What was she doing taking these three misfits on the bloody run with her?
Darren was cycling as fast as his legs could pedal, but the bike he was on wasn’t his and, with each push of the pedal, he wobbled and almost fell off. His rucksack was only over one shoulder, which wasn’t helping his balance at all. As soon as Julia saw him, she knew what he’d done – she was devastated. Darren had been going on about having a bike of his own for so long and now, with the prospect of going away, he’d bloody well stolen himself one! Darren looked up, saw Julia and, with all the pride in the world, he beamed the biggest smile, took both hands off the handlebars and waved in triumph.
Suddenly, two coppers raced round the corner on foot into the quiet road ahead of Darren, sending him swerving towards the pavement. He tried to right himself, but now he’d slowed to the same speed as the coppers and, in a pincer movement, they closed in, dragged Darren off the bike and plonked him face down on the road. Julia hid, pushing her back flat against the wall. She screwed her eyes closed as she listened to Darren cursing the coppers and fighting for his life. She heard the police car arrive; she heard the coppers call Darren a ‘waste of skin’ and an ‘unwanted stray’. Julia clenched her fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms, burying the shame she felt as she abandoned Darren to his fate. What kind of mother was she?
When Julia opened her eyes, she could see Sam and Suzie holding hands in the distance. This was the kind of mother she had to be now. Sam was pointing back towards the waste ground. It was time to go, but Julia couldn’t peel herself off the wall.
From her hiding place, she could hear as Darren screamed profanities and fought like a maniac. He never once shouted for Julia and he never once gave away her position. Once the police car had driven off, she walked back to Sam and Suzie.
Sam saw Julia’s tears and, with all the understanding and sensitivity of a grown-up, he tapped his finger on her chest.
‘He ain’t strong in here. And he ain’t smart.’
He took Julia by the hand and together the three of them walked to the coach.
*
By the time the coach was on the A1 towards Newcastle upon Tyne, Sam was teaching Riel and Aggie dirty versions of chart songs, much to Connie’s amusement. Ester, as expected, wasn’t happy.
‘I’ve spent my entire life avoiding the fucking North, Angela. What’s wrong with Dover? It’s cleaner and it’s closer to Switzerland.’
Angela had explained the escape plan a dozen times, so she knew that Ester wasn’t really asking a genuine question, she was just whingeing. If they’d been in a gold-plated private cruiser, Ester would have complained about the colour.
Julia sat alone, staring out of the window at the Yorkshire Dales flashing by and trying not to cry. In the reflection of the window, she watched Angela approach and pause next to her. As Angela spoke, Julia could almost hear Dolly’s voice.
‘We were never going to get everyone out.’
*
The squad room was buzzing. Fibres of horsehair found on Barry’s severed trouser leg were being compared to any furnishings that survived from the Rose Cottage carnage – and the cash had traces of accelerant on it that matched the petrol from Mike’s Range Rover.
Anik had worked with Essex Police to create a timeline for Barry since leaving the army. He had been lead foreman at a demolition company for three years, until he was sacked for ‘mislaying’ four sticks of dynamite, just two weeks before the mail train was blown off its tracks and robbed. Mike Withey then employed Barry at his security firm. It seemed that Barry had also used his industry connections to make several discreet phone calls to the company due to demolish Rose Cottage, asking to know schedules and time frames for starting work. This was vital information, because if the cottage had been sealed off and become a building site before the cash was removed, the demolition company would have been the ones to tear down the kitchen wall.
Ridley was in his element as every officer worked towards the same goal. He could smell success. Anik could smell promotion. Jack could smell bullshit. And Ridley had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.
Jack’s mobile screen lit up: Reminder: dinner with Maggie. This was, in fact, the second reminder and so he now only had ten minutes to travel halfway across London. Jack couldn’t listen to Ridley any longer ‒ this great man, who Jack had always looked up to, was now so far down the wrong road. Jack had bet his reputation on the guilt of the women from The Grange and he’d had it thrown back in his face. Just when he’d finally started caring about this thankless job, no one was listening.
