Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020)

by LaPlante, Lynda

  Just then, a second torch light joined Jack’s ‒ but this one was bigger, brighter and was being held by a broad Glaswegian.

  ‘Who you looking for?’

  Jack couldn’t see the man behind the light as his beam was blinding. He could, however, just make out that he was holding a round-head shovel over his right shoulder. Jack immediately got his warrant card from his pocket and held it in the light.

  ‘I’m from the Met,’ Jack said. ‘Sorry if I’m not meant to be here. The gate was open.’

  The Glaswegian dipped his torch. He was a small man, wiry, young, tattooed to the hilt.

  ‘Who you looking for?’ he repeated.

  ‘Harry Rawlins.’

  The Glaswegian started to walk away, so Jack followed.

  ‘Ya drugs polis? I was nicked three years ago for intent to supply. Best thing that ever happened to me. Got put here for ninety days of payback, picking up litter and dog shit ‒ do you know how many people just leave their dog’s shit lying around? Properly boils my piss, that does. When my ninety days was up, I got a job doing exactly the same thing.’ The Glaswegian let out a short, sharp belly-laugh. ‘Funny, right? This was meant to be a punishment and it turned my life around. We buried a lady just after five o’clock and the family left pot plants instead of bunches, so I’m planting them up for her. She’s got a sister landing from Canada in the wee hours and I want the grave to look nice, you know.’

  ‘I’m glad you’ve straightened out. Good for you, mate, it’s not easy.’

  ‘Everything’s easy when you know why you’re here. I never knew why I was put on this earth until the day I got that community service. Boom! It was like that. Boom! I’m here to look after your loved ones. Life’s easy now I know. Clean, too. Not touched drugs since, unless you call a wee nip “drugs”, which I suppose it is. Rawlins, Rawlins . . . Here you go. Harold Rawlins. One of two.’

  The headstone was ornately carved and rather grand compared to those around it. The inscription read: ‘12 May 1941 – 12 August 1984. Always loved, in death as in life.’

  ‘Is he the one? There’s another round the back. Died not long after. Weird. Funny what you can tell about a person from their grave. Tall, nice headstone, pride of place. This guy was loved. The other “Harry” . . . not so much.’

  The second grave was marked with a small stone wedge and a brass plaque simply engraved with Rawlins’ name and his years of birth and death; no months, no message. But this was where Rawlins actually lay.

  ‘Thank you,’ Jack said.

  The Glaswegian nodded and backed off respectfully. Jack turned his phone torch on again. There really was nothing to see at this sad little graveside. Then . . .

  ‘Excuse me!’ Jack called.

  Next to this small, untended grave was another small stone wedge bearing the inscription: ‘Dorothy Rawlins. March 1941 – August 1995.’ This grave had had a recent visitor, because fresh flowers lay on the grass.

  ‘Do you know who visits Dolly Rawlins?’

  ‘A wee girl. Only seen her a couple of times. Young. Petite.’ The Glaswegian shrugged. ‘I stay out of the way when people come visiting. Sorry.’

  ‘No, you’ve been really helpful. Thank you.’ As the Glaswegian walked away for the last time, Jack added, ‘Look after yourself.’

  The flowers on Dolly’s grave were no more than a couple of days old and had been taken out of their wrapping, so Jack wouldn’t be able to trace where they were bought. He’d have to dig into Dolly’s family history – but ‘young and petite’ definitely didn’t describe either Connie or Ester. Maybe the flowers weren’t relevant at all.

  Jack made his way back round to the first grave of ‘Harry Rawlins’ – the one with the ornate headstone. This was the grave that held the most interest for him, because someone else was down there: someone who had been buried in Rawlins’ place; someone who had been blown to smithereens in the botched Strand underpass robbery and misidentified. Someone wearing Harry’s gold watch. And Jack was going to find out who that was.

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘You want to what?’ Maggie asked.

  They were standing in the middle of the spare bedroom, which now looked like a full-blown evidence room, with photos, notes, names and places all linked together with bits of different coloured string. She wore one towel round her body, one round her head and held two glasses of red wine.

