Buried

Chapter 35

Jack couldn’t believe how beautifully Maggie had transformed their spare bedroom for Charlie and Penny. There was bedding he’d never seen before and framed photos he’d not seen in years. The effect was spoilt slightly by the commode and the stash of cardboard urine bottles underneath the bed, which Maggie must have snatched from the hospital the second she got the call from St Lucia.

One of the photos on the wall was of Jack on Charlie’s shoulders, aged about 5. Charlie’s arms were raised, his huge builder’s hands lying gently on Jack’s thighs, holding him safe. His triceps and biceps — even the muscles on top of his shoulders and down his sides — stood out through his tight white T-shirt. The gentle giant.

Jack pulled open the spare bedroom door as the puffing and panting coming along the hallway got closer. Charlie was now a skinny grey man, with too much skin to cover his non-existent muscles. Jack felt a swell of emotion come from deep inside, but it wasn’t sadness, it was anger. How dare the man who’d held Jack high enough to touch the sky be leaning so heavily on two women because walking ten feet is too much for him? How dare this be happening to his dad when the world was full of bastards like Tony Fisher, who refuse to fucking die? How dare this hard-working, generous, gentle man be taken from people who needed him in their lives?

As if he could tell what his son was thinking, Charlie put his arm around Jack’s shoulder. The effort of lifting it made what was left of his bicep shake.

‘You were 5 in that pic. It was the first year we had you. I took you to work, showing you off. Been doing the same ever since.’

Jack put his arm around Charlie’s thin waist and pulled him close, allowing the old man to lean on him and rest where he stood. Jack’s mobile rang, disturbing the moment.

‘I’ll leave it, Dad,’ said Jack.

‘Answer it,’ Charlie insisted. ‘I’m so proud of everything you do, lad, and the thought of me holding you back would kill me quicker than any cancer. Do what makes you happy.’

Ridley was the kind of officer who understood that you have to go down a dozen dead-ends before you find a way through to the next stage of an investigation. But today, he sounded as close to defeated as Jack had ever heard; he made no bones about the fact that he’d called Jack in for a brainstorming session.

‘We’ve shifted tack to try and trace them beyond Düsseldorf. They’ve got to launder the money, so we’re looking into European countries where that’s most easily done. And they might have more than one new identity each, because the women who entered Germany in that coach certainly haven’t left across any official border. No luck yet on who might have made new passports for them.’

‘I may have an idea about that, sir,’ said Jack. ‘I’ll make a quick stop before I head in and see what I can find out.’

‘My best wishes to your dad,’ said Ridley. ‘And Jack — Superintendent Raeburn wants to see you in her office as soon as you arrive.’

Jack had put in for his sergeant’s exam not long back and he assumed that Raeburn wanted to see him about that. Ridley had told him that he was not going to approve Anik’s request for the same promotion, so Jack figured it was all pretty much in the bag. He felt no swell of excitement, no anticipation, no nerves, just a simple, practical need for a pay rise because of Penny and Charlie, and because of the baby.

He went back into the spare bedroom. Charlie was sitting on the bed by himself. He knew that what he was about to say wasn’t entirely true, but it was entirely necessary. Jack needed his dad to die knowing that his boy’s life was complete — even though it wasn’t yet.

‘Can you keep a secret, Dad?’ he asked.

And Jack told him about the impending promotion, the baby and the marriage proposal. Charlie cried, loud and proud, and Jack held him tighter than he’d ever done before in his life.

Eddie Rawlins was pleasantly surprised to see Jack on his doorstep.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said.

Neither man noticed, as the front door closed, a figure watching from across the road, in the shadow of a tree.

Eddie was already on the whisky. It seemed more like a habit, to numb the dullness of his life, than any attempt to get drunk. Jack got straight to the point.

‘Who would you go to for fake passports? Not me, you understand, Eddie — you. Where would an old-timer like you go?’

‘You in trouble, son?’

‘I need to trace some people who’ve been around since your day. I don’t think they’d trust new blood — I think they’d dig up an old faithful.’

Suspicion crossed Eddie’s face and he sat down to stop himself jittering from foot to foot.

‘You’re starting to sound like Old Bill,’ he joked.

‘I am,’ said Jack, raising his chin and introducing himself — prematurely — as ‘Detective Sergeant Jack Warr’.