All he wanted right now . . . was Maggie.
CHAPTER 30
The coach was in a lengthy queue waiting to embark on the DFDS ferry from Newcastle to Amsterdam. The kids were exhausted and were trying to sleep, and Ester was being more obnoxious than usual, having drunk the contents of one of her hip flasks. She had two more tucked away in various pockets of her clothing.
‘It looks like a floating skip!’ she said scathingly, as she caught sight of the ferry.
Ester took any and every opportunity to undermine Angela’s escape plan; it was as though she wanted it to fail just so she could laugh in Angela’s face and mock how the ‘little tart’ from all those years ago should have stayed on the lowest rung of the ladder, where she belonged, and made no attempt to climb. Ester’s penchant for self-destruction was well known, so they’d already agreed to keep her sweet for another week or two because after that they’d never have to see her again.
‘We’re staying in Hyatt House in Düsseldorf tomorrow night, Ester.’ Rob’s deep, velvety voice from the driving seat made Ester go weak at the knees and he knew it. ‘Google it, darlin’. It’s stunning.’
Ester obediently got out her mobile and, as she scrolled through the photos of the double-staircase, gold and winding up three floors, she beamed and opened her second hip flask.
Angela put her hand inside Rob’s, as they inched closer and closer to the first test of their new passports. She was nervous; she was so excited for what lay ahead of them, and terrified of losing it at the final turn. Rob’s huge hand enveloped Angela’s. She loved the rough callouses at the base of each of his fingers, just above his palm. They were comforting. Her man knew what hard work was and that made him appreciate everything he had. He could take on anything, because he knew what life was about. His life, anyway.
The front wheels of the coach hesitated on the lip of the ramp, rolled back a little, then went for it. They were aboard.
A man in a yellow tabard waved them into a parking space and Rob turned the engine off. For a few seconds, they all nervously looked out of their nearest window for . . . what?
Connie was the first to grin, which she quickly followed with a shriek that scared Suzie. Riel and Aggie were used to Connie’s oddness, so ignored her; Sam, out of boredom, was using his penknife to snag stitches out of the seat he was sitting on.
Angela, Julia and Connie, quite unprompted, came together in the centre of the coach and hugged. They then forced themselves into Ester’s two-seater space and hugged her too, which she pretended to object to.
‘Gerroff me! You stink! Gerroff, I’m going to the bar.’ Ester struggled to her feet. ‘Come and get me when we’re there.’
Connie curtsied and off Ester went.
‘Right, kids!’ Julia turned.
Sam was holding up a £50 note. She dived to the back of the bus and snatched it from his hand. She didn’t have to say anything, she just glared. Between Sam’s legs, the stitching in the front of his seat was open about half an inch, exposing one of the stacks of cash. He closed his legs, covering the damage he’d done. She read the ‘I won’t tell a soul’ in his eyes. Julia pushed the £50 note back through the hole in the seat and stroked Sam’s hair. Even though he was only ten, and inquisitive as a puppy, she trusted him completely.
‘I can sew that.’ Julia spun round to see Angela right behind her. ‘Maybe you should take the knife thoug
h, eh? For safekeeping.’ Then, to show Sam that she too trusted him, she said, ‘Rob, would you take the kids to look around? Sam’s going to be your wingman.’
Sam handed his penknife to Julia and left the coach with the other kids, Rob, Connie and Julia.
As the ferry pulled away from the terminal, Angela sat in the driver’s seat and looked out to sea. Then, quite unexpectedly, she began to cry. She tried to control it, but she couldn’t; the tears flooded out from pure relief. Angela gasped in the stale air smelling of petrol fumes, to try and calm herself down. She opened the glovebox and there, sitting on top of all of Rob’s junk, were a small, worn teddy bear and a bright yellow teething ring. She thought back to Dolly Rawlins and their impromptu shopping trip to Mothercare all those years ago.
You’re a good girl. Dolly’s voice was as clear as day. Stay strong and, most of all, stay happy. If you’re not happy, you’re not anything really.
