‘Best place for them, I expect.’ Jack loved that Maggie was so wise. ‘Go on then. Tell me about work.’
‘Nah, it’s too late for work talk.’ Jack rubbed his eyes hard. ‘I’ve got a couple of new leads on finding Jimmy Nunn though. One of the women I’m tracking down lives in Taunton, so when I go to interview her, I’m also going to call on Aunt Fran. She fobbed me off the other day on the phone, so I’m going to sit her down and make her tell me what she knows. And a guy called Tony Fisher apparently knew Jimmy really well, so I’m going to see him as soon as I can sort the visiting order.’
He couldn’t see Maggie’s face as he was still rubbing his eyes, but she was now scowling.
‘So,’ she said, ‘the only man you can find who knew your birth dad really well is in prison. Dare I ask what for?’
Jack looked at her with his bloodshot, watery, very tired eyes. He slowly sipped the remains of his wine. She didn’t need to know that Tony Fisher was in for killing someone.
CHAPTER 9
Laura was at the vending machines deciding how much sugar to have for breakfast when Jack walked past.
‘How was the Isle of Wight?’
She hadn’t noticed that he was on his mobile. He raised a finger.
‘Yes, OK, well, will he be back on the wing tomorrow? Ah, day after . . . Yes, it’s in relation to a current investigation. It has no bearing on any conviction he’s in for, no, just background stuff on an old acquaintance . . . If you could, please. Great.’
‘Tony Fisher?’ Laura guessed.
‘The guy’s a pensioner and he took on some 20-year-old wannabe.’
‘And I bet he won. You should read his file, Jack. He’s a genuine, old-school psycho.’
Laura collected her chocolate, crisps and can of pop.
‘Apparently Tony pinned the kid down and snapped both of his middle fingers so that, and I quote ‒’ Jack put on a gruff, cockney accent ‒ ‘ “You won’t be able to wank proper for a munff”!’
Laura let out a loud screech. ‘Is that what Tony sounds like?’
‘Probably.’
Jack laughed and they both headed for the squad room. As they walked down the corridor, Anik ran to catch them up.
‘What’s the joke?’ he panted.
‘You had to be there,’ said Laura dismissively.
Anik’s face fell.
*
There were two evidence boards at the front of the squad room now, gradually filling up with information dating all the way back to 1984. Ridley sat at Jack’s desk while Jack led the room. He pinned up three photos with their names scrawled underneath ‒ Harry Rawlins, Joe Pirelli and Terry Miller – and a black silhouette with a big question mark on the face. Pirelli’s and Miller’s photos were mugshots, but Rawlins’ photo was an old newspaper cutting from the opening of a Soho art gallery back in the early eighties. He had a champagne flute to his lips, his head tilted back and his shoulder towards the camera. In truth, it could have been anyone.
‘. . . see, on the first Strand underpass job, everyone initially thought that Harry was one of the robbers blown to smithereens, but he wasn’t ’cos he was shot by Dolly Rawlins just over six months later. Speculation was that Harry Rawlins was probably behind the second Strand underpass job, and he was definitely behind the diamond heist. Now, if Dolly Rawlins planned to convert The Grange into a kids’ home, she had to have had at least some capital. I know she was going for funding to do the place up, but she gave Ester Freeman £200,000, in cash, to actually buy the place. Where did she get that from, less than one month out of the nick?’
Ridley raised his hand to bring silence to the room. ‘Where is all of this going, in relation to our murder victim?’
Jack paused for a moment to think, which Ridley allowed.
‘Well, sir, we know the cash found at Rose Cottage is likely to be the cash from the train robbery back in ’95, because of the age and volume of the notes. And because of where it was found. Every police report from ’95 suggests that there’s no way the armed robbers could have got that amount of money out of Aylesbury before the roads were closed and the searches began. At the moment, I’m trying to eliminate the women from having anything to do with the train robbery or our murder victim ‒ but I can’t definitively. Equally, I can’t connect them either. It’s far more likely that they’ll end up being potential witnesses to something, rather than being involved.’
Anik exhaled a sharp, short stream of air from his nostrils, as though mocking the non-committal comment Jack had just made.