  ‘You want a coroner’s permission to dig up a coffin on the off chance that the body inside is Jimmy Nunn’s?’

  Jack took one of the glasses of wine from Maggie. He knew not to disturb her when she was in full flow.

  ‘How you going to manage that exactly . . .? “Oh, guv, you know that grave that half of London thought belonged to Harry Rawlins? Well, can we dig it up please ’cos I think my dad might have been the getaway driver in an unsolved raid on a security van?” ’

  ‘I didn’t say Jimmy was dead. In fact, if Tony’s right, Jimmy walked away clean with pockets full of cash. But someone’s in there, Mags, and it definitely isn’t Rawlins.’

  ‘Who cares? Genuinely, Jack. Who cares which deadbeat gangster got buried 35 years ago?’

  Jack looked at her with his beautiful, wide eyebrows-up eyes. He cared. Maggie put down her wine and cradled his face in her warm, water-wrinkled hands.

  ‘You confuse me so much,’ she whispered. ‘I see the excitement in your eyes when you talk about this case and about your birth father and I love it, but, Jack, you have to think straight. For 35 years, the police haven’t given a toss who’s really in that grave. How are you going to make them care now?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Jack conceded. ‘I’ll need to think of a far more compelling reason than just some missing gangster. Thanks, Mags. What would I do without you, eh? Did you leave the water in?’

  And he headed for the bathroom.

  Maggie looked around the spare bedroom in despair. Jack had finally found his passion, his focus, his smile ‒ and it made her deeply worried. Instead of being the making of him, she worried it might actually be the breaking of him.

  *

  Jack had been parked outside Julia’s home for about an hour, watching the comings and goings. What he first thought was a small mid-terraced two-up, two-down was actually three small terraced houses knocked into one. He discovered this when a little black girl with braided hair and a bright pink hoody went in one ‘house’ and, moments later, came out of another.

  This part of Chester was middle income, and Jack reckoned Julia owned a good £300 k of property between the three terraced houses. He knocked on the front door nearest to where he’d parked. From inside, Jack could hear a woman’s voice shouting instructions about not doing anything else before she got back, then the door was opened by a tall, slim woman, wiping her floury hands on a souvenir tea towel slung over her shoulder.

  ‘Julia Lawson?’ Jack asked. He couldn’t help the tone of the question: he could see she’d spotted him for a copper.

  Julia blocked the doorway, as if protecting every living soul beyond it.

  ‘You have to call first. If you don’t call, I have the right to turn you away. These kids don’t like surprises.’

  ‘I’m not here to see any of the children, Miss Lawson. I’m here to see you.’

  A crash from deep in the house forced Julia to step back and Jack followed her into the kitchen. The floor was covered in cake mix and two young boys stared up at Julia like butter wouldn’t melt. She handed the older one a five-pound note.

  ‘Tidy up. Go and buy a cake.’

  Then she headed into the conservatory.

  Numerous kids played in the back gardens, which, just like the houses, were all knocked into one. The ages ranged from about 6 to 16 and they spanned numerous ethnicities. The conservatory was like half a goldfish bowl and, from here, Julia could see every inch of the garden. Nothing was getting past her. The low windowsill that ran around the edge, only stopping to accommodate two sets of double doors, was filled
with picture frames of various kids. Some photos were sun-bleached with age, other were newer – but all were displayed proudly. One wall in the lounge they passed through was also floor-to-ceiling pictures. Julia had pointed to them.

  ‘Some of the kids can’t be photographed, but those who can are in a frame somewhere in the house. It’s important for the new kids to see that they’re not the only ones. It can feel lonely, thinking everyone else’s life is better than yours.’

  The older kids in the garden eventually noticed Jack and instinctively moved closer to the conservatory in case Julia needed them.

  ‘I’m DC Jack Warr from the Met.’

  Julia stood silent, waiting for him to explain further. But he didn’t.

  ‘How many kids do you look after here?’

  ‘I thought you weren’t here for the children.’

  Julia clearly didn’t trust the police and nor did the kids in the garden.

  ‘I’m not. I . . .’

  Jack looked through the window at the happy children and finishing this sentence suddenly became very hard. Julia recognised a lost child when she saw one and guessed that he had started life in a place like this. No one said anything for a moment.

