Buried

Chapter 29

When Maggie got in from work, breakfast was on a tray in the middle of the kitchen table, along with a single red rose and a handwritten note. On the upside, the tea and toast were still warm — on the downside, Maggie knew that the rose had been stolen from their neighbours’ hanging basket as there was still soil on the stem; the note just said, ‘Sorry x.’

Maggie recalled her ultimatum... Tomorrow morning, when I get home, I want breakfast in bed and a cuddle regardless of how bad I smell.

Jack had failed.

Jack was waiting for Foxy when he pulled into the police station car park.

‘You want to know if you’re related to any more dead people?’ Foxy quipped. Then he saw the serious look on Jack’s face. ‘Shit, really? Barry Cooper’s not your long-lost brother, is he?’

Jack handed Foxy a battered old baseball cap, sporting the Isle of Man TT race logo, complete with the three legs of man — although time had taken its toll on the embroidered stitching and the iconic symbol now only had two legs. Foxy took the cap and headed indoors.

‘You owe me several pints, Jack. Don’t die before I can collect them.’

Jack was sitting at his desk when Ridley walked in. Ridley ignored him and went straight into his office. Jack remained silently at his desk and waited for everyone else to arrive.

Ridley led the briefing.

‘Barry Cooper died yesterday, as you all know. In his rucksack was just short of five million in twenties and fifties from the ’95 train robbery. We know this because of the information on the bands used to hold the bundles of cash together. The shoe print found at the side of Mike’s Range Rover, from where the petrol was siphoned, has been matched to the trainers Cooper was wearing when he died.’

Ridley looked at the jam-packed evidence boards and, without hesitation, removed the photos of Angela Dunn, Julia Lawson, Connie Stephens and Ester Freeman. He replaced them with pictures of Mike Withey and Barry Cooper.

‘Barry’s initials were written in Mike’s diary, identifying the person he was meeting at Rose Cottage on the night he was murdered. Thomas Kurts, otherwise known as Topper. Rashid Wassan, otherwise known as Stan, as in “Paki-Stan”. And Dennis Marchant, otherwise known as Dennie. These three are wanted for questioning in connection with aiding and abetting a fugitive and likely for a connection to the train robbery. They’re physically capable, they have the skills, the organisation, the weapons experience and the track record for this kind of crime. We have Topper, ’cos he was Reserve training at Colchester Garrison. But we don’t yet know where the others are. I want you to work with the Essex Police to locate them. Check their military records to get their whereabouts for the night of the robbery — I don’t want to discover any unbreakable alibis later than today. Barry’s death is currently being withheld from the public so as not to scare his accomplices into running. Get to work. Find them before they get spooked and disappear.’

As everyone knuckled down to their computer screens, Jack stared at the pile of four photos that Ridley had removed from the evidence board. Dolly’s picture was on top. Once again, he thought, the police had got it wrong. The women ticked all the same boxes as the army gang: they were physically strong enough if they used horses; they were gun-savvy because of Gloria; and they were definitely capable of facing off against a couple of male train guards and winning. These women had been surviving in a man’s world their entire lives. Underestimating them now would be Ridley’s downfall.

Julia held Suzie’s hand as they moved down to the edge of the river Dee and then east along the footpath towards the pre-arranged meeting place. Julia was walking at a brisk pace and Suzie was running to keep up, her second-hand Shawn Mendes rucksack bouncing up and down and rhythmically hitting her in the back of the head. Up ahead, Sam was dribbling a football around his backpack, which he’d thoughtlessly dropped without looking to see how muddy the ground was. The expanse of mud-free waste ground that he could have been playing on was currently empty. They were early.

‘Where we going then?’ Sam shouted, as soon as Julia came into view. ‘The beach, is it? I ain’t ever played football on sand!’

‘Where’s Darren?’ Julia was trying to remain calm.

Sam shrugged. He didn’t know or care where stupid Darren was and nor did Suzie, but Julia knew that he had no chance of surviving without her.

‘Sam. A coach is arriving to pick us up, OK? There’ll be a black guy driving — that’s Rob. And Angela’s the one in charge, so you do exactly what she tells you, all right? I mean it, Sam! What did I say?’

‘Black dude driving. Angela’s the boss. I got it.’

‘Suzie, you don’t leave Sam’s side. You promise me.’