Eddie slammed his hands on the arms of his chair and attempted to leap up in indignation — although all he actually managed was a bunny-hop to the edge of the chair until his hips were far enough forward for him to throw himself into a standing position. The effect was somewhat spoilt by the time it took him to stand up, but he still managed to sound pissed off when he spoke.

‘He’d be ashamed of you! You hear me? You come in here under false pretences, get all cosy and then think I’m gonna spill the beans just ’cos you’re Harry’s boy? Get out and don’t come back. You ain’t welcome.’

According to the law, Jack knew he had to leave as Eddie had demanded. Ridley would have done it. But Ridley was a copper through and through and Jack... well, Jack was evolving into something else. As he frowned at Eddie and listened to the barrage of insults, Jack wanted to punch him. It dawned on him that Eddie wasn’t scared of Jack, the policeman — but he was scared of Jack, the son of Harry Rawlins.

Jack took a step forward and got in Eddie’s face.

‘I am Harry Rawlins’ boy,’ he whispered menacingly, and watched as fear flushed through Eddie’s face. ‘But I’m also Charlie Warr’s boy. And you know what that adds up to? The best of both worlds, Eddie. I know you and I know how to get to you. So, I want the names of any old-school forgers in London that are still alive, and that anyone would dare go to. If you give me names, I won’t take you in.’

Jack stepped forward again, forcing Eddie to shuffle backwards until he toppled back onto his seat. He leant his hands on the arms of Eddie’s chair and gave him one final nudge.

‘Believe this, Uncle Eddie, Harry’s got nothing on me.’

The stench of Eddie’s whisky breath blew hot in Jack’s face, but he didn’t back off.

‘They’ll all be dead now.’ Eddie trembled as he spoke. ‘I can’t think of no one — I swear I can’t.’

Jack sat himself next to Eddie, just as he’d done when they flicked through the photo album together, and smiled.

‘You take your time,’ he told Eddie. ‘I’m going to make us both a nice cup of tea.’

Ridley had updated Interpol and now half the police forces in the bloody world were looking for four women, buying and selling high-end goods at a pace. Monaco, Rio, Zurich, Monte Carlo: anywhere known for its rich visitors was being looked into. The waiting was almost painful.

Jack and Laura sat together at her desk as he fed her names of forgers from the eighties and she checked them on the system.

Marcia Armante — dead. Thomas Sykes — alive: Alzheimer’s. Scott Hughes — dead. Dougie Marshall — alive: care home. Rachel Yarborough — alive: glaucoma.

Laura couldn’t believe they were looking at such decrepit old relics. But Jack was encouraged. Eddie had mentioned that Dolly knew Dougie and Marcia very well, because they’d both worked closely with Harry. They were his go-to forgers.

‘Once you got involved with Harry,’ Eddie had said, ‘he never let you go. Treated you right, mind, as long as he got it back tenfold.’

Eddie had explained that, after the first underpass raid went so badly wrong, Harry had been nursed back to health by Trudie. He’d suffered minor burns in the explosion and bits of him were all wrapped up like a mummy. Trudie had been sent to get him a new passport — Eddie didn’t know which forger he’d chosen, but it had to have been Dougie or Marcia. And seeing as Marcia was dead, Dougie was top of Jack’s list.

As Jack pulled his coat on, Ridley came out of his office for an update. His every instinct screamed, What the fuck are you doing, chasing a pensioner in a care home? But he didn’t say anything, because he also knew that his every instinct had let him down recently.

The care home had directed Jack to Marshall’s Bookmakers, in Croydon, Dougie went in every day to help his son, Gareth, run the family business.

Jack entered through a side door and up a dirty, stained staircase, half-blocked by a stairlift. There was so little room that he had to slide along the wall as he climbed. On the landing, he passed an old bathroom with a few remaining dark green tiles clinging on to their old grout for dear life. There was a dirty towel hanging over the rail, a stained bath and a toilet that Jack could smell from the corridor. It was truly horrible.

There was a closed door at the end of the corridor. There was no sign, and the paint had seen far better days, but this had to be Dougie’s office. Jack knocked lightly, pushed down on the handle and swung the door open.

