Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,121

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.

‘Once you got involved with Harry,’ Eddie had said, ‘he never let you go. Treated you right, mind, as long as he got it back tenfold.’

Eddie had explained that, after the first underpass raid went so badly wrong, Harry had been nursed back to health by Trudie. He’d suffered minor burns in the explosion and bits of him were all wrapped up like a mummy. Trudie had been sent to get him a new passport – Eddie didn’t know which forger he’d chosen, but it had to have been Dougie or Marcia. And seeing as Marcia was dead, Dougie was top of Jack’s list.

As Jack pulled his coat on, Ridley came out of his office for an update. His every instinct screamed, What the fuck are you doing, chasing a pensioner in a care home? But he didn’t say anything, because he also knew that his every instinct had let him down recently.

*

The care home had directed Jack to Marshall’s Bookmakers, in Croydon, Dougie went in every day to help his son, Gareth, run the family business.

Jack entered through a side door and up a dirty, stained staircase, half-blocked by a stairlift. There was