help you do the boring bits of the job, such as sitting at your desk trawling through Missing Persons.’

  Laura stood and headed out before she said something she’d regret.

  *

  Jack had to double-check Ester’s address when he finally arrived, because the house he was now looking at was a stunningly beautiful beachside property in Seaview, just south of Ryde. How on earth could an ex-con afford this place? The road he’d come in on had brought him past a yacht club, brimming with blazered gents and Pimm’s-supping ladies all showing off their knees regardless of the fact that it was cloudy with a stiff breeze. Every other building was a hotel or B & B and the beach was a characterful combination of fine sand and rock pools. Boats were sprinkled throughout the calm sea, pushbikes outnumbered cars, grown-ups wore deck shoes whether they owned a boat or not, and children mostly wore no shoes at all. People sat on the sea wall with fish and chips, or a pint of beer, or both. On one stretch of sand, canoes stood up on their ends in what looked like a revamped bike rack. The houses were sensibly spaced, not crammed in like in big cities, and there was green space in between them. Seaview was allowed to breathe. Jack took in the stunning scenery, the calm, quiet feel, and the crisp clean air. I’d be bored shitless within minutes, he thought to himself.

  Jack knocked at number 34 and the door was opened by a short, balding man. He had a wealth of hair in a semicircle that didn’t go higher than the top of his ears. He had a large grey moustache that left his mouth entirely to the imagination and he wore round, wire-rimmed glasses, as well as a tight white muscle T-shirt over his less-than-impressive abs, black shorts that stopped just above the knee, a black maid’s apron complete with white frill around the bottom edge, and pink slippers. A pair of bright yellow washing-up gloves poked out of one apron pocket and there was a bulge in the other apron pocket that – if Jack didn’t know better – was the size and shape of a pair of handcuffs. The short man stood and looked at Jack, seemingly with no intention of speaking first.

  ‘Sorry.’ Jack suddenly realised that he’d been staring for some time. ‘I’m looking for Ester Freeman.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name’s Jack Warr. I’m a DC with the Metropol—’

  The small man’s face suddenly beamed. ‘Oh, come in, love. She’s in the orangery.’

  Ester was lounging with a copy of Marie Claire, a cigarette and a glass of red wine. A half-empty bottle of McGuigan Classic Cabernet Sauvignon sat on the table next to her, as did a well-thumbed copy of Men’s Health. In the corner of the orangery was the box that the wine had arrived in ‒ it was a bulk-buy deal, a dozen bottles for £49.99, delivered free to your doorstep. Jack and Maggie shopped for wine in exactly the same way. They’d sign up, get the first case at a third of the actual price, then cancel the subscription. Looking round, Jack saw Ester had clearly done this with at least four different companies. He smiled to himself. I like her!

  Ester’s hair and nails were immaculate, although the tips of her fingers were stained yellow from decades of smoking. She wore a long tan-coloured cardigan that, when she was standing, would come below her knees; underneath, she wore a pair of loose cotton trousers and a vest top slightly too low for her 74-year-old cleavage. The cardigan hung provocatively off one shoulder as she read. She slowly closed her magazine and looked up, silently indicating that the short man could now speak.

  ‘DC Jack Warr from the Met, no less,’ he announced. He turned to Jack. ‘Tea or wine?’

  ‘I’d love a cup of tea. Thank you.’

  The short man made for the door.

  ‘Geoffrey, darling.’ He paused. ‘Find some biscuits. No. Cake! Find some cake. And make a pot, I’ll indulge as well.’

  Once Geoffrey had left, Ester focused on Jack. She looked him up and down, admiring every one of his youthful lines and curves – and she made no bones about it.

  ‘Sit anywhere, darling.’

  Jack sat directly opposite Ester in a huge, overly cushioned, wicker garden chair.

  ‘How can I help you, Detective Constable?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to you about your time at The Grange, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘The time I whored young girls out to wealthy businessmen? Or the time I emptied the contents of a handgun into Dolly Rawlins? You’ll have to be more specific.’

  Ester’s face remained deadly serious as she stared at Jack, but her eyes twinkled.

