“You want to what?” Maggie asked.
They were standing in the middle of the spare bedroom, which now looked like a full-blown evidence room, with photos, notes, names and places all linked together with bits of different colored string. She wore one towel round her body, one round her head and held two glasses of red wine.
“You want a coroner’s permission to dig up a coffin on the off chance that the body inside is Jimmy Nunn’s?”
Jack took one of the glasses of wine from Maggie. He knew not to disturb her when she was in full flow.
“How you going to manage that exactly . . . ? ‘Oh, guv, you know that grave that half of London thought belonged to Harry Rawlins? Well, can we dig it up please ’cos I think my dad might have been the getaway driver in an unsolved raid on a security van?’”
“I didn’t say Jimmy was dead. In fact, if Tony’s right, Jimmy walked away clean with pockets full of cash. But someone’s in there, Mags, and it definitely isn’t Rawlins.”
“Who cares? Genuinely, Jack. Who cares which deadbeat gangster got buried 35 years ago?”
Jack looked at her with his beautiful, wide eyebrows-up eyes. He cared. Maggie put down her wine and cradled his face in her warm, water-wrinkled hands.
“You confuse me so much,” she whispered. “I see the excitement in your eyes when you talk about this case and about your birth father and I love it, but, Jack, you have to think straight. For 35 years, the police haven’t given a toss who’s really in that grave. How are you going to make them care now?”
“You’re right,” Jack conceded. “I’ll need to think of a far more compelling reason than just some missing gangster. Thanks, Mags. What would I do without you, eh? Did you leave the water in?”
And he headed for the bathroom.
Maggie looked around the spare bedroom in despair. Jack had finally found his passion, his focus, his smile—and it made her deeply worried. Instead of being the making of him, she worried it might actually be the breaking of him.
Jack had been parked outside Julia’s home for about an hour, watching the comings and goings. What he first thought was a small mid-terraced two-up, two-down was actually three small terraced houses knocked into one. He discovered this when a little black girl with braided hair and a bright pink hoody went in one “house” and, moments later, came out of another.
This part of Chester was middle income, and Jack reckoned Julia owned a good £300 k of property between the three terraced houses. He knocked on the front door nearest to where he’d parked. From inside, Jack could hear a woman’s voice shouting instructions about not doing anything else before she got back, then the door was opened by a tall, slim woman, wiping her floury hands on a souvenir tea towel slung over her shoulder.
“Julia Lawson?” Jack asked. He couldn’t help the tone of the question: he could see she’d spotted him for a copper.
Julia blocked the doorway, as if protecting every living soul beyond it.
“You have to call first. If you don’t call, I have the right to turn you away. These kids don’t like surprises.”
“I’m not here to see any of the children, Miss Lawson. I’m here to see you.”
A crash from deep in the house forced Julia to step back and Jack followed her into the kitchen. The floor was covered in cake mix and two young boys stared up at Julia like butter wouldn’t melt. She handed the older one a five-pound note.
“Tidy up. Go and buy a cake.”
Then she headed into the conservatory.
Numerous kids played in the back gardens, which, just like the houses, were all knocked into one. The ages ranged from about 6 to 16 and they spanned numerous ethnicities. The conservatory was like half a goldfish bowl and, from here, Julia could see every inch of the garden. Nothing was getting past her. The low windowsill that ran around the edge, only stopping to accommodate two sets of double doors, was filled with picture frames of various kids. Some photos were sun-bleached with age, other were newer—but all were displayed proudly. One wall in the lounge they passed through was also floor-to-ceiling pictures. Julia had pointed to them.
“Some of the kids can’t be photographed, but those who can are in a frame somewhere in the house. It’s important for the new kids to see that they’re not the only ones. It can feel lonely, thinking everyone else’s life is better than yours.”
The older kids in the garden eventually noticed Jack and instinctively moved closer to the conservatory in case Julia needed them.
“I’m DC Jack Warr from the Met.”
Julia stood silent, waiting for him to explain further. But he didn’t.
