Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,122
so little room that he had to slide along the wall as he climbed. On the landing, he passed an old bathroom with a few remaining dark green tiles clinging on to their old grout for dear life. There was a dirty towel hanging over the rail, a stained bath and a toilet that Jack could smell from the corridor. It was truly horrible.
There was a closed door at the end of the corridor. There was no sign, and the paint had seen far better days, but this had to be Dougie’s office. Jack knocked lightly, pushed down on the handle and swung the door open.
Dougie Marshall was sitting at his desk behind a plume of noxious cigar smoke when Jack walked in uninvited. He wore a wide, shoulder-padded, pale blue and pink tweed jacket with a yellow shirt and mismatched tie. He was obese, with a flushed complexion and a bulbous red nose. There was a cigar clamped between his yellow teeth, which were almost the same colour as the final few strands of hair that had been combed over his otherwise bald head. In front of Dougie and to his left was a stack of promotional flyers for the bookies, and to his right were some sticky labels showing their new web address. Dougie was sticking one label on each flyer and then creating a third stack ready for distribution in the street, no doubt by spotty teens wanting to earn pocket money.
Jack flashed his ID and got straight to the point.
‘I want to talk to you about Angela Dunn.’
‘It would be my absolute pleasure to talk about such a lovely girl.’
Dougie started to waffle on about how it had taken her just two weeks to produce the office curtains and four matching cushions – he couldn’t recommend her highly enough.
Jack smiled at the cheek of him.
‘I’m actually talking about the fake passports you made for her,’ he said.
‘Well, you’re a very rude policeman, aren’t you?’ Dougie scoffed. ‘As you can see, my job is nowhere near as exciting as you seem to think.’
‘I know you provided the—’ Jack started.
‘You don’t know anything!’ Dougie snapped. ‘I, PC Plod or whatever your name is, did not make any fake anything for anyone.’
Jack wondered if Eddie had called Dougie to give him a heads-up, but decided that Eddie wouldn’t have the guts.
‘Now,’ Dougie continued, ‘is there anything else?’
Jack pulled the chair opposite Dougie away from the smoke cloud and sat down.
Dougie smirked. ‘You remind me of someone. It’ll come to me.’
Jack looked around. On a high shelf, running the circumference of the room, mixed up with other junk, were old inks, paints, brushes, an old washing mangle and an artist’s drying rack. All items used by old-school forgers, all in pride of place. Dougie followed Jack’s eyes – he wasn’t worried. Jack could look all he liked; it was all just memories. A row of short, locked filing cabinets stood underneath the window sill. One lone print of Constable’s Hay Wain hung on the wall above Dougie’s head. A drinks cabinet occupied one corner of the room and a small, worn armchair occupied the other.
‘Angela Dunn is no criminal, if that’s what you think. She’s a survivor. As are you, I’d wager. Except you’re also a lucky boy and don’t have to fight quite so hard for the things you have.’
‘You like fakes?’ Jack asked casually as he headed around Dougie’s desk and removed the Hay Wain from the wall, revealing a safe.
‘Two-six-nine-eight. But you’ll need a warrant to open it.’
Jack replaced the painting and, as he straightened it, he thought of Harry Rawlins, and a story Eddie had told him about how he’d steal original paintings to be copied, along with their provenance, so that he’d end up with several ‘legitimate’ works of art. Jack wondered if this Hay Wain was Harry’s work.
Jack pushed his hands deep into his pockets and moved slowly round the room, looking carefully around because Dougie was quite right to say he couldn’t do anything without a search warrant. Dougie never took his eyes off him. Never blinked. As Jack headed towards the worn armchair, Dougie suddenly dragged himself to his feet.
‘I’m bored of you now, son!’ Jack hadn’t seen but, as he stood, Dougie had pushed a small button underneath the lip of his desk. Dougie grabbed his walking frame. ‘If you wanna waste any more of my time, you get a warrant. For now, fuck off!’