Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020) Page 4

Jack’s mobile vibrated silently in his hand and he sent his mum to voicemail. He could hardly pause a bollocking to take a call from his mum.

  ‘I’m not saying “go for it”,’ Ridley continued. ‘But I am saying “decide”. Some people are DCs for the whole of their careers and that’s fine. But my DCs have ambition. Do you understand? Make a decision.’

  For the remainder of the journey, they travelled in silence.

  Jack’s first decision was to throw himself into the Rose Cottage case 100 per cent and help Ridley bring an armed gang to justice after twenty-four years in the wind. Possibly with a murder conviction thrown in for good measure. He also decided to nurture the newly acquired excited feeling he had in the pit of his stomach. He’d allow it to guide him in the hope that, by the end of this case, he’d know whether to either leave the force with his head held high, or shatter Anik’s hope of promotion and beat him to the sergeant’s position.

  CHAPTER 4

  DI Martin Prescott and DCI Simon Ridley had met several years ago on the College of Policing’s Senior Investigating Officers course, and had bonded over polystyrene-tasting coffee and a mutual love of golf. They were chalk and cheese; Prescott was a man’s man who treated colleagues, male and female, like his mates until they proved him wrong – whereas Ridley was more formal in his approach, liking to keep a professional distance. However, when it came to police work, they were both sharp, methodical and rarely wrong. Although these men would never choose to spend their downtime with each other, they shared great mutual respect. Ridley was very grateful to have been brought in on this case at such an early stage.

  Prescott walked Ridley and his team round the outside of Rose Cottage and into the back garden, where dozens of uniformed Thames Valley Police officers were scattered about doing a fingertip search of the grounds to make sure they’d not missed anything. Prescott got everyone up to speed as they walked.

  ‘All the information from ’95, and my recent conversation with Bill Thorn, suggests that this could be the Met’s open train robbery case. All of the evidence we’ve gathered so far is being organised for transfer. We’ll carry on at this end if you like, or do you want to bring your boys in to take over?’

  Before Ridley could answer, the dog handler popped up from the other side of a hedge.

  ‘Sir!’

  Amber was sitting to attention, pointing her nose to the ground, tail wagging. Her handler moved the low branches of the hedge to one side and revealed a short piece of garden hose, which was the same colour and design as the garden hose in the back garden of Rose Cottage. In the soil was an intact toe print from what looked like a trainer.

  ‘Amber’s indicating that this hose smells of petrol.’

  ‘Could Amber have missed a petrol accelerant inside the cottage?’ Prescott asked.

  ‘At this scene . . . yes, sir,’ Amber’s handler explained. ‘The fire had already been burning for a long time when we arrived, so all traces of accelerant could have burnt away. And the smell of the body could have overpowered the scent, too.’

  Prescott waved to a SOCO carrying a digital SLR camera as he reassured Ridley.

  ‘We’ve bagged samples of every piece of debris from inside, so if petrol was used, forensics will tell us. And we’ll get a cast of that toe print.’

  As the SOCO took pictures of the cut hose in situ, before bagging it as evidence, Anik was mesmerised by Amber bounding around the neighbouring field with her tongue flapping about from beneath the tennis ball.

  Ridley replied to Prescott’s earlier question. ‘I’m more than happy for your men to continue at this end, DI Prescott. Thank you.’

  With that, Prescott led the way back round to the front of the cottage. Jack paused, made notes on his mobile and pondered ‘intent’ as he looked at the clearly improvised piece of cut hose. Whatever had happened here, the fire might not have been planned. Something could have just gone very wrong, very quickly.

  In the front garden, everyone stood amid the muddy mess of trampled roses and fire-damaged furniture as Prescott continued with his heads-up.

  ‘After Norma died, a supermarket approached the owner of the cottage within weeks and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. There’s a newish housing estate about a quarter-mile away, built on the land where The Grange used to be, so a supermarket here’ll make a killing. Demolition’s paused now, of course. This place’ll stay exactly as-is till you say otherwise. And the post-mortem’s paused an’ all. I’ll get Abbi’s preliminary findings to you, along with all the evidence and statements we’ve collected so far. Collecting the cash has been a bloody nightmare. Most of it crumbles on contact, but we’re getting video and photographic records of every step we’re taking. ’Ave I missed anything, sir?’

