Jack was brought crashing back down to earth by Laura leaning even further forward so that she could track the words on the screen with her finger.
‘Fucking hell, Jack, look. Cooper’s army record says he was a sapper! A combat engineer whose duties included breaching fortifications and demolition. He knew his way round explosives. He would have known exactly how to blow a section of train track and leave the carriage intact.’
Just then, Ridley stepped from his office.
‘That was DI Prescott,’ he called across the room. ‘The demolition crew at Rose Cottage have found something.’
*
The heavy iron coal chute door had once been positioned above the kitchen at Rose Cottage. It had blown off at some point during the fire and landed in the front garden, so it had lain there unrecognised. It was only when a demolition crew, heavily supervised by officers from Thames Valley Police, were taking the cottage down brick by brick that the tunnel from the chute door down into the kitchen had been revealed.
Prescott, Ridley and Jack stood in the doorway of what used to be the kitchen.
‘That far wall, behind the Aga, didn’t come down in the fire,’ Prescott explained. ‘Apparently it was smashed down beforehand. That back wall used to have a coal door in it, which had been shoddily bricked up at some point. So the bottom end of the chute was bricked over, but the top end was still accessible from the front garden. Very dangerous apparently. Anyway, in the crumbling brickwork halfway down the old chute, one of the demolition guys found these.’
Prescott had been building to this. With an air of triumph, he handed Ridley a small, clear evidence bag containing several partly charred, crushed and ripped pieces of paper. It was perfectly clear that they were – or had been – banknotes. And along with the notes was half an old money band off a bundle of £20 notes, marked with ‘£1,000’.
‘There’s easily enough room in the chute for the twenty-seven million taken in the train robbery,’ Prescott continued. ‘But once the cash was in, there was no way to get it out—’
‘Without smashing down the wall.’ Ridley ended Prescott’s sentence.
For a big man, Prescott was very animated when he was excited.
‘Those robbers . . . balls of steel! Fancy shoving twenty-seven million of stolen cash into the wall of a copper’s house! And they were cool enough to play the long game right from the start, because they’d have known they couldn’t get the money back without taking Norma’s kitchen wall down . . .’
He moved outside so that he could smoke, and Ridley went with him, followed by Jack, still holding the evidence bag of ruined money.
He listened to them as the two older men discussed theories, questioning and speculating, ruling things in or out as they chatted. The gang didn’t go for the money while Norma was alive, so she probably wasn’t involved. But how did they know the coal chute was there? Do all these cottages have them and, if so, is that common knowledge? And Mike . . .? It looked like he was the ringleader, with Barry as his right-hand man. But on the night they came back for the money – something went very, very wrong.
*
Mike stood amid the pile of bricks that used to be Norma’s kitchen wall. Crumpled bundles of notes flowed over the bricks like a waterfall. He scooped them up, his hands like two shovels, and stuffed them into the green garden waste bag Ester was holding open. In front of Mike, higher on the pile of bricks and closer to the 1.5 metre square coal chute hole, Angela and Julia separated out the final bundles of £5 notes and £10 notes and threw them into the open hearth. Connie stood by the window as lookout, although Rose Cottage was so secluded that if anyone did turn up unexpectedly, they’d be on the driveway before she spotted them.
Angela slowly stood upright, working through the sharp, needle-like pain in her lower back. She looked towards Julia, hoping for sympathy, but was instead confronted with Julia’s arse in the air as she stretched her own pain away with a Downward Dog yoga pose. As the final two bundles of £50 notes were dropped into a bag, Ester rolled the top of it down, squeezed out all of the air and tied the twisted corners into a knot.
‘Right,’ Angela said, ‘let’s load up the van.’
The women picked up the garden waste bags, two by two, and took them outside, while Mike began stacking the bundles of £5 notes and £10 notes into the empty hearth – there had to be somewhere between £1.5 million and two million altogether.
‘Imagine it’s just paper.’ Angela had returned without Mike noticing. ‘It’s not legal tender any more. It’s impossible to cash in, so it’s got to go. The bag on the sofa is yours, Mike.’
