Disclaimer: I'm fully aware that the fortune cookie is basically an American phenomenon (probably of Japanese origin, so it's confused, much like Sandra and Gerry). Please humour me, gentle readers.
3. Fortune Cookies
Part One: Week One
1.
Tonight he suggested Chinese and they're already seated in their usual restaurant when he realizes this may have been an error in judgment. They've ordered and Sandra is drinking hot tea as Gerry reaches to cover her hand with his, but draws back before making contact. They come in here frequently enough that the waitstaff knows them.
The look of consternation on his face is comical. It's Thursday; he's been waiting all week, a very well-behaved boy, to touch her again and now he's idiotically squandering at least an hour of their precious time. "You and your bloody stupid rules," he grouses.
"You know my rules are necessary, not stupid," she replies cheerfully. "Besides, I thought you picked this place on purpose."
"Exactly why in hell would I do that?" He's still disgruntled, and her smirk isn't helping. She doesn't seem bothered at all.
Her response is a single-shouldered shrug. "A game." That smile widens. "You like to play games, don't you, Gerry?"
"You're trying to kill me."
"Nah, I wouldn't want to have to conduct interviews to replace you – at UCOS," she adds for clarification. Under the table her fingernails tap his knee, as if she is testing his reflexes. "Give me your hand," she prompts.
So they hold hands under the table like a couple of school kids, eating one-handed, and he's placated by the innocent contact and the unexpectedly sweet smile she gives him over kung pao chicken. When they leave, he shoves his crumpled fortune into his pocket, barely glancing at it in his haste to get her alone. It's only the next morning that the irony strikes him, after his mobile goes at a quarter to six and a very familiar sleep-roughened voice says, "London Bridge tube station, as quickly as you can get here. Strickland's assigned us a new case."
The February morning is predictably sodden, with a blustery wind kicking up out of the east. It's even colder underground following Sandra and a transit policeman through the bowels of a decommissioned part of the station, now being cleared as part of the much-debated station renovation.
"Bloody shame," Gerry complains, his breath making little white puffs in the dimness. "Boris and his lot are completely ruinin' Borough Market. I've got great memories of the place."
"If they involve shagging behind a vegetable stand –" Jack begins grimly.
"No, nothing like that. I used to bring the girls here when they were little and get all the ingredients for a big family dinner every Saturday." He pauses. "Well, some Saturdays," he admits ruefully.
They tromp down a mild grade, and the darkness increases despite the lights that have been strung up around the construction zone. "Just here, ma'am," the transit copper says, gesturing with his torch. The beam bounces crazily, revealing no more than a flash of something that glimmers dully for a split second.
"Right." The beam from the gov's torch is much steadier, and clearly illuminates a partially unearthed human skeleton. "Boys, meet Eddie Bracknell."
"The Eddie Bracknell?" Brian asks, and follows up with a whistle.
"Bloody hell," Jack chimes in, astonished.
The fortune that had been stuck inside Gerry's stale cookie flashes incongruously through his thoughts: An old acquaintance will reenter your life under mysterious circumstances.
Gerry folds his arms and scowls. "Long time, no see, you tosser," he mutters through gritted teeth. "You've looked better."
2.
"George Edward Bracknell," Sandra says, gesturing at the photograph on the marker board. It's a snapshot, not a mug shot, of a slender, bald man in a very expensive grey silk suit. Italian, Gerry assumes. Eddie favoured Italian fashion.
"Ready Eddie," he supplies, "because he was always ready with an ironclad alibi whenever we questioned him."
"You knew him?"
Gerry raises an eyebrow. "Half the Met knew him, and spent the late seventies tryin' to nick him."
"Unsuccessfully," Brian puts in.
"He was smart," Gerry continues. "He never pulled a job himself, and his lads would never give him up."
"They would've been as good as dead if they had." Jack looks steadily at the photograph.
"Obviously we're all familiar with him." Sandra slaps a second image up on the board. "The closest our lot ever came to catching him was in –"
"May 1979," Brian interrupts.
