Jack told Fuller about the exhumation, and how one of the few remaining teeth from the jigsaw puzzle skeleton was currently being tested against Jimmy Nunn’s dental records. Fuller nodded, as if that all made sense.

“Look—for most of his career, Resnick taught me nothing at all about the art of being a copper. He was a cantankerous old prick, resentful and fucking hard to like, meaning no one wanted to work for him. But he was an exceptional policeman. He had commendations coming out of his ears, he’d put more bad ’uns away than anyone I’ve ever worked with and his gut instinct was to die for. It was only when the force couldn’t keep up with him that things went off track. Unfortunately, that’s when I knew him. I wish I’d known him when he was younger.” Fuller looked directly at Jack. “You’re standing there with the same look in your eyes as Resnick back in the day. Like you’re about to ask me to believe in something, based on nothing more than gut instinct. I let him down on that score so many times and that weighs heavy. So, ask what you came to ask.”

“I need to find a close relative of Harry Rawlins to check his DNA for a familial match.”

“The only one I can think of is his cousin, Eddie, but I don’t know if he’s dead or alive.”

Fuller handed Jack a mug of tea, and he took it gratefully. He was exhausted and let his mind wander as Fuller rambled on about villains in the old days. But when Fuller mentioned Dolly Rawlins, he was all attention.

“She was a stony-faced old cow. At least, that’s the face she showed everyone. She was afforded a huge amount of respect because she was Harry’s wife, but, in truth, she earned it. She was smart. I mean, she gave us the runaround for months—we were chasing our tails and she was watching. And Harry didn’t spend a single day behind bars in his life. That’s not down to luck, that’s down to a loyal wife. People said Dolly was lucky to have Harry—but I think it was the other way round.”

Connie sat on the benches in front of her B&B, eating fish and chips out of paper and drinking stout from the bottle. She looked out over the Blackdown Hills and cried. It was a stunning view: plots of undulating light green land cut into squares by dark green hedges; horses, sheep and rabbits grazed together; the occasional walker made their respectful way along the designated paths that cut through Connie’s little piece of paradise. She didn’t want to leave the comfort of her safe haven, but she knew—she hoped—that her brand new life would be bigger and better than anything she’d ever dreamed of. The excitement of the train robbery flooded back—the vision of millions of pounds shooting up the nozzle of an industrial vacuum and then, moments later, down into the coal shaft of Rose Cottage. Connie giggled through the tears. It had been the most wonderful night of her entire life. The night she knew her life was worth fighting for.