Buried

Chapter 18

By morning, Jack’s guilt had been replaced by an irrepressible sense of excitement at discovering a possible connection between Ester Freeman, Angela Dunn and Mike Withey. If they were linked, then the decades were linked — which suggested that the crimes could also be linked. The fact that he could now trace Ester and Angela’s relationship back as far as the 1980s wasn’t particularly relevant to their current investigation; but if Angela knew Mike — that was a game-changer. It might even put them in the same place at the time of the train robbery.

When Angela Dunn opened the door, she looked startled.

‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You!’ She recovered herself. ‘Come in.’

It took her twice as long to make the tea as it had the last time, as if she was giving herself time to think.

‘I’m making a dress today,’ she said as she led the way back into her sitting room.

She held it up for Jack to admire. It was stunning, if on the large side. For some reason he thought of Connie; she’d look fabulous in it.

‘What can I do for you?’ Angela asked, as she poured the tea.

‘Further enquiries have raised a few more questions, if you don’t mind, Mrs Dunn.’

Angela smiled and waved a hand. ‘Such as?’

Jack jumped in. ‘Do you know Mike Withey?’

‘No.’

The answer was so quick and confident that, for a moment, Jack thought he’d got it all wrong. But then it was odd she hadn’t asked who Mike Withey was. Jack decided to trust his newly developed ‘gut’.

‘I think you might know him, Mrs Dunn — although maybe you’ve forgotten? It was a long time ago. Do you recall working for Ester Freeman at The Grange?’

‘I wasn’t a prostitute!’ Angela snapped. ‘Is that what you’ve come here to ask me?’

‘Not at all.’ Jack widened his eyes. ‘I know you were a maid. But I know that, on one occasion, you were arrested along with everyone else and I know that PC Withey, as he was back then... looked after you.’

Angela’s face softened. ‘PC Withey... ah, yes. I’d forgotten the name, sorry. He was very good to me.’

‘You know,’ Jack went on, ‘ “hero worship” is a common reaction in victims who are rescued from abusive environments. It’s natural — it wouldn’t have been your fault — but affairs are often the final outcome.’

‘I was fifteen! And he was married, I think. I did cling to him for a bit, I remember that, but he was always very professional. There was nothing unsavoury about it, DC Warr, if that’s what you’re implying.’

Angela was cool, all right. Every inch of Jack tingled as her words washed over him. Something wasn’t right with her manner, her words, her tone; she was lying and he knew it.

‘Whose baby did you lose?’ he asked abruptly. ‘You previously told me that you put flowers on Dolly’s grave because you let her down. You said you’d made a mistake and you lost a baby. This was back around 1995, when you were all living at The Grange?’

Angela glanced up at the high shelf, far out of reach of sticky young fingers, at the two lone toys in pride of place — the teddy bear and the teething ring. Jack followed her gaze. He needed to be more careful. This loss was still raw.

‘It must have been awful. I’m very sorry.’ He paused. ‘Did Mike know?’ he asked gently.

She rounded on him. ‘PC Withey was not the mistake I mentioned. If you insist on prying, I was attacked. I’d call it rape if I’d been sober enough to remember it actually happening. Five weeks later, I was pregnant. And I didn’t lose the baby, DC Warr, I drank bleach and I killed it. My body simply couldn’t keep us both alive. That’s how I let Dolly Rawlins down. She bought the bear and teether — she loved me and, by default, she loved my baby. I took both from her that day.’

Angela stared at him, strong and defiant, as if willing him to question her further.

Jack got to his feet. Even though he was certain she was telling the truth, he sensed there was something she was holding back. Nothing he could do about it for now.

‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Dunn,’ he said, and left.

Angela stood on the balcony, staring down as Jack Warr got into his car. As soon as he’d driven off, she went inside and picked up her mobile.

‘No, no, don’t worry, nothing’s happened,’ she said. ‘But the police are on to something. I’ve just had a visit. DC Warr. He doesn’t know anything yet, but he’ll get there in the end. We need to meet.’ There was a pause. ‘Thursday. You OK to come here? It’s just, with the kids, you know? Listen — take a breath before you call her. We’re not panicking. We’re doing exactly what we planned, just a little bit sooner.’

When she hung up, she sat down and took a deep breath herself, letting her shoulders slump and her head fall back.

When she was ready, she sprung up from the sofa and headed out. Angela was unshakable.

In Taunton, Connie sat at her dining table with a gin in one hand and her mobile in the other.

‘Breathe,’ she repeatedly whispered to herself. By the time she’d dialled Julia’s number, she was half pissed.

Julia sounded breezy.

‘Thursday’s fine,’ she said. ‘Love you.’

She hung up before Connie could start on all the things that could go wrong, and dialled another number.

