Линда Ла Плант - Buried

Laura’s post-8 p.m. report overwrites yours, rather than adds to yours from yesterday morning. Please amend in the system. Print in triplicate and leave on my desk.

Ridley was the only man in the world who texted in full sentences. Jack sat back in his chair and, wiping the stubborn, buttery crumbs from round his mouth with the back of his hand, looked around the canteen. He could hear snippets of conversations as officers talked about the cases they were on, the arrests they’d just made, the raids they were about to make. The amount of adrenaline and testosterone flying around Jack was dizzying — but none of it was his. He knew that his team would be at their desks, focused and driven to find the dirty bastard who was watching other people’s kids sleep. So why was he late and sitting by himself in the canteen? The truth was that, no matter how friendly and welcoming Ridley’s team was, Jack still kept them at arm’s length.

Jack had gone from being a normal-sized fish in a normal-sized pond, to being a very small fish in the hugest pond in the UK — the Metropolitan Police Service. And he felt out of his depth. After fourteen months of working at the Met, he still hadn’t found his calling, his passion, his heart in London and, as the months ticked by, he honestly feared that he never would.

When Jack finally walked into the squad room, he froze in the doorway. Shit! Ridley was not in meetings all morning and Jack being a little bit late was a very big deal.

Ridley didn’t acknowledge Jack’s presence, and no one in the team dared look away from him while he was talking. This was an impromptu briefing, in response to a phone call from DI Martin Prescott over in Aylesbury.

‘We’ve just been handed a house fire, in which the charred remains of an unknown person have been discovered, together with approximately two million pounds in old money — also burnt. This is being treated as murder, arson and robbery. It’s come to us because it’s looking like it could be connected to one of our old cases from ’95 — the biggest train robbery this country has ever seen. As I’m sure you remember, no one was ever arrested and thirty million plus vanished without a trace. We’re heading to Aylesbury this afternoon, after we’ve been to Donal Sweeney’s.’

Then, and only then, did Ridley look at Jack. His dark eyes were a frightening combination of anger and disappointment.

‘You’re with me,’ he said, then headed into his office and slammed the door shut.

The team shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, wondering what the hell Jack thought he was playing at by being so late. As Jack bowed his head in disgrace and wondered how this day could possibly get any worse, he spotted a blob of honey sliding down the front of his trouser leg.

DCI Simon Ridley was organising files in his glass-fronted office. He was a slender, almost sinewy 50-something man who did everything standing up: reading, eating, phoning. He could walk a couple of miles up and down the room in a single meeting.

In the shared squad room, Jack, DS Laura Wade and DC Anik Joshi waited patiently along with the rest of Ridley’s team. They knew that when Ridley finally emerged, his handover would be short and straight to the point but, by God, watching him prepare was painful!

Ridley was known around the station for getting things done quickly, but that was because no one outside this squad room saw the upfront, focused effort he put in. Once he was organised, there was no stopping him, that was true; but this part — the part where he was getting himself organised — was like pulling teeth. It stemmed from his aversion to delegating. He overcame this by hand-picking and training his own team, giving precise commands and keeping a very close eye on each and every one of his officers.

‘Do you think he’s like this in the bedroom?’ Laura whispered to Jack. ‘Prepping at the speed of a tortoise and delivering at the speed of a train.’

By the time Ridley finally emerged from his office, Jack and Laura were in silent, shoulder-shaking hysterics. True to form, Ridley was quick and to the point.

‘Our target is Donal Sweeney. Yard in twenty. DC Joshi, you’re with me.’

And Ridley was gone.

Jack got to his feet. ‘I wonder what he’d do if, one day, none of us followed him?’

Laura retracted her head into her neck, giving herself a double chin, and looked sideways at Jack, eyebrows raised, as if to say you try it first!

She then led the way out of CID and down into the yard.

Donal Sweeney lived on a council estate just outside Dagenham. He was a 36-year-old former computer engineer who, after being made redundant three years previously, went off radar. No job, no signing on, seemingly no income. And now they knew why. He was a big man, according to a mugshot taken after a drunken brawl the week after he lost his job where he had pulled a couple of knives, so they were going in hard and loud. He was clearly volatile, and a dozen coppers arriving to arrest him could be dangerous.

This council estate was a typical high-density social housing experiment from the 1960s, duly forgotten about and now looking after itself as best it could. Petty criminals were rife, but crime wasn’t too bad as they tended not to ‘shit on their own doorstep’. More serious crime, such as murder, was restricted to people who were known to each other.

Anik sat in the passenger seat of Ridley’s car, watching Ridley give orders to an Armed Response Unit — they all wore holstered Glock 17 pistols strapped to their thighs, and two of them held on tight to a short-strapped Heckler & Koch MP5. They stood with their legs unnecessarily wide apart, encased head to foot in Kevlar. Anik had always thought that armed officers must be both brave and crazy; it certainly wasn’t for him. He’d started the training last year, but as soon as the first simulated hostage scenario began, his bottle went. The idea of taking a life was something he could just about get his head round, but the idea of someone trying to take his life was impossible to accept. It takes one hell of a special person to race towards a crazed gunman to save a total stranger — and Anik wasn’t that special. He could handle himself well for a smallish man, but he’d never faced a gunman and never wanted to.

Jack and Laura leant on the bonnet of Ridley’s car, arms folded, chatting and laughing. Anik couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he envied how their experience made them so relaxed in situations like this. He wished he wasn’t having palpitations; he wished the sweat wasn’t running down his spine and he wished his stab vest hadn’t ridden up so high underneath his chin that it chafed every time he turned his head. Eventually he decided to get out of Ridley’s car, so he could pull his vest down; sitting in a stab vest was clearly an acquired art.

Ridley’s ‘slow and steady’ prep had been done in a quiet side street about half a mile from Sweeney’s estate, away from prying eyes. Now they were in position, the next bit would happen fast.

The ‘Big Red Key’ was swung back for a third time and slammed into the base of the front door. The bottom had more than one bolt fitted, so it was holding its own against the 16 kg metal battering ram. Each second of delay was giving Sweeney time to destroy evidence — Ridley was visibly frustrated. The fourth hit did its job and the door finally gave way. The officer wielding the ‘Big Red Key’ quickly stepped to one side, allowing the armed officers to enter.

‘Armed police! Armed police! Get down on the ground! Get down!’ Then a pause. Then a little mumbling. Then, ‘Secure!’

Ridley led the way in, closely followed by Jack, then Laura, then Anik, then a team of uniformed officers who would be tasked with searching the premises. In the lounge was an elderly man in his mid-70s. He sat in a Mobility riser recliner with his feet up on the elevated footplate.