Gareth spoke freely and confidently, making Anik feel like he was racing down the final straight of their lengthy investigation. But, for Ridley, nothing felt right. Why wasn’t he just “no comment”? The answer to that was because Gareth was streetwise enough to give them plenty so he could be noted as co-operating, but nothing of importance. For now, Ridley allowed the interview to continue in the hope that Gareth might slip up.
“Dad drank with some of his buddies from the bad old days, but they was even more past it than he was. I mean, as in, ‘doolally.’ Dad was all there in the head—it was his body that let him down. I never knew anything about him still forging, on my life I didn’t. I thought he was up there, sticking labels on flyers!” Gareth smirked. “Makes me kinda proud of the old bastard.”
“Tell me about Angela Dunn.”
Anik’s tone was serious and to the point. Ridley would have been impressed if he hadn’t already decided that this interview was going to be a waste of everyone’s time.
“She used to clean for my parents. When Mum died and Dad went into the care home, Ange still popped round every now and then—had a cuppa with him, chatted about Mum. Ange knew Mum better than me in truth, so I liked her visiting. She made curtains. Cushions, that sort of thing. I don’t know what else I can say about her.” Then, Gareth very cleverly turned the tables. “You can’t really think that little girl had anything to do with that train robbery?”
Ridley rolled his eyes, but Anik was being sucked in.
“Hard to believe.” Gareth shook his head. “I mean, Dad and his mates were guessing left, right and center about who it could be. Someone even thought old Buster had snuck back, done the job, and buggered off again.”
“On the night your dad died, you said he was visited by a man claiming to be a policeman . . .”
“That’s right. Big fella. Dark hair. Bit smaller than me. We don’t have CCTV on them back stairs, so I can’t tell you much more than that, really. Dad was a very sick man in those final months. Anything could have caused an angina attack at any moment. But, well, he had a massive stroke on top of it, so . . . no chance. I’m sorry I can’t help you any more than that, I really am.”
“Death of a Salesman!” Penny shrieked.
Maggie moved on to miming the last word in War of the Worlds and wondered how the hell this game of charades was ever going to end. Jack watched Charlie sleep. He was in a recliner, feet up, blanket over his knees. The heating was on full blast, but Charlie really felt the cold now. His head had lolled to one side, and the skin on the lower side of his face seemed to have slid down his skull—he just had no muscles left to hold it all up.
“Planet of the Apes!”
Maggie screamed “Yes!,” gave Penny a round of applause, said how incredibly clever she was, and they swapped places.
Jack laughed under his breath as Maggie slid down the arm of the chair he was sitting in. He squished up a little, but this chair wasn’t wide enough for the two of them. They didn’t care. They watched Penny stomp around the lounge, mouthing the word “Godzilla.” She was so bad at games! By eight o’clock, Penny was snoozing on the sofa, Charlie was in bed, and Maggie and Jack were in the kitchen tidying up after dinner.
Jack opened the fridge to put the butter away and his attention was caught by the shelf full of high-protein, high-vitamin, high-mineral, life-prolonging milkshakes.
“Thanks, Maggie,” he whispered.
“What for?”
“For buying a month’s supply of these. Imagine if you’d bought a week’s worth. Imagine what that would have been like for Mum to see.” Maggie turned him round and he was crying. “I couldn’t do this without you.”
“You don’t have to do anything without me. Ever. And Penny will stay with us for as long as she needs.”
“They’re in the nursery . . .” he said half to himself.
This thought had come from him trying to work out how they were all going to fit into a two-bedroom flat; but it instantly turned into a much more disturbing thought.
“He’s going to die in the nursery, Mags. You hear, don’t you, of babies and kids sensing stuff that’s gone on before them. What if Dad—?”
Maggie hugged Jack. “Your dad is a loving man with a beautiful soul. A room is a room, but if Charlie hangs around . . . I think we’d be blessed to have him looking over our little one.”
Jack began laughing at his irrational thoughts. As Maggie hugged him, she couldn’t tell where the giggling ended and the crying began, nor did she care. When Jack was ready, he pulled away.
“We do need three rooms, though. When the time’s right, I’ll ask Mum what’s left from their pensions and the sale of the bungalow—and I’m up for promotion.”
“As long as we’re all happy,” Maggie said, “everything will work out.”
Jack loved her impractical take on finances, but one of them had to be sensible.
Jack walked the last few miles back to the police station to collect the car. It was just getting dark, and the streets were alive with a mix of commuters and drinkers. He used this time to talk himself into giving the women up, getting his promotion and living happily ever after with Maggie. He liked them, but he loved Maggie and that’s all that really mattered in the end. Telling Ridley about the phone call from Julia to Darren would be simple. But he’d need to work out how to get the women’s new names into the mix. He’d need to lie about how he got his hands on the notebook, and why it wasn’t found in the raid. He’d pretty much decided to make Gareth hand it in and pretend to have found it in his dad’s bedroom at the care home. That would work.
As Jack rounded the corner toward the police station car park, he suddenly stopped dead. By the passenger door of his car, a shadowy figure was trying to break in.
