As Maggie wept, Jack unzipped the vest and sat up. He wrapped his arms tight around her body, let her gibber on about silly things and tried not to make it obvious that he was laughing at her.
‘Promise me we’ll teach it only about happiness. Promise me we’ll play sleeping lions, and hide and seek, and at Easter we’ll hide eggs and play the hot and cold game.’
‘I promise you all those things,’ Jack whispered.
And in this tenderest of impromptu moments, he found himself thinking about Dougie Marshall’s grotty little office.
Hot and cold, he said to himself. I put the painting back over the safe and I walked round the room, looking at his forging paraphernalia. I passed his filing cabinets — not a flinch. Then his drinks cabinet. I even spotted an old £5 printing plate under a bottle of single malt, and that didn’t worry him. Where was I heading that made him jumpy? What made him call for backup?
Jack visualised the layout of the room, and all he could see in front of him, in the moment Dougie panicked, was the worn old chair.
That’s what was ‘hot’.
That’s what Dougie didn’t want him to look at.
Jack decided, there and then, that Dougie was the man they were after. A ‘wily fox’ Rachel had called him. Jack would go back tonight and discover exactly what Dougie Marshall was hiding in his armchair.
Maggie pulled away from Jack and wiped her tears on his T-shirt.
‘Put it in the wash when you get home. It’ll be nice for you to have an evening in with your parents, just the three of you. Get a takeaway.’
She stood up, picked up the vest and went to hang it back in the wardrobe. Jack sat on the floor, trying to work out whether chicken fried rice with Charlie was more important than breaking into Dougie’s office and finding proof that he’d helped the women escape the UK.
Chapter 36
The night bus back to Croydon was full of the dregs of society. A man sat on the back seat with his head back and mouth open, seemingly comatose. Two lads up front rolled themselves a spliff. An old couple, probably homeless, slept against each other’s shoulders. Jack sat in the middle of the bus, and as the driver braked the sleeping man on the back seat suddenly gave a loud groan and a woman got up from the floor in front of him, where she’d been invisible till now. The man zipped himself up and they both got off the bus. Jack closed his eyes for a second. That’s an image that’ll take a long while to get rid of, he thought.
The entrance to Dougie’s back stairs was slightly set back from the street, so once Jack had stepped into the little recess, he wasn’t visible to passers-by or to CCTV. From the shadows, Jack donned gloves and a balaclava, then got out a lock-picking kit — surprisingly cheap from Amazon — although he did already know how to pick a lock from his school days, when a precocious classmate had taught him...
The day before they were due to start in sixth form, he and his mates had broken into the staff room and the sixth form common room and swapped all of the furniture. They started life as sixth formers with sofas, a telly, a coffee machine, and a microwave. It hadn’t lasted long but they’d made the most of it while it did.
The stench of the bathroom was almost overpowered by the stench of bleach. Jack got an instant headache and his eyes stung through the holes in his balaclava. Using the thin beam from the torch on his phone, Jack moved straight to the worn old chair and flipped the seat up, revealing a crudely placed piece of hardboard cut slightly bigger than the hole it was covering. Underneath it was what looked like £50,000, in five bundles, each wrapped with the now familiar band from the train robbery money, empty passport covers, old and new, inks, gold leaf and all the other paraphernalia needed to forge passports and other IDs. Under all of that, Jack found a little black notebook.
Inside the notebook was a list of names — Elaine Fortescue, Joanne Lewis, Anita Davidson, Reginald Davidson, Claire Simeon. Textbook: using the same initials as people’s real names often made for an easier transition into a new life. More names — Steven Kirkwood, aged 11. That passport must be for Sam. David Stainer, aged 11. That one would have been for Darren if he’d made it. And Suzie was to become Sharon Whittaker, aged 10. Angela’s kids would have to get used to being called Abbi and Raul — risky, as they were so close to the children’s actual names, but he guessed that Angela wanted them to be as comfortable as possible in their new lives.
The notebook shook in Jack’s hand. This was the case breaker. All he had to do was walk into the station and hand the book to Ridley; he’d call Interpol and the women would become instantly visible. Within half a day, they’d be back in the UK. Train robbery solved; murder solved. Jack sat down at Dougie’s desk, his breath dampening the inside of his balaclava. He stared at the list. He couldn’t take it in. Jack suddenly spat out a burst of laughter as he read the date of birth of ‘Elaine Fortescue’ — it would have made her 62! How the fuck did Ester think she was going to get away with that?
Jack sat alone in an all-night café drinking tea from a giant, stained mug, enjoying the privacy and silence. He flicked through the other pages of Dougie’s notebook, reckoning it might help them track down some other missing villains as well. ‘Villains’. He didn’t like that word in relation to the women. He knew it was what they were but after all, Jack had broken into Dougie’s office to get this notebook. So, what did that make him? He liked to think of himself as a copper using his ingenuity, but, in truth, there was no way he could take this notebook to Ridley — not considering the way he’d acquired it.
For a moment, Jack felt ashamed that he’d crossed a line. Then he felt more ashamed that he could make or break the lives of nine people who, in the big scheme of things, hadn’t done much wrong other than collect a hoard of cash, more than two decades old, that nobody else even knew existed. As he recognised the magnitude of what he was holding, and the lives he could bring down with it, he suddenly felt immensely powerful. His heart pounded and his eyes narrowed — he wanted the ‘kill’ like never before. He was being too soft: these women had stolen the money in the first place. They’d outsmarted him, embarrassed him and he wanted to win. Again, and without any prompting, Jack thought about Harry.
And then he thought about the only person who really mattered — Maggie. He thought about the lower maternity pay, all of the stuff they’d need for the baby, Penny possibly moving in with them, his promotion to sergeant. Jack needed this. He needed to sacrifice the women and their kids in favour of his newly shaped family. Every man for himself. The women selfishly wanted to better themselves... Well — now it was Jack’s turn.
He dialled a number.
‘Sarge, do me a favour, please. First thing, I need DCI Ridley to be told that Dougie Marshall is our forger. A raid on his son’s bookies will confirm everything. I’m going to send him an email shortly with more information, but I’m 100 per cent certain. Can you pass that on? I’ll be in at eight.’
Across the road from the café, the shadowy figure from outside Eddie’s flat was, once again, following Jack’s every move.
Jack drove into the police station car park bang on 7.30 — half an hour early for their raid on Marshall’s bookies. Ridley had called Jack back last night, the instant he’d received the email. They’d chatted through how Jack had got Dougie’s name from an unofficial, rather impromptu ‘informant’ — and how Rachel Yarborough had confirmed the old man’s reputation. Jack described the office, highlighting all of the forgery equipment and how he thought Dougie’s age was irrelevant; he was more than capable of giving the best of today’s forgers a run for their money. He ended by reiterating that he was certain a search of the property would come up trumps. It was Jack’s intention to ‘find’ the notebook while on this morning’s raid.