‘Something to add, Anik?’ Ridley asked.
He knew Jack was dawdling on this investigation, which was something he’d deal with when he was good and ready; but the one thing Ridley hated more than anything else was one copper disrespecting another. That’s not what his team stood for and he wouldn’t tolerate such bad manners.
‘Get up there, Anik, and tell us what you’ve got to add.’
Anik slowly stepped up to the front of the room, next to Jack.
‘Erm . . . Well, Missing Persons has still not given us anything, but I found a . . . erm . . .’ He went back to his desk, grabbed his file and raced back to the front of the room. ‘I’ve been doing some background on John Maynard, the builder who started the conversion work on The Grange for Dolly Rawlins before she died – obviously – and he’s still living in Aylesbury. Also, Jim Douglas, the signalman on duty on the night of the train robbery ‒ I’ve got his current address too. Both of these men have no criminal record and no obvious long-term connection to each other or the women, so, you know, as independent witnesses, they might be useful for us to speak to and see what they recall from the night of the robbery.’
Ridley stood up and, as he walked to the front of the room, Jack and Anik parted like the Red Sea and made room for him to take centre stage.
‘I’m going to arrange for us to go back to Aylesbury tomorrow to see the scene again. Anik, arrange for us to interview Maynard and Douglas while we’re there. Jack, I’ll get the local station down in Taunton to go and see Connie Stephens. I think you traipsing up and down the country is not a good use of your time.’
Jack’s brain silently went into overdrive. Fuck! He had to go to Burnham-on-Sea to see his Aunt Fran.
Ridley continued, oblivious to Jack’s dilemma. ‘Today, I need you all back on Missing Persons please ‒ expand the search radius from Aylesbury. Jack, my office.’
*
Jack shut Ridley’s office door behind him. This was the only other time Ridley’s door was ever closed ‒ when he was in a private meeting. Ridley stood by his expanse of windows, with his back to Jack.
‘I don’t need to know exactly where you are all the time, Jack, but I do at least need to know what island you’re on.’ Ridley moved behind his desk, stuck his hands deep in his pockets and held Jack’s gaze. ‘I mean, that’s just about respect, isn’t it?’
Jack had no choice. ‘My parents set off on a world cruise yesterday. It’s unlikely Dad will come back.’
‘And you didn’t tell me this, because . . .?’ Jack didn’t answer. ‘I won’t tolerate officers who try to pull the wool over my eyes and don’t take the job seriously. I don’t think you do take this job seriously, Jack, that’s one problem me and you have got.’ His tone softened. ‘How long’s the cruise?’
‘Four months.’
‘That’s no time at all, is it? I’m sorry, Jack, I really am. You OK to be here?’
‘Yes, sir. I want to work. In fact, I’d like to be the one who goes to Taunton and interviews Connie Stephens. If I hadn’t seen Ester face to face yesterday, I’d never have figured out that Connie’s B & B was probably going to be called The Grange. That came out of a bit of chat over a cuppa. I’m getting to know these women one by one and so, I’d like to keep control of all the interviews if that’s OK with you, sir.’
Ridley took no time at all to change his mind completely and agree that Jack could go to Taunton
to interview Connie. His focus and commitment was all Ridley ever wanted. And now he felt as though his protégé finally had it.
‘Thank you,’ Jack said. ‘I get the strong feeling, sir, that on this one, we have to go backwards in order to go forwards.’
Even as the words left Jack’s mouth, he wasn’t sure if he was referring to the Rose Cottage case, or to his own search for his birth dad.
CHAPTER 10
On the evening of the diamond raid, Dolly’s only plan had been to make absolutely certain that Harry went down for the crime. She hadn’t even considered where the diamonds might end up – she certainly had no intention of putting herself at risk to steal them. No, this was pure revenge.
But when she learnt of Shirley’s involvement, things started to go horribly wrong. No one Dolly cared about was meant to be at the event, but Shirley, when asked by her new boyfriend to model the jewellery they were intending to steal, had agreed, not knowing that Micky Tesco was one of Harry’s gang.