Jack didn’t shout out; he just ran, full pelt, in the hope that his gaining momentum would give him a good enough head start to catch the would-be thief before they even saw him coming. All Jack could think about was the notebook in the glovebox. And then he thought about how old the car was and how easy it was to bloody well break into.
Just as the passenger door finally gave way, Jack launched himself at the thief and they both hit the ground hard. The man’s shoulder hit him in the face and a piercing pain shot through his nose, rendering him useless for long enough to allow the man to scrabble to his feet and run. The chase was on.
His target was hefty and slower than Jack—but Jack reckoned he’d be handy when caught, so he’d have to get the upper hand quickly. He swiftly gained ground and the second they turned onto a street with a grass verge, Jack dived at the man’s legs, taking them both down onto the soft turf. Jack grabbed the man’s right arm with the intention of twisting it up his back, but he was too strong and shrugged Jack off like a rag doll. The man, unable to get to his feet more quickly than Jack, flipped onto his back so when Jack came in again, he got a fist to the side of his jaw, sending him spinning across the pavement. Now the man had time to stand up and make a break for it again while Jack was still on his hands and knees, trying to make sense of where he was. He shook the dizziness away, stood, stumbled into a tree trunk, righted himself, focused on the running figure through his streaming eyes, and powered after him.
Jack rounded a corner just seconds after the man and, out of the blue, was sucker-punched to the ground. It was like running into an iron bar. The pain was sickening. Jack flipped onto his hands and knees and vomited on the pavement. His nose dripped bright red blood onto the gray concrete and his eyes watered in sympathy.
The man stood over Jack. As Jack’s head spun and he tried to stop himself from vomiting again, he heard a few words.
“. . . not stealing, you prick . . . a gift.”
Jack’s head became too heavy to hold up. He lay down on the hard, cold pavement and looked straight into the light on top of the lamppost above his head. He could feel the blood running down his throat, so he rolled onto his side and spat it out. From this position, Jack watched the man’s dirty white sneakers walk away.
A moment later, a Yorkshire terrier sniffed its way along the blood trail and licked at Jack’s face, bringing him back to himself. As he clambered back to his feet, using the wall for balance, the pain in his face had subsided just enough for the pain in his arm to take over. It was excruciating and, although he had never broken a bone in his life, it felt like it must be broken. Jack pushed his aching body upright, fell back against the wall, pushed himself vertical again and spread his legs in the hope of being steadier on a wider base. He wobbled on the spot while the elderly woman in front of him, the terrier now tucked under her arm, came into focus and asked if he needed an ambulance. Jack shook his head and started back toward the police station.
The car’s passenger-side door was still open. And on the seat was a bag he didn’t recognize. He reached over this bag to check the notebook was still in the glovebox—it was. Jack kneeled heavily onto the edge of the footwell.
. . . not stealing, you prick . . . a gift.
Using his uninjured arm, Jack unzipped the bag. Inside were one hundred bundles of fifty-pound notes. Jack picked up one of the bundles and, with bloodied fingers, leafed through it: fifty notes. Fifty notes per bundle, one hundred bundles; the bag contained a quarter of a million pounds.
Jack’s mobile rang. Unknown number. Jack slid onto the ground.
“You OK?” Angela Dunn sounded like she was right by his side. “He wasn’t meant to fight with you, just . . . I’m sorry. He’s called an ambulance, so they’ll be with you in a few minutes. He’s one of Julia’s misfits from years ago. He knows the darkness better than you, so you’ll not find him.”
Jack listened. He didn’t know what on earth to say.
“If I’ve learned anything at all over the past 24 years, Jack, it’s patience. Good things come to those who deserve it, and we deserve this.”
“I know where you are . . . Anita Davidson,” Jack managed.
Angela remained silent for what seemed like an age. When she spoke again, she wasn’t flustered, she was calm. Her words were exact, purposeful and brilliant.
“It sounds like you have the power to take away all of the good we’ve managed to scrape together. I honestly can’t tell you how it all started, and I definitely can’t tell you how it’ll end. That’s up to you, it seems . . . This money is not a bribe, Jack, it’s a thank you. Thank you for taking the time to know us better than anyone, because knowing us is the only way this will turn out the way we want it to. We’re not bad people and we had nothing to do with Mike’s death. We’re just trying to do the best we can for those we love. You know what that’s like.”
“Don’t talk about my family!” Jack snapped.
“I’m sorry,” said Angela. “Whatever you decide to do, the money is yours to keep. I want to start living, Jack,” she went on. She sounded so strong. “I’m sick of just getting by. I’m better than that. I’m more than that. We all are. I was born into a terrible life, but I’m damned if I’m going to die in it. I don’t know what else to say really, except . . . I hope you’re happy in the end. It gets easier once you’ve decided who you are . . . No, not who you are—who you need to be.”
In the distance, sirens began faintly and gradually grew louder.
“I can hear help arriving,” she said. “Take very good care, Jack, and if we ever do meet again, I hope it’s as friends.”
The second his mobile went dead, Jack dropped it onto the ground and struggled round onto his knees, desperately trying not to use his broken arm. He zipped the bag, stuffed it underneath the passenger seat, grimacing through the pain, and then he collapsed onto his back, panting for breath. He finally let go, and allowed himself the painless joy of passing out.