‘Ange . . .’
Mike wanted to say so much but, in truth, he knew he had nothing to say that she wanted to hear. There was a time when Angela had looked at him like he was her superhero; now there was nothing. She was in charge and he was nothing more than a member of her crew.
‘Burn it.’ Her words were purposely flat. ‘Bring Rose Cottage down ‒ lose the coal chute, the money, every trace of us. Dump the Range Rover in the Thames. Take your cut and get on with your life, Mike.’
And she was gone.
Angela knew he would do exactly as she asked, because he had just as much to lose as she did. What she didn’t know was that Mike had asked his army demolition friend, Barry Cooper, to help him destroy Rose Cottage.
*
Ridley and Prescott walked in step, slightly ahead of Jack, back to their cars. Ridley had his hands clasped in the small of his back and his neatly pressed trousers swayed perfectly with his long strides. Prescott had his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his straight arms pushing his unironed trousers down from his hips and untucking his shirt at the back. He seemed scruffy compared with Ridley, but Jack sensed their mutual respect.
When they got to the cars, the men shook hands.
‘Everything’s paused again for now,’ Prescott said. ‘Site’s been made safe, so I’ll get the SOCOs back in to see what we might have missed. And we’ll do the door-to-door again.’
Ridley turned to Jack. ‘Get Susan and Audrey Withey brought in first thing in the morning, for further questioning,’ he said. He put his hand out to Prescott. ‘I’ll keep you in the picture. There’s approximately twenty-five million in stolen banknotes out there somewhere, and we both deserve to be there when it’s found.’
*
Angela and Connie sat on the floor in the lounge of Angela’s flat. Angela had one of the coach seats propped on its side between her legs and she was stitching the seam closed. Connie was removing the old foam padding from inside another seat and stuffing it into a bin bag to be thrown away.
‘I was reading the other day ‒’ Connie hadn’t stopped talking since she’d got up that morning ‒ ‘about this commune of women. They left the fellas, took the kids and lived in this field in caravans. Nice big ones, you know, like the ones you get at beachside holiday parks. The kids all went to school and lived normal lives, they just came home to these . . . static homes, they’re called, aren’t they, not caravans. Somewhere in the Lake District, I think it was. Or maybe the Peak District. Some “district” anyway. They all loved it. Everyone was happy. No arguing. No asking for permission to do ordinary things like go for a drink with your mates. And definitely no backhanders for opening your gob at the wrong time. No men, you see, Angela. I mean, I’m sure there’d be a bit of lesbian activity going on, but so what? I often used to think that Ester and Julia had the right idea. Even though Ester was – is – a bitch, she’s still not as bad as most men. What d’ya think?’
‘Do I think women-only communes are a good idea? Course I do! What’s not to like? Apart from the sex, which, let’s face it, we could get anywhere ‒ and from someone who wouldn’t expect you to do their washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning and child-minding.’
Connie giggled to herself. She knew Angela didn’t mean any of that really, because Angela had a good man in Rob. A great man, in fact. She was very lucky.
/> Once Connie had stripped her coach seat of its old foam padding, she dragged a green sack out from behind the sofa and began layering bundles of £20 notes into the now-empty space.
‘Leave a gap on top for a bit of new foam,’ Angela reminded her. ‘They need to be comfortable enough to sit on.’
She’d worked out that if Connie was stuffing each coach seat with £50 notes, then it could hold around £250,000, and each seat-back could hold around £200,000. If she was stuffing the seats and backs with £20 notes, then it was more like £100,000 per seat and £75,000 per seat-back. This wasn’t exactly accurate, but Connie liked it when Angela sounded definite. It made her feel safe.
*
PC Adam Franks and PC Tanya Daly were soaked to the skin. They were standing on the doorstep of one of the identikit houses in the estate where the old Grange had once stood, waiting for the doorbell to be answered. At the window, the curtains twitched and three children pressed spotty faces against the glass. They wore pyjamas and their lounge fire roared away behind them. Eventually, a woman opened the front door and stepped out onto the front porch, wrapping her cardigan round her body.