As soon as Dolly learnt that Shirley was at risk, her plan for revenge vanished in the blink of an eye and was replaced with a desperate need to protect her friend. She knew for a fact that Harry’s gang would be armed.
By the time Dolly arrived at the event, chaos had already taken hold. Police were racing into the building and glamorous people in black ties and ball gowns were flooding out, heels in hand, fear in their eyes. But Shirley was nowhere to be found.
A gunshot echoed from inside the building. Before Dolly knew what she was doing, she found herself running down the back alley and in through the open kitchen door. Dolly had seen many sights she’d rather forget, but none was more harrowing than that of Shirley, dolled up to the nines and as beautiful as ever, lying dead on the kitchen floor in a growing pool of her own blood.
It took Dolly a good ten seconds to realise the horror of what she was seeing. Behind her, Shirley’s low-life boyfriend was frozen to the spot.
As Micky recovered from the shock, he raced forward, pulled the jewels from around Shirley’s neck and disappeared out of the kitchen door. Rage filled Dolly’s heart and she charged after him like a woman possessed.
As Micky ran, he stuffed a dark blue cotton bag into his leather jacket, along with the broken necklace, jumped on his motorbike and raced away. Dolly was right behind him as she launched herself into her car and sped after the motorbike.
As Micky took a sharp right turn, he lost control of his bike and careered into a parked car. Without thinking, Dolly jumped from her car, grabbed the blue bag and broken necklace from inside his jacket, and drove off, leaving him for the approaching sirens to deal with.
When it was safe to stop, Dolly pulled over. Her heart was pounding and she gasped for breath as the tears welled in her eyes. Her fists pounded the steering wheel as she tried to forget the sight of Shirley’s body, but she knew she never could. It was what she deserved. It was she who had called the police and caused the chaos. She had been so consumed by vengeance that she hadn’t given the bystanders a second thought. What had happened to Shirley would be an eternal torment that Dolly would take to the grave.
An ambulance roared past, siren blaring, and snapped Dolly out of her melancholy. She looked inside the dark blue bag and saw jewels sparkling back at her. Diamonds, emeralds, rubies, pearls . . . every gemstone you could think of, encased in gold and platinum. Dolly put the broken necklace – torn from Shirley’s neck – into the bag, pulled the drawstring tight, put it into the glovebox and drove home.
*
The signal box at the old rural track crossing in Aylesbury was now abandoned. The lower half of the small oblong building was mostly wood panelling with two very small windows; it seemed to be entirely separate from the upper half, which was accessed by an external flight of wooden stairs. All of the wood panels were a creamy colour, or used to be, and all of the trimmings were dark brown. Ridley stood in the middle of the disused railway tracks, looking up, oddly transfixed by the signal box. The upper half of the building was all windows, giving a 360-degree view of the surrounding countryside. Each floor-to-ceiling window was split into eight smaller panes of glass, separated by wooden beams in the contrasting dark brown wood. All of the glass panes had been smashed by stones, probably thrown from where Ridley now stood. He glanced down at the sea of heavy gravel beneath his feet and the temptation to see if he could hit a window was almost too much to bear. Laura frowned as she watched a very slight grin creep over his face.
‘I’m not a trainspotter if that’s what you’re thinking, Laura. But I did have a train set when I was a kid. I saved up for two Christmases and two birthdays to buy a signal box just like this one.’
Laura shook her head as Ridley reminisced. She couldn’t imagine he was ever a child. Then Anik appeared at one of the broken windows – ‘stinks of piss in here’ – and Ridley’s beautiful childhood memory was shattered.
Anik stepped out at the top of the external wooden stairs.
‘Stop there!’ Ridley shouted. ‘What can you see?’
‘Nothing.’ Anik shrugged as he glanced down at Ridley’s stern face. He looked around again. ‘The trees would have been lower back in ’95 but, even so, the bridge where the train was held up definitely can’t be seen from here. Can’t see the new housing estate either ’cos of the . . . the . . . erm . . .’ He made a wavy movement with his hand.
‘Terrain?’ Ridley guessed.
