Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,44
tear rolled down Connie’s cheek. She put her hands flat on her knees and pushed down slightly, as if trying to contain her emotions. ‘That’s why I like being here. Nobody knows I’m weak and nobody wants to take advantage of me ‒ not now I’m past my prime and on the big side. I can just be on my own and be me and I like that.’
As Jack watched Connie’s chubby fingers wipe away the tears from her chubby cheeks, he thought she looked like a little girl. She stared out across the Blackdown Hills and tucked a stray blonde curl behind her ear. Her wet eyelashes glistened in the early evening sun and Jack felt that he should hug her, or put a hand on her shoulder, or something.
‘I’ve not seen John since the day Dolly was shot. I don’t miss him. I don’t miss any of them.’
Jack’s mobile rang; he excused himself and stepped away to answer it.
With his back to her, Connie lifted her hands an inch or two off her knees. Her skirt was damp from where her palms had been, and her hands shook now that they were unsupported. Jack hung up and Connie quickly put her hands back down on her knees to stop the shaking.
‘Thank you for your time, Miss Stephens. My boss is wondering where I am, so I’ll have to go. And thank you for the water.’
‘My pleasure.’ Connie stood and picked up the two glasses. ‘Have you got a car somewhere or do you need a lift?’
‘Actually, I’m going to walk to the edge of the Blackdown Hills and get a cab from there.’
‘That’s a very nice way to end the day, Jack. Bye now.’
With that, Connie waddled back indoors and Jack headed off down the hill towards the memory of teenage walking with his now-dying dad.
Connie put the glasses on the draining board, leant on the edge of the sink and bowed her head to aid getting her breath back. She shakily poured herself a gin, added a pointless splash of tonic and a slice of lemon. Her mind raced. She took out her mobile and looked at the blank screen. She put it away while she silently drank the first of two gins and relived her interview with Jack. Connie took out her mobile again. And dialled.
‘That copper from the Met’s been round. I said exactly what we agreed, don’t worry . . . I can still act the dumb blonde when I need to. I just wanted you to know that he might be heading your way.’
CHAPTER 12
The call from Ridley had been another bollocking.
‘Why am I calling you?’ Ridley had asked rhetorically. ‘Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock. You’re first up.’
It was now ten o’clock and Jack was standing in the centre of his box room, looking at his ‘evidence wall’. It displayed dozens of photos of Trudie: some with him as a baby, some without; black and white photos of a very young-looking Jimmy Nunn, standing with Formula One heroes such as Jackie Stewart and James Hunt; his own birth certificate, change of name deeds and foster papers from the day he was signed away by his Aunt Fran.
On a separate wall, were three photos – Tony Fisher, Harry Rawlins and Dolly Rawlins. These three seemed directly connected to Jimmy Nunn’s past. The photo of Harry Rawlins was the best of a very bad bunch ‒ he was at a racetrack, shades on, standing behind a woman who hid the bottom half of his face.
Maggie walked in with two glasses of red wine and handed one of them to Jack. She looked around the walls and her eyes stopped on the mugshot of Tony Fisher.
‘He’s who you’re going to see in prison? He’s not an embezzler, you bloody liar! He’s a . . . What is he?’
Jack faltered. ‘He’s in for manslaughter.’ Maggie glugged her wine. ‘He used to run a club in Soho with his brother, Arnie.’ As Jack explained in more detail, Maggie couldn’t believe that he actually sounded excited. ‘They took over Harry Rawlins’ patch when he died the first time ‒ the time he was supposedly blown up in the Strand underpass armed robbery, not the time his wife shot him. They got forced out eventually and when Arnie died, Tony had no one to hold on to his leash, so he very quickly ended up inside.’
‘No, he doesn’t look like the brains of the operation,’ Maggie remarked. ‘He looks like an awful man, Jack –