"Credex Bank job," Jack contributes.
Sandra grits her teeth. "Three men broke into the bank's vault around two a.m. on the second of May by using the security code. The code automatically changed every forty-eight hours, so the flight squad immediately suspected an inside man – or woman," she adds. "They made it out with over two million quid."
"Two million, three hundred seventy-three thousand, six hundred forty-two," Brian corrects absently.
"Right. Two of the men were identified as Bobby Mills and Clayton Powell – small-time villains and known associates of Eddie Bracknell." Next to the photograph of the bank building Sandra posts up Mills and Powell. "A third set of prints at the scene belonged to Bracknell, but when the flight squad attempted to bring him in—"
"Vanished," Gerry says. "Poof, gone, like magic. We never found him or the missing money, so we assumed he was sunning himself on the beach in Malaga while we were being made to look like a bunch of prize wallies."
Brian frowns. "You weren't on the flight squad in May of '79."
"I was seconded in for the investigation." Gerry shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and leans against the filing cabinet. "It was like a four-month-long continuous bollocking. At the time we thought Eddie had intentionally left his fingerprints at the bank."
"Thumbing his nose, like." Brian props his chin on his fist and frowns.
"Exit Ready Eddie stage left. He's neither seen nor heard from for over thirty years, until an unsuspecting removal crew working at London Bridge tube station stumbled upon his skeleton shortly after five this morning. It had been secreted in a layer of rubbish that was subsequently covered with concrete. And now we have a problem. Jack?" Sandra sits down next to Brian and crosses her legs.
"What's the problem?" Brian enquires. "Seems textbook enough. Bracknell pulls the job, everyone in the East End knows, and someone tops him and takes the cash."
"If you'll listen, you'll find out. Jack."
"According to very detailed records, the last major construction project carried out in this area of the London Bridge station –" Jack slaps up his own photo, which depicts the partially excavated skeleton – "was carried out in the spring of '79, when the Northern Line was rerouted in order to make way for the digging of a new gas main. To be more specific," he winds up grimly, "this layer of concrete was poured on the 25th of April."
"Shit," Gerry swears so violently that the others all turn to look at him.
"So our remit is obviously to re-examine all the evidence and try to figure out not only who killed Bracknell, but who the third man in the robbery was, and what happened to the missing money." Sandra rises and rocks on her boot heels. "Gerry, you and Brian round up anyone you can locate from the original investigating team and have a chat. Jack, Clayton Powell is dead, but Bobby Mills is banged up for GBH. So –"
"It's a lovely day for a prison visit," the older man agrees warily.
Part Two: Week Two
"Anyone fancy a Chinese?" Brian asks, removing his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes. "Esther's got her book club tonight."
"Ah, you're a free man." Jack leans away from his computer screen. "I'm game."
"Count me out," says Gerry, reaching for his coat. Another week has rolled by, and it's Thursday.
"Count you in." Sandra emerges from her office stifling a yawn. "Working dinner. I've just been on with the Spanish authorities, and there is absolutely no indication that Claudia and Marissa Bracknell ever entered the country."
Gerry frowns. "Okay, so their passports were a couple of sexton blakes."
"Maybe." Sandra shrugs into her red wool. "What I want to know is whether anyone remembers having seen her between the twenty-fifth of April and the second of May, so first thing in the morning you and I will be doing a house-to-house in the Bracknells' old neighbourhood, on the off chance that anyone's still around who remembers anything. " She looks over at the former D.I. "Brian, go back to Claudia Bracknell's background and go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. When her charming husband was off planning robberies and committing fraud, where did she go, what did she do, who did she do? Does she have any relatives? Blah blah blah."
"And me?" Jack asks as they wait for the lift. "Shall I go and scout out Ronald Fletcher again?" The vice-president of the now-defunct Credex, son of the man who had been president in 1979, had been less than forthcoming during their first conversation.
"Took the words right out of my mouth." Sandra yawns. "Go and rattle his cage a bit."