  ‘Nineteen ninty-five, please, Miss Freeman.’

  Jack wasn’t going to be intimidated by an old madam like her.

  ‘You’d have been, what, ten years old? Why do you care about what happened so long ago?’

  ‘You may have read in the news about the fire at Rose Cottage in Aylesbury?’

  Ester sat forward in her seat. ‘I don’t read any news relating to the world outside Seaview . . . but I’m intrigued by Rose Cottage burning down. And I’m even more intrigued by why a DC from the Met has come all the way to Seaview to chat to me about it. Why not just send a local plod round?’

  Jack didn’t answer; instead he continued with the questions he needed to ask.

  ‘Can you tell me about the time you lived at The Grange in 1995, please?’

  Ester sat back again. ‘Fucking disaster waiting to happen. I mean, a murderess, a fraudster, a gunrunner, a druggie and a couple of whores trying to open a kids’ home! I assume you know everything about each of us already, so I doubt I’m telling tales. Julia and Gloria might have been looking for a new start to their shitty lives, I suppose. Connie and Kathleen were looking for someone else to make the decisions – useless bloody pair. I was looking to scam Dolly Rawlins out of her cash.’

  Geoffrey entered with what looked like afternoon tea for two on a silver tray. He handed Jack a garish, flowery side plate with scalloped embossed edges and instructed him flirtatiously to help himself to anything he liked the look of. He then poured two cups of tea, handed Ester her plate and left the room.

  ‘Delightful, isn’t he?’ Ester grinned as she loaded her tiny side plate with three different types of cake. She ate with no regard for the fact that she was also talking. ‘He was one of my first customers at The Grange back in the eighties. He would only see me, which was very flattering. He’s supremely loyal. Thirty-odd years on and he still adores me.’

  ‘This is his place?’

  ‘Well, it sure as shit ain’t mine, is it, my darling? Have some cake, Jack ‒ I’ve decided I’m going to call you Jack.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Jack replied as he put his side plate down and sugared his tea.

  ‘Geoffrey’s a Switch. Do you know what that is, Jack?’ Again, Ester didn’t pause for a response. ‘It means that sometimes he likes to be the Dominant and sometimes he likes to be the Submissive. Clearly, he’s a Sub this week ‒ which is the only time I get the housework and baking done, so you’re lucky there. If you’d popped round last week, you’d have found me shackled to the bed . . . You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you?’ And she filled her mouth with a pink square of Battenberg.

  Jack hid his snigger in his cup, which made Ester laugh out loud.

  ‘We can’t hide who we are, Jack. So why bother trying?’

  ‘You said that Dolly Rawlins gave you cash?’

  ‘She bought The Grange from me for £200,000, which was £100,000 less than it was worth, but it released me from some big debts and gave me the freedom to do what I wanted to do. Only problem was that I didn’t know what I wanted to do, so I stayed at The Grange until I decided. I ate well, drank well, fucked Julia. And then, one day, four suits from the council rolled up unannounced to do a spot check. They wan
dered down to the basement and caught me and Julia going at it in the sauna – not the sort of image they had in mind for a kids’ home, so they pulled Dolly’s funding. She blamed me entirely and told me to get out.’

  ‘So, you shot her?’ Jack asked cautiously, certain there was more.

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ Ester said, as though her reaction of murder had been a perfectly sane one. ‘No? Well, lucky you to have always had something to live for, Jack. It was the second time in my life that I saw red and thought, Fuck this. She betrayed me first, Jack. She screwed me on the money because she knew I was out of options. Dolly Rawlins was a prize bitch. How she’d survived into her forties without being shot by someone is beyond me.’

  Jack’s next question was not on his list, but he felt compelled to ask, ‘When was the first time you saw red and thought, Fuck this?’

  Ester smiled. She didn’t mind Jack’s overly personal question and she even liked the fact that he was brave enough to ask.

  ‘When I was twelve and my uncle Derek forced himself into me for the first time. I thought, Fuck this, Uncle Derek, and I stabbed him in the ball sack with a pair of scissors.’ Ester howled with laughter. ‘ “What doesn’t kill you . . .” as they say.’

