Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020)

by LaPlante, Lynda

  Audrey was an almost skeletal 76-year-old woman who looked like she’d be blown over in a strong wind. When she took a drag on her cigarette, her face almost turned inside out and it was blatantly obvious from the smell that there was a large brandy in her coffee. As she walked Ridley and Jack into her lounge, she didn’t offer them any refreshments or, indeed, a seat. So, they both remained standing.

  The décor would give lesser men a migraine. The curtains and walls were a fag-smoke tan colour and, although the flat was tidy, it wasn’t clean. Audrey had ‘gone to pot’. She was an old woman, wearing old clothes, surrounded by old things, in an old flat. Her days of making an effort had long gone. There were four photo frames on the sideboard: one picture of Shirley, aged 20, in a beauty pageant sash; one of Mike, at the same age, in his army uniform; one of Greg, aged about 14, in his school uniform; the fourth frame contained a tiny pink baby bonnet and mittens. Badly knitted. Never worn. These photos showed the pinnacle of each child’s life, and they were displayed with a huge amount of love and pride. They were the only things in this room not covered in dust.

  Ridley sighed heavily. Shirley had been shot to death in a botched diamond raid, Greg was in prison on his fifth compulsory drug-rehab programme, there was obviously a miscarriage in the mix somewhere, and he was about to tell Audrey that Mike had been bludgeoned to death and then burnt beyond recognition. Sometimes Ridley hated this job – no mother should outlive one of her children, let alone three.

  Ridley knew that, after the death notification, he’d lose any co-operation from Audrey; he opted to delay the bad news until he’d had the opportunity to ask a few questions.

  ‘Mrs Withey, back in 1995 there was a train robbery in Aylesbury, do you remember? Mike was still on the force back then, under the command of DCI Craigh—’

  ‘We never spoke about work.’ Audrey shut Ridley down before he could start. ‘What you asking about ancient history for, when you should be looking for my boy?’

  ‘I presumed Mike would have mentioned this particular case to you, seeing as it involved Dolly Rawlins.’

  Audrey pursed her sallow lips and jabbed her yellow-tipped finger at Ridley.

  ‘You don’t mention that woman’s name in my house,’ she snarled as the instinctive, uncontrollable hatred bubbled quickly to the surface. ‘I only let you in ’cos you said you wanted to talk about Mike. And now you’re mentioning that bitch and talking about some train robbery. Not trying to pin that on him as well, are ya?’

  ‘As well as what, Mrs Withey?’ Ridley was annoyingly calm, making Audrey jump to her feet.

  ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m thick. You’re in my house! I been around the block, son, so don’t try and trick me into incriminating Mike. Yes! I remember the train robbery ‒ ’cos it was just months before your lot booted Mike out. He served his country, home and abroad, and what did you do? You treated him like a criminal.’ Then Audrey smiled. ‘You got no clue where he is, ’ave ya? Well, good. All you want to do is use him as a scapegoat again. If he’s running, good!’

  ‘Why would he be running?’

  ‘’Cos he knows your game. When she was released, we grieved all over again for our Shirl and . . .’ Audrey glanced at the photos, gulped and regained composure. ‘The bonnet and mittens are pink ’cos I so desperately wanted it to be another girl. I’d have called her Eve – that was my Shirl’s middle name, after my mum.’ When Audrey looked back in Ridley’s direction, her eyes were red but the tears were being held back by the hatred. ‘Stress, the doctors said. Stress made my body neglect my unborn child and she died inside me. Dolly Rawlins did that!’ She pointed to the line of four photos. ‘She did all of that!’

  Audrey’s hatred for Dolly had taken her way off track, so Ridley endeavoured to pull her back to the here and now.

  ‘Mrs Withey, please calm down. We’re not here to pin anything on Mike, nor do we think he’s running. Please sit down.’ Audrey didn’t sit, but she did calm sufficiently for Ridley to continue. ‘We simply need to know if you and he spoke about the ’95 train robbery.’

  ‘He said one thing worth remembering in ’95. He said, “She’s dead, Mum.” Now I’d like you to leave.’