Dougie Marshall was sitting at his desk behind a plume of noxious cigar smoke when Jack walked in uninvited. He wore a wide, shoulder-padded, pale blue and pink tweed jacket with a yellow shirt and mismatched tie. He was obese, with a flushed complexion and a bulbous red nose. There was a cigar clamped between his yellow teeth, which were almost the same colour as the final few strands of hair that had been combed over his otherwise bald head. In front of Dougie and to his left was a stack of promotional flyers for the bookies, and to his right were some sticky labels showing their new web address. Dougie was sticking one label on each flyer and then creating a third stack ready for distribution in the street, no doubt by spotty teens wanting to earn pocket money.

Jack flashed his ID and got straight to the point.

‘I want to talk to you about Angela Dunn.’

‘It would be my absolute pleasure to talk about such a lovely girl.’

Dougie started to waffle on about how it had taken her just two weeks to produce the office curtains and four matching cushions — he couldn’t recommend her highly enough.

Jack smiled at the cheek of him.

‘I’m actually talking about the fake passports you made for her,’ he said.

‘Well, you’re a very rude policeman, aren’t you?’ Dougie scoffed. ‘As you can see, my job is nowhere near as exciting as you seem to think.’

‘I know you provided the—’ Jack started.

‘You don’t know anything!’ Dougie snapped. ‘I, PC Plod or whatever your name is, did not make any fake anything for anyone.’

Jack wondered if Eddie had called Dougie to give him a heads-up, but decided that Eddie wouldn’t have the guts.

‘Now,’ Dougie continued, ‘is there anything else?’

Jack pulled the chair opposite Dougie away from the smoke cloud and sat down.

Dougie smirked. ‘You remind me of someone. It’ll come to me.’

Jack looked around. On a high shelf, running the circumference of the room, mixed up with other junk, were old inks, paints, brushes, an old washing mangle and an artist’s drying rack. All items used by old-school forgers, all in pride of place. Dougie followed Jack’s eyes — he wasn’t worried. Jack could look all he liked; it was all just memories. A row of short, locked filing cabinets stood underneath the window sill. One lone print of Constable’s Hay Wain hung on the wall above Dougie’s head. A drinks cabinet occupied one corner of the room and a small, worn armchair occupied the other.

‘Angela Dunn is no criminal, if that’s what you think. She’s a survivor. As are you, I’d wager. Except you’re also a lucky boy and don’t have to fight quite so hard for the things you have.’

‘You like fakes?’ Jack asked casually as he headed around Dougie’s desk and removed the Hay Wain from the wall, revealing a safe.

‘Two-six-nine-eight. But you’ll need a warrant to open it.’

Jack replaced the painting and, as he straightened it, he thought of Harry Rawlins, and a story Eddie had told him about how he’d steal original paintings to be copied, along with their provenance, so that he’d end up with several ‘legitimate’ works of art. Jack wondered if this Hay Wain was Harry’s work.

Jack pushed his hands deep into his pockets and moved slowly round the room, looking carefully around because Dougie was quite right to say he couldn’t do anything without a search warrant. Dougie never took his eyes off him. Never blinked. As Jack headed towards the worn armchair, Dougie suddenly dragged himself to his feet.

‘I’m bored of you now, son!’ Jack hadn’t seen but, as he stood, Dougie had pushed a small button underneath the lip of his desk. Dougie grabbed his walking frame. ‘If you wanna waste any more of my time, you get a warrant. For now, fuck off!’

Jack stood in the centre of the room as Dougie shuffled towards him.

‘You’re a disrespectful little shit!’ he shouted.

Dougie’s arms were doing far more work than his legs — they shuffled forward an inch or two at a time, unable to bend at the knees or ankles. Stairs would be impossible now for him.

As Jack was trying to work out what he’d actually done to cause such a change in mood, the door swung open.

‘You all right, Dad?’

Gareth was a large man in his forties, good looking in a battered sort of way, with the flattened nose of a boxer. He was fashionably dressed in a three-piece suit, pristine shirt and co-ordinated tie — the exact opposite of his dad. Gareth clearly wasn’t remotely happy to see Jack in his dad’s office.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Gareth guided Dougie to the old armchair as he spoke more gently. ‘What’ve I told you about leaving that side door open, Dad? You got to lock it when you arrive.’

Once Dougie was safely seated, Gareth’s focus returned to Jack.

