‘I’d suggest you don’t tell Audrey that we’ve been to see you. Let’s do the DNA test first,’ Anik suggested.
‘She knows he’s missing, but... Well, it’s not unusual for Mike to go off for a while so she’ll not be worried yet. She’s concerned — but not “worried”, you know.’
‘I know you mentioned that the text messages stopped but... was that the only reason for you reporting him missing this time?’
Ridley noted how Anik was starting to question intuitively.
‘He’d been distracted. I assumed it was by work, or the lack of work. I don’t know. He’d been... off. Mike wasn’t the deepest of people so he was easy to read. Something had been wrong for a while.’
The conversation was rounded off by Ridley asking the harder questions. Questions he knew Anik wouldn’t think of.
‘Mrs Withey, could you tell me if Mike still wore his wedding ring?’ And then came the biggie. ‘And do you have the contact details for his dentist, please?’
A single tear rolled down Susan’s shocked face. The burnt body, whoever he was, wasn’t visually identifiable.
Back at the station, Jack and Laura were huddled round the same desk in a small, rarely used break room. There was an ancient, unplugged coffee machine in the corner, which was why Laura had requested an urn of hot water, sachets of tea and coffee, disposable cups and a selection of biscuits.
Mike’s extensive personnel file was scattered all over the table and Jack was randomly showering each sheet of paper with biscuit crumbs as he read. As Jack leant forward, reading intensely while devouring a chocolate Bourbon, Laura sat back sipping her tea. Their knees just about met underneath the narrow table, and all of Laura’s senses focused on the tiny area of skin at the tip of her knee that brushed against the tip of Jack’s.
‘Do you think he knew Norma?’ Jack asked, snapping Laura out of her trance.
‘I can’t see how he could have. Mike was Met, she was Thames Valley. Their paths could have crossed on a security detail in London maybe, ’cos her mounted division was brought down for large events.’ Laura set aside her teacup and leant forward across the table. If Jack looked up now, their noses would almost be touching. ‘But there’s no record of their teams being on the same detail for anything.’
‘He was liked and respected for the majority of his career. Never reported. Never disciplined. Until 1995, when he was hauled over the coals for not revealing a personal connection to a case he was working on.’
Jack explained, ‘The case was the retrieval of the stolen diamonds. Mike gave his boss, DCI Craigh, a tip-off that Dolly Rawlins knew where the diamonds were, and that she was going after them when she was released from prison. Turned out to be a load of crap, and the tip was nothing more than Mike’s hunch based on his hatred of Dolly Rawlins. He blamed her for the death of his sister, Shirley, and wanted to see her back inside. Mike retired at the beginning of the following year.’ Jack let his hands and the sheet of paper drop heavily into his lap. ‘We’re coming in late on what look like some very old scores being settled here, you know. Our 2019 arson and murder is linked to a 1995 train robbery and the murder of Dolly Rawlins, which is linked to a 1984 diamond robbery and the murder of Harry Rawlins. I just don’t know how.’
‘Well, I’ve got enough to show that Mike’s probably definitely dodgy.’
‘Probably, definitely? Ridley’ll love that.’ Jack laughed.
‘His phone records show that, in recent months, he’s been in contact with his mum, his ex-wife, a guy called Barry Cooper and... wait for it... a burner phone.’
Laura held her hand up, palm towards Jack and he high-fived her, ending with laced fingers.
‘Definitely dodgy.’
Jack stood up and headed off to make two celebratory cups of tea.
When Jack first arrived at the Met, Laura had thought he was moody and standoffish but once they became partners, she began to really like him. He was naturally tactile and, somewhere along the line, she’d become confused by that. She knew he was with Maggie, but she also knew that affairs happened all the time in stressful, potentially violent jobs. It was the uncontrollable adrenaline, the heart pounding, fight or flight situations, it was knowing that your life was in someone else’s hands. Jack turned to her.
‘Bourbon?’
Even mumbling through a half-eaten biscuit, Laura thought his mouth looked lovely.
Tea and biscuits were put on hold when Ridley called Jack’s mobile and instructed them both to go and search Mike’s place of work. There was a search warrant waiting for them to collect at the court building.
Withey Security was nothing more than a run-down Portakabin in the middle of a gated lot. Fourteen Portakabins occupied the space, overseen by an ancient warden who was keyholder to them all. The warden stepped into his own Portakabin to find the keys to Mike’s. This Portakabin was more like a caravan, complete with a small TV, a tatty armchair that looked as if it had been re-covered several times, a three-shelf bookcase, and a selection of yachting magazines to pander to the warden’s daydreams. A half-eaten packed lunch sat on top of a miniature fridge and there was a bowl of children’s sweets on a salvaged coffee table. The bowl of sweets was momentarily confusing, until Jack saw the photos pinned to a wooden noticeboard. The warden had a football team of grandkids.
While the warden searched for the key that unlocked the box of keys bolted to the wall, Jack couldn’t help but focus on a large hole in the top of the right arm of the tatty armchair. He quickly decided that this hole had been made by hundreds of beer bottles sitting in exactly the same spot, over decades of TV watching. Through the uppermost, flowery cover on the armchair, Jack could see snippets of all of the previous coverings — a couple of velour patterns, fake suede, tartan, monochrome stripes, solid black — years of wear and tear that mapped this man’s life. Jack swore he could actually guess the moment that the warden started living with the woman he loved; that move from fake suede to velour was a declaration of his life-long commitment to her.
Laura watched Jack as he longingly stared, all gooey-eyed, into the Portakabin.
‘That’s what separates men from women,’ Laura whispered. ‘You see a man cave — I see a shithole.’
As the warden led the way to Mike’s Portakabin, Jack could see he had something seriously wrong with his lower back. He stooped almost in half and paused every now and then to look up and see exactly where he was heading. Jack had offered to just take the key and unlock it himself, but the warden had insisted on escorting them to the door because he took his job very seriously and refused to allow any keys out of his sight. As they progressed at a snail’s pace, Jack got some background information.
‘How long’s Mike Withey had this office?’
‘Since 2003.’ The warden had a surprisingly high voice with a North London accent. ‘Business took a serious dip in the 2008 recession and I hardly saw any of these businesses for almost a year. Mike still kept his partner on, mind — didn’t lay him off or anything like that. I think they go way back.’ Jack was just about to ask about Mike’s partner when the warden continued, unable to see Jack’s expression because his eyes were turned down towards the ground. ‘Barry Cooper, his name is. Nice and easy to remember, ’cos of the legend that is Gary Cooper. Barry’s been with Mike from the beginning. They’re not partners, strictly speaking. Mike employs Barry, but they’re clearly friends on account of the number of empty bottles I clear out of their bin. Proper boozers, both of them. Whisky’s their go-to drink, and cheap crap it is an’ all.’