Jack sat at his desk with his trouser leg pulled up to just below his knee. When stumbling backward in an attempt to stay an arm’s length away from Tony Fisher, he’d banged his calf on something and now a large bruise was forming. He could feel it as he’d walked up the station stairs and now, as he looked at the purplish-black circle on his skin, it reminded him of the satisfaction he felt in seeing Tony face down on the floor. It was as much of a power rush now as it had been at the time. Jack was by no means a violent man, but he loved the feeling of manipulating a thick shit like Tony Fisher into securing himself a stint in solitary confinement. It was the first cruel thing Jack had ever done in his life, but he felt no guilt.
Two hours and several cups of tea later, Jack sat plowing through the extensive police files on Harry Rawlins. Rawlins’s actual file was surprisingly thin because he was too smart to be tied to most of his suspected crimes; it was the unproven files that were extensive. George Resnick had collated hundreds of case reports which, if they were all accurate, showed Harry Rawlins to have been one of the most prolific gangsters of the 1980s. No wonder Resnick had been like a dog with a bone—Rawlins would have been the catch of the century.
Jack flicked through the crime scene photos of the explosive Strand underpass robbery from 1984. Joe Pirelli and Terry Miller had been in the back of the van when it burst into flames. Pirelli had been identified from his dental records, as his hands were never found and he couldn’t be printed. Miller was identified from a partial thumb and forefinger print from what remained of his left hand. And “Rawlins,” assumed to have been the driver, was blown sky-high. All forensically identifiable parts of his body were too badly damaged to be of any use. However, a cadaver dog had eventually found a charred left forearm about seven feet from the van, not belonging to either Pirelli or Miller. This arm wore a gold Rolex watch with the inscription TO HARRY—LOVE DOLLY—2/12/62. And so the mangled, unidentifiable third body—missing its head, both legs and one arm—was documented as belonging to Harry Rawlins.
Jack looked at the images showing this mammoth jigsaw puzzle of body parts. He understood why 1980s forensics had identified this man as Harry Rawlins—but the fact remained that Rawlins had been shot to death by his wife several months later, so the third man in the Strand underpass robbery actually remained unidentified. It could be one of a dozen known criminals from the time. It could even be Jimmy Nunn. Jack sighed heavily as he weighed up the possibilities. His birth dad could be in a thousand pieces, wrongly buried in place of Harry Rawlins back in 1984, or he could be hiding out on some paradise island spending stolen money. Maybe even the money from the train robbery. Jack couldn’t decide which discovery would be more disappointing. Then again, neither might be true.
Jack woke at five o’clock in the morning. His body had molded into the shape of his desk chair, so for a good few minutes he had to sit motionless, waiting for the blood to start circulating back into his extremities. Jack stared at his computer screen—once again, he’d spent police time and used the police databases to research his own paternity case. If he was caught, he’d be sacked for gross misconduct, but that seemed to encourage him rather than anything else. He was working smart for the first time in a long time and it made him feel good.
The showers in the station reeked of lemon-scented bleach; the cleaners had been working into the early hours too. Jack watched the mass of shampoo suds slowly spiral down the drain and replayed the events of the previous day in his head. There were two key memories—Tony Fisher’s face being squashed into the blue lino by four prison guards . . . and Ridley asking if he’d found Angela and Julia yet. One memory made him grin with a new-found sadistic thrill; the other made him turn the shower off and race back to his computer.
“Ester Freeman said that Julia Lawson would be in a gutter or a morgue somewhere,” Jack announced to the attentive squad room.
Ridley stood in his office doorway leaning against the frame, arms folded, unblinking. He was like one of those paintings whose eyes follow you round the room. Since this investigation began, he had mainly communicated with Jack via voicemail—which Ridley hated. Jack knew that by the time he’d finished speaking, he’d need a damn good excuse for missing yet another one of Ridley’s phone calls yesterday—and “I was in Pentonville, without your clearance, asking Tony Fisher about my birth dad” definitely wouldn’t cut it. It was a good job he was now redeeming himself by having solid leads on Julia and Angela.
“It seems Julia kept a low profile running a children’s home. Most of the kids she cares for are in trouble with one or both sides of the law, so she doesn’t advertise what she does. She registered as a safe house with the Manchester force, and she takes in the kids of parents who choose rehab programs instead of prison. And Angela Dunn got married, but didn’t change her name. I have addresses for both of them now.”
Behind Jack, the two evidence boards were almost full. They spanned 1984 to 2019, and the face of Tony Fisher had been added since the last time Ridley was in the office.
“Good work, Jack. And I’m glad you weren’t injured when Tony Fisher attacked you.”