Suzie nodded frantically, as confused as she was excited. As Julia headed off to find Darren, Sam made Suzie drop her rucksack to make goalposts and then get in goal, so he could hammer the ball at her. All Julia could hear as she ran back up towards the house was, ‘Don’t kick it too hard, Sam. Sam, that’s too hard!’

What was she doing taking these three misfits on the bloody run with her?

Darren was cycling as fast as his legs could pedal, but the bike he was on wasn’t his and, with each push of the pedal, he wobbled and almost fell off. His rucksack was only over one shoulder, which wasn’t helping his balance at all. As soon as Julia saw him, she knew what he’d done — she was devastated. Darren had been going on about having a bike of his own for so long and now, with the prospect of going away, he’d bloody well stolen himself one! Darren looked up, saw Julia and, with all the pride in the world, he beamed the biggest smile, took both hands off the handlebars and waved in triumph.

Suddenly, two coppers raced round the corner on foot into the quiet road ahead of Darren, sending him swerving towards the pavement. He tried to right himself, but now he’d slowed to the same speed as the coppers and, in a pincer movement, they closed in, dragged Darren off the bike and plonked him face down on the road. Julia hid, pushing her back flat against the wall. She screwed her eyes closed as she listened to Darren cursing the coppers and fighting for his life. She heard the police car arrive; she heard the coppers call Darren a ‘waste of skin’ and an ‘unwanted stray’. Julia clenched her fists so tight that her nails dug into her palms, burying the shame she felt as she abandoned Darren to his fate. What kind of mother was she?

When Julia opened her eyes, she could see Sam and Suzie holding hands in the distance. This was the kind of mother she had to be now. Sam was pointing back towards the waste ground. It was time to go, but Julia couldn’t peel herself off the wall.

From her hiding place, she could hear as Darren screamed profanities and fought like a maniac. He never once shouted for Julia and he never once gave away her position. Once the police car had driven off, she walked back to Sam and Suzie.

Sam saw Julia’s tears and, with all the understanding and sensitivity of a grown-up, he tapped his finger on her chest.

‘He ain’t strong in here. And he ain’t smart.’

He took Julia by the hand and together the three of them walked to the coach.

By the time the coach was on the A1 towards Newcastle upon Tyne, Sam was teaching Riel and Aggie dirty versions of chart songs, much to Connie’s amusement. Ester, as expected, wasn’t happy.

‘I’ve spent my entire life avoiding the fucking North, Angela. What’s wrong with Dover? It’s cleaner and it’s closer to Switzerland.’

Angela had explained the escape plan a dozen times, so she knew that Ester wasn’t really asking a genuine question, she was just whingeing. If they’d been in a gold-plated private cruiser, Ester would have complained about the colour.

Julia sat alone, staring out of the window at the Yorkshire Dales flashing by and trying not to cry. In the reflection of the window, she watched Angela approach and pause next to her. As Angela spoke, Julia could almost hear Dolly’s voice.

‘We were never going to get everyone out.’

The squad room was buzzing. Fibres of horsehair found on Barry’s severed trouser leg were being compared to any furnishings that survived from the Rose Cottage carnage — and the cash had traces of accelerant on it that matched the petrol from Mike’s Range Rover.

Anik had worked with Essex Police to create a timeline for Barry since leaving the army. He had been lead foreman at a demolition company for three years, until he was sacked for ‘mislaying’ four sticks of dynamite, just two weeks before the mail train was blown off its tracks and robbed. Mike Withey then employed Barry at his security firm. It seemed that Barry had also used his industry connections to make several discreet phone calls to the company due to demolish Rose Cottage, asking to know schedules and time frames for starting work. This was vital information, because if the cottage had been sealed off and become a building site before the cash was removed, the demolition company would have been the ones to tear down the kitchen wall.

Ridley was in his element as every officer worked towards the same goal. He could smell success. Anik could smell promotion. Jack could smell bullshit. And Ridley had fallen for it hook, line and sinker.

Jack’s mobile screen lit up: Reminder: dinner with Maggie. This was, in fact, the second reminder and so he now only had ten minutes to travel halfway across London. Jack couldn’t listen to Ridley any longer — this great man, who Jack had always looked up to, was now so far down the wrong road. Jack had bet his reputation on the guilt of the women from The Grange and he’d had it thrown back in his face. Just when he’d finally started caring about this thankless job, no one was listening.

All he wanted right now... was Maggie.