  Ridley ignored the request. He asked Audrey if Mike had ever mentioned a police officer called Norma Walker, and if she knew where his Range Rover was. All the while, Jack remained silent because this wasn’t a normal notification of death. This was also a tactical interview and, with Ridley about to play the heartless bad guy, it would be useful for Jack to remain neutral in Audrey’s eyes. So, for now, he played the silent, unobtrusive young DC in the corner. Audrey hardly noticed he was even there.

  Ridley asked Audrey once more to sit down and, once more, she didn’t. He took a step closer to her and spoke with all of the respect and kindness he could muster for such an objectionable woman.

  ‘Mrs Withey, I regret to inform you that, several days ago, we found the body of a man, which, via DNA evidence, we’re now able to identify as your son, Mike.’

  He had very purposefully taken a step closer to Audrey so that, when her legs crumpled beneath her, he could catch her and sit her back in her chair. Audrey collapsed like a rag doll and howled in agony at the loss of yet another child. Jack poured her a brandy, but she didn’t even notice. In the end, sheer exhaustion made her stop crying and become almost catatonic.

  ‘Mrs Withey.’ Ridley’s words were met by a blank stare, but he hoped she could still hear him. ‘Someone took your son’s life and I want to arrest that person. Mike was mixed up in something, accidentally or knowingly, I don’t know yet. What I do know is that he was found in the home of Norma Walker, which was located next door to a house owned by Dolly Rawlins. And he was surrounded by evidence from a 24-year-old train robbery.’

  Audrey’s eyes unglazed and she glared at Ridley.

  ‘Get out,’ she breathed, almost inaudibly.

  ‘Is there anyone we can call for you?’

  Audrey dipped her eyes and she was gone again. Ridley moved away; Jack put the brandy down on the nest of coffee tables by her side and both men left, pulling the front door to behind them.

  In the hallway of Audrey’s block of flats, Ridley briefed Jack.

  ‘Give it ten, then go back in. Apologise for me upsetting her ‒ you be her friend. We need to know how much the villa in Spain sold for. Mike was the only one earning, so we need to know where that money came from. And see what she knows about Barry Cooper.’

  *

  When Jack entered Audrey’s lounge, she was seated in exactly the same position as when he left. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his body turned towards her, leaning forward into her eyeline – whether she acknowledged him or not, he wanted to be sure that she could actually see him.

  ‘I wanted to make sure you’re OK,’ he lied. ‘I don’t like the idea of you being on your own. Mrs Withey, I came back because, well, I wanted to assure you that this is a murder investigation and all we want is to find out who took your son from you. Of course we need to delve into his past, but not to discredit him in any way. We just need to track his associates, his friends . . . Barry Cooper?’

  Without looking up, Audrey spoke.

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Mike suffered a blow on the head. He would have died instantly, before the fire started, and wouldn’t have suffered.’

  ‘Barry wouldn’t do that to Mike. Brothers in arms, they were.’

  Audrey looked like a wrung-out rag, used up and ready to be thrown away. She was a sorry sight, but Jack knew that this new vulnerability would make her more likely to talk to him. He continued to play it as though he was on her side, by handing her the brandy he’d poured earlier on. This time, Audrey took the drink and downed it in one.

  ‘He felt so guilty for being abroad when Shirl got killed. By the time he got home, Greg was back inside an’ all. How come the wrong people always get away with it, eh? And decent people are left to suffer.’ She handed him the empty
glass and he got up to refill it. ‘Dolly said she’d “do ten” for me. When she got out after blowing her husband to smithereens, she come round to my home and threatened to kill me too. That’s the sort of animal she was.’

  ‘Why on earth would Dolly want to kill you?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I dunno . . . People like Dolly don’t need an excuse to threaten and terrorise. It was just power games to keep people in their place.’

  Audrey spluttered nervously. There was clearly more to this slip of the tongue, as Jack knew that Dolly was wily enough not to make idle threats. He left it alone for now and changed the subject.

  ‘Do you know where Barry is? Only he may have been the last person to see Mike, so we’d like to speak to him.’

  ‘I take it you know where he lives?’

  Even now, amid so much grief, Audrey maintained her ingrained instinct to answer coppers’ questions with another question, to make sure she wasn’t giving away any secrets.

  ‘He’s not there. Barry’s not in any trouble as far as we can make out ‒ he may be able to help us, that’s all.’