  ‘Do the witness statements for the fire give us anything?’ Ridley asked.

  ‘Nah. No direct witnesses. No CCTV. We’ve got dozens of housing estate residents giving you an accurate timeline for when the fire started, though.’

  ‘Thank you, DI Prescott.’

  Ridley looked at the carnage that surrounded him. He dreaded to think what the inside looked like.

  *

  Anik frowned over the top of his blue paper face mask as he watched everyone else milling around the now-empty lounge of Rose Cottage. They all wore their blue paper suits well, whereas his was far too big and made him look inflatable.

  How come everything police issue never bloody well fits me? he thought to himself.

  Ridley, Jack, Laura and Anik had each been given a tablet so they could flick through crime scene photos as they moved. Jack stood in the centre of the room, where the sofa had been, and looked at images of the burnt body melted into the springs. The fire must have raged with real intensity to obliterate the body, down to the bone in places. Jack was overwhelmed by the need to know who this man used to be – was he one of the bad guys or was he an innocent victim? Was he a ‘pervert’, as the faint red paint on the wall suggested? Or was he just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong people? His train of thought was broken by his mobile buzzing in his pocket. His mum had left a second voicemail.

  Ridley was across the room listening to Prescott talk inter-station politics. Prescott was explaining that he wasn’t going to get in Ridley’s way, but that he did want to stay close to the investigation; after all, Norma was one of their own and the mystery of a dead body in her old house was definitely something they wanted answers to. Jack took the opportunity to quickly nip out into what used to be the front garden and listen to his mum’s voicemail, as he wouldn’t be able to do it in the car back to London with Ridley.

  ‘Hello, darling. It’s Mum.’ As though he didn’t know. ‘Can you visit? Soon, I mean. Only me and your dad need to have a little chat with you. Nothing for you to worry about, just . . . we’d love to see you.’

  The words ‘nothing for you to worry about’ clearly told Jack that there was something for him to worry about. Without thinking where he was and who might be listening, he called straight back.

  ‘What’s up?’ Jack asked quickly, not bothering with any of the usual pleasantries.

  Initially he heard nothing in reply, as his mum held her breath on the other end of the phone; then he heard that very distinctive slow exhale that comes with letting overdue tears flow. Jack’s voice was all it took for Penny to be overwhelmed by pent-up emotion.

  ‘I’m going to come to you as soon as I can. OK, Mum? It might not be today, but I’ll try my best. Is Dad OK?’

  Again, Penny didn’t ‒ couldn’t ‒ answer immediately. After what seemed like an age, she managed to whisper, ‘No, sweetheart.’

  Jack kept his voice calm. ‘I’ll be there tonight. Don’t worry. I’m coming.’

  He hung up, regained his composure and looked at Ridley, who was now lording it amid his temporarily extended team, dishing out his anally retentive orders, checking and double-checking that everyone knew their role.

  ‘Guv,’ Jack said politely. This w
asn’t going to go down well. ‘Could I have a word in private, please?’ He and Ridley stepped away from the bulk of the people. ‘I have a family issue, guv. I’m sorry, I know it’s bad timing.’

  ‘Now?’

  Ridley wanted confirmation before he decided just how disappointed he was going to be with Jack.

  ‘It’s my dad. I think. I mean, Mum called and . . . something’s wrong.’

  Ridley sighed a long and heavy sigh, making Jack wait for his decision.

  ‘We’ve just found a dead body, at the scene of a fire, next to approximately £1.8 million in non-legal tender, inside a cottage whose last occupant was a mounted police officer.’ Jack knew exactly what Ridley wanted him to say but he couldn’t; his subsequent silence told Ridley, loud and clear, that his dad was more important. ‘Take the rest of today, Jack. This lot will take an age to process and transfer across to us anyway. I want every one of my team to be on their best game, and if you’re fretting about what may or may not be happening with your parents, then you’re a million miles away from your best game.’