“How many kids do you look after here?”
“I thought you weren’t here for the children.”
Julia clearly didn’t trust the police and nor did the kids in the garden.
“I’m not. I . . .”
Jack looked through the window at the happy children and finishing this sentence suddenly became very hard. Julia recognized a lost child when she saw one and guessed that he had started life in a place like this. No one said anything for a moment.
Jack smiled as he started again. “I hear you work wonders with the kids. I spoke to a colleague in Manchester and she was certainly impressed.”
Another silence. Julia waited.
“I could have been in that system,” said Jack. “But I was lucky enough to be placed relatively quickly. I was 5.”
And with that one sentence the atmosphere changed completely. Ten minutes later, he was drinking tea and listening to Julia talk about how, to date, she’d helped more than 370 troubled or unwanted children.
“We go to West Kirby near the Wirral every month and, once a year, we head a bit further north to Formby beach and nature reserve. The kids love it—some pretend not to, of course, but that’s just to save face. Tough men can’t enjoy donkey rides.”
Jack spotted one photo on the windowsill of a young girl, maybe 9 or 10, jumping a small fence on horseback. He made a comment about that child progressing far beyond donkeys on the beach.
“That’s me.” Julia spoke with a long-forgotten pride. “I hardly recognize her now. Horses are such trusting beasts—they teach children respect and kindness.”
Jack used this casual memory to segue into the reason for his visit.
“The Grange would have been a wonderful place for a kids’ home, then.”
Julia looked directly at Jack. “Is that why you’re here . . . ? Good God! That was a lifetime ago.” She didn’t seem unsettled by the change of topic. “The problem you’ve got, DC Warr, is that I was using back then. I may not be able to help you, not because I don’t want to but because it’s all a bit of a blur.”
As Julia began talking, she repeated much of what Jack had already heard. That they were a group of women brought together by Ester Freeman to welcome Dolly Rawlins back into the real world. Then the children’s home idea raised its head and they all decided to stay on and help Dolly with that. They were ex-cons with nowhere else to be, so they jumped on the back of her ambition and went along for the ride.
“It doesn’t take long at all to get into your blood. Dolly disappeared from my life in the blink of an eye, but the kids’ home idea . . . that refused to leave. I would like to have seen The Grange come to fruition, horses and all.” Jack asked whether Julia had known their nearest neighbor, Norma Walker. “Vaguely. She kept retired police mounts. Now, they’re amazing animals. Country horses can get skittish at a leaf falling, but police horses . . . nerves of steel. I’m sure you know.”
“I’ve seen them work. They’re trained to remain calm around loud noises and crowds, all that sort of thing. I’ve never even been on one, if I’m honest. They scare the life out of me.”
Julia smiled a sweet, understanding smile. “Once you make friends with a horse, you’ll never be scared of them again.” She glanced into the chaotic garden. “Friendship’s so important. I think Dolly would have liked this place. She was the strongest person I’ve ever met. I asked her once if anything ever scared her and she told me about the night she shot Harry, her husband. She said that after doing that, nothing scared her. She said, ‘I’m not like my husband. I’m better. I always was. I was just clever at making sure he never knew it.’ How ballsy is that?”
“Can you tell me about the night Dolly was shot?”
“It was ridiculous! Craigh was standing right next to her! Ester rushes in and, no hesitation, she pulls the trigger. What the fuck she thought she was doing, I will never know. We were all arrested, kept overnight, then Craigh let us go the next morning. Ester’s got a screw loose. Have you met her? I assume you’re speaking to all of us?”
“I have met Ester, yes. And Connie.”
“Now she’s a nice girl. Haven’t seen her since the shooting. Thick, mind you. I don’t suppose that’s changed.”
Jack gave no indication of his opinion on Connie or Ester.
“Three houses knocked into one,” he said, sounding impressed. “That must have cost a bit.”