  Audrey necked the second glass of brandy as quickly as the first and said that she had no clue where Barry was. She also denied knowing Norma Walker, claimed to have never been to The Grange and to have only learnt about the train robbery from the newspapers. When Jack took the conversation back a decade further, to 1984, her demeanour changed – she become nervous, evasive and she developed that very familiar look of a criminal desperately trying to accurately recall an old lie. Jack asked about the Strand underpass robberies, one and two. He asked about the diamond robbery ‒ and he mentioned the names Terry Miller, Joe Pirelli, Jimmy Nunn and Harry Rawlins. Audrey leapt on to the defensive, saying that Mike was in the army when all of that went down, so why was Jack asking about them in relation to her boy’s murder?

  ‘You’re going to find his killer, aren’t you? He was one of yours, you owe him that much.’

  ‘I promise you, Mrs Withey, that the moment we find out who killed Mike, I’ll come back here and tell you personally.’

  *

  When Rob got home from finishing the repairs to the coach, Angela was sitting in the dark, holding a glass of wine in one hand and the small, worn teddy bear in the other. He moved round the back of her and wrapped his big, warm forearms around her shoulders. The thick black hairs on his arms tickled her chin ‒ something that normally made her smile and scratch her face ‒ but, this time, it went unnoticed.

  ‘The police have been round,’ she said calmly. Rob pushed his lips against her cheek in a long kiss to show her she had nothing to worry about. ‘He asked about the train robbery.’

  ‘We knew they would,’ Rob reasoned. ‘We’re in good shape. Everybody knows what they have to do.’ He held Angela’s hand, as she held the teddy bear. ‘I wish she could see you, Ange. Dolly would be so proud.’

  CHAPTER 17

  DI Prescott watched a young PC stepping from foot to foot and clapping his hands together in an attempt to stay warm. Prescott smirked – the poor kid looked like he was doing a Greek dance. Prescott, on the other hand, stood statue-still by the side of the muddy Range Rover. This was a big find and would allow him to legitimately get bang up to speed on the case.

  Mike’s Range Rover sat in a field, tucked in close behind a tall hedgerow, about a quarter of a mile back from Rose Cottage. The fuel cap was missing and the tank had been siphoned almost dry; a sample of the fuel had been taken for analysis and Prescott was confident that this was where the accelerant for the fire had come from. Police tape protected the vehicle and the messy array of footprints that surrounded it. Rain had taken most of the evidence, but between the vehicle and the hedge the ground was sheltered, and SOCOs were getting some good casts from the footprints they found right next to the open fuel cap. With no keys in the ignition and no sign of hot-wiring, the immediate area was being searched – the keys could have vital fingerprints on them.

  Prescott’s eyes narrowed as he processed the scene in his mind and tried to figure out the sequence of events.

  Had Mike siphoned his own tank with the intention of burning down Rose Cottage? Probably not – because if the fire was premeditated, he’d have been more likely to bring a siphoning hose with him and not cut a piece from the one they found in the back garden, or just siphon the petrol into a container before he got there. Unless Mike had been to Rose Cottage before and knew the hose was there. The fire somehow just seemed more likely to be a forensic countermeasure by the person Mike had fought with and was killed by. So, the killer must have known where Mike had hidden his Range Rover, because it had been a bugger to find. Maybe they’d arrived together. Or was there a second vehicle for the killer to escape in?

  Prescott reached for his phone to call Ridley. It was a fair bet Mike Withey had known his killer.

  *

  ‘Barry Cooper.’ Ridley looked around at the sea of blank faces gathered in the squad room. ‘Where the hell is he? I know he’s binned his old mobile, so that’s a dead end, but there must be something. He’s not a genius. Come on! Why can’t we find him?’

  ‘He is ex-army, sir,’ Jack offered.

  Ridley snorted. ‘And what are we? Chopped liver? He’s our main suspect. The Range Rover’s on its way to the pound. The SOCOs will go over it with a fine-toothed comb. And we’ve got footprint casts and soil samples from the scene to compare with the soles of Barry’s shoes.’

  He turned to look at the ever-expanding evidence boards. A third board had been added and they were all overflowing with details of four crimes spanning four decades.