‘I was just asking your dad about Angela Dunn, Mr—?’

‘Don’t fucking “Mr” me. You ain’t after no upholstery review.’

‘No. I’m after information on how she might have obtained a passport at short notice.’

Gareth took a step towards Jack. Jack quickly took his hands from his pockets in case he needed to defend himself. He instantly regretted this move, as it told Gareth that he was on edge and very aware of his own comparatively small stature. Dougie grinned from the comfort of the armchair. His boy had this!

‘Oh, no, no, no — you ain’t talking to my old man about that bollocks. He’s fucking 84! He’s got angina. He’s a sick man, not your go-to snout. He ain’t well enough to be ambushed by some half-arsed copper. That is what you are, right? You’re a copper.’

‘I’m not pressuring your father into anything—’ Jack began.

Dougie interrupted. ‘He wanted to look in my safe without a warrant, son. I told him to leave but he wouldn’t. I didn’t want to disturb you by pressing the emergency button, but it got so I was scared to be up here on me own with him.’

As Gareth moved forward, Jack moved back, towards the door. He wasn’t scared, although Gareth did look like a handful, but he couldn’t afford to get into a fight with a civilian after he’d already been asked to leave their property.

‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Jack sang. ‘Don’t put a hand on me, all right? I’m going.’

‘Move faster, then!’

Gareth walked at Jack, chest first, like an immaculately dressed, expensive smelling brick wall that was impossible to argue with. Jack backed off in time with Gareth, went out of the door and down the hallway, towards the stairs. He’d completely forgotten about the stairlift, so when he turned to head down the stairs, he tripped over the footplate, sending the top half of his body down the steps before his legs could untangle. He grabbed out in a vain attempt to save himself, caught the start button with his elbow and tumbled head first down the filthy stairs, all the way to the shitty doormat at the bottom. With his nose pressed into the floor and his eyes screwed tight shut, all Jack could hear was Gareth cackling and the slow whirr of the stairlift heading down to meet him.

‘Don’t worry. You got at least twenty seconds to get out of its way!’ Gareth howled.

Maggie stood in between Jack’s legs, pressing around his nose and cheekbones. He sat with his head back, gripping the arms of their dining chair and desperately trying not to push her away because of the pain he was in. His eyes were blackening and wouldn’t stop watering, and his nose was swollen and wouldn’t stop bleeding.

‘I don’t think it’s broken.’ Maggie glared down at him as though he was the one who’d done something wrong. ‘You’ve reported them, right? You can’t let them get away with attacking you. We get so many police come into the ED, and paramedics now as well. It’s disgusting, Jack. You have to take a stand against this sort of violence.’

Jack put his hands on Maggie’s hips, in an attempt to reassure her.

‘It was my fault, Mags,’ he said.

She misinterpreted his meaning. ‘Oh, don’t tell me this is down to your newly discovered past! Did you go in all gung-ho, all “Harry Rawlins”?’

Jack stood up. ‘No, I didn’t!’ he protested.

She didn’t believe him. ‘Jack, you don’t belong in that world. You’re a good, kind man — not a gangster. They survive by having no heart, nothing to lose. You... You have so much to lose.’ Maggie instinctively put her hand to her belly. ‘Please, Jack, I can’t stand the thought of you putting yourself in danger. You’re not a fighter, you’re a smart man who’s always used words rather than fists. I don’t want you coming home like this ever again, you hear me? No more fights, Jack, please.’

Jack couldn’t stand any more of this.

‘I tripped over a stairlift!’ Maggie stopped talking. ‘And I fell down a flight of stairs. Nobody hit me. I’d rather you’d think I’m an idiot than a thug — but if you repeat what I just said to anyone else, I’ll leave you.’

She burst into giggles.

The next morning, Jack looked at his face in the wing mirror of a parked car. His nose was still very painful. Even the breeze blowing in his face made him wince. He called Laura.

‘How did you get on with Dougie?’ she asked.

‘It’s not him. I’m about to go and see Rachel Yarborough—’

Laura laughed. ‘She’s blind,’ she reminded him. ‘She can’t possibly be our forger.’

Jack corrected her. ‘She’s got glaucoma. I asked Mags and she said that, if it’s not too far developed, she’d be perfectly capable of close work.’

