Buried (DC Jack Warr #1) - Lynda La Plante Page 0,82

her superhero; now there was nothing. She was in charge and he was nothing more than a member of her crew.

‘Burn it.’ Her words were purposely flat. ‘Bring Rose Cottage down ‒ lose the coal chute, the money, every trace of us. Dump the Range Rover in the Thames. Take your cut and get on with your life, Mike.’

And she was gone.

Angela knew he would do exactly as she asked, because he had just as much to lose as she did. What she didn’t know was that Mike had asked his army demolition friend, Barry Cooper, to help him destroy Rose Cottage.

*

Ridley and Prescott walked in step, slightly ahead of Jack, back to their cars. Ridley had his hands clasped in the small of his back and his neatly pressed trousers swayed perfectly with his long strides. Prescott had his hands plunged deep into his pockets, his straight arms pushing his unironed trousers down from his hips and untucking his shirt at the back. He seemed scruffy compared with Ridley, but Jack sensed their mutual respect.

When they got to the cars, the men shook hands.

‘Everything’s paused again for now,’ Prescott said. ‘Site’s been made safe, so I’ll get the SOCOs back in to see what we might have missed. And we’ll do the door-to-door again.’

Ridley turned to Jack. ‘Get Susan and Audrey Withey brought in first thing in the morning, for further questioning,’ he said. He put his hand out to Prescott. ‘I’ll keep you in the picture. There’s approximately twenty-five million in stolen banknotes out there somewhere, and we both deserve to be there when it’s found.’

*

Angela and Connie sat on the floor in the lounge of Angela’s flat. Angela had one of the coach seats propped on its side between her legs and she was stitching the seam closed. Connie was removing the old foam padding from inside another seat and stuffing it into a bin bag to be thrown away.

‘I was reading the other day ‒’ Connie hadn’t stopped talking since she’d got up that morning ‒ ‘about this commune of women. They left the fellas, took the kids and lived in this field in caravans. Nice big ones, you know, like the ones you get at beachside holiday parks. The kids all went to school and lived normal lives, they just came home to these . . . static homes, they’re called, aren’t they, not caravans. Somewhere in the Lake District, I think it was. Or maybe the Peak District. Some “district” anyway. They all loved it. Everyone was happy. No arguing. No asking for permission to do ordinary things like go for a drink with your mates. And definitely no backhanders for opening your gob at the wrong time. No men, you see, Angela. I mean, I’m sure there’d be a bit of lesbian activity going on, but so what? I often used to think that Ester and Julia had the right idea. Even though Ester was – is – a bitch, she’s still not as bad as most men. What d’ya think?’

‘Do I think women-only communes are a good idea? Course I do! What’s not to like? Apart from the sex, which, let’s face it, we could get anywhere ‒ and from someone who wouldn’t expect you to do their washing, ironing, cooking, cleaning and child-minding.’

Connie giggled to herself. She knew Angela didn’t mean any of that really, because Angela had a good man in Rob. A great man, in fact. She was very lucky.

Once Connie had stripped her coach seat of its old foam padding, she dragged a green sack out from behind the sofa and began layering bundles of £20 notes into the now-empty space.

‘Leave a gap on top for a bit of new foam,’ Angela reminded her. ‘They need to be comfortable enough to sit on.’

She’d worked out that if Connie was stuffing each coach seat with £50 notes, then it could hold around £250,000, and each seat-back could hold around £200,000. If she was stuffing the seats and backs with £20 notes, then it was more like £100,000 per seat and £75,000 per seat-back. This wasn’t exactly accurate, but Connie liked it when Angela sounded definite. It made her feel safe.

*

PC Adam Franks and PC Tanya Daly were soaked to the skin. They were standing on the doorstep of one of the identikit houses in the estate where the old Grange had once stood, waiting for the doorbell to be answered. At the window, the curtains twitched and three children pressed spotty