A few minutes later they are settled around one of the large, round, black-lacquered tables, swilling ooh-long tea and eating egg rolls and spicy calamari. Sandra is next to Gerry, but there is definitely no hand-holding under the table.
"You think Claudia Bracknell topped her husband," Gerry surmises grimly.
"Why not?" Sandra replies around a bite of crispy squid. "You yourself said Bracknell was a pillock –"
"Mean bastard," Gerry corrects darkly.
"Mean wife-beating bastard?" she asks.
"No. I would've known about it. We would've known about it," Gerry clarifies. "But you have to remember that we had no reason to look closely at Claudia. The entire family disappeared simultaneously – we thought – so we assumed they'd all got new identities for themselves and pissed off to the Continent, didn't we?"
Gerry's volume rises steadily until the governor breaks in. "Okay, okay – Jesus, Gerry. No one's criticizing the handling of the case, and even if we were, it's not as if it'd all be down to you just because you worked on it."
They've been knocking at closed doors for a solid week, and tempers are beginning to flare. Strickland is constantly underfoot, pressuring Sandra to achieve some sort of result, just as he himself is being pressured by the higher-ups. The discovery of Eddie Bracknell's body has brought up thirty-year-old allegations of police corruption and incompetence, and has given the Met a black eye. Sandra and Strickland have both been plastered across the dailies.
"Let's just go over what we do know," she says now, and pauses as a waitress delivers three huge main dishes and heaping bowls of rice, two white and one brown. "We know for a fact that Bracknell wasn't directly involved with the robbery, whether or not he was involved in the planning, because he was definitely dead when the robbery was committed."
"His fingerprints were planted at the scene, likely by the effective but inelegant technique of using Bracknell's severed hands – which we don't have, but we do have a handless corpse," Brian puts in helpfully.
"I'd lay money on Fletcher junior being the inside man at the bank," Jack says, "but as of now we have nothing to tie him to the robbery."
"We know Bracknell's wife and nine-year-old daughter disappeared before the robbery. We don't know whether that was before or after Ready Eddie's death, or where they are now, if they're even still alive." For once Sandra really isn't hungry; the stalemate makes her a little queasy. Also, the sainted Daily Mirror has raked up the whole dog-shooting incident, and someone barked at her in the cafeteria yesterday. Life pretty much sucks this week.
"Yeah, well, we also know that Eddie was under investigation by the fraud squad for a pyramid scheme he was running," Gerry reminds, "and he could've been set up for the robbery and offed by someone who was afraid of going down with him."
"No Eddie, no more fraud case." Sandra stands up. "Try working on that angle and see if you get anywhere. I'll go on my own in the morning." She folds her coat over her arm. "Excuse me. I'm off home; I'm exhausted."
She pops into the ladies' on the way out, and when she emerges, Gerry is waiting for her. "You forgot your fortune cookie," he says, pressing it into her hand. "Did you also forget what day of the week it is?"
"No." There's no way the others can seem them where they're standing so she presses a quick kiss to his lips. "Maybe next week will be less hellish than this week."
It's only when she sits on the pocket of her coat and feels the cookie break into a thousand pieces that Sandra remembers her fortune. Idly, she extracts the slip of paper and reads in the dim glow provided by her car's interior light.
You will meet a dark, mysterious stranger.
Sandra sighs heavily. Bring it on, she thinks. She hopes the dark, mysterious stranger will be the person who killed Eddie Bracknell, and that he or she will come bearing two million quid into the bargain.
Part Three: Week Three
"Lloyd Munson," Jack announces triumphantly, walking into the office on Monday afternoon.
Sandra, who has spent the morning with Ronald Fletcher, her new least favourite person, is working on getting a pounding, blinding headache. "Who?" she asks from her prone position on the loveseat.
"The third man," Jack returns, immensely pleased with himself. "Lloyd Munson." He writes the name on the board and adds a grainy image of an olive-skinned man with the longish, shaggy hairstyle that was no longer fashionable by 1979.
