‘Let me sort that out,’ Jack suggested. ‘But you’re right: lesson learnt from the bloody Tania Wetlock situation.’
‘OK. But don’t say you’re going to do it and then forget.’
‘I won’t, promise. Now let’s eat — I’m starving’.
Maggie went to bed around ten, as was her routine when she needed to be up at five in order to run in to start her shift at seven. At eleven, Jack was still lying on the sofa wide awake: all he could think of was Dr Elliot Wetlock. He was a rat who had been hiding for far too long.
Jack went into the kitchen, where Maggie’s rucksack was by the back door next to her running shoes ready for the morning. Inside the rucksack was her handbag. And inside her handbag was her mobile phone. Jack had never in his life looked in Maggie’s handbag, and he’d certainly never looked at her mobile. Yet he felt no guilt as he flicked through her contacts looking for Wetlock’s details. He could have asked Laura, of course, as she’d been to Wetlock’s house, but that would have made her an accomplice to what he was about to do.
Chapter 37
The following morning Maggie was in the kitchen stretching for her run, and Jack was sitting at the table with his coffee and toast, watching her every move. On normal workdays, Jack would be running round the house looking for his car keys or shoes or both. This morning, however, he was loving just watching his amazingly beautiful wife bend and flex her body, readying it for the three-mile run to the hospital. Jack wasn’t even aware that he was smiling.
‘I’ll be home by two,’ Maggie whispered seductively. ‘If you’re here, you can watch me warm down.’ As Maggie bent forwards, keeping her legs dead straight, and pushed the palms of her hands flat onto the lino floor, Jack stepped up behind her and placed his hands gently on her hips. She held her position for a second or two before standing up into his arms. He kissed her neck and she headed out.
Jack went upstairs and grabbed a quick shower before dressing in a tight black polo-neck jumper, dark jeans and black trainers. He pulled on a lightweight black running jacket and stuffed a ski hood into the pocket. In the top drawer of his desk was a burner phone he’d purchased many months ago to infiltrate the violent world of a London jeweller, who had a sideline in masterminding high-end burglaries in the Cotswolds. He had never imagined he’d need it again but had kept it regardless. Jack was ready. Although he had been left the car, he’d not be using it this morning in case it was picked up on CCTV.
Wetlock lived in a substantial three-storey house on Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. Jack stood on the opposite side of the road with his mobile to his ear as though he was talking to someone. He started walking, giving himself time to check out the immediate area for CCTV cameras, both private and public. They were everywhere in this particular neighbourhood, and they were definitely on the front of Wetlock’s home, positioned just beneath the upstairs windows. Without moving his mobile from his ear, Jack took several photos. He was desperate to get inside Wetlock’s home and find something incriminating, but there was no way to avoid being captured on security camera. He was about to leave when he saw Wetlock draw up in his BMW and park in one of two residents’ bays right outside his front door. As Wetlock went inside, Jack moved round the property and down a small alley framed by two silver birch trees. He covered the lower half of his mobile in his ski hood to muffle his voice, then called Wetlock’s land line.
‘Hey, Elliot.’ Jack kept his voice low and spoke slowly so that Wetlock would not miss a single word.
‘Who is this!’ Wetlock immediately sensed that the person calling was not someone he knew or wanted to know.
‘I wondered if you still had your business on the side?’ Jack said. ‘I could do with a little help to get through my med finals.’
It was a while before Wetlock responded, but when he did, Jack was impressed by how cool he sounded. ‘You have the wrong number.’
Jack jumped in before he could hang up. ‘Listen! If you don’t, the police will.’ Wetlock didn’t utter another word, but the heaviness of his breathing told Jack that he was listening.
‘I get why you did it. She was embarrassing and you’ve got a hard-earned reputation to protect. But you made a mistake, Elliot. And I found it.’ Again, Jack left a pause, which Wetlock didn’t fill. There were no questions, no indignation, no threats to call the police — all things that an innocent person would do. Wetlock was silent. He knew what Jack was talking about. For now, that’s all Jack wanted to know.
Walking home, Jack passed a Mercedes showroom and there, in the centre window, was a Mercedes Benz G Class. It was a ridiculously large car for London but — with the adrenaline still surging through his veins after threatening Wetlock, and still being dressed from head to toe in black — Jack was feeling bold. His eyes refocussed from the classiest-looking Jeep he’d ever seen, to the pristine salesman beaming out at him. The salesman was waiting, respectful and attentive, to make Jack an espresso and try to sell him a £50k vehicle.
As Jack struggled to hold the tiny handle of the espresso cup, he listened to the man list what was included and what were added extras. The salesman’s attentive smile waned slightly when Jack asked if he had a second-hand version of the same model — then he reconsidered and decided that a £30k Merc was still an excellent commission. The last second-hand model in the showroom was black, had an excellent low milage and one very careful retired gentleman owner. Jack asked if there was a further reduction if he paid cash, at which point the salesman stepped up a gear. He looked furtively around the showroom, openly making sure his boss wasn’t in earshot, then reduced the price by £5k ‘just for Jack’.
As Jack pondered whether they had £25k to divert from daily living to the purchase of a second car, Maggie called. She asked where he was and when he lied, the salesman deflated on the spot. Jack had clearly not asked his wife about getting a new car, so there would be no sale today.
‘I’m going to be late again, Jack. Something else has just happened with Wetlock, God knows what this time. Anyway, he’s called in. I’m staying on till they can find cover.’
After the call was done, Jack could see that the salesman had lost faith in him as a potential sale and now just wanted him to leave.
Hammersmith police station had recently had an impressive overhaul. Jack was led through freshly painted corridors towards a spacious second-floor room where CID were housed. It was bright, fresh and open plan, creating an invigorating atmosphere in which to work. It made Ridley’s squad room look very neglected. It was too neat and tidy for Jack’s liking, however: it looked as though no work was being done.
Lyle was sitting behind a large modern desk which had been split into zones for his computer, his reading and his phone calls. Again, this was far too tidy for Jack — to his mind, a police officer’s desk should be a busy, active place where they endeavour to spend as little time as possible, in favour of being ‘out there’, actually doing the legwork. But it was still one hell of a desk for such a young officer. Jack asked for an update on the investigation.
‘You know I can’t discuss that with you, sir.’ Lyle wiped his sweaty brow with a handkerchief. ‘The aircon in here doesn’t work. The window behind me is south facing and the blind’s knackered, so it’s like an oven some days. Sorry, I haven’t offered you a drink. Would you like some water?’ Jack declined and asked Lyle if he had received the latest pathology from Foxy, pointing out that he wasn’t asking Lyle to share the contents of the report; he was just after a yes or no. ‘I have had a recent update from pathology, yes.’