John Maynard almost coughed up a lung when Ridley asked him about the building work he’d done for Dolly Rawlins at The Grange. He squeezed every last ounce of air from his body, spat into the bin, gasped a huge lungful of stale air, sat back in his seat, and took an extra-large drag of his cigarette before answering.

“That happens every time I think about Dolly bleedin’ Rawlins, that does. Always paid me too little, too late. Paid me just enough to keep me happy though—knew exactly what she was doing, looking back. I gave her the benefit of the doubt for far too long. I thought, ‘Cashflow’s hard on a job this size. She’ll come good.’ Never did. She drip-fed me just enough cash so that I couldn’t walk away. I should have known she was broke.”

John paused to finish the remaining quarter of his cigarette in one single drag. He then got up and headed into the kitchen.

Laura looked at Ridley and the sickly color of her face said it all.

“Step outside if you need to,” Ridley whispered.

John’s home wasn’t small, but it was unfinished. From the outside, it was a four-story, terraced town house in the good end of Aylesbury; inside, it was a building site. The room they stood in was currently being used as a lounge and, they speculated, a bedroom. The potential for this property was endless, but John was well past being able to do the work. Laura indicated to Ridley that she’d be OK to stay, just as John returned with a beer and a fresh packet of cigarettes. He was dressed in gray joggers, worn thin at the knees and at the crotch, a black T-shirt with tiny holes all over it, and black socks. He smelt of deodorant, but it couldn’t hide the stench of the unwashed body underneath.

“Did Dolly Rawlins pay you in the end, Mr. Maynard?” Ridley inquired.

John smirked and glanced at Laura when he spoke. “Connie paid me. If you get my meaning.”

Ridley responded, so that Laura didn’t have to. “I think DS Wade got your meaning, yes.”

“It’s an absolute fact, DI . . . ?”

“DCI Ridley.”

“It’s an absolute fact, DCI Ridley, that women fancy men who have physical jobs, like builders. Connie came out of The Grange on the very first day I was there, immaculate except for a tiny cobweb in her hair, holding a tap or a pipe or something, I can’t recall. ‘This just come off in me ’and. It’s from the sauna.’ Girly little Liverpool accent she had.”

John laughed and rearranged his balls before he sat back down. Ridley got to the point before Laura passed out.

“What happened after the train robbery, Mr. Maynard?”

“The coppers searched my building yard and my house. They even poked about in my pond, if you can believe that. But that robbery wasn’t done by anyone from round here. It was a bunch of outside fellas. They’d have had a barge or something, ’cos over land would have been impossible. Remote controlled maybe, so they could be miles away just in case it got seen. Or maybe they sank the money in waterproof bags, using weights, and came back for it later. That’s what I would have done. I’m a bit of an engineer at heart, see—building and engineering go hand in hand and I can do both. So, yeah, I’d have put the cash into waterproof bags and sunk it. Could have stayed there for years, no bother. You should talk to Warren at the Dog and Gun. He’s been here for centuries—knows everyone and everything. He’ll have some ideas for you, an’ all.”