  ‘All of this . . .’ Ridley said calmly. ‘Don’t let any of it distract us from the fact that we’re here to solve the brutal murder of one of our own. If this is all connected, it’ll come to light through the investigation of that murder, so stay focused.’ He paused. ‘However, it’s looking likely that Mike was involved with the train robbery. Anik . . .’

  Anik spoke from his desk, head down, looking at his extensive notes.

  ‘Late eighties or early nineties, Audrey bought a villa in Spain – I still need to establish where that money came from – but in 2005 it was sold for £350,000 and Mike’s family home in Weybridge was purchased for one point five million. So there’s an extra million to be accounted for, too.’

  Anik looked up before continuing.

  ‘When Mike left the force, he . . . Well, he pretty much fell apart. He drank, gambled, slept around. I spoke to Susan about this time in their lives. She never knew who he was having affairs with, but always assumed they were coppers or prostitutes he nicked. When he was drunk, he’d also get a bit handy with his fists. She never reported him, but her medical records tell us that he didn’t hold back. Then they tried to start again in Spain ‒ I’ve got bank statements from over there spanning ’96 to ’05 ‒ but the kids’ schooling eventually brought them home. The villa was sold, the house was bought. Being back in the UK turned Mike straight back into the arsehole he used to be, so Susan finally kicked him out. That’s where we came in.’

  As Anik spoke, Jack became increasingly frustrated by how vague his information was. Why didn’t he already know where the extra money had come from? Why didn’t he already know the names of Mike’s mistresses? Anik had a lot to learn about manipulation. That’s all interviewing really was ‒ the manipulation of another person into revealing the things you needed to know.

  ‘Right,’ said Ridley, ‘let’s get on with it. Why isn’t Barry Cooper’s picture on the board yet? Why hasn’t someone contacted the army, or the Passport Office or the DVLA, to get a picture of him? Why aren’t you trawling Missing Persons for him as well? Mike’s dead, Barry could be too. He could be our killer, but he could also be a second victim . . . well, couldn’t he? I want him to be alive because we’ve got questions that need answering and no bugger to ask. So find Barry Cooper!’

  As the meeting broke up and the team started bustling about, Jack slipped out.
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  *

  In the middle of Susan’s lounge was a box full of items belonging to Mike: hats, shoes, underwear, toiletries. In her hand, she held one brown leather shoe.

  ‘One shoe,’ she said to Jack. ‘How did he not realise he’d only taken one shoe?’

  She dropped the shoe into the box and closed the flaps.

  ‘I’m sorry for disturbing you again,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’

  ‘It’s fine. You’re a distraction from . . . whatever this is. If Mike had been here, sharing my life, I’d know how to deal with that. I’d cry and mourn and help the girls to do the same. But I’d already lost Mike. I’m sad for the girls, but I’m finding it hard to muster any sadness of my own.’

  She went into the kitchen and Jack watched her make two mugs of tea.

  ‘You recently spoke to my colleague about life with Mike,’ he said. ‘I have a few more questions, if you don’t mind?’

  He spoke gently, but was aware that he’d caught her at a point of maximum vulnerability.

  Susan shrugged. ‘Fire away.’

  ‘You mentioned to DC Joshi that Mike – and forgive me for mentioning this, but . . . that Mike was unfaithful. Was there any specific occasion that sticks in your mind?’ Susan didn’t look up as she stirred the milk into the teas. ‘I have to ask, you see, because we need to understand what made Mike tick in those difficult years after he left the force. Understanding him is very important for us.’

  Inwardly he winced. Was he overdoing it?

  Susan looked down at the mugs of tea. ‘Mike once told me he’d been part of a raid on a brothel. They went in and cleared the place out, arrested everyone they found, girls and punters. Then, in the kitchen, he found a young girl hiding underneath the sink. She was fifteen, sixteen, and she wouldn’t come out. She stayed pressed against the wall, just out of his reach, crying and swearing blind that she just served drinks. Mike talked her out, took her to the station in his own car and made sure he was the one who took her statement. He didn’t know if she was one of the prostitutes or not, but he said he believed her story that she was nothing more than a maid . . . so she went free. The following week, he started working late.’ Susan handed Jack his tea. ‘He did like his waifs and strays.’