Линда Ла Плант - Buried

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.