Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020)

by LaPlante, Lynda

  Then she took out the SIM card and flushed it down the toilet. She watched the water settle, made sure the card had gone, then put the kettle on.

  CHAPTER 35

  Jack couldn’t believe how beautifully Maggie had transformed their spare bedroom for Charlie and Penny. There was bedding he’d never seen before and framed photos he’d not seen in years. The effect was spoilt slightly by the commode and the stash of cardboard urine bottles underneath the bed, which Maggie must have snatched from the hospital the second she got the call from St Lucia.

  One of the photos on the wall was of Jack on Charlie’s shoulders, aged about 5. Charlie’s arms were raised, his huge builder’s hands lying gently on Jack’s thighs, holding him safe. His triceps and biceps ‒ even the muscles on top of his shoulders and down his sides ‒ stood out through his tight white T-shirt. The gentle giant.

  Jack pulled open the spare bedroom door as the puffing and panting coming along the hallway got closer. Charlie was now a skinny grey man, with too much skin to cover his non-existent muscles. Jack felt a swell of emotion come from deep inside, but it wasn’t sadness, it was anger. How dare the man who’d held Jack high enough to touch the sky be leaning so heavily on two women because walking ten feet is too much for him? How dare this be happening to his dad when the world was full of bastards like Tony Fisher, who refuse to fucking die? How dare this hard-working, generous, gentle man be taken from people who needed him in their lives?

  As if he could tell what his son was thinking, Charlie put his arm around Jack’s shoulder. The effort of lifting it made what was left of his bicep shake.

  ‘You were 5 in that pic. It was the first year we had you. I took you to work, showing you off. Been doing the same ever since.’

  Jack put his arm around Charlie’s thin waist and pulled him close, allowing the old man to lean on him and rest where he stood. Jack’s mobile rang, disturbing the moment.

  ‘I’ll leave it, Dad,’ said Jack.

  ‘Answer it,’ Charlie insisted. ‘I’m so proud of everything you do, lad, and the thought of me holding you back would kill me quicker than any cancer. Do what makes you happy.’

  *

  Ridley was the kind of officer who understood that you have to go down a dozen dead-ends before you find a way through to the next stage of an investigation. But today, he sounded as close to defeated as Jack had ever heard; he made no bones about the fact that he’d called Jack in for a brainstorming session.

  ‘We’ve shifted tack to try and trace them beyond Düsseldorf. They’ve got to launder the money, so we’re looking into European countries where that’s most easily done. And they might have more than one new identity each, because the women who entered Germany in that coach certainly haven’t left across any official border. No luck yet on who might have made new passports for them.’

  ‘I may have an idea about that, sir,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll make a quick stop before I head in and see what I can find out.’

  ‘My best wishes to your dad,’ said Ridley. ‘And Jack – Superintendent Raeburn wants to see you in her office as soon as you arrive.’

  Jack had put in for his sergeant’s exam not long back and he assumed that Raeburn wanted to see him about that. Ridley had told him that he was not going to approve Anik’s request for the same promotion, so Jack figured it was all pretty much in the bag. He felt no swell of excitement, no anticipation, no nerves, just a simple, practical need for a pay rise because of Penny and Charlie, and because of the baby.

  He went back into the spare bedroom. Charlie was sitting on the bed by himself. He knew that what he was about to say wasn’t entirely true, but it was entirely necessary. Jack needed his dad to die knowing that his boy’s life was complete – even though it wasn’t yet.

  ‘Can you keep a secret, Dad?’ he asked.

  And Jack told him about the impending promotion, the baby and the marriage proposal. Charlie cried, loud and proud, and Jack held him tighter than he’d ever done before in his life.

  *

  Eddie Rawlins was pleasantly surprised to see Jack on his doorstep.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he said.

  Neither man noticed, as the front door closed, a figure watching from across the road, in the shadow of a tree.

  Eddie was already on the whisky. It seemed more like a habit, to numb the dullness of his life, than any attempt to get drunk. Jack got straight to the point.

  ‘Who would you go to for fake passports? Not me, you understand, Eddie ‒ you. Where would an old-timer like you go?’

  ‘You in trouble, son?’