“I don’t own this place, I just run it. Dolly once said, ‘If you’ve got money, Julia, you can be whatever you want.’ Money meant a lot to her. She liked people to see that she was someone. But I always thought there was something missing from her life that no amount of money could buy. Something fundamental. Kids, I suspect.” Julia glanced out of the conservatory at the children playing in the garden. “Most of these will never know where they’re from, so it’s vital for them to know where they’re going. Do you know where you’re from?”
Jack liked Julia, and talking about the subject of childhood with someone experienced actually felt quite therapeutic.
“As I say, I was lucky.” And then he lied. “I never felt the drive to find my real parents because I don’t need them. I know who I am and I know where I’m from. My foster parents taught me.”
The way Julia looked at Jack made a deeply buried memory pop right into the front of his mind. He suddenly recalled a moment when he was about six. He’d stolen the last of Charlie’s diabetic chocolate brownies and, when Penny asked him about it, he’d lied straight to her face, even though he had chocolate-covered hands and lips. He’d just done the same to Julia and she saw right through him, just as Penny had done.
“But the kids here,” he concluded, “are very lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have them. I need to be needed, you see. Always have. I think that’s why I became a doctor all those years ago, before I royally fucked it all up. I’m a recovering addict and I’m weak, especially when I’m on my own. I have to have someone to live for and the kids give me that. But every day I walk a tightrope between success and failure. I’m only ever one step away from falling off the wagon and ending up dead. That’s what would happen if I took drugs again . . . I’d die.”
Ridley could see Superintendent Maxine Raeburn sitting at her desk through the wall of glass that separated her from the corridor. She was on the phone, nodding and humming in all the right places. Max had seen and acknowledged Ridley, but he had to wait outside regardless—he guessed that the call she was on was above his pay grade. Max Raeburn was one of the best superintendents Ridley had ever worked under, a quiet, patient, but surprisingly intimidating woman. She was so slight, she looked as if she could be knocked down by a feather, but she’d be nipping at your ankles the moment she hit the floor. When she was promoted, she’d refused the big office on the top floor and insisted on being in this huge goldfish bowl of an office next door to Ridley. She wanted her officers to see her daily; she wanted them to know that she was first in and last out; she wanted them to know where she was at all times; and she wanted them to feel free to knock on her door. Not many people did, of course, on account of the chain of command. CID officers knocked on Ridley’s door (even when it was open), Ridley knocked on her door—that’s the way it was.
When Ridley was eventually allowed in, he held up the DNA results in his hand.
“It is Mike Withey.”
Raeburn couldn’t hide her bemusement. “So, Mike Withey, an ex-police officer from this station, was murdered and then disposed of in an arson attack at Rose Cottage, surrounded by an estimated one point eight million in burnt fivers and tenners, less than one mile from the biggest train robbery in UK history. Have I forgotten anything?”
“Rose Cottage belonged to Norma Walker, who was also an ex-cop. Mounted division.”
“I don’t need to tell you how delicate this is. I know I can trust your team, as I trust you, but bloody hell, Simon, remind them, and then remind them again, that this cannot get out.”
Ridley nodded his understanding.
“Right,” Raeburn continued, “how can I help?”
Ridley explained, in his usual to-the-letter way, exactly what he was going to do and in what order. It was only when he mentioned the possible angle of Norma and Mike being “privately known to each other” back in 1995 that Raeburn held her hand up.
“Norma was gay. She kept it very quiet—no other option in the eighties. In ’89, she was injured in the line of duty. It was serious. Her next of kin was contacted—Amelie, I think her name was. I had to liaise for a time and, well . . . You only had to see her at Norma’s bedside to know they were in love. Norma spilled the beans and I said that it didn’t make the blindest bit of bloody difference. Norma and Mike could still have known each other, of course. But, I have to say, I’d be very surprised if Norma had anything to do with your train robbery. I’d assume Mike’s personal connections to London’s lowlife are a better angle of inquiry. Follow the evidence though, Simon . . . I’ve been surprised before.”