‘Yes,’ Anik agreed. ‘The terrain’s, you know, up and down. So, The Grange wouldn’t have been visible from here either. Not much is visible from here, to be fair. Nice view though.’
He walked down the wooden stairs, joining Ridley and Laura on the tracks.
The team then went their separate ways. Anik went to interview James Douglas, the signalman on duty the night the train was robbed. And Laura and Ridley went to interview John Maynard, the builder who had been helping to convert The Grange into a children’s home.
*
Jack was halfway through a 1 hour and 50-minute train journey from London to Taunton. He had his notepad out and was scribbling names down as he searched for various people in the HOLMES database and also googled news articles from back in the day. Jimmy Nunn, ‘Boxer’ Davis, Carlos Moreno, Joe Pirelli, Terry Miller: the same names kept coming up, over and over. The East End of London was definitely a different place back then. The criminal ‘underworld’ was actually quite visible, with everyone knowing who the key players were, who to stay away from, who not to cross. There was a definite hierarchy and it was respected. Not like today. Criminals today never climbed to the lofty heights of ‘notorious’.
Jack came across several old case files belonging to DI George Resnick who, back in the late seventies and early eighties, had seemingly been obsessed with tying the elusive Harry Rawlins to any of the numerous crimes he was suspected of. Resnick had been like a dog with a bone, ignoring all contrary opinions and faithfully following his gut. His name had been dragged through the mud by the gutter press; he’d been suspended, forced towards early retirement, denounced as an embarrassment to the force . . . Still, he stood by what he absolutely knew to be true ‒ that Harry Rawlins was involved in the Strand underpass armed robbery on a security van. It was Resnick, and only Resnick, who’d claimed that Harry Rawlins had survived that otherwise deadly explosion. It was Resnick, and only Resnick, who’d chased a ghost with the absolute conviction of eventually being proved right.
Shit! Jack thought to himself. That’s what I want.
That all-consuming passion for catching the bad guy. That unshakable knowledge you were right.
But Jack knew he was asking for the impossible ‒ because to be that kind of copper, he’d require a nemesis like Harry Rawlins and they just didn’t exist any more. Each day on the job, all Jack was doing was hoovering up scrotes, wasters, druggies and lazy bastards who had decided that crime was easier than working. That’s why the Rose Cottage case was so intriguing and why tracking Jimmy Nunn was so exciting: be
cause he was being taken back to a time when being a criminal was a vocation and a crime could be a work of art. Jack couldn’t quite believe he was yearning for ‘proper’ gangsters, but the thought of his birth dad being part of this old-school criminal underworld was oddly exhilarating.
*
Jim Douglas was a timid, unassuming man who said very little, very quietly. He was round, in his early sixties and bald as a coot. He had a large, rosy-cheeked face with wide eyes like those of a child.
‘You OK being in the garden with me?’ Jim asked Anik. ‘Only, the grandkids are coming for tea and I want to get these trees planted before they arrive.’
He knelt on a flowery gardener’s knee-pad and dug the last hole, as Anik slurped tea from a chipped mug.
Jim’s house sat at the heart of the housing estate that had been built on the grounds once belonging to The Grange, and it was a clone of the rest of the street. But this garden had been lovingly landscaped and was clearly Jim’s domain. At the far end of the garden was a shed and, through the window, Anik could see the top half of a bike with a child’s seat on the back. Scattered about the lawn were numerous footballs, a miniature football net, some plastic skittles and stray pieces from a giant Jenga. Kids were obviously welcome here and any ensuing mess was most definitely allowed. There was even a home-made tree house in an old, sprawling oak that must have been around for centuries longer than any of the buildings which now surrounded it. The oak would have known the Grange women and all of their secrets.
‘Do you remember the night the mail train was robbed, Mr Douglas?’
‘Jim, please. Yes, I remember. Well, I remember my bit. All those police loading the money sacks into the carriage at the crossing, then me sending the train on its way. About a minute later, I heard a massive crack of thunder, then saw the lightning and that was it. Course, it wasn’t thunder at all ‒ it was dynamite on the tracks. Very clever, that.’
Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020) Page 9