  ‘I need to trace some people who’ve been around since your day. I don’t think they’d trust new blood ‒ I think they’d dig up an old faithful.’

  Suspicion crossed Eddie’s face and he sat down to stop himself jittering from foot to foot.

  ‘You’re starting to sound like Old Bill,’ he joked.

  ‘I am,’ said Jack, raising his chin and introducing himself ‒ prematurely ‒ as ‘Detective Sergeant Jack Warr’.

  Eddie slammed his hands on the arms of his chair and attempted to leap up in indignation – although all he actually managed was a bunny-hop to the edge of the chair until his hips were far enough forward for him to throw himself into a standing position. The effect was somewhat spoilt by the time it took him to stand up, but he still managed to sound pissed off when he spoke.

  ‘He’d be ashamed of you! You hear me? You come in here under false pretences, get all cosy and then think I’m gonna spill the beans just ’cos you’re Harry’s boy? Get out and don’t come back. You ain’t welcome.’

  According to the law, Jack knew he had to leave as Eddie had demanded. Ridley would have done it. But Ridley was a copper through and through and Jack . . . well, Jack was evolving into something else. As he frowned at Eddie and listened to the barrage of insults, Jack wanted to punch him. It dawned on him that Eddie wasn’t scared of Jack, the policeman ‒ but he was scared of Jack, the son of Harry Rawlins.

  Jack took a step forward and got in Eddie’s face.

  ‘I am Harry Rawlins’ boy,’ he whispered menacingly, and watched as fear flushed through Eddie’s face. ‘But I’m also Charlie Warr’s boy. And you know what that adds up to? The best of both worlds, Eddie. I know you and I know how to get to you. So, I want the names of any old-school forgers in London that are still alive, and that anyone would dare go to. If you give me names, I won’t take you in.’

  Jack stepped forward again, forcing Eddie to shuffle backwards until he toppled back onto his seat. He leant his hands on the arms of Eddie’s chair and gave him one final nudge.

  ‘Believe this, Uncle Eddie, Harry’s got nothing on me.’

  The stench of Eddie’s whisky breath blew hot in Jack’s face, but he didn’t back off.

  ‘They’ll all be dead now.’ Eddie trembled as he spoke. ‘I can’t think of no one ‒ I swear I can’t.’

  Jack sat himself next to Eddie, just as he’d done when they flicked through the photo album together, and smiled.

  ‘You take your time,’ he told Eddie. ‘I’m going to make us both a nice cup of tea.’

  *

  Ridley had updated Interpol and now half the police forces in the bloody world were looking for four women, buying and selling high-end goods at a pace. Monaco, Rio, Zurich, Monte Carlo: anywhere known for its rich visitors was being looked into. The waiting was almost painful.

  Jack and Laura sat together at her desk as he fed her names of forgers from the eighties and she checked them on the system.

  Marcia Armante – dead. Thomas Sykes – alive: Alzheimer’s. Scott Hughes – dead. Dougie Marshall – alive: care home. Rachel Yarborough – alive: glaucoma.

  Laura couldn’t believe they were looking at such decrepit old relics. But Jack was encouraged. Eddie had mentioned that Dolly knew Dougie and Marcia very well, because they’d both worked closely with Harry. They were his go-to forgers.

  ‘Once you got involved with Harry,’ E
ddie had said, ‘he never let you go. Treated you right, mind, as long as he got it back tenfold.’

  Eddie had explained that, after the first underpass raid went so badly wrong, Harry had been nursed back to health by Trudie. He’d suffered minor burns in the explosion and bits of him were all wrapped up like a mummy. Trudie had been sent to get him a new passport – Eddie didn’t know which forger he’d chosen, but it had to have been Dougie or Marcia. And seeing as Marcia was dead, Dougie was top of Jack’s list.

  As Jack pulled his coat on, Ridley came out of his office for an update. His every instinct screamed, What the fuck are you doing, chasing a pensioner in a care home? But he didn’t say anything, because he also knew that his every instinct had let him down recently.

  *

  The care home had directed Jack to Marshall’s Bookmakers, in Croydon, Dougie went in every day to help his son, Gareth, run the family business.

