Jack felt his face flush. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of concern on Laura’s face, but he didn’t take his eyes off Ridley. Jack couldn’t believe that Ridley knew where he’d been all along and had never said a word. Within seconds, it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate — he just wanted Jack to know that nothing got past him.
As Jack’s face slowly cooled down, he continued.
‘You requested that I find out more about the Witheys, sir. Tony knew them all back in the day.’
He told the squad room about Shirley and Greg, and how he’d decided that neither was of great relevance to this investigation. He also told them that Audrey Withey might well have known all the big players vicariously through her children, and that she probably couldn’t be trusted.
Ridley waited until Jack had finished.
‘Remember, Audrey must be kept in the dark about the corpse until a positive ID has been made. Now, write up all your notes from your visit with Tony Fisher, before you head off to Chester to interview Julia Lawson.’
Sam, who’d just been delivered to Julia by the police and a social worker, was eight years old, with a face that bore witness to a lifetime of horrors. In his soul, he was already a man — a hardened, street-smart, thick-skinned, scowling man. His fists were clenched, his shoulders were tight and his jaw was pushed forward. He was fearless as he stood there, fully prepared to be slapped or punched or locked in a cupboard. What Sam was not prepared for was... Julia.
‘I’m having cake for lunch,’ she said cheerfully.
She headed into the kitchen, leaving Sam in the hallway to either follow or not. The back door, directly behind him, was open and children played in the small, fenced-off garden. He was free to run if he wanted to.
Sam stood by the kitchen table, watching Julia cut a huge slice of chocolate cake and put it on a dinner plate. She surrounded it with two scoops of ice cream, added a spoon and put it on the table.
‘Don’t wait for me.’ She smiled.
Sam was in the chair before she’d finished speaking, scooping up a huge spoonful of cake and ice cream.
‘I ain’t fucking staying,’ he grunted as he stuffed his face.
Julia lifted herself onto the kitchen top and waited for the kettle to boil.
‘I bet you ten quid you fucking do.’
In London, on the third floor of a high-rise flat in Ladbroke Grove, Angela Dunn sat, legs crossed, on her corner sofa surrounded by fabrics and sewing material. Underneath the window was a sewing machine and, to the side of that, were dozens and dozens of transparent plastic boxes, stacked ceiling-high. Each box had a client name written on the outside and each was filled with multicoloured fabrics, lace, buttons, cottons and various other embellishments. Angela had been a self-employed seamstress for more than ten years and she got enough work from her immediate community to keep her busy till her dying day. The wall behind the sofa was papered with family photos, so that not a square inch of plaster could be seen. A vehicle horn musically blared three times and Angela raced down into the courtyard.
Rob was a hefty, muscular Jamaican man in his early fifties. His speckled grey beard and tightly cropped hair made him look like a tough nut but, as Angela’s arms crept round his boxy waist, he smiled the broadest of smiles, revealing the gold cap on his left lateral incisor, his eyes wrinkled, his face softened and the gentle giant appeared. Angela moved round Rob’s body without letting go, sliding underneath his armpit until she was by his side and his arm was round her shoulder. They looked at the second-hand coach he’d just driven back from the monthly auction in Wimbledon. Rob’s voice was gruff, like that of a lifetime smoker, despite the fact that he’d never taken a single drag.
‘The tyres are solid. Seals on the fuel pump are a bit dodgy and the battery needs replacing. It overheated a couple of times on the way back, so the cooling system wants an overhaul. It needs some new bulbs for the brake lights and left indicator. And there’s a horrible smell coming from the air con. Plus the spark plugs make her misfire every now and then—’
Angela asked the only question she cared about. ‘How many seats?’
‘Twenty-five,’ Rob confirmed.
‘It’s perfect, Rob! I’ll call the girls and get things moving.’
Rob paused the conversation to kiss Angela, long and tender. He loved the very bones of her and she adored him. Angela had had her share of useless men and when she found Rob she spared no time in telling him, straight out, that she’d do anything for him as long as he treated her right. Since then, they’d been totally devoted to each other.
‘So, the SUV—’ Rob stopped Angela mid-sentence with a peck on the lips.
‘You’ve asked me this a dozen times.’
Angela smiled, her beautiful brown eyes asking him to humour her one more time.
‘The Chevvy Suburban was delivered to Amsterdam yesterday morning, collected and driven to the hotel in Düsseldorf by Julia’s lad and put round the back in the coach park where, lo and behold, the CCTV don’t work too well. So, as long as you’re sure the lad’s trustworthy, we’re sound as a pound.’
Julia’s ‘lad’ had been in Angela’s care and, fifteen years ago, she’d saved his life when he slit his wrists. He’d been systematically abused by his family since birth and he finally snapped. When a boy like that finally meets an adult to love him, his gratefulness knows no bounds. Angela was confident that Julia’s ‘lad’ would kill for her, so hiding a car for her would be a doddle.
Jack was using his mobile phone torch to see the writing on the gravestones in the otherwise dark churchyard. As he moved through the beautifully kept grass, he hated the fact that Charlie popped into his head — a well-kept plot would be important to him. Jack thought about the cemetery just up the road from his mum and dad’s bungalow in Totnes. It was on a hillside overlooking the sea and Jack used to short-cut through it to and from school — he and the lads would pause on one of the numerous benches to drink cider and smoke tabs. It hadn’t felt disrespectful or naughty; it had felt fine. As though the residents really wouldn’t mind them being there. Unlike tonight... Tonight Jack felt very disrespectful, traipsing over grave after grave trying to find the name he was looking for.
Just then, a second torch light joined Jack’s — but this one was bigger, brighter and was being held by a broad Glaswegian.
‘Who you looking for?’
Jack couldn’t see the man behind the light as his beam was blinding. He could, however, just make out that he was holding a round-head shovel over his right shoulder. Jack immediately got his warrant card from his pocket and held it in the light.
‘I’m from the Met,’ Jack said. ‘Sorry if I’m not meant to be here. The gate was open.’
The Glaswegian dipped his torch. He was a small man, wiry, young, tattooed to the hilt.
‘Who you looking for?’ he repeated.
‘Harry Rawlins.’
The Glaswegian started to walk away, so Jack followed.
‘Ya drugs polis? I was nicked three years ago for intent to supply. Best thing that ever happened to me. Got put here for ninety days of payback, picking up litter and dog shit — do you know how many people just leave their dog’s shit lying around? Properly boils my piss, that does. When my ninety days was up, I got a job doing exactly the same thing.’ The Glaswegian let out a short, sharp belly-laugh. ‘Funny, right? This was meant to be a punishment and it turned my life around. We buried a lady just after five o’clock and the family left pot plants instead of bunches, so I’m planting them up for her. She’s got a sister landing from Canada in the wee hours and I want the grave to look nice, you know.’
‘I’m glad you’ve straightened out. Good for you, mate, it’s not easy.’