Sonny went to the door and checked the police car was still there, his brain working overtime. Think, Sonny! Think! OK, it was still possible he could wriggle out of it. He’d never said a name, all they had were some of the serial numbers. He could feel his lunch coming up. Never a good idea to get involved with the likes of Rawlins. He had done once before and Harry had squeezed him dry. Now if Harry knew he’d grassed him up, then he was in real danger — or Sadie, or his—
Sonny had to run to the sink. He stood there retching, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The thought of anyone harming a hair of his daughter’s head, his lovely Dinah, was too awful even to think about. He had to get home, get away from that damned patrol car, get away and think, and work out what to do.
Fuller ran to the patrol car, with Reynolds trailing behind. Reynolds had never seen him so hyped up. The serial numbers Sonny Chizzel had given them matched some from the £60,000 stolen in the underpass raid. At last they had a solid link. Sonny Chizzel would be in line for the thirty grand reward money — but he’d have to cough up a lot more than a list of numbers before that.
As soon as they arrived at the shop, Fuller’s patrol car pulled in alongside the surveillance vehicle. Reynolds jumped out and ran to the shop door. The lights were on and Sonny’s raincoat and brolly were hanging on a coat-stand. Reynolds hammered on the door.
‘Round the back!’ shouted Fuller, jumping into the car.
His driver put the car in gear and screeched off round the corner. Reynolds took a couple of steps back, then put his shoulder into the door with a crash.
Sonny slipped out the back door without bothering to lock it and scuttled down the back alley, coming to a sudden halt when the patrol car appeared, blocking his exit. Fuller let the door swing open.
‘Hello, Sonny. In a hurry to get somewhere?’
Sonny turned to run back into the shop. Then he saw Reynolds walking calmly toward him. Too late. It was all too late. He held out his hands to indicate that he wasn’t going to make any more trouble, then walked to the patrol car and got in the back. Fuller moved over to make room for him.
‘Numbers match, Sonny,’ he said with a broad smile. ‘That money’s definitely from the underpass raid.’
Sonny’s head was pounding and he felt sick again. The passenger door slammed shut and Reynolds got into the front seat. Sonny tried to hide the fact that he was shaking.
‘Look, there’s n-n-no deal,’ he stammered. ‘The guy... he never called back.’
Fuller’s mouth tightened. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go.’
As the car moved off, Fuller wound down his window. He could smell Sonny’s fear.
Somebody’s got to him, he thought.
Chapter Five
By the time they got to the station and put him in an interview room, Sonny had stopped panicking. During the journey in the patrol car he’d had time to think it through, and now he had it all straight in his head. Yes, the serial numbers tallied, but without the actual banknotes, and without Sonny giving them Murphy’s name, that’s all they had: a list of numbers.
Detective Chief Inspector Saunders joined Fuller and Reynolds to question him, really putting the pressure on, but Sonny stayed with his story: he had received a phone call from someone who refused to identify himself, the caller had given him the numbers and told him to contact the police. Sonny had agreed that if the numbers tallied with the underpass raid cash then they would split the £30,000 reward money fifty-fifty. That, Sonny insisted, was all he knew, and his partner, whoever he was, had not called him again.
The three policemen made him go over it all several times, trying to get him to contradict himself and trip himself up, but Sonny remained firm.
He knew they’d have got search warrants for his shop and his home while he was being questioned, hoping to find something that could help them break Sonny’s story, but he also knew there was nothing.
‘I’m a businessman,’ he told them. ‘Who’d turn their nose up at a bite of that reward money? But I run a legit business.’
It was 4:15 in the morning when they finally gave up. Sonny hadn’t even bothered to call his solicitor. They didn’t have enough to charge him, so he knew they’d have to let him go eventually.
‘Last time I try an’ help out the bleedin’ law,’ he muttered as he walked out of the interview room.
Fuller let himself into his flat. The place was in darkness; he tripped over something left in the hall.
‘Fuck.’
The bedroom light went on, then was turned off again.
Fuller went into the kitchen and switched on the light. Cold steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes and peas stared up at him from a plate on the table. He sat down and started eating without taking his coat off. Sellotaped to the HP Sauce bottle was a note: Please don’t wake me up. Use the spare bedroom.
Fuller took his half-finished dinner to the sink and put the plate on the draining board. It was about the only thing out of place in the immaculate kitchen.
In the spare bedroom, Fuller made up the bed, tucking the ends of the sheets neatly under the mattress, just as he had been trained to do in the army. He loosened his tie and looked at his watch. It was now almost six in the morning, hardly worth even getting into bed. He got in anyway, without bothering to take off his clothes, and was asleep in seconds.
The following morning, Sadie Chizzel watched as the two officers went through the contents of the shop with a fine-toothed comb, examining items and checking the account books. She was sitting in a velvet chair, knitting contentedly. It didn’t bother her; she’d been through it all before on numerous occasions. They wouldn’t find anything out of place, anything not listed in the ledgers or the accounts. Sonny ran a good legitimate business; her father had taught him that.
Sadie saw the young red-haired officer glance over the books at her. She smiled and carried on knitting, thinking to herself that he didn’t look old enough to be in uniform, let alone plain clothes.
Reynolds sighed. They’d found nothing; every item in the shop had been listed meticulously, each purchase tagged, sale prices, everything.
He was just about to call it quits when he saw one officer bending over the counter. He came up with a small object wrapped in newspaper. Carefully, he unwrapped an ormolu clock.
Fuller woke to hear his wife Maureen banging round in the kitchen. He had a thudding headache. He threw off the bedclothes and got up. He had overslept. It was after ten. He examined his face in the mirror. He looked shattered.
Maureen was sitting with a cup of coffee, reading the Guardian. She didn’t even look up when Fuller walked in. He took a carton of fresh orange juice from the fridge and poured himself a glass.
‘Sorry if I woke you last night.’
She shrugged and turned the page, then flattened the paper and began to do the crossword. ‘There’s eggs, bacon, whatever you want,’ she said without taking her eyes off the puzzle.
Fuller ran the tap and rinsed out his fruit juice glass. ‘No time, overslept, better get off.’
He saw her pursing her lips. He put his hand on her shoulder.
‘Maybe tonight we could go out, eat someplace nice.’
Maureen sighed, shrugged off his hand, then turned. She didn’t seem angry, just resigned.
‘Do you want me to book the table?’
He bent down and kissed her cheek. ‘Leave it to me. I’ll get home early. We can dress up, make a night of it.’