Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020)

by LaPlante, Lynda

  Ridley thought his question was logical, even if it was naïve.

  ‘Not if he left before 2006, because it wasn’t mandatory till then. Jack and Laura, while Anik’s waiting for Susan Withey’s home address to come through from his friend at Paddington Green, I’m going to request permission to see Mike Withey’s service file. Once I’ve got that, I want you two, and only you two, to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. Until we get a positive ID on the body, Mike Withey is just a person of interest . . . but let’s find out a bit more about him. Tread carefully.’

  Anik’s mobile pinged.

  ‘I’ve got an address for Susan Withey, and one for Audrey Withey.’

  Ridley picked up his desk phone. ‘Anik, you’ll lead when we arrive at Susan’s home. Go and prep how you’re going to handle it and you can run it by me in the car.’

  Anik couldn’t believe it. He was going to lead the interview of a case-breaking individual, in the company of his DCI. He almost ran from Ridley’s office, completely forgetting to say ‘Thank you’ or ‘Yes, sir’ or anything at all.

  ‘I’ll find a private room to view the file, sir,’ Laura reassured him as she closed Ridley’s door behind them.

  Jack and Laura sniggered as they followed Anik out.

  Ridley pressed the top button on his phone and waited for no more than five seconds before it was answered.

  ‘Ma’am, I need you to authorise the release of an officer’s service file.’

  *

  Ridley leant forward in the driver’s seat of his BMW and peered through the windscreen. Susan Withey’s house was set back from the road at the end of a gated driveway. The gate was open and a white Smart car was tucked almost out of sight under a tree. Anik sat in the passenger’s seat, using twice as many words as he needed to.

  ‘. . . if they’re estranged, I’ll ask her for Mike’s current address. I’ll also ask if Mike has any children and if we can get a sample of their DNA to check against the cremated rem—’ Anik checked himself. ‘I won’t refer to the body as cremated remains, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ Ridley murmured.

  ‘If there are no kids, then we’d need DNA from an object such as a hairbrush, or an old hat maybe.’

  ‘See how much their house was bought for,’ Ridley instructed.

  The house was in the middle of a long, tree-lined street in Weybridge. Ridley guessed that the purchase price would have been around the £2 million mark and wondered how the hell an ex-copper could have afforded it – unless Susan Withey had been seriously rich before she married Mike. They knew Audrey Withey lived in a tower block in central London because Anik’s mate from Paddington Green had told them as much; they knew she was a retired fruit and veg stallholder, from the numerous police interviews she’d given over the years. The main one being when her daughter was murdered. So, it was highly unlikely that the money for this property had come from her.

  Anik showed the screen of his mobile to Ridley.

  ‘One point five mill, sir. It’s got a double garage, games room and covered swimming pool.’

  Ridley closed his eyes in momentary, silent despair. Not only was Anik seemingly under the baffling impression that Ridley wanted to buy the house ‒ but Mike Withey paying for a mansion with the proceeds of a train robbery suddenly looked like a possible scenario.

  ‘What will you tell her about the body?’ Ridley asked.

  ‘I won’t mention the circumstances or condition of the body, sir. It’s currently just an unidentified male whose physical description is similar to that of her ex-husband.’

  Ridley got out of the car and headed towards Susan’s house. Once he heard Anik’s short steps scurrying after him, he locked his BMW.

  *

  Susan was an austerely beautiful woman ‒ calm and almost serene in manner. Ridley thought she seemed like a person who’d seen bad times, but kept her emotions well concealed. Her jogging bottoms sat loosely on her hips and were rolled up once at the waistband; they looked more like Mike’s than hers. She wore a tight white vest top over her athletic figure. She wore nothing on her feet and her tiny toenails were painted bright red. Ridley thought she must be in her early fifties, but she looked ten years younger than that. Being single and Mike-free seemed to suit her.

  The lounge was minimalist in its décor, with off-white walls, a dark brown wooden floor and white blinds at the windows. No frills, no fuss. Colour was introduced by the red embroidered cushions on the white sofa, and the abstract paintings on the walls. Among the paintings were framed pieces of artwork done by a young child or children. It was as though Susan had very kindly surrounded her children’s artwork with that of adults who had little additional skill, so that all the paintings looked to be on a par with one another.