  Jack smiled as he started again. ‘I hear you work wonders with the kids. I spoke to a colleague in Manchester and she was certainly impressed.’

  Another silence. Julia waited.

  ‘I could have been in that system,’ said Jack. ‘But I was lucky enough to be placed relatively quickly. I was 5.’

  And with that one sentence the atmosphere changed completely. Ten minutes later, he was drinking tea and listening to Julia talk about how, to date, she’d helped more than 370 troubled or unwanted children.

  ‘We go to West Kirby near the Wirral every month and, once a year, we head a bit further north to Formby beach and nature reserve. The kids love it ‒ some pretend not to, of course, but that’s just to save face. Tough men can’t enjoy donkey rides.’

  Jack spotted one photo on the windowsill of a young girl, maybe 9 or 10, jumping a small fence on horseback. He made a comment about that child progressing far beyond donkeys on the beach.

  ‘That’s me.’ Julia spoke with a long-forgotten pride. ‘I hardly recognise her now. Horses are such trusting beasts – they teach children respect and kindness.’

  Jack used this casual memory to segue into the reason for his visit.

  ‘The Grange would have been a wonderful place for a kids’ home, then.’

  Julia looked directly at Jack. ‘Is that why you’re here . . .? Good God! That was a lifetime ago.’ She didn’t seem unsettled by the change of topic. ‘The problem you’ve got, DC Warr, is that I was using back then. I may not be able to help you, not because I don’t want to but because it’s all a bit of a blur.’

  As Julia began talking, she repeated much of what Jack had already heard. That they were a group of women brought together by Ester Freeman to welcome Dolly Rawlins back into the real world. Then the children’s home idea raised its head and they all decided to stay on and help Dolly with that. They were ex-cons with nowhere else to be, so they jumped on the back of her ambition and went along for the ride.

  ‘It doesn’t take long at all to get into your blood. Dolly disappeared from my life in the blink of an eye, but the kids’ home idea . . . that refused to leave. I would like to have seen The Grange come to fruition, horses and all.’ Jack asked whether Julia had known their nearest neighbour, Norma Walker. ‘Vaguely. She kept retired police mounts. Now, they’re amazing animals. Country horses can get skittish at a leaf falling, but police horses . . . nerves of steel. I’m sure you know.’

  ‘I’ve seen them work. They’re trained to remain calm around loud noises and crowds, all that sort of thing. I’ve never even been on one, if I’m honest. They scare the life out of me.’

  Julia smiled a sweet, understanding smile. ‘Once you make friends with a horse, you’ll never be scared of them again.’ She glanced into the chaotic garden. ‘Friendship’s so important. I think Dolly would have liked this place. She was the strongest person I’ve ever met. I asked her once if anything ever scared her and she told me about the night she shot Harry, her husband. She said that after doing that, nothing scared her. She said, “I’m not like my husband. I’m better. I always was. I was just clever at making sure he never knew it.” How ballsy is that?’

  ‘Can you tell me about the night Dolly was shot?’

  ‘It was ridiculous! Craigh was standing right next to her! Ester rushes in and, no hesitation, she pulls the trigger. What the fuck she thought she was doing, I will never know. We were all arrested, kept overnight, then Craigh let us go the next morning. Ester’s got a screw loose. Have you met her? I assume you’re speaking to all of us?’

  ‘I have met Ester, yes. And Connie.’

  ‘Now she’s a nice girl. Haven’t seen her since the shooting. Thick, mind you. I don’t suppose that’s changed.’

  Jack gave no indication of his opinion on Connie or Ester.

  ‘Three houses knocked into one,’ he said, sounding impressed. ‘That must have cost a bit.’

  ‘I don’t own this place, I just run it. Dolly once said, “If you’ve got money, Julia, you can be whatever you want.” Money meant a lot to her. She liked people to see that she was someone. But I always thought there was something missing from her life that no amount of money could buy. Something fundamental. Kids, I suspect.’ Julia glanced out of the conservatory at the children playing in the garden. ‘Most of these will never know where they’re from, so it’s vital for them to know where they’re going. Do you know where you’re from?’