It was only now that Angela recognised how sad Dolly had been when she’d said those words. Dolly had lost her own babies, she’d lost the man she loved more than life itself and she was hopelessly sad. Even if she had lived, she’d never have been happy again. Angela moved the little bear to one side and took out her sewing kit.
*
Maggie had been sitting in the restaurant for twenty minutes. She was drinking faster than usual, embarrassed to be sitting by herself at a table clearly set for two people. And if that wasn’t enough, she was dressed to kill, with her 40-minute hair and her 30-minute make-up – triple the time she normally gave herself to get ready for a night out.
That morning, Jack had promised her breakfast in bed and a cuddle and he’d failed to deliver either. This evening, he had promised her a night out ‒ which he was failing to deliver. Maggie wasn’t annoyed; she was deeply upset. She could feel everything slipping away because of Jack’s crazy obsession with finding his birth father, in the hope of finding himself. She knew he was grieving for Charlie, so she was being as supportive as possible ‒ but he wasn’t making it easy. She looked at the bottle of white in front of her – one glass left. She swigged the last mouthful from her glass and then emptied the bottle. The sommelier dived across the restaurant, but he was far too slow. He removed the empty bottle and, with a patronising tone and a tilt of the head, asked Maggie if she’d like some bread while she waited for her companion. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead she smiled and said, ‘No, thank you.’
Maggie spent the next five minutes watching a spot of white wine, which she’d dripped onto the tablecloth from the now-empty bottle, dry slowly. She glanced at the clock on the wall. She’d been sitting alone for thirty-five minutes; she was starving and pissed. When the restaurant door next opened, she had to look twice at the man who entered before she recognised him. Jack was dressed as he was always dressed, but he looked different. Maggie had rehearsed what she was going to say when he finally walked in, all apologetic and eager to make amends, but this wasn’t the man she’d expected. This man looked her straight in the eyes and smiled, as though he’d done nothing at all wrong. He looked handsome, confident, powerful. He looked like a man who knew that he was worth waiting for. Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off him.
Jack didn’t apologise for being late and Maggie didn’t shout at him as she’d planned to. He simply sat opposite her, stared deep into her soul with his smiling brown eyes and told her how much he loved her.
CHAPTER 31
Colchester Police Station was a square, tan-coloured new-build on the A134 with a green courtyard right in the centre. It blended well into the surrounding area, making it seem unobtrusive and non-threatening, regardless of what went on inside. This is where Anik was heading, although he was currently stuck behind a stalled learner-driver on the roundabout just twenty yards away. Ridley was in the passenger seat, reading the police files on Thomas Kurts, Rashid Wassan and Dennis Marchant; Laura, who also had a copy of the files, was frowning as she read, having been relegated to the back seat. Anik was revelling in his ‘promotion’ to driver, but this was because Ridley knew that he couldn’t read in cars without being sick.
‘The suspects have all had specialist training,’ Ridley continued. ‘Marchant’s a munitions expert who we now know was at the birth of his brother’s second child on the night of the train robbery. His brother had lost his licence one week earlier, so Marchant had stepped up as the designated baby taxi. He’s in all the photos. But we’re still going to interview him – not being there doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. Wassan, no such alibi, was a sapper alongside Barry Cooper. Dangerous men. These interviews will probably be “no comment”. They’ll be good under pressure, so won’t bat an eye. This will more than likely come down to evidence, not confessions. It’s a longer road, but that’s fine. We’re smart, methodical and we’re patient . . . and Anik, if you don’t overtake that stalled learner right now, I’m getting out and walking.’
*
Jack stared at Foxy, waiting to hear words that he understood.
‘Using the Y-chromosome DNA haplogroups as a sort of road map, my biologist friend told me – and I’m sorry to break it to you like this – but shoddy dress sense does indeed run in your family. You share patrilineal lineage with the owner of this very distasteful Isle of Man baseball cap.’
Foxy could see that Jack hadn’t really understood a word. He went on.
