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  Inside the Barrowmans’ house, Mathew helped Sally to make hot chocolate, while George placated the police in the lounge. They were very reasonable, mainly because Sergeant McDermott, who Mathew had pushed to the ground, knew him from a chess club they had both attended as children. McDermott declined to pursue charges against a man who clearly acted out of no malicious intent, and she also said she’d write a statement explaining the situation. ‘I truly am sorry for his behaviour,’ George said gratefully.

  ‘Don’t do that, George,’ Sally interrupted from the doorway. ‘Don’t apologise for him.’ She looked at the grass stains on all of the police uniforms. ‘It was awful, of course, and I am sorry this happened. But Mathew’s not a violent boy. He didn’t try to hurt anyone on purpose.’

  ‘Darling, they’ve already said there’ll be no further action,’ George said with a sigh. ‘Sergeant McDermott knows Mathew. She understands.’

  It took a while for Sally to get her emotions under control. ‘Oh, my goodness, Fiona!’ Sally’s relief brought on more tears. ‘I didn’t recognise you. Thank you, thank you so much. I’d be happy to pay for your dry cleaning, of course.’

  Sergeant McDermott said that wouldn’t be necessary and the police showed themselves out.

  George poured two very large single malts, handed one to Sally and then stood stiffly in front of the open fireplace, as though he was standing to attention. He took a couple of sips of his whisky before speaking again. ‘He worries me, Sal. He’s not a child anymore. Tantrums from a child are very different to tantrums from a strapping young man. He’ll get himself in trouble one day and then what? We should be very grateful that it was an old friend he sent flying across the front lawn!’

  But Sally was thinking about something else. ‘I wonder why he didn’t want to come back in?’

  George tutted and headed for his study. ‘Go to bed. I’ve got a couple of hours’ work to do.’

  When George entered his study, he noticed a faint sulphurous odour, as if something had been burning. The only thing out of place was an ornate mirror which now sat on the floor, propped against the desk, rather than on the wall behind it. The safe which was normally hidden behind the mirror had its door ajar and there was a blackened hole next to the dial from a high-powered laser. George hurried over, slamming his whisky down on to the desk as he passed. All the valuables were gone: three gold bars, three pieces of jewellery and nine stacks of £50 notes amounting to £9,000.

  Sally sat beside Mathew in his bedroom. He had his headphones on, watching an episode of Game of Thrones on his computer. The volume was so loud that she could hear what the characters were saying. Mathew blinked slowly as he gradually calmed. ‘Nothing to be scared of, darling,’ she whispered. ‘Nothing to be scared of now.’

  *

  Jack lay in bed, hands behind his head, staring up at a small, grey stain in the corner of the ceiling. ‘I think Penny’s shower’s leaking,’ Maggie slurred. Jack looked over at her. Maggie was sitting propped up by several pillows with a huge V-shaped one on top of her on which Hannah slept soundly. Jack promised that he’d ask Mario to recommend a plumber, then got up to put the kettle on.

  In the kitchen, Penny was flicking through the scanned family photos on her mobile, whilst sipping a fresh cup of tea and nibbling on a cold samosa. Jack pressed the button on his charging mobile: 4.20 a.m.

  Their kitchen was a ‘happy mess’, as Penny called it. If it had been a crime scene, Jack thought, he’d have been able to tell everything about the occupants: the bottles of pills said ‘old lady’; the dirty babygrows on the floor said ‘newborn’; two used wine glasses said ‘couple’; dirty dishes in the sink said ‘too tired to care’; and the fridge door, with its mother-and-baby pamphlets, takeaway menus, evening class leaflets, paint palette charts, packed calendar and notepad containing numerous messages to each other, said that this was a family who were trying to do too much all at once. But there was also a lot of love in this room: the photos on the fridge showed a close family who adored each other.

