Buried - DC Jack Warr Series 01 (2020) Page 5

  ‘Christmas? You were with us in London at Christmas!’

  ‘Are you listening or shouting, darling?’

  Jack fell silent. His mum faced away from him and started to tear the remains of the chicken to pieces with her hands. He knew she wasn’t being rude, she was just terrified of breaking down before she’d said everything she needed to.

  ‘Your dad was told just before Christmas, and in the new year he went straight into his first round of chemotherapy, which didn’t agree with him at all, did it, my love?’ Charlie shook his head. ‘So, we tried a second type, which didn’t have as many side effects, but didn’t really do much good—’

  ‘I can’t find Chakrabarti,’ Jack interrupted. ‘Does he work at Derriford?’

  ‘Yes. The best in the West Country, he is. C - H - A - K . . .’

  ‘Found him.’ Jack read background on Chakrabarti at the same time as finding out everything that had happened while his bloody back was turned. ‘But there must be something else you can try. Isn’t there? I mean, even if there’s nothing right at this moment, new cures come along all the time.’

  Now, Charlie spoke for the first time.

  ‘The word “cure” was never used, son. Not from the very beginning. It was always only ever about giving me as much time as possible. And they’ve done that. We are where we are.’

  The pain in Jack’s chest built as he squeezed the words out from between his pursed lips and the tears welled again.

  ‘A few fucking months!’

  Penny let the swear word go on this occasion.

  ‘Yep,’ Charlie said. ‘So, me and your mum are going on holiday. If that’s all right with you.’

  ‘For how long?’ Jack asked. ‘Do you need money? Where are you going?’

  Charlie beamed as if he didn’t have a care left in the world.

  ‘Everywhere. We’ve cashed in the pensions and the bungalow’s on the market.’

  Jack couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘You’re selling? That makes no sense at all. Where are you going to live when you come back?’

  Penny gently, lovingly, stroked the back of Charlie’s head.

  ‘Why don’t you boys nip to the pub?’

  *

  Although it was way too late to be starting the full post-mortem, Foxy did need to make certain that there was no evidence on the body which simply couldn’t wait until the morning. The preservation of any dead body was a delicate process at the best of times, but ‘Sheila’, as he’d now been universally christened, was extra vulnerable and brittle due to the fire.

  ‘Sheila’ still lay on his side, almost in the foetal position. This was a common death position for people exposed to extreme temperatures ‒ partly as a natural yet futile defence against flames and smoke, and partly because as the body dried out, the joints would naturally curl. However, this body had been found on a small two-seater sofa and so the curled position could equally be because he’d been too long for it.

  Foxy flicked through Abigail Coleman’s very thorough preliminary observations and tentatively agreed that the large fracture to the back of the skull could be a blunt force trauma and therefore the cause of death.

  Tomorrow morning, when he cut ‘Sheila’ open, the first thing Foxy would look for would be signs of smoke inhalation. If there were none, then ‘Sheila’ would have already been dead when the fire started. Which would be some consolation.

  As Foxy refrigerated ‘Sheila’ for the night, he smiled. He loved a good mystery.

  *

  Jack and Charlie sat in the window of the King’s Head, looking out over the patch of grass that the locals proudly called the ‘village green’. Charlie told the story of their first meeting and, although Jack had heard it a thousand times, he didn’t mind at all hearing it again.

  On that day back in 1987, Charlie had got up from the garden bench and knelt on the grass to greet his potential new son. As Jack got within touching distance, he’d instinctively turned his back to Charlie, reversed, and sat down on his waiting knee. And there he’d stayed, while the women tutted about how inexplicable it was that someone had chosen to walk away from such a stunning little boy.

  Reluctantly, Jack brought the conversation back to the present.

  ‘You’re selling the bungalow ’cos you’re not coming back, aren’t you?’

  Charlie took his time in answering. ‘A friend of my brother’s has reserved a short lease on a one-bedroomed flat in a wardened complex for your mum. She can have it for as long as she likes. She’s said she doesn’t want . . .’ Charlie stumbled over his words for a second. ‘She doesn’t want to be in our bungalow on her own.’

