Mike stood amid the pile of bricks that used to be Norma’s kitchen wall. Crumpled bundles of notes flowed over the bricks like a waterfall. He scooped them up, his hands like two shovels, and stuffed them into the green garden waste bag Ester was holding open. In front of Mike, higher on the pile of bricks and closer to the 1.5 metre square coal chute hole, Angela and Julia separated out the final bundles of £5 notes and £10 notes and threw them into the open hearth. Connie stood by the window as lookout, although Rose Cottage was so secluded that if anyone did turn up unexpectedly, they’d be on the driveway before she spotted them.
Angela slowly stood upright, working through the sharp, needle-like pain in her lower back. She looked towards Julia, hoping for sympathy, but was instead confronted with Julia’s arse in the air as she stretched her own pain away with a Downward Dog yoga pose. As the final two bundles of £50 notes were dropped into a bag, Ester rolled the top of it down, squeezed out all of the air and tied the twisted corners into a knot.
‘Right,’ Angela said, ‘let’s load up the van.’
The women picked up the garden waste bags, two by two, and took them outside, while Mike began stacking the bundles of £5 notes and £10 notes into the empty hearth — there had to be somewhere between £1.5 million and two million altogether.
‘Imagine it’s just paper.’ Angela had returned without Mike noticing. ‘It’s not legal tender any more. It’s impossible to cash in, so it’s got to go. The bag on the sofa is yours, Mike.’
‘Ange...’
Mike wanted to say so much but, in truth, he knew he had nothing to say that she wanted to hear. There was a time when Angela had looked at him like he was her superhero; now there was nothing. She was in charge and he was nothing more than a member of her crew.
‘Burn it.’ Her words were purposely flat. ‘Bring Rose Cottage down — lose the coal chute, the money, every trace of us. Dump the Range Rover in the Thames. Take your cut and get on with your life, Mike.’
And she was gone.
Angela knew he would do exactly as she asked, because he had just as much to lose as she did. What she didn’t know was that Mike had asked his army demolition friend, Barry Cooper, to help him destroy Rose Cottage.
Ridley and Prescott walked in step, slightly ahead of Jack, back to their cars. Ridley had his hands clasped in the small of his back and his neatly pressed trousers swayed perfectly with his long strides. Prescott had his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his straight arms pushing his unironed trousers down from his hips and untucking his shirt at the back. He seemed scruffy compared with Ridley, but Jack sensed their mutual respect.
When they got to the cars, the men shook hands.
‘Everything’s paused again for now,’ Prescott said. ‘Site’s been made safe, so I’ll get the SOCOs back in to see what we might have missed. And we’ll do the door-to-door again.’
Ridley turned to Jack. ‘Get Susan and Audrey Withey brought in first thing in the morning, for further questioning,’ he said. He put his hand out to Prescott. ‘I’ll keep you in the picture. There’s approximately twenty-five million in stolen banknotes out there somewhere, and we both deserve to be there when it’s found.’
Angela and Connie sat on the floor in the lounge of Angela’s flat. Angela had one of the coach seats propped on its side between her legs and she was stitching the seam closed. Connie was removing the old foam padding from inside another seat and stuffing it into a bin bag to be thrown away.
‘I was reading the other day—’ Connie hadn’t stopped talking since she’d got up that morning — ‘about this commune of women. They left the fellas, took the kids and lived in this field in caravans. Nice big ones, you know, like the ones you get at beachside holiday parks. The kids all went to school and lived normal lives, they just came home to these... static homes, they’re called, aren’t they, not caravans. Somewhere in the Lake District, I think it was. Or maybe the Peak District. Some “district” anyway. They all loved it. Everyone was happy. No arguing. No asking for permission to do ordinary things like go for a drink with your mates. And definitely no backhanders for opening your gob at the wrong time. No men, you see, Angela. I mean, I’m sure there’d be a bit of lesbian activity going on, but so what? I often used to think that Ester and Julia had the right idea. Even though Ester was — is — a bitch, she’s still not as bad as most men. What d’ya think?’
‘Do I think women-only communes are a good idea? Course I do! What’s not to like? Apart from the sex, which, let’s face it, we could get anywhere — and from someone who wouldn’t expect you to do their washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning and child-minding.’
Connie giggled to herself. She knew Angela didn’t mean any of that really, because Angela had a good man in Rob. A great man, in fact. She was very lucky.
Once Connie had stripped her coach seat of its old foam padding, she dragged a green sack out from behind the sofa and began layering bundles of £20 notes into the now-empty space.
‘Leave a gap on top for a bit of new foam,’ Angela reminded her. ‘They need to be comfortable enough to sit on.’
She’d worked out that if Connie was stuffing each coach seat with £50 notes, then it could hold around £250,000, and each seat-back could hold around £200,000. If she was stuffing the seats and backs with £20 notes, then it was more like £100,000 per seat and £75,000 per seat-back. This wasn’t exactly accurate, but Connie liked it when Angela sounded definite. It made her feel safe.
PC Adam Franks and PC Tanya Daly were soaked to the skin. They were standing on the doorstep of one of the identikit houses in the estate where the old Grange had once stood, waiting for the doorbell to be answered. At the window, the curtains twitched and three children pressed spotty faces against the glass. They wore pyjamas and their lounge fire roared away behind them. Eventually, a woman opened the front door and stepped out onto the front porch, wrapping her cardigan round her body.
PC Franks introduced himself.
‘Apologies for disturbing you again, Mrs Stanhope. I know you and your neighbours have already been questioned about the fire — I’ve got your original statement — but I’m hoping that you’ll look at a couple of photographs for me, please.’
‘Happy to help,’ she said. ‘But we’ll have to talk out here. The kids have all got chicken pox.’
Franks passed her the photographs of Mike Withey and Barry Cooper, but Mrs Stanhope, like everyone else who had bothered to answer their door, didn’t recognise them.
‘Have you remembered anything else since you last spoke to the police?’ asked PC Daly. It was a routine question.
‘Nothing.’ Mrs Stanhope shook her head apologetically. ‘I mean, when I was at Puddle Ducks — that’s a swimming group for toddlers — we all had a chat about the pest control van parked at Rose Cottage on the night of the fire, but Jean said that wasn’t important enough to bother you with.’
Franks and Daly glanced at each other as the same thought passed through both their minds: why the hell does the general bloody public insist on deciding what’s important and what’s not?
Back in the patrol car, PC Daly held her hands by the air vent to thaw her fingers, while PC Franks got Prescott on the phone.