  Before Jack could thank him, Ridley had walked away and got into the driver’s seat of the car they’d shared to get there.

  Fuck, Jack thought to himself. This is going to be one shit drive home!

  CHAPTER 5

  Maggie got up at her usual time of three o’clock and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea. On the breakfast bar was a scribbled note:

  Gone to Mum and Dad’s. I’ll call you when you’re up. Don’t worry. Jack xx

  And then Maggie’s phone rang.

  ‘Hello, lovely,’ Jack whispered. ‘I’m on a train so, if I lose you, I’ll call you back. I brought the car back to the flat for you.’

  ‘What’s happened? Are Penny and Charlie OK?’

  ‘Not sure. I’m two hours away, so I’ll call you when I know.’

  Jack wasn’t being standoffish, and Maggie knew it. He just hated talking on trains, surrounded by strangers who couldn’t help but listen in. And this ‒ especially this ‒ was nobody else’s business. So Maggie did the talking.

  ‘OK, honey. Well, I’m in work from four, but I’ll keep my phone on vibrate and, if you need me, you call me. I may not be able to pick up, but I’ll get to somewhere quiet and call you back as soon as I can. Was it your mum who called?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, it’s Charlie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Well . . . whatever it is, we’ll be fine.’ Jack’s phone pinged as a text message came through ‒ which he ignored for the time being. Maggie continued, ‘We can cope with anything, you know ‒ the four of us. And if you need me there, you ask, OK? Don’t think I can’t come, Jack, because I can. I’ll make work understand—’

  And then the phone went dead and Jack lost signal.

  The text message was from Laura –

  Ridley told me. Hope you’re OK. L x.

  Jack texted Maggie –

  Love you xx

  – and then watched it fail to send. Seven times. On the eighth attempt, it finally went through. He spent the rest of the journey looking out of the window, thinking about how to react if his mum told him that his dad was dying.

  *

  Charlie and Penny Warr always knew that they couldn’t have children of their own; it was something to do with Charlie, but they never dwelt on the details. Adopting had been a very quick and easy decision for them.

  It was June 1987. Jack was four years and seven months old when Lillian, his social worker, walked him across the village green towards the little Devonshire pub where they’d all agreed to meet. Penny and Charlie watched for what seemed like an age, because Jack was constantly distracted by the world around him ‒ he’d pause, look round, change direction, sit down ‒ and all the while, Lillian gently encouraged him to keep on track. Little Jack smiled the entire time, his wide brown eyes taking in every detail.

  ‘She’s wearing the same pedal pushers as me,’ Penny whispered.

  Charlie looked at his wife, noted the tears welling in her eyes, and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘What a ridiculous thing for me to say! I’m just so nervous. Look at those amazing brown eyes, Charlie. Look at him looking. He’s so smart.’

  Charlie put his arm around Penny’s shoulder and she slid along the pub bench, closer to him. They sat there, sipping lime and soda, watching their boy toddle towards them. And by the time Jack had covered that small patch of grass, they loved him.

  Jack didn’t clearly remember any of this first-hand, but, like many memories that actually belong to someone else, this one had oddly started to feel like his own. As the train continued towards Devon, he could even recall the colour of Penny’s pedal pushers and the smell of Charlie’s aftershave as he fell asleep in his big, working man’s arms.

  *

  At Rose Cottage, Laura watched the last of the evidence, including the cut hose pipe, being bagged and loaded into the back of a police van. She checked her mobile for the umpteenth time, but Jack hadn’t texted her back. In her heart of hearts, she knew he wouldn’t; but, like many women in love with the wrong man, she couldn’t bring herself to give up hope.

  *

  Ridley stood with forensic pathologist William Fox, as the grumpy Aylesbury undertaker opened the back of his white van and the overwhelming smell of over-barbecued pork hit them both. The transfer journey to the London mortuary had only taken an hour and a half, but still, the driver clearly hated moving around the capital and couldn’t wait to get home.