  ‘You might come home though, eh, Dad? I mean, you hear about people surprising doctors all the time. A few months doesn’t have to mean a few months.’

  Charlie took a slug from his pint and even managed a smile, as he lied to his son.

  ‘Maybe. You know us builders, lad . . . if we’re given six months, we always take twelve.’

  *

  The rest of the evening was like old times. Jack moaned about how badly Plymouth Argyle were doing this year; Charlie asked about Jack’s job, about Maggie and whether there were any kids on the horizon.

  ‘The jobs have got to come first at the moment, Dad. Mags has not long started at the New Victoria and she’s doing really well ‒ impressing all the right people, you know. Maybe in a year or two.’

  ‘Ah, Jack, once she gets where she wants to be, she’ll not want to leave to do parenting.’

  ‘She might not be the one who leaves.’

  Jack realised that he’d said this almost without thinking. He wasn’t even sure where the thought had come from ‒ him being the one to give up work and look after kids ‒ but, once he’d said it, he really didn’t mind how it sounded.

  ‘Mags skips to work ‒ I don’t. It’s my fault. I need to focus and get into the swing of things in London. Don’t tell Mum right now, she’ll only worry and, in all honesty, there’s nothing to worry about. Me and Mags are strong. It doesn’t matter who does what, as long as we’re together.’

  *

  Charlie took an age to get his key in the front door, partly because he was pissed and partly because it was 11.30 and he was tired from all the meds he was currently taking. They sniggered like naughty schoolkids, thinking they were being completely silent when, in fact, they were making a terrible racket.

  Two cling-filmed plates of food sat on the kitchen top, already pierced and ready for the microwave. The kitchen table was set, complete with two glasses for water and two glasses for whisky. Charlie heated the food and Jack filled all four glasses. While the microwave was on, Charlie said, ‘I’ve got something for you, lad,’ before disappearing. By the time he came back, the piping hot food was on the table.

  Charlie put a dog-eared file down in front of Jack. At first he thought it was probably filled with the legal stuff that would have to be dealt with after Charlie had gone; but this file was as old as Jack, by the looks of it. He opened it up and, inside were several yellowing pieces of paper and tons of old photos. Charlie ate in silence as his son slowly took in the enormity of what he was looking at – a birth certificate, adoption papers, photos of a young woman holding a baby. Jack slammed the file shut. Charlie spoke before Jack could.

  ‘You’re my son. You took my name, you have my mannerisms and I’d swear that you’ve got my nose, even though that’s impossible.’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ Jack snapped, before stuffing his mouth full of chicken.

  Charlie laughed for a second. ‘And when you sulk, I’d swear on my life that you’ve got your mum’s frown.’ He suddenly seemed to sober up. ‘You’ve never asked where you’re from, Jack, and you don’t have to ask now. Just know that you’re not disrespecting me or your mum if you choose to find out.’

  ‘Why would I want to, Dad? I don’t need . . . You think I’d want to call someone else “Dad”? You think I want anyone else calling me his l
ad?’

  ‘People come and go, that’s life ‒ and we make the most of them while they’re here. If you want to look into your past, all I’m saying is . . . you have my blessing.’

  *

  Jack lay on his fluffed-up pillows, on his childhood bed, and listened to Maggie’s phone send him to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. She’d know no message was the same as saying, ‘call me back when you have a second’. Jack waited for the screen of his mobile to light up silently, because tonight of all nights, he knew that Maggie would call him back within seconds.

  It was actually three minutes later when his screen eventually lit up.

  ‘Hey, Mags,’ he whispered.

  Maggie got straight to the point. ‘How are things there?’

  ‘He’s been given a few months. It’s in his lungs and his liver, but they’re both secondaries, they don’t actually know where the primary is.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, I’m so sorry.’

  ‘That can’t be right, can it, Mags? Not knowing where it started? I mean, it can’t have disappeared, can it? Why can’t they find the primary? If they find the primary, maybe they can fix it. Do you think . . .?’

  ‘Do you need me there?’

  By changing the subject, Jack knew that Maggie had no answers to his barrage of questions.

