Chapter 36

The night bus back to Croydon was full of the dregs of society. A man sat on the back seat with his head back and mouth open, seemingly comatose. Two lads up front rolled themselves a spliff. An old couple, probably homeless, slept against each other’s shoulders. Jack sat in the middle of the bus, and as the driver braked the sleeping man on the back seat suddenly gave a loud groan and a woman got up from the floor in front of him, where she’d been invisible till now. The man zipped himself up and they both got off the bus. Jack closed his eyes for a second. That’s an image that’ll take a long while to get rid of, he thought.

The entrance to Dougie’s back stairs was slightly set back from the street, so once Jack had stepped into the little recess, he wasn’t visible to passers-by or to CCTV. From the shadows, Jack donned gloves and a balaclava, then got out a lock-picking kit—surprisingly cheap from Amazon—although he did already know how to pick a lock from his school days, when a precocious classmate had taught him . . .

The day before they were due to start in sixth form, he and his mates had broken into the staff room and the sixth form common room and swapped all of the furniture. They started life as sixth formers with sofas, a telly, a coffee machine, and a microwave. It hadn’t lasted long but they’d made the most of it while it did.

The stench of the bathroom was almost overpowered by the stench of bleach. Jack got an instant headache and his eyes stung through the holes in his balaclava. Using the thin beam from the torch on his phone, Jack moved straight to the worn old chair and flipped the seat up, revealing a crudely placed piece of hardboard cut slightly bigger than the hole it was covering. Underneath it was what looked like £50,000, in five bundles, each wrapped with the now familiar band from the train robbery money, empty passport covers, old and new, inks, gold leaf and all the other paraphernalia needed to forge passports and other IDs. Under all of that, Jack found a little black notebook.

Inside the notebook was a list of names—Elaine Fortescue, Joanne Lewis, Anita Davidson, Reginald Davidson, Claire Simeon. Textbook: using the same initials as people’s real names often made for an easier transition into a new life. More names—Steven Kirkwood, aged 11. That passport must be for Sam. David Stainer, aged 11. That one would have been for Darren if he’d made it. And Suzie was to become Sharon Whittaker, aged 10. Angela’s kids would have to get used to being called Abbi and Raul—risky, as they were so close to the children’s actual names, but he guessed that Angela wanted them to be as comfortable as possible in their new lives.

The notebook shook in Jack’s hand. This was the case breaker. All he had to do was walk into the station and hand the book to Ridley; he’d call Interpol and the women would become instantly visible. Within half a day, they’d be back in the UK. Train robbery solved; murder solved. Jack sat down at Dougie’s desk, his breath dampening the inside of his balaclava. He stared at the list. He couldn’t take it in. Jack suddenly spat out a burst of laughter as he read the date of birth of “Elaine Fortescue”—it would have made her 62! How the fuck did Ester think she was going to get away with that?