  ‘Do you remember the train robbery of ’95, Miss Freeman?’

  ‘If you don’t call me Ester, I shan’t answer another one of your questions.’

  ‘Do you remember the train robbery of ’95, Ester?’ Jack repeated obediently.

  ‘I remember your lot tearing The Grange apart at some ungodly hour. We didn’t know what it was about at the time, but I was flattered when I found out! I’ve never been accused of anything so clever before.’

  Jack went on to ask a few more questions, but Ester’s recollection aligned with Bill Thorn’s, and the statement she had given back in 1995. He was already getting the feeling that interviewing all of The Grange women was going to be a waste of time, but it had to be done.

  ‘I don’t suppose you know where Julia Lawson, Connie Stephens and Angela Dunn are now, do you?’

  ‘Have you tried prison? They’re probably there. Too stupid to stay out, those three.’

  ‘They’re not in prison.’

  ‘Oh. Well then, Julia will be in a gutter or a mortuary somewhere ‒ just can’t leave the “nose candy” alone or, more accurately, it can’t leave her alone. Connie will be lying on her back underneath some violent, possessive dickhead ‒ it’s all she knows and she’s never had an original thought in her life. And . . . who else?’

  ‘Angela.’

  ‘Oh yes, her. I don’t know. I recall her being a worse maid than Geoffrey, so I doubt she’ll be doing anything that requires intellect. Thick as pig shit, and that’s being rather unfair to pigs.’

  *

  Jack sat on the sea wall with fish and chips and a pint. The sea was out and some of the closer boats now lolled on the seabed. He looked at the horizon and tried to imagine where his parents were and what they were doing. He smiled as he pictured his dad losing in the casino, and his mum placating him with a cocktail in her hand that she didn’t even know the contents of. She’d have simply chosen a name she liked – she did exactly the same with the horses in the Grand National.

  He checked his notes on the three remaining women from The Grange. He considered Ester’s opinion of Connie as a woman who’d never had an original thought in her life and he wondered . . .

  He called Laura. ‘Do me another favour, please?’

  ‘ “Hi, Laura. How are you?” ’ she interrupted sarcastically, then quickly added, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Connie Stephens. Can you see if there’s a B & B in Taunton called The Grange?’

  Jack could hear Laura tap-tapping away on her keyboard. She spoke the words as she typed them, which was a habit of hers that he hated.

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said as she waited for the search results to show up, ‘Arnie Fisher died in 2012 from AIDS. And Tony Fisher’s in Pentonville for manslaughter. He’s got four years left.’ Then more tap-tapping.

  Before Jack could thank Laura for her help, he heard Ridley’s distant voice at the other end of the phone.

  ‘How are the Fishers connected to our murder victim at Rose Cottage?’

  Leaving Laura to stumble her way through a half-remembered response about the Fishers’ connection to Dolly Rawlins, Jack leapt off the sea wall, binned his fish and chips and grabbed the first person he came across.

  ‘Where would I find a taxi, please?’

  ‘Ryde train station’s your nearest taxi rank ‒ an hour’s walk that way. But John at the post office sometimes . . .’

  Jack raced towards the post office, phone clamped to his ear.

  Ridley was asking about B & Bs in Taunton.

  ‘Jack had a hunch that Connie’s B & B in Taunton might be called The Grange, so I’m seeing what’s registered and cross-referencing . . .’ Jack heard her tapping the keyboard.

  Ridley interrupted her. ‘Why’s Jack got you doing it? Is that him?’

  There was a muffled sound as he snatched Laura’s mobile.

  ‘Jack?’ Ridley boomed before realising that he was shouting. ‘Jack,’ he said more quietly, ‘when you get back, I want a full debrief in my office.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jack, trying not to sound out of breath.

  Should he explain to Ridley about the importance of buying his dying dad a prime fillet steak for the last time and hope he cared enough to be lenient? Or should he stick to the lie he’d planned about helping the Port Authorities with an invented disruptive passenger? Would Ridley believe he was a dutiful policeman? In reality, this thought process only took one second, and before he could begin his lie, Ridley cut in.