  ‘No, I’ll be home first thing.’ He sounded almost bitter in his reply. ‘I was only given one day off and, anyway, they’ve got it all sorted here. They knew before Christmas, so they’ve already got their heads round everything and they’re off on a world cruise, if you can believe that.’

  ‘So, no more treatment?’

  ‘It won’t do any good.’

  ‘Jack . . . you have to let them do this in the right way for them.’

  Maggie could hear Jack holding his breath, then that slow exhale as he stifled the noise of crying.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘This isn’t about you, love.’

  Jack took deep, heavy breaths and regained his composure. Once his breathing was back to normal, Maggie continued.

  ‘Don’t be angry for long. The most important thing in times like this is to have no regrets. Give them your blessing. We’ll skype every day, and we can even meet them on one of their stops if you like.’

  Jack’s voice suddenly perked up, just a little. ‘They go to St Lucia.’

  ‘There you go, then. We’ll meet them there and stay on for a few days. I can even book the same hotel we stayed in when we did that extravagant holiday we couldn’t afford. It’s nearly two o’clock, Jack. Go to sleep. I love you.’

  *

  By five o’clock, Jack was up, showered, dressed and heading out of the front door to catch the 5.45 train back to London. As he leant into the hallway to close the front door, he saw Penny standing in her dressing gown in her bedroom doorway.

  They shared the tightest, saddest of hugs. Penny kissed his cheek. And Jack left.

  *

  If Jack hadn’t walked into the squad room carrying his overnight bag and looking as if he was running on fumes, he’d have been in big trouble. As it was, Ridley took one look at him and immediately assumed that Jack had had very bad news from his parents. Ridley wasn’t going to enquire further, and he allowed Jack a free pass for rolling in at ten o’clock rather than 8.30. Laura, on the other hand, was desperate to enquire further and see if Jack might need a friendly shoulder to cry on. Jack joined the briefing and Ridley continued.

  ‘William Fox is doing the post-mortem as we speak. What we know is that the body found in Rose Cottage is definitely male, but dental records are a no-go due to extensive, seemingly accidental, facial damage. We’ll get DNA from bone marrow so, when that’s through, Laura, I want you to lead a couple of uniforms in checking it against all databases. Anik, the money?’

  ‘Our forensics have picked up from where DI Prescott’s left off and are trying to find a serial number or part serial number for comparison. It’s very unlikely, they say.’

  ‘Keep on them, Anik. And in the meantime, I want you checking all known sex offenders. Start close to Aylesbury and work outwards.’ Anik clearly wasn’t happy with such a menial task on a murder case, but Ridley didn’t care about that. ‘The word “pervert” was painted on the wall for a reason. Actually, Anik, check local vagrants as well.’

  ‘Sir,’ Anik mumbled obediently as he opened a brand-new file to record his part in this investigation. Jack glanced at his overnight bag and recalled that the file Charlie had given him was lying on top of his clothes right beneath the zip.

  Jack got an empty file from his desk, just as Anik had done, and wrote on the front cover: Aylesbury arson / murder. 23 June 2019. He then reached into his overnight bag, pulled out the dog-eared file containing information on his birth parents, and put it inside the Aylesbury file. As Ridley waffled on, none the wiser, Jack read his birth certificate.

  He had always known his birth mother’s name was Trudie Nunn and his birth father was James Anthony Nunn. There were no photographs in the file of James Nunn. Just Trudie. Looking at the photos, she had a petite frame, bleached blonde hair and a naturally sexy look about her. Jack wished that the word ‘sexy’ hadn’t popped into his head, but he couldn’t change that now – it was a fact: his birth mum had been a sexy woman in her day. Jack then found Trudie’s death certificate. It was dated 1998 and the cause was a brain tumour.

  Jack didn’t hear Ridley say his name the first time.

  ‘Jack!’

  He slammed the file shut on his desk and looked up. An elderly man ‒ early seventies ‒ was standing next to Ridley, leaning on a cane.

  ‘For your benefit, Jack, as you missed the opening of the briefing, this is retired DS Bill Thorn from Aylesbury. He’s kindly agreed to help us with some background information as he was part of the investigating team on the mail train robbery and knew Norma Walker, last occupant of Rose Cottage.’

  Jack smiled his ‘hello’, as Ridley gave Bill the floor.