  Jack entered through a side door and up a dirty, stained staircase, half-blocked by a stairlift. There was so little room that he had to slide along the wall as he climbed. On the landing, he passed an old bathroom with a few remaining dark green tiles clinging on to their old grout for dear life. There was a dirty towel hanging over the rail, a stained bath and a toilet that Jack could smell from the corridor. It was truly horrible.

  There was a closed door at the end of the corridor. There was no sign, and the paint had seen far better days, but this had to be Dougie’s office. Jack knocked lightly, pushed down on the handle and swung the door open.

  Dougie Marshall was sitting at his desk behind a plume of noxious cigar smoke when Jack walked in uninvited. He wore a wide, shoulder-padded, pale blue and pink tweed jacket with a yellow shirt and mismatched tie. He was obese, with a flushed complexion and a bulbous red nose. There was a cigar clamped between his yellow teeth, which were almost the same colour as the final few strands of hair that had been combed over his otherwise bald head. In front of Dougie and to his left was a stack of promotional flyers for the bookies, and to his right were some sticky labels showing their new web address. Dougie was sticking one label on each flyer and then creating a third stack ready for distribution in the street, no doubt by spotty teens wanting to earn pocket money.

  Jack flashed his ID and got straight to the point.

  ‘I want to talk to you about Angela Dunn.’

  ‘It would be my absolute pleasure to talk about such a lovely girl.’

  Dougie started to waffle on about how it had taken her just two weeks to produce the office curtains and four matching cushions – he couldn’t recommend her highly enough.

  Jack smiled at the cheek of him.

  ‘I’m actually talking about the fake passports you made for her,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’re a very rude policeman, aren’t you?’ Dougie scoffed. ‘As you can see, my job is nowhere near as exciting as you seem to think.’

  ‘I know you provided the—’ Jack started.

  ‘You don’t know anything!’ Dougie snapped. ‘I, PC Plod or whatever your name is, did not make any fake anything for anyone.’

  Jack wondered if Eddie had called Dougie to give him a heads-up, but decided that Eddie wouldn’t have the guts.

  ‘Now,’ Dougie continued, ‘is there anything else?’

  Jack pulled the chair opposite Dougie away from the smoke cloud and sat down.

  Dougie smirked. ‘You remind me of someone. It’ll come to me.’

  Jack looked around. On a high shelf, running the circumference of the room, mixed up with other junk, were old inks, paints, brushes, an old washing mangle and an artist’s drying rack. All items used by old-school forgers, all in pride of place. Dougie followed Jack’s eyes – he wasn’t worried. Jack could look all he liked; it was all just memories. A row of short, locked filing cabinets stood underneath the window sill. One lone print of Constable’s Hay Wain hung on the wall above Dougie’s head. A drinks cabinet occupied one corner of the room and a small, worn armchair occupied the other.

  ‘Angela Dunn is no criminal, if that’s what you think. She’s a survivor. As are you, I’d wager. Except you’re also a lucky boy and don’t have to fight quite so hard for the things you have.’

  ‘You like fakes?’ Jack asked casually as he headed around Dougie’s desk and removed the Hay Wain from the wall, revealing a safe.

  ‘Two-six-nine-eight. But you’ll need a warrant to open it.’

  Jack replaced the painting and, as he straightened it, he thought of Harry Rawlins, and a story Eddie had told him about how he’d steal original paintings to be copied, along with their provenance, so that he’d end up with several ‘legitimate’ works of art. Jack wondered if this Hay Wain was Harry’s work.

  Jack pushed his hands deep into his pockets and moved slowly round the room, looking carefully around because Dougie was quite right to say he couldn’t do anything without a search warrant. Dougie never took his eyes off him. Never blinked. As Jack headed towards the worn armchair, Dougie suddenly dragged himself to his feet.

  ‘I’m bored of you now, son!’ Jack hadn’t seen but, as he stood, Dougie had pushed a small button underneath the lip of his desk. Dougie grabbed his walking frame. ‘If you wanna waste any more of my time, you get a warrant. For now, fuck off!’

  Jack stood in the centre of the room as Dougie shuffled towards him.

  ‘You’re a disrespectful little shit!’ he shouted.

  Dougie’s arms were doing far more work than his legs ‒ they shuffled forward an inch or two at a time, unable to bend at the knees or ankles. Stairs would be impossible now for him.