  While the kettle boiled, Jack leant on the back of Penny’s chair and looked at photos with her. She paused on one of Charlie, aged about 60, but still looking as strong as an ox. ‘He was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life.’ Penny reached back and stroked Jack’s face. ‘Second most handsome,’ she corrected. ‘I hear him at night. I lie in bed and I hear him breathing in the darkness next to me. He was such a gentle breather for a big man; you’d think he’d snore like a bulldozer, but he didn’t.’

  At this intimate moment, Jack’s mobile buzzed. Without taking his attention from Penny, he read the text from Oaks:

  There’s been another.

  CHAPTER 8

  Jack and Gifford stood in silence, watching George Barrowman pacing furiously up and down with a look of thunder on his face. ‘Three years, Joe,’ he boomed, ‘three fucking years these burglaries have been going on, and what have you got? Piles! From sitting on your arse! That’s what you’ve got.’

  ‘Sir . . .’ Jack started.

  ‘And I only want to hear from you,’ Barrowman interrupted, jabbing a finger in Jack’s direction, ‘if it’s to say, “We’ve arrested the bastards and have found your property, Mr Barrowman.” Anything less than that and I’m not interested. I work in gold in the City, so I know people in the Met, but I don’t know who the hell you are. Just write this down: three gold bars, one emerald necklace, one string of pearls, a diamond tiara and nine grand in fifties.’ George then turned his attention to Gifford. ‘You have one week, Joe. Then I’ll be bringing in my own investigators to do your job and I’ll be sending you their bill.’

  Without a word, Jack walked away. He wasn’t going to get anything remotely useful from George Barrowman in his current frame of mind, so he went in search of Sally instead. In the kitchen, Sally was preparing a large but very healthy breakfast. She was a sophisticated-looking blonde, wearing designer clothes, probably in her mid-40s, but the likelihood of cosmetic surgery made it hard to be sure. She was slim, toned and barefooted, with toenails painted bright red and Jack was surprised to see that she wore a toe ring and ankle bracelet. Clearly Sally Barrowman had been a freer spirit in her time.

  She saw Jack looking at her. ‘Mathew has Prader-Willi Syndrome on top of his autism,’ she explained. ‘He has no trigger that says “I’m full. I should stop eating now.” He just carries on. It’s more complicated than that, of course, but that’s the gist of it. It gives him the habit of biting the inside of his mouth until it bleeds and chewing the skin around his fingers.’

  Jack nodded sympathetically and looked around the extensive kitchen. Everything was exactly where it should be, and every surface shone like new. Certain cupboards had locks on them, as did the fridge. Nothing in this room was homely; it was clinical, like a lab. And as Sally weighed some porridge oats, Jack thanked God for his small ‘happy mess’ of a kitchen. He was just about to ask Sally a question when he heard George Barrowman’s angry voice.

  ‘Did you just walk away from me?’

  Jack glanced over his shoulder, purposely not bothering to fully turn and face George. ‘Yes, sir, I did. I decided that yours would not be a productive interview right now, so came to see if I could chat to your wife.’

  George came and stood right in front of Jack. ‘How dare you presume to do anything in my home without my express permission!’

  ‘Mr Barrowman,’ Jack replied calmly. ‘If I’m to ask your permission before I can make a move, I’ll head back to London now.’ Sally froze, mouth open, with a spoonful of oats hovering in the air. Jack continued whilst he had George’s full attention. ‘I’ll be respectful of your position, your property and your family, sir, but I won’t be slowed down by unnecessary formalities.’

  Stumped by Jack’s firm response, George then resorted to the oldest cliche in the book. ‘I want the name of your superior officer!’

  ‘DCI Simon Ridley of the Metropolitan Police is not technically my superior, but
if you want to speak with him, you can use my mobile. His direct line is in there.’

  George adjusted his stance, shoulders back, chest out, chin up, making himself look as threatening as possible. Jack returned his eyes to Sally for a second and smiled, as if to say, ‘Pardon me one moment whilst I put your dickhead of a husband back in his box.’ Jack had seen this kind of hollow bravado a thousand times before. Barrowman was a bully, and because his bullying worked with Gifford, he assumed it’d work with Jack.

  ‘You don’t know who I am,’ he said, right in Jack’s face, ‘but, my God, you’re about to find out.’