  Jack liked Julia, and talking about the subject of childhood with someone experienced actually felt quite therapeutic.

  ‘As I say, I was lucky.’ And then he lied. ‘I never felt the drive to find my real parents because I don’t need them. I know who I am and I know where I’m from. My foster parents taught me.’

  The way Julia looked at Jack made a deeply buried memory pop right into the front of his mind. He suddenly recalled a moment when he was about six. He’d stolen the last of Charlie’s diabetic chocolate brownies and, when Penny asked him about it, he’d lied straight to her face, even though he had chocolate-covered hands and lips. He’d just done the same to Julia and she saw right through him, just as Penny had done.

  ‘But the kids here,’ he concluded, ‘are very lucky to have you.’

  ‘I’m lucky to have them. I need to be needed, you see. Always have. I think that’s why I became a doctor all those years ago, before I royally fucked it all up. I’m a recovering addict and I’m weak, especially when I’m on my own. I have to have someone to live for and the kids give me that. But every day I walk a tightrope between success and failure. I’m only ever one step away from falling off the wagon and ending up dead. That’s what would happen if I took drugs again . . . I’d die.’

  *

  Ridley could see Superintendent Maxine Raeburn sitting at her desk through the wall of glass that separated her from the corridor. She was on the phone, nodding and humming in all the right places. Max had seen and acknowledged Ridley, but he had to wait outside regardless – he guessed that the call she was on was above his pay grade. Max Raeburn was one of the best superintendents Ridley had ever worked under, a quiet, patient, but surprisingly intimidating woman. She was so slight, she looked as if she could be knocked down by a feather, but she’d be nipping at your ankles the moment she hit the floor. When she was promoted, she’d refused the big office on the top floor and insisted on being in this huge office next door to Ridley. She wanted her officers to see her daily; she wanted them to know that she was first in and last out; she wanted them to know where she was at all times; and she wanted them to feel free to knock on her door. Not many people did, of course, on account of the chain of command. CID officers knocked on Ridley’s door (even when it was open), Ridley knocked on her door ‒ that’s the way it was.

 
; When Ridley was eventually allowed in, he held up the DNA results in his hand.

  ‘It is Mike Withey.’

  Raeburn couldn’t hide her bemusement. ‘So, Mike Withey, an ex-police officer from this station, was murdered and then disposed of in an arson attack at Rose Cottage, surrounded by an estimated one point eight million in burnt fivers and tenners, less than one mile from the biggest train robbery in UK history. Have I forgotten anything?’

  ‘Rose Cottage was rented by Norma Walker, who was also an ex-cop. Mounted division.’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how delicate this is. I know I can trust your team, as I trust you, but bloody hell, Simon, remind them, and then remind them again, that this cannot get out.’

  Ridley nodded his understanding.

  ‘Right,’ Raeburn continued, ‘how can I help?’

  Ridley explained, in his usual to-the-letter way, exactly what he was going to do and in what order. It was only when he mentioned the possible angle of Norma and Mike being ‘privately known to each other’ back in 1995 that Raeburn held her hand up.

  ‘Norma was gay. She kept it very quiet – no other option in the eighties. In ’89, she was injured in the line of duty. It was serious. Her next of kin was contacted ‒ Amelie, I think her name was. I had to liaise for a time and, well . . . You only had to see her at Norma’s bedside to know they were in love. Norma spilled the beans and I said that it didn’t make the blindest bit of bloody difference. Norma and Mike could still have known each other, of course. But, I have to say, I’d be very surprised if Norma had anything to do with your train robbery. I’d assume Mike’s personal connections to London’s lowlife are a better angle of enquiry. Follow the evidence though, Simon . . . I’ve been surprised before.’

  *

  ‘That’s Sam,’ Julia said when she returned to the conservatory with a fresh pot of tea. Jack stood by the window, watching Sam teach a younger boy how to play keepy-uppy. ‘He’s 8 and has scars like you wouldn’t believe, outside and in. His instinct is to fight anyone bigger and teach football to anyone smaller. Battling against the man he’s meant to be and yearning for the kid he never was.’