  As Jack was trying to work out what he’d actually done to cause such a change in mood, the door swung open.

  ‘You all right, Dad?’

  Gareth was a large man in his forties, good looking in a battered sort of way, with the flattened nose of a boxer. He was fashionably dressed in a three-piece suit, pristine shirt and co-ordinated tie – the exact opposite of his dad. Gareth clearly wasn’t remotely happy to see Jack in his dad’s office.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’ Gareth guided Dougie to the old armchair as he spoke more gently. ‘What’ve I told you about leaving that side door open, Dad? You got to lock it when you arrive.’

  Once Dougie was safely seated, Gareth’s focus returned to Jack.

  ‘I was just asking your dad about Angela Dunn, Mr—?’

  ‘Don’t fucking “Mr” me. You ain’t after no upholstery review.’

  ‘No. I’m after information on how she might have obtained a passport at short notice.’

  Gareth took a step towards Jack. Jack quickly took his hands from his pockets in case he needed to defend himself. He instantly regretted this move, as it told Gareth that he was on edge and very aware of his own comparatively small stature. Dougie grinned from the comfort of the armchair. His boy had this!

  ‘Oh, no, no, no ‒ you ain’t talking to my old man about that bollocks. He’s fucking 84! He’s got angina. He’s a sick man, not your go-to snout. He ain’t well enough to be ambushed by some half-arsed copper. That is what you are, right? You’re a copper.’

  ‘I’m not pressuring your father into anything—’ Jack began.

  Dougie interrupted. ‘He wanted to look in my safe without a warrant, son. I told him to leave but he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to disturb you by pressing the emergency button, but it got so I was scared to be up here on me own with him.’

  As Gareth moved forward, Jack moved back, towards the door. He wasn’t scared, although Gareth did look like a handful, but he couldn’t afford to get into a fight with a civilian after he’d already been asked to leave their property.

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Jack sang. ‘Don’t put a hand on me, all right? I’m going.’

  ‘Move faster, then!’

  Gareth walked at Jack, chest first, like an immaculately dressed, expensive smelling brick wall that was impossible to argue with. Jack backed off in time with Gareth, went out of the door and down the hallway,
towards the stairs. He’d completely forgotten about the stairlift, so when he turned to head down the stairs, he tripped over the footplate, sending the top half of his body down the steps before his legs could untangle. He grabbed out in a vain attempt to save himself, caught the start button with his elbow and tumbled head first down the filthy stairs, all the way to the shitty doormat at the bottom. With his nose pressed into the floor and his eyes screwed tight shut, all Jack could hear was Gareth cackling and the slow whirr of the stairlift heading down to meet him.

  ‘Don’t worry. You got at least twenty seconds to get out of its way!’ Gareth howled.

  *

  Maggie stood in between Jack’s legs, pressing around his nose and cheekbones. He sat with his head back, gripping the arms of their dining chair and desperately trying not to push her away because of the pain he was in. His eyes were blackening and wouldn’t stop watering, and his nose was swollen and wouldn’t stop bleeding.

  ‘I don’t think it’s broken.’ Maggie glared down at him as though he was the one who’d done something wrong. ‘You’ve reported them, right? You can’t let them get away with attacking you. We get so many police come into the ED, and paramedics now as well. It’s disgusting, Jack. You have to take a stand against this sort of violence.’

  Jack put his hands on Maggie’s hips, in an attempt to reassure her.

  ‘It was my fault, Mags,’ he said.

  She misinterpreted his meaning. ‘Oh, don’t tell me this is down to your newly discovered past! Did you go in all gung-ho, all “Harry Rawlins”?’

  Jack stood up. ‘No, I didn’t!’ he protested.

  She didn’t believe him. ‘Jack, you don’t belong in that world. You’re a good, kind man ‒ not a gangster. They survive by having no heart, nothing to lose. You . . . You have so much to lose.’ Maggie instinctively put her hand to her belly. ‘Please, Jack, I can’t stand the thought of you putting yourself in danger. You’re not a fighter, you’re a smart man who’s always used words rather than fists. I don’t want you coming home like this ever again, you hear me? No more fights, Jack, please.’