‘Darling,’ Ester sang. ‘Still gorgeous? Who’s seeing to you these days? Boys or girls?’

Angela had put together the call chain. Connie was in the middle, so Angela and Julia could each do their bit to keep her calm and focused. And calling Ester was Julia’s job, because she knew best how to handle the cantankerous old witch. She ignored Ester’s questions.

‘Can you come to Angela’s on Thursday?’

‘Are we leaving?’

‘I doubt we’re leaving yet, but we’ll be planning our next move and—’

‘I’m not coming all the way to London to do more talking, Julia. Call me back when we’re leaving. And if our self-appointed glorious leader wants to discuss that further, she can call me her-fucking-self.’

‘When will you ever learn, Ester?’ Julia wasn’t angry; she spoke like a disappointed mother faced with her perpetually aggravating child. ‘You need people in life, you know. You need friends.’

‘I have Geoffrey.’ Ester was defiant. ‘He’s in a dominant mood this week, so we haven’t left the house since Friday. He’s gone all Gladiator on me.’ Her tone shifted and she became nasty. ‘So, you call me when we’re leaving! I’ve done my bit, Julia. I’m old. You do the donkey work and I’ll pop up towards the end, take my share and fuck off into the sunset. I will not be told what to do by Angela bleedin’ Dunn.’

And that was the real reason for Ester’s frustrations.

Angela’s leadership had happened organically. Connie and Julia had never objected, but Ester hated it. In Ester’s egotistical, narcissistic, petty little mind, she was the natural successor to Dolly Rawlins. Angela was nothing more than a stupid girl who, back in the 1980s when The Grange was a brothel, hadn’t even been good enough to be a prostitute.

‘That child can think she’s in charge, Julia,’ Ester spat. ‘I don’t give a shit — but you lot can’t make a move without my say-so. And you, my darling, know me well enough to know that, if you try, I’ll see you all inside. So, run along, there’s a good little tart. And, as I think I’ve mentioned already, call me when we’re leaving.’

She hung up.

Julia sighed. Just then, Sam wandered into the room with blood down his shirt from a split lip.

‘Darren called me a pussy and nicked my bike, so I smacked him. Do you think I’m a pussy?’

As Julia stepped towards him, Sam instinctively stepped back. He looked confused.

‘Have I ever hit you?’ she went on.

Sam shook his head.

‘Do you respect me?’ Julia softened her expression. Sam relaxed a little. ‘You don’t earn respect by hitting out, Sam. You’re better than Darren. You’re stronger.’ She tapped his chest. ‘You’re stronger where it matters, and that’s why we have to try extra hard with Darren. He’s been through a lot and you know what that’s like. So, I need you to do something for me... I need you to be smarter than this. Because, one day soon, I’m going to ask something of you and, if you’re not ready, if you’re not smarter than this, I won’t think twice about leaving you behind.’

Sam’s mouth had slowly dropped open. She gently placed her forefinger underneath his chin and closed his mouth.

‘Clean yourself up,’ she said, and kissed his cheek before leaving the room.

Dougie Marshall stank from the inside out. The smell seemed to seep from his very pores. In his 80s now, he was the only forger Angela knew. Back in the day, Dolly had spoken about him by name and reputation, and Angela had never forgotten. Not being part of the criminal fraternity, her knowledge of London forgers was not up to date — so, when her world began to get complicated, she turned to Dougie. But if he was good enough for Dolly, he was good enough for her.

Dougie and Angela sat in his small, unventilated office above Marshall’s Bookmakers on the main street through Croydon. The bookie’s had been there for as long as anyone could remember, and was still frequented by old men with no one to go home to. A new generation also came in to spend their hard-earned cash, in the hope of winning some easy money. Dougie’s son, Gareth, now ran the shop itself, while Dougie sat upstairs in his museum of an office, and lived out his days sticking address labels on to marketing flyers.

Dougie’s upstairs office was accessed by a side entrance no wider than a flight of stairs. A stairlift had been fitted recently, making the stairs hard to manoeuvre. Angela banged her shin on the footplates every single time she visited.

As Angela examined the passports and driving licences, Dougie’s eyes lit up with pride. It had been a long time since anyone needed his skills, his craftsmanship, his artistry. He prided himself on making his IDs look used and worn. He’d fray edges, add stains and scratches; he’d even wear down the embossed leather pattern in the bottom left-hand corner to make them look like they’d been opened by a thousand pairs of hands over the years. He’d make sure the issue date wasn’t brand new and he’d add stamps from various countries. He was a true master. He was worth the money and the uncomfortable twenty minutes in his stale-smelling office.

Angela handed him three bundles of £20 notes, which he did her the courtesy of not counting.

‘Good luck,’ Dougie said as Angela stood.

She smiled. She wouldn’t be needing luck.