  Jack waited for a moment then said, ‘George Barrowman, 56, ex-Corporal in the Coldstream Guards, wealth management advisor for high net-worth individuals, your speciality being the global gold market. Net worth, including assets, close to the fifteen-million-pound mark. You were investigated back in ’07 for tax fraud, but the case was dropped due to lack of evidence.’

  Whilst Jack was speaking, George’s shoulders dropped, his chest deflated, and his chin dipped without him being aware of it. ‘Sir, I can waste time explaining to you why your wealth gives you no special privileges in this investigation, or I can interview your wife before the details of last night fade from her memory. Which would you like me to do?’

  Seconds passed as George tried to figure out how to respond. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the kitchen.

  Jack and Sally sat at the heavy walnut kitchen table, making their way through a pot of tea and a plate of assorted shortbread biscuits. Up close, he could see she had delicate features which made him think of Felicity Kendal in The Good Life, which he used to watch with his mum and dad. As she explained about the standoff between Mathew and the police in the middle of the road, Jack began to understand why she was with George. She clearly loved looking after people – a husband, a son – and George, although a hard-working businessman, probably wouldn’t know how to turn on a toaster. They seemed to be perfectly suited.

  Sally went on to explain what jewellery was missing from the safe. ‘A diamond tiara bought for my niece’s wedding; some gold bars, three, I think; cash, you’ll have to check with George how much, and an emerald necklace once owned by the infamous Barbara Hutton, the poor little rich girl, who had everything except happiness. She was married seven times, you know. When she died of a broken heart, her jewels were auctioned at Sotheby’s and . . . I got the necklace for my fortieth. It gets talked about a lot at parties, but I’ve never actually worn it outside of the house. Far too valuable.’

  There was a sadness in Sally’s words. Jack thought she didn’t really want all these trappings of wealth; she was a much simpler soul than her husband. ‘Oh!’ Sally suddenly burst back into life as she took a sheet of paper from her pocket and handed it to Jack. ‘George said you’d need a list of staff.’

  Jack speed-read the list: a housekeeper, a pool cleaner, three domestics, a tutor for Mathew, one full-time gardener and the seemingly ubiquitous Charlotte Miles who came three afternoons a week to deliver fresh fruit and veg as per Mathew’s strict dietary regime.

  Jack thanked her and asked if Mathew normally stayed in the house by himself.

  ‘Rarely,’ Sally explained. ‘He was meant to attend the charity auction with us last night, but then he watched the episode where Ned Stark gets beheaded. He always watches the “death” episodes twice, which put him an hour behind and, well, we couldn’t wait for him as we were hosting. I started to keep track of where the “death” episodes were, so we could plan around them but there are so many! Have you watched Game of Thrones?’

  ‘People talk about it so much I sometimes feel like I have!’ Jack joked. ‘But no, I haven’t watched it.’

  ‘Mathew is . . .’ Sally faltered. At first Jack assumed she was going to open up about how hard he made life, but she did the exact opposite. ‘He’s wonderful. People think he’s to be pitied because he has an illness, but Mathew just is who he is and will be for the rest of his and my life. I love him without question, DS Warr, as you love your children, if you have any. Yes, there are rules, routines, dos and don’ts, behaviour charts and coping techniques that most parents don’t need to consider, but . . . it’s just horses for courses.’

  Jack allowed Sally to continue telling him about Mathew, not because the details were important, but because her cooperation was. He needed her to like him, just as he’d needed Eloise Fullworth to like him, so that from this point forwards they were allies in his investigation. Sally spoke of how Mathew was not allowed a bank card, as his urge for instant gratification was too strong for him to control. And although he often experienced erratic mood swings, he’d rarely in his life been physically violent. Medication tended to keep him on an even keel.