  ‘I chatted with DI Prescott first and he directed me your way ‒ this could be one hell of an open case you’ve picked up.’ Bill Thorn was clearly a copper to his very core. He was in his element at the front of Ridley’s squad room, all eyes on him. ‘I worked with Norma in the mounted division till I moved to CID in the late nineties ‒ but it’s 1995 that you need to hear about. Bottom line is, I don’t know anything about your murder, DCI Ridley ‒ but I think I know plenty about your money. Back in ’95, Aylesbury had the biggest train robbery this country’s ever seen. As you already know, £27 million was taken from a mail train by a gang of masked gunmen. It was bloody smart, I can tell you. One was on horseback, posing as a mounted officer, and there was definitely one in a speedboat on the lake next to the tracks, ’cos the two train guards distinctly recalled hearing the engine. They all disappeared like ghosts. But it had to have been a decent sized gang based on the sheer volume of cash. I mean, a million is a fair weight, so twenty-seven million would need some muscle to shift it and hide it in less than forty minutes. That’s how long they had before we started closing all the main roads into Aylesbury. And we were searching properties by the early hours of the following morning.’

  ‘How well did you know Norma Walker?’ Jack asked.

  ‘She wasn’t the armed robber on horseback, if that’s what you’re asking.’ Bill was adamant. ‘Norma was as honest as they come. I think someone took advantage of her property, nothing more than that.’ He paused. ‘May she rest in peace. Cancer’s a bloody horrible way to go.’

  Jack flinched, but pushed on. ‘Took advantage in 1995 when Norma still lived there, or took advantage once it became empty after she died?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Bill said. ‘But I can tell you, whatever happened, and whenever it happened, Norma was not involved with the mail train robbery.’

  Despite Bill’s vehemence, every member of Ridley’s team noted down Norma as a potential suspect for the armed, mounted rider who had brought the tra
in to a halt so that it could be robbed. She was an experienced horsewoman, and she lived on the spot, so it didn’t make sense to rule her out.

  Oblivious, Bill continued. ‘Imagine . . . imagine if you’ve found where they hid the cash from that train robbery after 24 years!’

  The room didn’t quite share Bill’s enthusiasm. It seemed too unlikely that train robbers would have left the stolen millions untouched for so long ‒ especially in the cottage of an ex-copper who ‘allegedly’ was as honest as they come.

  Ridley politely humoured the ex-copper. ‘Who were your suspects at the time, Bill?’

  ‘We didn’t have any firm suspects if I’m honest. We pulled in all the local names, but it was none of them. We raided all the local properties within hours. The first place we went was The Grange ‒ that was the big old manor house that stood on what’s now the housing estate. We had to go there first ’cos it was occupied by a bunch of ex-cons, but it wasn’t them either. They were all women. When we knocked ’em up in the early hours, they were in their nightdresses, and we woke a load of kids, too. There’s a lot about those women in the files DI Prescott’s sent you. The cops ‒ not my division, mind you ‒ but the cops made a fair few mistakes back then. They raided The Grange numerous times on nothing more than rumours. They accused those women of stashing guns on one occasion. Oh, DCI Craigh was certain he’d got ’em bang to rights, but he hadn’t. Sure, they were all ex-cons but, according to Norma, they were on the up-and-up. Starting a kids’ home or something, and I’m far more inclined to believe Norma than Craigh, who I always found to be a bit hot-headed. The only one of them Craigh arrested was Kathleen O’Reilly, and that was on a poxy “failure to appear” charge. And besides, like I said, twenty-seven million in mail sacks is bloody heavy – so a bunch of women pulling it off is fairy stories. They were all investigated anyway, of course. No connection.’

  Ridley persisted a little longer for his own satisfaction.

  ‘Can you tell us anything about Dolly Rawlins? She owned The Grange at the time of the train robbery, didn’t she?’

  ‘And before that, it was owned by Ester Freeman, who ran it as a brothel.’ Bill laughed. ‘Although if you ask the Neighbourhood Watch crowd from back then, they’ll tell you she ran night classes. Load of old shit. She was closed down as soon as the ages of the girls started to dip below legal.’