  ‘You running? Where are you?’

  Jack braced himself for a bollocking.

  ‘Um . . .’ he began, but Ridley interrupted him again.

  ‘Hang on, Jack. Laura says there is a “Grange B & B” in Taunton with the registered owner showing as Connie Stephens. How did you get to that?’

  ‘It was something Ester said about Connie never having an original thought in her life, sir.’

  Jack could hear a change of tone. ‘Well done. I’ll see you when you get back later. What time do you expect that to be?’

  Jack looked at the post office up ahead. Maybe he’d be lucky.

  ‘Public transport’s a bit of a pain, sir, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  *

  Ridley handed Laura back her mobile.

  ‘That boy thinks I was born yesterday,’ he mumbled. Then louder, ‘Right, you lot! Let’s face front for a minute, please.’ Ridley’s team turned towards him. He picked up a whiteboard marker and wrote underneath the photo of Connie Stephens, The Grange B & B, Taunton.

  ‘Missing Persons is an arduous task, so thank you all for your hard work so far. Our murder victim is in there somewhere, he has to be, so keep at it. Laura, what do we know about the kids’ home Dolly Rawlins was planning?’

  ‘It’s legit, sir. There’s a paper trail of loan applications, building inspections and quotes, legal documents from social services, and a background check on Dolly Rawlins. The prison warder at Holloway gave her a glowing report, saying she was a model prisoner who helped guide the young mums. Rawlins frequently talked about opening a kids’ home when she was inside. Half her wing wanted her to take their kids on till they got out.’

  ‘Right, so it seems The Grange women weren’t in Aylesbury under false pretences. Anik?’

  ‘ “Sheila” isn’t Danny Green. As of last night, Danny’s in lock-up downstairs for flashing at a girls’ hockey team. So the word “pervert” painted on the wall probably does relate to him and not “Sheila”.’

  ‘And Jack’s on about the Fisher brothers. Why?’ Ridley turned to Laura.

  ‘Because they’re part of Dolly Rawlins’ past. Arnie’s dead and Tony’s inside. I think the connection is more to do with Harry Rawlins than Dolly. The men a
ll shared the same patch back in the eighties, so ran in the same circles. Harry Rawlins was the one behind the Strand underpass robbery in ’84. I think Jack’s looking at how involved Dolly might have been.’

  ‘Well, if Jack was here, we could ask him, couldn’t we?’

  Laura didn’t like being spoken to as though she was in cahoots with Jack, although it was true.

  ‘Right,’ Ridley continued, ‘the priority is still to identify our murder victim so, tomorrow, it’s straight back on to Missing Persons, please, for all of you. We’re running his DNA against the Misper database, aren’t we?’ There was a sea of nodding heads. ‘Good.’

  Ridley went into his office and closed the door.

  Ridley’s door was always open until that time of day when he wanted no more conversations, no more questions and no more work to cross his desk. It was the moment his team knew they could wind down, finish what they were doing and slowly filter out over the next hour or so. Ridley would be last to leave. He always was.

  *

  It was nine o’clock by the time Jack got home and Maggie was curled up on the sofa with a glass of red wine from their very own bargain box.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Why aren’t you at work?’ Jack asked, as he sat down next to her with an empty glass and an expectant look.

  Maggie filled his glass for him. ‘I took the night off to be with my lovely man, after his very tricky day.’

  Jack let his head flop onto the back of the sofa.

  ‘Very tricky . . .’ he said. ‘Between the pervy old weirdos and keeping Ridley off my back, I’m exhausted.’

  He glanced at Maggie with a tired smile on his face. She wasn’t smiling back.

  ‘I was talking about saying goodbye to Charlie and Penny.’

  Jack put his hand on Maggie’s knee. His day had been so hectic, he’d almost forgotten how it had started.

  ‘Sorry, love. I bought them a pub lunch, we shared a bottle, I waved them off. They had huge grins on their faces the whole time.’ Jack glugged half his wine down in one go and rested his head back again. ‘I know they know what’s happening, Mags, but it’s like they’re in a world of their own.’