“That’s Sam,” Julia said when she returned to the conservatory with a fresh pot of tea. Jack stood by the window, watching Sam teach a younger boy how to play keepy-uppy. “He’s 8 and has scars like you wouldn’t believe, outside and in. His instinct is to fight anyone bigger and teach football to anyone smaller. Battling against the man he’s meant to be and yearning for the kid he never was.”
“He looks happy.”
As Jack poured tea for them both, his mobile buzzed. A text message from Ridley:
In confidence—ID is Mike Withey. Informing family now. No private connection to Norma, as she was a lesbian.
Jack tried to hide his grin. He knew for a fact that Ridley would have agonized over whether to type the word “lesbian” or “gay.” He might even have googled the most PC phrasing.
Jack handed Julia her tea and then excused himself to go to the bathroom.
He perched on the wash basin, reread the content of Ridley’s text, and suddenly felt like he was definitely wasting his time with these bloody Grange women. He should be back at the nick, with his team, looking for a bunch of dodgy coppers with connections to hired hands with enough balls to do a train robbery and kill one of their own.
When Jack re-entered the conservatory, a young girl was sitting on Julia’s lap, crying her heart out. Julia indicated that he should keep on with his questions while she rocked the distraught girl back to calmness.
“Do you run this place alone?” he inquired.
“I have two people helping me. I’d trust them with my life. I did have three, until the father of one of the children turned up on my doorstep demanding his son back. I knew who’d given out our address.” Then Julia spoke to the girl. “Go on. Stick by Suzie for now, please. I’ll come and talk to Darren in a minute.”
The girl jumped off Julia’s knee and headed for Suzie, who Jack hadn’t noticed was waiting in the doorway. Suzie was big for such a young-looking girl and didn’t seem “all there.” She seemed vulnerable and timid. When the girls had left the room, Julia continued.
“Darren’s a worry. He’s feral. I don’t mean that maliciously, it’s just the best word to describe him. He lashes out so quickly.”
“Self-preservation.” Jack suddenly recalled another memory long buried. “A much bigger lad was after my lunch money at school—this was after I was placed with my foster parents—and as he got within reach I hit him before he could hit me. I remember that I didn’t want to fight him, so I had to create a lie to tell myself . . . the lie being that I wasn’t afraid.”
“I have a feeling you still protect yourself in the same way,” Julia teased. “You stand when I’m seated, in order to command the room. You have your hands in your pockets to show how at ease you are, you don’t break eye contact showing you’re no pushover, you chat to draw me in. I studied psychology as part of my doctorate, and I have to say that you are very hard to read for a copper. You’re either genuine or you’re one big façade, DC Warr.”
Jack blew air from his nostrils as he smiled. He liked Julia very much—she sounded posh and she looked very feminine, but he didn’t doubt that she was as tough as old boots.
When he asked if the isolation affected her, she said, “Isolation keeps us safe. I’m guardian to these children—that’s a privilege that I don’t take lightly. The truth, although they think the opposite, is that they saved my life. I owe these children everything.”
Four hours later, in West London, Jack rang Angela’s doorbell. She opened the door without asking who was there, and from her surprised expression it was immediately clear to him that she’d been expecting someone else.
“DC Warr,” he said, holding up his warrant card.
She led him into the lounge, where she’d been re-covering a set of dining room chairs, shaking her head.
“I don’t see the point in that bottom door if people hold it open for strangers—no offense. I thought you were Irene from 36—she wanted to take a picture of her chairs to show her mum. Sorry, that’s not remotely interesting. What can I do for you?”
Jack explained that he wanted to ask Angela about the train robbery, even though he wasn’t expecting much, having read her original statement.
“I wasn’t there,” she explained. “I’d taken Kathleen’s kids away for the night. We got back early and The Grange was swarming with police. That’s the first I knew of it. Tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m all tea’d out.”
“Ask anything you like—but I’m going to keep going on these chairs. I’ve got a deadline!”