Jack felt his face flush. From the corner of his eye, he saw a flicker of concern on Laura’s face, but he didn’t take his eyes off Ridley. Jack couldn’t believe that Ridley knew where he’d been all along and had never said a word. Within seconds, it became clear that he wasn’t going to elaborate—he just wanted Jack to know that nothing got past him.
As Jack’s face slowly cooled down, he continued.
“You requested that I find out more about the Witheys, sir. Tony knew them all back in the day.”
He told the squad room about Shirley and Greg, and how he’d decided that neither was of great relevance to this investigation. He also told them that Audrey Withey might well have known all the big players vicariously through her children, and that she probably couldn’t be trusted.
Ridley waited until Jack had finished.
“Remember, Audrey must be kept in the dark about the corpse until a positive ID has been made. Now, write up all your notes from your visit with Tony Fisher, before you head off to Chester to interview Julia Lawson.”
Sam, who’d just been delivered to Julia by the police and a social worker, was eight years old, with a face that bore witness to a lifetime of horrors. In his soul, he was already a man—a hardened, street-smart, thick-skinned, scowling man. His fists were clenched, his shoulders were tight and his jaw was pushed forward. He was fearless as he stood there, fully prepared to be slapped or punched or locked in a cupboard. What Sam was not prepared for was . . . Julia.
“I’m having cake for lunch,” she said cheerfully.
She headed into the kitchen, leaving Sam in the hallway to either follow or not. The back door, directly behind him, was open and children played in the small, fenced-off garden. He was free to run if he wanted to.
Sam stood by the kitchen table, watching Julia cut a huge slice of chocolate cake and put it on a dinner plate. She surrounded it with two scoops of ice cream, added a spoon and put it on the table.
“Don’t wait for me.” She smiled.
Sam was in the chair before she’d finished speaking, scooping up a huge spoonful of cake and ice cream.
“I ain’t fucking staying,” he grunted as he stuffed his face.
Julia lifted herself onto the kitchen top and waited for the kettle to boil.
“I bet you ten quid you fucking do.”
In London, on the third floor of a high-rise flat in Ladbroke Grove, Angela Dunn sat, legs crossed, on her corner sofa surrounded by fabrics and sewing material. Underneath the window was a sewing machine and, to the side of that, were dozens and dozens of transparent plastic boxes, stacked ceiling-high. Each box had a client name written on the outside and each was filled with multicolored fabrics, lace, buttons, cottons and various other embellishments. Angela had been a self-employed seamstress for more than ten years and she got enough work from her immediate community to keep her busy till her dying day. The wall behind the sofa was papered with family photos, so that not a square inch of wall could be seen. A vehicle horn musically blared three times and Angela raced down into the courtyard.
Rob was a hefty, muscular Jamaican man in his early fifties. His speckled gray beard and tightly cropped hair made him look like a tough nut but, as Angela’s arms crept round his boxy waist, he smiled the broadest of smiles, revealing the gold cap on his left lateral incisor, his eyes wrinkled, his face softened and the gentle giant appeared. Angela moved round Rob’s body without letting go, sliding underneath his armpit until she was by his side and his arm was round her shoulder. They looked at the second-hand bus he’d just driven back from the monthly auction in Wimbledon. Rob’s voice was gruff, like that of a lifetime smoker, despite the fact that he’d never taken a single drag.
“The tires are solid. Seals on the fuel pump are a bit dodgy and the battery needs replacing. It overheated a couple of times on the way back, so the cooling system wants an overhaul. It needs some new bulbs for the brake lights and left indicator. And there’s a horrible smell coming from the air con. Plus the spark plugs make her misfire every now and then—”
Angela asked the only question she cared about. “How many seats?”
“25,” Rob confirmed.
“It’s perfect, Rob! I’ll call the girls and get things moving.”
Rob paused the conversation to kiss Angela, long and tender. He loved the very bones of her and she adored him. Angela had had her share of useless men and when she found Rob she spared no time in telling him, straight out, that she’d do anything for him as long as he treated her right. Since then, they’d been totally devoted to each other.
“So, the SUV—” Rob stopped Angela mid-sentence with a peck on the lips.
“You’ve asked me this a dozen times.”
Angela smiled, her beautiful brown eyes asking him to humor her one more time.
“The Chevy Suburban was delivered to Amsterdam yesterday morning, collected and driven to the hotel in Düsseldorf by Julia’s lad and put round the back in the bus parking where, lo and behold, the CCTV don’t work too well. So, as long as you’re sure the lad’s trustworthy, we’re sound as a pound.”