  ‘He can’t ride a bike, or swim, and he hates almost all sport. Of course, that could all change depending on what takes his fancy next. He adores walking, though, and can be out for hours with Nathaniel just looking at the world around him. Nature fascinates him. Nathaniel’s his tutor; I’ll introduce you to him shortly. Game of Thrones and nature are his current obsessions. And I mean obsessions!’ Sally lowered her eyes to her china cup, turning it gently on its saucer. ‘I couldn’t make him come with us last night, DS Warr. So, I left him . . . all on his own.’

  Sally got up and rinsed her cup under the tap, so that she didn’t have to see the disapproval on Jack’s face. But he was actually full of admiration for her parenting skills. ‘Mathew wasn’t diagnosed until he was seven,’ she went on, ‘but I always knew. George just thought his son was the quiet, unaffectionate type but deep down he knew too. I go to bed an hour after Mathew every night and, whilst he’s in his drug-aided sleep, I sneak into his room. I hug him and I kiss him. He’s not keen on me doing that when he’s awake. Do you have children, DS Warr?’

  ‘A daughter. Just a few weeks old,’ Jack smiled.

  ‘Oh, how lovely!’ Sally said warmly. ‘Smother her with love . . . whether she likes it or not!’

  Jack caught himself hoping to God that his little girl remained fit and well, and did not end up having a life as complicated and as confusing as Mathew’s.

  ‘What do you think about me . . . interviewing Mathew?’ Jack asked hesitantly.

  Sally didn’t seem fazed by the request. ‘He’s far more amenable after food,’ she explained. ‘It’s not that you can’t talk to him now, it’s just that I doubt you’ll get much from him. I mean, you can try if time is against us, or . . .’

  ‘Mrs Barrowman, I’ll fit in with Mathew. It’s not a problem,’ Jack assured her, and he could see the relief on her face that he understood.

  *

  Later that morning George sat alone in the conservatory. It was half past ten and he was on the single malt. When Jack entered, he acted as though they’d never had a single cross word. ‘Mr Barrowman, would you mind escorting me around the outside of your property, please?’

  The CCTV cameras around the outside of the building were all situated just below the first-floor windows, and yet were still disabled by being sprayed with paint – an achievement in itself. Jack wasn’t sure how the burglars managed to reach them, unless one of them was into rock climbing.

  In the secure porchway by the front door, a top-of-the-range alarm system was still switched off. Attached to the right-hand side of the property was a triple garage housing a red Ferrari and a black Range Rover. The garage doors were open, but both vehicles were untouched. The car George had driven to the charity auction, a dark green BMW, was on the gravel driveway. Jack noticed all three vehicles had tinted windows. ‘Tinted windows mean it’s likely the burglars couldn’t see that Mathew wasn’t in the car with you. They’d have presumed your house was empty,’ Jack reasoned.

  ‘Mathew watches television with the lights off, door closed and headphones on. He must . . .’ George sipped his whisky, which he’d brought with him, before continuing. ‘He must have been scared shitless when he saw them, otherwise
why was he flapping about in the middle of the road with no shoes on?’ George’s voice deepened into a low growl. ‘How dare they? How fucking dare they?’

  He drained his glass and, without thinking, headed for the front door. A young PC dutifully stepped in his way. Beyond the police tape on the front door, George could see dozens of paper-suited and masked CSIs, painting everything he owned with fingerprint powder. He looked and felt helpless, no longer master of his own domain.

  ‘Sir.’ Jack’s tone respectful. ‘Let’s go back in the way we came out.’ As they walked back towards the conservatory, Jack asked George to repeat the list of stolen items. ‘The written list your wife gave me, sir, doesn’t include the string of pearls.’

  ‘Oh, my mistake,’ Barrowman said. ‘Her list is correct.’

  He didn’t flinch, didn’t smile. Jack instantly knew he was hiding something.

  *

  DC Cariad Bevan stared at her computer monitor watching CCTV footage, whilst simultaneously typing a report on everything she was seeing. After leaving the incandescent Barrowman in Jack’s hands, Gifford had returned to the station and immediately tasked her with trawling through CCTV, because of her known talent for being able to do the most mundane of tasks with the enthusiasm of a newly adopted Labrador puppy. She was one of those officers who was thrilled just to be there.