  Anik carefully and delicately explained that they’d found an unidentified body that could possibly be that of her husband. He was tactful, respectful and, although long-winded, he was doing well, Ridley thought.

  Susan’s imagination, understandably, ran riot.

  ‘How did he die?’ she asked, putting her hand to her mouth.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t divulge that at this stage, Mrs Withey.’

  Just as Anik started to relax, his eyes fell to a newspaper on the table and the front-page story headlined ARSON AND MURDER IN FORMER POLICE OFFICER’S HOME. His expression immediately gave him away. There was no doubt, if Anik ever played poker, he’d lose his shirt.

  ‘No . . .’ she breathed quietly.

  She picked up the paper, dropped to the sofa and quickly scanned the article.

  Anik looked at Ridley for guidance. Ridley turned away and let him get on with it. He had to learn.

  Eventually, Susan spoke. ‘Is this the case you’re investigating?’

  Anik had no choice. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he . . .? Did the fire . . .? Was he alive when . . .?’

  They both knew what she wanted to ask. Ridley took over.

  ‘It’s possible, based on physical description, that the body found in Rose Cottage could be your husband. And we are treating the death as murder.’

  Susan couldn’t get her head round why Mike might have been in Rose Cottage in the first place. She couldn’t think that he had any connection to the place, and this led her to hope that the poor, unfortunate dead man wasn’t her husband at all. Ridley understood that denial is about self-preservation at times of emotional distress, so he didn’t try and dissuade her. From here on, Susan’s demeanour became practical as she spoke about Mike as though he was very much alive, and just missing.

  ‘Mike hasn’t lived here for almost a year, and he does go AWOL quite often, but he’s always in touch with me or the kids every couple of days, even if it’s just a text message. That stopped about a week ago, which is why I called you in the first place. I’ll write down the addresses of his flat and his office for you. They’ll no doubt be in a terrible state, so apologies for that. The office is in a sort of compound shared with other units. There’s a warden who can let you in. It was one of the first places I went actually, when Mike stopped texting. The warden hasn’t seen him since last Wednesday. I’ve got a spare key to Mike’s flat if you want to go there as well. Please be careful. I mean . . . I don’t want him to think he’s been burgled.’

  Whether or not Susan actually still loved Mike wasn’t clear but, as she bowed her head and turned her back, it was obvious that the possibility of him being dead was very upsetting.

  ‘Take anything you need,’ Susan muttered.

  And then she jogged up the stairs to fetch Mike’s flat keys.

  The lounge fell silent. Ridley saw Anik open his mouth at least two or three times to speak, and then think better of it. He was clearly the kind of person who was very uncomfortable with silence; Ridley wanted to train this out of him because police work was more about listening and looking than it was about talking.

  ‘What do you think of the house?’ Ridley asked.

  �
�Smart, yeah.’ Ridley turned to Anik, who instantly knew that his answer had missed the point. Then the penny dropped. ‘Mike Withey was a DC. I couldn’t afford this house in a month of Sundays, so how could he?’

  Ridley’s slight smile told him that was the right answer.

  Susan came back into the lounge carrying a single front door key and two scraps of paper. One was the address of Mike’s flat and the other was a scrappy-looking business card with the unimaginative name ‘Withey Security’.

  ‘This is Mike’s current mobile number?’

  Susan nodded.

  Ridley moved and stood in front of a wall of family photos, showing Mike and Susan with two girls at varying ages, from babies to young women.

  ‘Mrs Withey, in the interest of obtaining a comparative DNA sample for the purpose of identification, the best way would be to get a sample from a child. Would that be possible?’

  ‘The girls don’t live here any more. They’re grown. I . . . How would I explain what you’re doing? How would I explain why you need it? No, I don’t think that’s . . . What else can we do?’

  ‘We could use an item, such as a toothbrush . . .’

  ‘Claire’s got clothes and toiletries here for when she visits.’