Within seconds of being inside Rachel’s home, however, it was obvious that her glaucoma was seriously bad. Her furniture was sparse so as not to cause an obstacle course, the décor clean and her TV was like a cinema screen.

‘If I have the contrast right up, I can see some things. Not details. Tea?’

Jack declined, not wanting to put her out, but she insisted.

‘I’m not useless, Mr Warr.’ As she made the drinks, she talked. ‘Dougie Marshall, eh? How is the old bastard?’

Jack watched in awe as Rachel made a pot using a push-button kettle that poured exactly the right amount of hot water, and mugs with talking sensors attached to the sides. To see her wander about her home, you’d never guess that she was partially sighted. In fact, if it wasn’t for the living room clock announcing the time on the quarter hour, Jack would never have guessed this home had been modified at all.

‘He was a genius back in the day. Sharp as a tack, wily as a fox — that was our Dougie. The only time he ever went inside was when that stupid kid of his was caught forging betting slips. Dougie owned up to that one for him, thinking they’d never send a dying old man down. Got three years. You can’t get a licence to run a betting shop if you’ve got a criminal record, see, so Dougie had to go down for Gareth, in order to secure both their futures. Dougie didn’t mind prison — within a week, he’d forged a medical referral and got a cushy time in the hospital wing. What he did mind was people thinking he’d forged Gareth’s terrible bloody betting slips — very shoddy workmanship. Gareth’s got no style. You met him?’

‘Briefly,’ Jack said. ‘Mrs Yarborough, I’m wondering if you can suggest any old-time forgers who might still be active in the area.’

‘If by “old-time” you mean anyone mine and Dougie’s age, then no. We’re the last ones. I gave it all up years ago, way before my eyes started to let me down, on account of being a terrible liar. If I ever got questioned by the police, I was bound to give myself away, so I quit while I was ahead. Dougie worked a good twenty years longer than me. Great liar, he was. That’s why all the big names trusted him.’

‘Names like Harry Rawlins?’

‘There’s a blast from the past! He did do a bit of work with Dougie, yes.’ Rachel smiled as she remembered Harry. ‘He was a master. And we were his willing servants. If you did right by Harry, he did right by you. He liked Dougie because he didn’t look like a genius. He hid in plain sight. What the coppers saw was a fat fucker in a betting shop — what Harry saw was an artist.’ Then Rachel said something quite unexpected. ‘Can I touch your face?’

‘I wouldn’t mind,’ Jack said when he’d got over his initial surprise, ‘but my nose is a little sensitive at the moment.’

Jack fitted right in at the hospital; no one gave his face a second look. It was 6.30 p.m. and Maggie was thirty minutes away from starting her night shift. Jack was enjoying doing nothing except eating a beef sandwich and watching Maggie eat a tuna salad. All he wanted to do was sit, relax and enjoy the company of his lovely, beautiful, pregnant, soon-to-be wife. Maggie had other ideas.

The Antenatal Unit was, of course, empty, but Maggie’s pass got her into any area of the hospital. She opened a wardrobe at the back of the room and got out an ugly, tan-coloured vest with a padded front. She held it up for Jack to put on. Maggie zipped him in.

‘Comfy?’

‘Not remotely.’ He scowled.

‘That’s what it feels like to be pregnant.’

‘Jeez, Mags. How are you going to carry this lump round?’

Jack put his hands in the small of his back and pushed his hips forwards, arching. He puffed out his cheeks and then blew, making his lips ripple in a silent raspberry. He started to walk around the room. He bent his knees, widened his feet and waddled.

‘Look, Mags, I’m you!’

As Jack moved with more and more exaggerated waddles, Maggie ran at him, laughing, calling him a cheeky bastard. He dodged her a couple of times, but the weight of the vest became too much and eventually he collapsed onto a yoga mat, exhausted. Maggie sat astride him and strained to lean down over his padded belly to kiss him. She couldn’t get anywhere near his mouth, which made them both laugh.

Sitting astride Jack, looking down at him in his pregnancy vest, with his two black eyes and swollen nose, Maggie had never felt so happy.

‘I love you, Jack Warr. I can’t wait to be Maggie Warr.’ Then her hormones took over and she started to cry. ‘Me and you know so much about pain, Jack. Promise me we’ll protect our baby from it.’

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.