PC Franks introduced himself.
‘Apologies for disturbing you again, Mrs Stanhope. I know you and your neighbours have already been questioned about the fire – I’ve got your original statement – but I’m hoping that you’ll look at a couple of photographs for me, please.’
‘Happy to help,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to talk out here. The kids have all got chicken pox.’
Franks passed her the photographs of Mike Withey and Barry Cooper, but Mrs Stanhope, like everyone else who had bothered to answer their door, didn’t recognise them.
‘Have you remembered anything else since you last spoke to the police?’ asked PC Daly. It was a routine question.
‘Nothing.’ Mrs Stanhope shook her head apologetically. ‘I mean, when I was at Puddle Ducks – that’s a swimming group for toddlers – we all had a chat about the pest control van parked at Rose Cottage on the night of the fire, but Jean said that wasn’t important enough to bother you with.’
Franks and Daly glanced at each other as the same thought passed through both their minds: why the hell does the general bloody public insist on deciding what’s important and what’s not?
Back in the patrol car, PC Daly held her hands by the air vent to thaw her fingers, while PC Franks got Prescott on the phone.
‘It was parked on the grass verge apparently, sir. She saw it on her way to Puddle Ducks at 4 p.m. and it was gone when she drove back home at seven. The fire started at 8 p.m., sir . . .’
Franks held the phone up to Daly’s ear so she could hear Prescott curse and rage.
‘She’s so stupid, it’s a miracle she can get herself fucking dressed in the morning!’ he ranted.
Daly stifled her laughter as Franks continued, deadpan.
‘Pest control vans aren’t uncommon in this part of Aylesbury, sir. Thousands of rats live in the farm buildings and come into the houses for easy food. No, sir, I don’t know why I’m telling you that, sir, no, sorry. Of course she had no right to decide whether it was import— Yes, I’ve got the company name, sir. Daly and I are heading over there now.’ Then a longer pause. ‘It’s a swimming class for toddlers, sir.’
Prescott wasn’t angry with Franks. He didn’t even know Franks. He was angry because now he had to call Ridley and explain how his uniformed officers had not been specific enough ‒ or persistent enough, or experienced enough ‒ to get every little detail out of a bunch of civvies first time round. To calm himself down, Prescott got every spare PC busy watching every second of CCTV from the night of the fire. If the pest control van was parked on the grass verge, it had to have been on the main road at some point.
*
The pest control van pulled out of the driveway of Rose Cottage and drove away towards the Chiltern Hills. In the driving seat, Angela wore glasses, a wig of cropped brown hair and had a trendy little stubble. Her shoulders were high and tight, brimming with tension. Once the van cleared the more populated areas and headed out into the countryside, she relaxed. Green fields surrounded her, the clear road lay in front of her and there wasn’t another soul for miles around. She peeled the stubble from her chin, pulled her sleeve down over her hand and rubbed her face till it was red – it was so itchy! She then pulled off her wig.
She drove for a good forty minutes towards Little Marlow, until she saw a battered old black Ford Ranger pickup truck parked at the side of the road. The only thing new about this pickup was the heavy-duty metal cover that was rolled out across the back, protecting the normally exposed flatbed space underneath. A key lock and a padlock held the cover in place.
Angela pulled over in front of the pickup, jumped out and opened the back doors of the van. Inside, Ester, Julia and Connie were perched on top of £27 million, stuffed into forty or so green waste bags. As soon as the sunlight hit her face, Ester started to shuffle on her bottom towards the doors.
‘’Bout fucking time,’ she growled. ‘I’m bursting for a piss.’
As Julia and Connie jumped out of the back, familiar arms wrapped around Angela’s waist and Rob rested his chin on top of her head. He beamed a huge smile at the women and he opened his arms for an impromptu group hug, easily enveloping them all. For a moment, no one spoke. They stood there, savouring the moment until Ester ruined it with some crude comment about foursomes. They came to their senses and set about moving the bags from the van into the back of the pickup.