  Susan left the room slowly, giving herself time to comprehend the magnitude of going to collect an item that would tell the police whether her husband was dead or alive. When she got back, Anik was waiting, evidence bag at the ready, gloves on. Susan dropped the sparkly pink toothbrush into the bag.

  ‘Thanks, Mrs Withey.’

  Ridley nodded to Anik, meaning it was back to him to question her about the house.

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ he started . . . and the information he needed flowed easily from Susan. She wasn’t thinking about Mike any more; she was thinking about her girls and this made her talk without caution.

  ‘Thank you. Audrey sold a villa in Spain some years ago and gave the cash to Mike. I said if he gambled it away, I’d leave him. So, he bought this.’ Susan shook her head as she remembered how unreliable Mike actually was. ‘From one extreme to the other. He had no idea what actually mattered to me and the kids. He thought this lovely house would solve all of our problems, but that’s all it turned out be in the end ‒ a lovely house. It wasn’t ever a family home, regardless of the pictures on the wall. Nothing more than a façade.’

  ‘I’d suggest you don’t tell Audrey that we’ve been to see you. Let’s do the DNA test first,’ Anik suggested.

  ‘She knows he’s missing, but . . . Well, it’s not unusual for Mike to go off for a while so she’ll not be worried yet. She’s concerned ‒ but not “worried”, you know.’

  ‘I know you mentioned that the text messages stopped but . . . was that the only reason for you reporting him missing this time?’

  Ridley noted how Anik was starting to question intuitively.

  ‘He’d been distracted. I assumed it was by work, or the lack of work. I don’t know. He’d been . . . off. Mike wasn’t the deepest of people so he was easy to read. Something had been wrong for a while.’

  The conversation was rounded off by Ridley asking the harder questions. Questions he knew Anik wouldn’t think of.

  ‘Mrs Withey, could you tell me if Mike still wore his wedding ring?’ And then came the biggie. ‘And do you have the contact details for his dentist, please?’

  A single tear rolled down Susan’s shocked face. The burnt body, whoever he was, wasn’t visually identifiable.

  *

  Back at the station, Jack and Laura were huddled round the same desk in a small, rarely used break room. There was an ancient, unplugged coffee machine in the corner, which was why Laura had requested an urn of hot water, sachets of tea and coffee, disposable cups and a selection of biscuits.

  Mike’s extensive personnel file was scattered all over the table and Jack was randomly showering each sheet of paper with biscuit crumbs as he read. As Jack leant forward, reading intensely while devouring a chocolate Bourbon, Laura sat back sipping her tea. Their knees just about met underneath the narrow table, and all of Laura’s senses focused on the tiny area of skin at the tip of her knee that brushed against the tip of Jack’s.

  ‘Do you think he knew Norma?’ Jack asked, snapping Laura out of her trance.

  ‘I can’t see how he could have. Mike was Met, she was Thames Valley. Their paths could have crossed on a security detail in London maybe, ’cos her mounted division was brought down for large events.’ Laura set aside her teacup and leant forward across the table. If Jack looked up now, their noses would almost be touching. ‘But there’s no record of their teams being on the same detail for anything.’

  ‘He was liked and respected for the majority of his career. Never reported. Never disciplined. Until 1995, when he was hauled over the coals for not revealing a personal connection to a case he was working on.’

  Jack explained, ‘The case was the retrieval of the stolen diamonds. Mike gave his boss, DCI Craigh, a tip-off that Dolly Rawlins knew where the diamonds were, and that she was going after them when she was released from prison. Turned out to be a load of crap, and the tip was nothing more than Mike’s hunch based on his hatred of Dolly Rawlins. He blamed her for the death of his sister, Shirley, and wanted to see her back inside. Mike retired at the beginning of the following year.’ Jack let his hands and the sheet of paper drop heavily into his lap. ‘We’re coming in late on what look like some very old scores being settled here, you know. Our 2019 arson and murder is linked to a 1995 train robbery and the murder of Dolly Rawlins, which is linked to a 1984 diamond robbery and the murder of Harry Rawlins. I just don’t know how.’

  ‘Well, I’ve got enough to show that Mike’s probably definitely dodgy.’

  ‘Probably, definitely? Ridley’ll love that.’ Jack laughed.