Jack asked question after question, most of which were answered with “I don’t know, I wasn’t there.” It struck him as interesting that none of the women from The Grange were remotely flustered by him showing up at their homes. Surely train robbers, even 24 years on, would be a little surprised and jumpy? He got no sense of tension from any of the women, and there was precious little evidence of unexplained wealth.
Angela’s flat was probably two- or three-bedroomed—the wall of photos showed numerous children, but they couldn’t have all fitted in there. A toy box in the corner of the lounge contained some boys’ stuff and some girls’ stuff, so Jack guessed that at least two kids lived here. He also guessed the rest must be extended family. As he looked around the walls he noticed, high on a shelf, far out of the reach of sticky young fingers, were two lone toys—a small, worn teddy bear and a bright yellow teething ring. Special memories being kept safe, he supposed.
The family feel of this place was oddly similar to Julia’s home, even though in other ways they were vastly different. The children in these photos had probably never known abuse, violence or anger.
Angela freely told Jack all about herself. She ran an upholstering business, earning money from family, friends and neighbors—she was bringing back the make-do-and-mend ethos in a “throwaway” society. Her husband, Rob, was doing the same with cars and bikes. Angela felt the need to digress for long enough to confirm that their businesses were legitimate and that they paid all their taxes. Unfortunately, seconds later, Irene from 36 came up to take photos of her newly covered dining chairs and took the opportunity to pay Angela in cash.
“Take it now, Ange, for God’s sake, or it’ll go straight back out on the 3:40 at Chepstow.”
Jack smiled as Angela squirmed, trying to work out what kind of a copper he was. He laughed.
“I’m not here for anything other than a little background on the train robbery.”
And to prove he wasn’t going to turn her in to HMRC, he accepted the cup of tea offered when he first arrived because, as every good cop knows, sharing tea breaks down barriers.
Jack and Angela talked for a further thirty minutes about the other women at The Grange, about the failed children’s home, about the death of Dolly Rawlins—and this final topic of conversation had a clear impact on Angela’s mood.
“From the very second Dolly saw me, she knew I needed her. She was this old woman—old to me back then—who could suss a person out as soon as look at them. I remember I said to her once about me and her being friends or something like that, and she said, ‘You don’t know me, darlin’. There’s lots to me no one ever knows. That’s how I survive.’ But I did know her. And she certainly knew me. I miss her.”
“Do you visit her grave?”
“She’s a good listener,” Angela said with a smile. “I take fresh flowers every Wednesday. I let her down, you see. I want her to know that I’m making up for it now.”
Jack inquired exactly how Angela had let Dolly down, but she didn’t give much detail away; instead she spoke about how it made her feel.
“It was personal. I made a mistake . . . with a bloke. I lost a baby. And when everyone else turned their backs on me, Dolly looked me straight in the eye and told me what a stupid little bitch I’d been. She was right. And, just after she set me straight, she hugged me tighter than I’d ever been hugged in my life. That’s what I mean when I say she could suss a person out as soon as look at them—she knew what I needed.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
Angela wasn’t fooled by Jack’s kind words. If he’d already visited Ester, he’d know that Dolly was hated just as much as she was loved. It all depended whether or not she was on your side. As the evening drew in, Jack thanked Angela for the tea, scribbled down his mobile number in case she remembered anything else, and left her to her work. Once he’d gone, Angela went to her window and waited. Eventually, he appeared in the car park below and headed toward Kensal Green Underground.
Angela stepped up onto the arm of the sofa and took down the teddy bear and teething ring. She cried easily as she recalled the moment, twenty-four years ago, that she’d told Dolly she was pregnant. She was young and petrified and just to say the words out loud relieved so much pressure. Dolly took her to Mothercare, where she bought and paid for all of the essentials. Angela had subsequently lost the baby and, in a fit of unimaginable distress, she’d destroyed everything Dolly had bought. Except a small teddy bear and a bright yellow teething ring.
But tonight, Angela didn’t cry for the loss of her baby . . . she cried for the loss of Dolly.