‘Is Mike OK?’ Rob asked.
He’d known lots of men like Mike, men who needed to be part of a team to understand their role in life; the army, the police ‒ it was all the same. This need to belong had been a useful way of keeping Mike in check . . . but not today. Today he needed to play his part on his own and Rob wasn’t sure that, alone in Rose Cottage, he would keep his nerve. But there was nothing they could do about that now.
Once all of the bags were in the back of the pickup, Ester jumped into the back seat, while Rob slid the heavy-duty cover closed and double-locked it. Ester couldn’t be clearly seen through the blacked-out windows and even the driver’s cab partition window was blacked out so that, if Rob was stopped or caught on any cameras, none of the women would be identifiable.
Angela, Julia, Connie and Rob jumped into the pest control van and drove a few feet before going off-road and heading towards the Thames. Once they were close enough, they all got out, Rob released the handbrake and they pushed the van into the water. With all of its doors open, the van sank quickly. They then headed back to the pickup and the women climbed into the back with Ester.
Once they were all settled, Rob pulled back the partition window, winked at Angela and passed through a bottle of champagne. The shrieking and cheering coming from the back would have been deafening if there had been anyone around to hear it.
*
Back at Rose Cottage, Barry Cooper was staring at the bundles of £5 notes and £10 notes piled high in the hearth. He was about Mike’s height and age but was a good couple of stone overweight, although he carried it well. Life had been harsh for Barry. Like Mike, the army had taught him how to survive in a group but not on his own; civvy street didn’t suit him. It didn’t really suit either of them.
‘You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,’ Barry whispered in a deep, gruff smoker’s growl.
Mike held open a small bag. ‘Two hundred thousand pounds in twenties and fifties. Untraceable. This is for you. We need to burn the fivers and tenners first, make sure they’re properly gone, and then we need to take down the cottage. There’s always tramps sleeping rough in here using tea lights and candles, so we can easily make it look like an accident.’
Barry took the bag of money from Mike. Even though it contained more money than he’d ever had in his life, he couldn’t take his eyes off the mountain of cash piled high in the hearth and he couldn’t quite comprehend burning it. He looked back at the relatively small b
ag of cash in his hand.
‘Papers said you got about thirty million. You’re happy to burn a couple of million here, so you must have plenty left.’
Barry turned and Mike recognised the dead stare; it was the stare Barry got when he was about to take on a job that no one else dared to do.
‘I want more, Mike. You couldn’t even have robbed that train if I hadn’t given you the explosives to take out the track ‒ I got 100K for doing that. Now you want me to destroy all the evidence that ties you to the train robbery and all I’m getting is 200K. I want a million.’
Mike smiled nervously. ‘It’s nowhere near that. The papers exaggerated. And in any case, I’m just one small part of a much bigger gang. They took most of the cash anyway.’
But, as he spoke, his eyes flashed to the green bag sitting on the little two-seater sofa, containing his cut: £5 million in untraceable £20 and £50 notes.
Barry dived at the bag, ripping it open. And the red mist instantly descended. One punch fractured Mike’s lower jaw and sent him flying onto his back. Barry knelt down by Mike’s side and leant in close.
‘I thought we were brothers, Mikey. When I nicked that dynamite for you, I got sacked after the boss found it missing ‒ remember? And you gave me a job to say “sorry”. We had each other’s backs. In the army, we looked after each other, me and you. So, why are you ripping me off now? Eh? How much is in the bag?’
As Mike opened his mouth to answer, a sickening pain shot through his jaw. Mike held up five fingers.
‘Five million?’
Mike nodded.
‘I’d have been happy with a million, Mikey ‒ but now I’m taking it all.’
Barry got to his feet and turned his back on Mike as he stuffed the small bag of money earmarked for him inside Mike’s bag.
‘I’ll still burn down the cottage for you, ’cos I’m not a double-crossing prick like you. I’m a man of my word. It’ll look like an accident and you’ll be in the clear. Course, you’ll be skint but, well, there’s a lesson about sharing in there somewhere.’
Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020) Page 20