  ‘His phone records show that, in recent months, he’s been in contact with his mum, his ex-wife, a guy called Barry Cooper and . . . wait for it . . . a burner phone.’

  Laura held her hand up, palm towards Jack and he high-fived her, ending with laced fingers.

  ‘Definitely dodgy.’

  Jack stood up and headed off to make two celebratory cups of tea.

  When Jack first arrived at the Met, Laura had thought he was moody and standoffish but once they became partners, she began to really like him. He was naturally tactile and, somewhere along the line, she’d become confused by that. She knew he was with Maggie, but she also knew that affairs happened all the time in stressful, potentially violent jobs. It was the uncontrollable adrenaline, the heart pounding, fight or flight situations, it was knowing that your life was in someone else’s hands. Jack turned to her.

  ‘Bourbon?’

  Even mumbling through a half-eaten biscuit, Laura thought his mouth looked lovely.

  Tea and biscuits were put on hold when Ridley called Jack’s mobile and instructed them both to go and search Mike’s place of work. There was a search warrant waiting for them to collect at the court building.

  *

  Withey Security was nothing more than a run-down Portakabin in the middle of a gated lot. Fourteen Portakabins occupied the space, overseen by an ancient warden who was keyholder to them all. The warden stepped into his own Portakabin to find the keys to Mike’s. This Portakabin was more like a caravan, complete with a small TV, a tatty armchair that looked as if it had been re-covered several times, a three-shelf bookcase, and a selection of yachting magazines to pander to the warden’s daydreams. A half-eaten packed lunch sat on top of a miniature fridge and there was a bowl of children’s sweets on a salvaged coffee table. The bowl of sweets was momentarily confusing, until Jack saw the photos pinned to a wooden noticeboard. The warden had a football team of grandkids.

  While the warden searched for the key that unlocked the box of keys bolted to the wall, Jack couldn’t help but focus on a large hole in the top of the right arm of the tatty armchair. He quickly decided that this hole had been ma
de by hundreds of beer bottles sitting in exactly the same spot, over decades of TV watching. Through the uppermost, flowery cover on the armchair, Jack could see snippets of all of the previous coverings – a couple of velour patterns, fake suede, tartan, monochrome stripes, solid black – years of wear and tear that mapped this man’s life. Jack swore he could actually guess the moment that the warden started living with the woman he loved; that move from fake suede to velour was a declaration of his life-long commitment to her.

  Laura watched Jack as he longingly stared, all gooey-eyed, into the Portakabin.

  ‘That’s what separates men from women,’ Laura whispered. ‘You see a man cave ‒ I see a shithole.’

  As the warden led the way to Mike’s Portakabin, Jack could see he had something seriously wrong with his lower back. He stooped almost in half and paused every now and then to look up and see exactly where he was heading. Jack had offered to just take the key and unlock it himself, but the warden had insisted on escorting them to the door because he took his job very seriously and refused to allow any keys out of his sight. As they progressed at a snail’s pace, Jack got some background information.

  ‘How long’s Mike Withey had this office?’

  ‘Since 2003.’ The warden had a surprisingly high voice with a North London accent. ‘Business took a serious dip in the 2008 recession and I hardly saw any of these businesses for almost a year. Mike still kept his partner on, mind ‒ didn’t lay him off or anything like that. I think they go way back.’ Jack was just about to ask about Mike’s partner when the warden continued, unable to see Jack’s expression because his eyes were turned down towards the ground. ‘Barry Cooper, his name is. Nice and easy to remember, ’cos of the legend that is Gary Cooper. Barry’s been with Mike from the beginning. They’re not partners, strictly speaking. Mike employs Barry, but they’re clearly friends on account of the number of empty bottles I clear out of their bin. Proper boozers, both of them. Whisky’s their go-to drink, and cheap crap it is an’ all.’

  The Yale lock on Mike’s Portakabin, and the wood on the door surrounding it, were both scratched from where the warden repeatedly missed the keyhole. Laura was pulling her hair out as he missed the lock with the key, time and time again. Once the door was open, he backed off, perched on the edge of a stack of tyres and waited.