‘In layman’s terms, you and the owner of this cap have the same dad. Is that what you expected to hear? Is it what you wanted to hear?’
Jack said nothing as he absorbed the information.
‘How’s Charlie?’ Foxy asked suddenly.
Jack snapped out of his trance. ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’ Foxy threw Jack a look. Eddie’s words came to mind: We are who we are. Can’t be anyone else.
‘Charlie’s fine,’ Jack said. ‘Holding on, you know.’
‘So – you going to tell me who you’ll be sending a Father’s Day card to next year?’
Jack managed a smile; he loved Foxy dearly, but he could be a tactless bastard at times. Charlie wasn’t even dead yet and he was making jokes.
*
Maggie sat at Jack’s desk in the squad room, watching Morgan injecting insulin into his belly. Once that was done, he stood up, tucked his shirt back in and left the room without a word. He wasn’t the most sociable of men. Maggie looked around the mostly empty squad room. The evidence boards were a complex array of photos, single words that meant little to her, dates and times, plans of action. Some of the photos here were the same as the photos on the wall in her spare bedroom; she didn’t recognise the soldiers.
As soon as Jack came back into the squad room, Maggie stood to meet him. But Jack sat her back down, pulled up a chair next to her, opened his desk drawer and took out the battered old file given to him by Charlie. Inside the file were all the photos and paperwork that Maggie had already seen, plus the photo Jack had stolen from Eddie’s album.
‘This is Harry Rawlins. He was one of the biggest criminal names in the eighties.’
Jack was whispering. This conversation, in the middle of the squad room, was for her ears only. Even though Maggie knew who Harry Rawlins was, she could see that he needed to say the most important bits again.
‘He was respected ‒ reluctantly by some ‒ but people who knew him couldn’t help but respect him. Even the copper who spent his entire career trying to catch Harry respected him. Dolly loved him ‒ even though he had so many affairs. His cousin, Eddie, loved him ‒ even though his youngest son belongs to Harry. Harry could do that . . . He could shit on people and they’d still love him.’
Jack covered his desk with newspaper cuttings from one day back in August 1984, the funeral of ‘Harry Rawlins’.
‘Hundreds of people, from both sides of the law, turned up to see Harry off ‒ or to make sure the bastard was dead, I don’t know, but look at them, Mags. Look how many people are there. He was infamous. He was Harry Rawlins . . . He was my dad
.’
Maggie tipped her head to one side, her eyebrows raised and her eyes filled with sympathy.
‘Don’t do that,’ Jack said gently. ‘Don’t look at me like I’m making a mistake ’cos I’m grieving. I had a DNA test done.’
For the first time since Jack had started on his strange journey of self-discovery, Maggie started taking him seriously. She pulled her chair tight under Jack’s desk and read through the newspaper cuttings in front of her. Jack looked around the squad room – every person here was a stranger. His immediate team was currently in Essex without him, being led by a man who had lost faith in him, if he’d ever really had any faith in him in the first place. Jack picked up one of the old, blurred, black and white newspaper images of Harry’s funeral.
‘Charlie won’t leave this kind of mark. There’ll be a handful of old builders and some of Mum’s friends to have a sherry with her at the wake afterwards. Then, nothing. He won’t be remembered nearly forty years from now.’
Maggie took Jack’s hand, and pressed it to make him stop. She almost felt sick.
‘Listen to yourself! This man – this terrible, horrible man ‒ is no one to be proud of. Charlie, or “Dad” as you used to call him, will be dearly missed by good, hard-working people ‒ whether there’s ten or ten thousand of them. Jack, please, this isn’t you!’
‘This is me!’ he snapped, making Maggie jump.
He was desperate to explain how he felt, but he didn’t understand it himself. He repeated something Eddie had said to him.
‘ “People can see strength and that gets you respect.” It was never the job, or moving to London that was wrong, Mags ‒ it was me. I’m not planning on changing sides, but I am going to start being the man I’m meant to be. I will be heard. And Ridley will start treating me with the respect I deserve.’
Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020) Page 26