Julia’s “lad” had been in Angela’s care and, fifteen years ago, she’d saved his life when he slit his wrists. He’d been systematically abused by his family since birth and he finally snapped. When a boy like that finally meets an adult to love him, his gratefulness knows no bounds. Angela was confident that Julia’s “lad” would kill for her, so hiding a car for her would be a doddle.
Jack was using his mobile phone torch to see the writing on the gravestones in the otherwise dark churchyard. As he moved through the beautifully kept grass, he hated the fact that Charlie popped into his head—a well-kept plot would be important to him. Jack thought about the cemetery just up the road from his mum and dad’s bungalow in Totnes. It was on a hillside overlooking the sea and Jack used to short-cut through it to and from school—he and the lads would pause on one of the numerous benches to drink cider and smoke tabs. It hadn’t felt disrespectful or naughty; it had felt fine. As though the residents really wouldn’t mind them being there. Unlike tonight . . . Tonight Jack felt very disrespectful, traipsing over grave after grave trying to find the name he was looking for.
Just then, a second torch light joined Jack’s—but this one was bigger, brighter and was being held by a broad Glaswegian.
“Who you looking for?”
Jack couldn’t see the man behind the light as his beam was blinding. He could, however, just make out that he was holding a round-head shovel over his right shoulder. Jack immediately got his warrant card from his pocket and held it in the light.
“I’m from the Met,” Jack said. “Sorry if I’m not meant to be here. The gate was open.”
The Glaswegian dipped his torch. He was a small man, wiry, young, tattooed to the hilt.
“Who you looking for?” he repeated.
“Harry Rawlins.”
The Glaswegian started to walk away, so Jack followed.
“Ya drugs polis? I was nicked three years ago for intent to supply. Best thing that ever happened to me. Got put here for ninety days of payback, picking up litter and dog shit—do you know how many people just leave their dog’s shit lying around? Properly boils my piss, that does. When my ninety days was up, I got a job doing exactly the same thing.” The Glaswegian let out a short, sharp belly-laugh. “Funny, right? This was meant to be a punishment and it turned my life around. We buried a lady just after five o’clock and the family left pot plants instead of bunches, so I’m planting them up for her. She’s got a sister landing from Canada in the wee hours and I want the grave to look nice, you know.”
“I’m glad you’ve straightened out. Good for you, mate, it’s not easy.”
“Everything’s easy when you know why you’re here. I never knew why I was put on this earth until the day I got that community service. Boom! It was like that. Boom! I’m here to look after your loved ones. Life’s easy now I know. Clean, too. Not touched drugs since, unless you call a wee nip ‘drugs,’ which I suppose it is. Rawlins, Rawlins . . . Here you go. Harold Rawlins. One of two.”
The headstone was ornately carved and rather grand compared to those around it. The inscription read: MAY 12, 1941–AUGUST 12, 1984. ALWAYS LOVED, IN DEATH AS IN LIFE.
“Is he the one? There’s another round the back. Weird. Funny what you can tell about a person from their grave. Tall, nice headstone, pride of place. This guy was loved. The other ‘Harry’ . . . not so much.”
The second grave was marked with a small stone wedge and a brass plaque simply engraved with Rawlins’s name and his years of birth and death; no months, no message. But this was where Rawlins actually lay.
“Thank you,” Jack said.
The Glaswegian nodded and backed off respectfully. Jack turned his phone torch on again. There really was nothing to see at this sad little graveside. Then . . .
“Excuse me!” Jack called.
Next to this small, untended grave was another small stone wedge bearing the inscription: DOROTHY RAWLINS. MARCH 1941–AUGUST 1995. This grave had had a recent visitor, because fresh flowers lay on the grass.
“Do you know who visits Dolly Rawlins?”
“A wee girl. Only seen her a couple times. Young. Petite.” The Glaswegian shrugged. “I stay out the way when people come visiting. Sorry.”
“No, you’ve been really helpful. Thank you.” As the Glaswegian walked away for the last time, Jack added, “Look after yourself.”
The flowers on Dolly’s grave were no more than a couple days old and had been taken out of their wrapping, so Jack wouldn’t be able to trace where they were bought. He’d have to dig into Dolly’s family history—but “young and petite” definitely didn’t describe either Connie or Ester. Maybe the flowers weren’t relevant at all.
Jack made his way back round to the first grave of “Harry Rawlins”—the one with the ornate headstone. This was the grave that held the most interest for him, because someone else was down there: someone who had been buried in Rawlins’s place; someone who had been blown to smithereens in the botched Strand underpass robbery and misidentified. Someone wearing Harry’s gold watch. And Jack was going to find out who that was.