Fran dipped the end of her cigarette into a water-filled cereal bowl and then flicked the butt through the open window into the back garden.
‘The babies had the spare bedroom and Trudie was on the sofa,’ Clay added.
Jack was warming to him. Each time Fran made an emotive comment, he repeated it from a practical perspective, as though he was translating into ‘man speak’.
‘Your mum was...’ She looked from Jack to Clay. ‘What’s the word, Clay?’
‘Needy. Not a very confident girl.’
‘Trudie needed to be taken care of and when Jimmy left her, she fell apart. She started drinking too much, going out too much and leaving you here with us too much. It wasn’t fair.’
Clay scraped his chair back and lit one of his cigarettes; he then stood next to Fran and smoked by the window. He was a good foot taller than Fran and half her width; they were an odd-looking couple, but the strength of their relationship was clear.
Clay looked straight into Jack’s eyes as he spoke, making absolutely certain that he understood.
‘Your mum was abusive to my Fran. She was rude, shouting — even hit her once.’ Jack was clearly shocked and Fran bowed her head, as if in shame. ‘He asked, love, so I’m telling him.’ Clay directed his words at Jack again. ‘Your mum’s drinking got out of control and she became depressed. We were looking after three kids under one year old, and Trudie — emotionally and financially.’
Fran took over. ‘Then she got sick. She had a tumour on the brain — you knew that, didn’t you?’ Jack did. Penny had told him when he was old enough to understand. ‘It was over and done with very fast. She didn’t suffer for long. You were ten months old and we had to make a decision. We couldn’t afford to look after everyone.’
Jack smiled. He wasn’t here to make his aunt feel bad.
‘I have great parents, Aunt Fran. You don’t need to worry about me.’
‘I’m so sorry for those first five years of your life, though, Jack.’ Fran spoke with genuine feeling. ‘If we could have kept you and done right by you, we would have. Do you remember it?’
Jack could remember moments from his childhood in unfamiliar places, so he assumed them to be from his time in foster care. Some memories were bad, some were OK. His first pleasant memory certainly had Penny and Charlie in it. He didn’t have memories of anything horrific, although he did recall being hit on several occasions. Mostly he remembered care as being a dull and soulless time — spending most days on his own, dreaming of the exciting things he was going to do when he grew up.
‘Sounds like you did better without your dad,’ Fran suggested. ‘Jimmy Nunn was a lot of hard work for no reward. He was always letting your mum down. I don’t know where he is now, Jack, and, if I did, I’m not sure I’d tell you. My sister loved you with all her heart, she just wasn’t cut out to be a single mum — but Jimmy... Jimmy didn’t love anyone but himself.’
The food at the Dog and Gun was lousy. Ridley had very wisely chosen a ham and cheese toastie with chips, whereas Laura had mistakenly gone for something that needed actual cooking. Her burger was inedible, but fortunately Anik had the constitution of an ox and so finished off hers as well as his own.
‘You eat like a teenager on a growth spurt,’ she said.
‘Well, at least I don’t stink of fags,’ Anik blurted out before he could edit his brain. ‘Sorry, sarge.’
Laura sniffed her top and winced.
At the bar, Ridley watched his pint of Coke being poured while listening to Jack’s answerphone greeting, then the beep.
‘Jack, ask Connie about John Maynard, please. According to him, they had a sexual relationship, maybe as an alternative to cash for work done. That’s it for now. Call me when you get a break.’
The barman and owner, Warren, put Ridley’s pint of Coke down next to the two pints of lime and soda. Warren was an old Londoner who’d moved out to Aylesbury about forty years ago.
‘Dolly Rawlins? First murder we’d had round here in donkey’s years, so too right I milked it. The Grange was only, what, a 20-minute walk away. Tourists would come in here first to get the background story on the murderous gunfight between the notorious “London Madam” and the gangland “husband-killer”. Then they’d go for a wander round the location, then they’d come back here for steak and chips, and a souvenir from the murder scene itself. Forty quid all in, excluding drinks.’
‘A souvenir from the murd—?’
‘Don’t worry, that bit was horse shit. We stuck a piece of old rubble in a food bag. It was like owning a piece of the Great Wall. Or Ayers Rock. Or the Moon. An actual piece of the most depraved whorehouse and bloodiest murder scene this side of the Watford Gap.’
‘And where was the rubble actually from?’
‘My back garden. Law against that, is there?’
‘Not that I can think of, sir, no.’ Ridley manoeuvred the three pint glasses into a triangle, ready to be picked up. ‘You’ve got my card. If you remember anything relevant about the train robbery, I’d be grateful if you’d call me.’
‘Will do, guv. Will do.’
Warren tapped the breast pocket of his shirt, where Ridley’s card was safely tucked away.
By five o’clock, Jack was back sitting on one of the benches outside Connie’s B & B, listening to Ridley’s voicemail. As he put his phone away, Connie’s Fiat Punto pulled up behind him.
Connie opened the car door, gathered her shopping bags and then took a minute or two to actually get out. She had to swing her legs round first, then wriggle to the edge of the driver’s seat until her feet touched the ground; she had to grab the edges of the car door and heave herself out in a rocking one-two-three motion. Jack was so riveted by whether or not she’d make it to vertical that he forgot to offer to help.
As Connie swayed towards her B & B, Jack joined her.
‘Miss Stephens? I’m DC Jack Warr of the Metropolitan Police. May I speak with you about your time at The Grange?’
Connie said nothing. She just handed him her bags and unsteadily led the way indoors.
The hallway to the kitchen ran the depth of the property, which was surprisingly big once inside. Jack couldn’t help but watch Connie’s ample backside sway from side to side as she walked. She still had an intriguing sort of catwalk wiggle and, although several sizes larger than Jack’s personal taste, he could see the appeal.
In the kitchen, she poured two glasses of chilled water, handed one to Jack and then headed back outside to sit on the bench he had vacated a moment earlier.
Once Connie was settled and had glugged most of her water, she said, ‘Why are you interested in that? I don’t think I’ll remember much, but go on.’
Her voice was soft, husky and very sexy, with the slightest hint of a Liverpool accent. Jack recalled the twenty-year-old photo of Connie on the evidence board... That was the woman who suited the voice he was listening to now.
‘I’d like to know what you remember about the train robbery.’
‘Terrible, it was. I couldn’t believe it had actually happened. We didn’t know anything about it until the police hammered on the door in the early hours. I understand why they came to us first but, well, as soon as they walked in, they knew they’d made a mistake. Still searched the place though, inside and out. Dolly said, “You damage it, you pay for it!” — ’cos we’d had trouble before with some coppers taking the door off its hinges. Do you know about that?’
‘I do, yes. The report says they were looking for guns.’
‘Another mistake. It seems that once you’ve got a police record, there’s no leaving it behind.’ Connie finished her water. ‘I love this view. Don’t you?’
‘It’s impressive,’ Jack agreed. Then he got back on track. ‘How did you end up at The Grange?’