  Will backed away from the smell, slipping his jacket off as he moved.

  ‘Bloody hell, Simon. You didn’t say it was a fire. That smell sticks to everything and this jacket’s new, you know!’

  Ridley smirked to himself.

  Will was only in his late thirties, but he was one of the foremost forensic pathologists in the UK. His mind was as sharp as his dress sense, he was loved by everyone and he showed an unrivalled passion for his profession. His sense of justice had originally taken him towards the police force, but his height, or lack of, his small frame and his aversion to physical confrontation forced him towards a behind-the-scenes job. And from the second he chose forensics, he shone brighter than anyone else in his class.

  Will, or Foxy as he was sometimes called, played the sexy Silent Witness pathologist card on women all the time ‒ and it worked. He referred to himself as ‘The Death Detective’ and made out that the police couldn’t make a move without him. Ridley didn’t mind; it wasn’t entirely untrue and, besides, all he cared about was his team being exceptional. And Foxy was exceptional.

  The Aylesbury undertaker handed Foxy a large evidence bag and pushed the gurney indoors. Ridley explained.

  ‘His left foot came off when they picked him up.’

  *

  The walk from Totnes railway station to Charlie and Penny’s bungalow was visually quite an ordinary picture of semi-rural life, but emotionally, for Jack, it was borderline enchanting. Every step was a memory: the pub where he’d had his first underage drink; the back garden where he’d first touched a girl underneath her clothes; his first fight, his first heartbreak and the pub where he first saw Maggie. She was horrible to him. But they were both drunk and were showing off with their respective groups of friends.

  The day after, Jack had gone to the café where Maggie worked and apologised. He’d stayed for four hours until she finished her shift and then taken her for a drink . . . Three hours later, they knew everything there was to know about each other. Jack wasn’t Maggie’s first love, but she was his.

  Of course, he thought he’d been in love before, but he hadn’t really – he’d been in lust. Love was calm, lust was frantic. Frantic because Jack never knew exactly how long it would last, so he had to make the most of it while he could. But with Maggie, he knew immediately that he had all the time in the world. She was going nowhere.

  *

  Jack stared at the bungalow he’d grown up in. Eve
ry light was on. Every light was always on. He smiled and shook his head. He watched Penny fussing in the lounge through always-open curtains, then in his old bedroom – she was fluffing his pillows, probably for the twentieth time. He was sure she was checking she’d put every toiletry under the sun in his en suite, just in case he’d forgotten anything ‒ which would be handy on this occasion because, in his rush to get here, he’d forgotten pretty much everything.

  From the second Penny opened the front door, she never once stopped talking.

  ‘Tea, darling . . .? Oh, the trains are a nuisance, aren’t they . . .? How’s Maggie . . .? Georgina’s got herself a puppy, can you believe it . . .? There’s a chicken in the oven, but the veg isn’t on yet . . . Would you like a whisky to tide you over?’

  Charlie smiled at Jack and rolled his eyes, gently mocking his hyperactive wife.

  Father and son hugged. Charlie held on for a moment longer than usual and, in that instant, Jack knew something was very wrong. When Charlie pulled away, the tears were welling – then he sniffed, shook his head and squeezed Jack’s shoulders. In the background, Penny fussed between the sink, the oven and the drinks cabinet ‒ oblivious to the fact that the dreadful news she was so frantically avoiding had just been silently shared.

  When she finally turned around, holding two glasses of whisky and ice, Charlie and Jack were hugging again, and Jack was crying.

  *

  Penny carved the chicken as Jack and Charlie sat across the table from each other. Jack was frowning as he tried to get his head around everything.

  ‘OK, so who’s said it’ll be no more than a few months from now?’

  ‘Dr Chakrabarti, his name is.’

  This was Penny’s domain, as Charlie had never been any good with details.

  ‘And what treatment has he suggested?’

  Jack picked up his mobile and googled Dr Chakrabarti.

  ‘We’ve done it all, darling. Your dad was told just before Christmas and—’