"Mills gave him up?" Sandra sits up quickly, and then wishes she hadn't as the room spins.
"Not exactly." Brian is removing his jacket. "Oh, I could murder a brew. Sandra?"
"Do I want to know what 'not exactly' means?"
Jack smiles thinly. "Not exactly. Let's just say that his silence spoke volumes. "
"And you were able to confront him with this juicy tidbit because?"
"Happy families," Brian replies cheerfully. "Munson was Powell's second cousin twice removed, and he worked for Eddie Bracknell. He was the obligatory dodgy accountant; had to be cookin' the books for Bracknell's 'company.'"
Sandra has known Brian long enough not to be fazed by the fact that he has done genealogical research out to Clayton Powell's second cousin twice removed. "Shit," she swears, even though she knows she should compliment Brian and Jack on a spot of solid detective work. "That brings us right back to sodding Bracknell, whom Fletcher still insists was the mastermind, although he has at least admitted that he gave the security code to Bracknell in return for a greater share of the profit."
"The profit he claims he never saw," says Jack.
"Exactly. And having seen Fletcher's financial records, unless he's stashed the money under his mattress for thirty-odd years, I believe him." She accepts the steaming cup of tea Brian hands her in her usual purple mug. "I wonder how Gerry's getting on."
The governor had dispatched the former D.S. a second time to talk to his old cronies on the flight squad and see if any of them could remember the slightest unimportant factoid or irregularity, but he has been gone over four hours. Typical Gerry. She phones him, but his mobile goes straight to voicemail.
"Maybe Bracknell was the mastermind," Brian suggests, crossing his ankles and resting his trainers on his meticulously arranged desk, "and things didn't go according to plan."
"Still possible," Jack agrees, "but then who did kill Bracknell, and what happened to all the stolen money?"
"And let me guess," Sandra chimes in, "Munson is dead, and we have no hard evidence linking him to the robbery or anything else. So drinks all around." She cautiously levies herself to her feet. Progress: the room only tilts.
"Got it in one," Brian says, "but there's still hope. I'm waiting for access to his bank statements."
"Unlikely anything will turn up, since none of the others saw a shilling." She sighs heavily. "I have to go report on our 'progress' to Strickland. If Gerry turns up, Jack, give him a right bollocking for me."
Gerry is finally back when she returns nearly an hour later, but Jack and Brian have vanished. "Brian's meeting with one of the forensic accountants at the Yard," Gerry says in answer to her unasked question, "and I don't know where Jack pissed off to, but he seemed to be in a hurry."
Sandra sits down heavily on the loveseat and then fears she won't be able to get up again. She hasn't had a full night's sleep in five days and is beyond knackered. "Did he shout at you?" she mumbles. "Because I'm too bloody tired."
"Yeah, yeah, consider me dressed down." Her eyes are closed, but she hears him come nearer and then stop right in front of her. "It's after five, Sandra. Let me buy you a drink, or better yet, dinner."
"I have to –"
"Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow. When's the last time you had a proper meal?"
She blinks. "It's only Monday," she says dully.
"Sod Monday. What's going to happen?" Sandra retreats to her office, but he follows, undeterred.
"I'm not hungry," she insists. "I just need sleep."
"All right. You come home with me and I'll make dinner while you sleep."
The offer is tempting. She's tired enough to want to accept. One of Gerry's meals – pasta, vegetables, soup, hell, a curry – and sleep, blissful sleep in a soft bed, would be absolute heaven.
He sees the indecision on her face and strokes her cheek. "Sandra –"
She jerks away as if he's burned her. "Not here!" she hisses.
"There's no one to see." He grasps her upper arms gently but firmly and rubs them through her black cardigan. "Unless you agree with Brian that the spooks are watching." Gerry touches her face again, and this time she doesn't pull away, but closes her eyes. The lashes look dark against her unusually pale skin. "I miss you," he coaxes.
She smiles despite herself. "You should be sick of me, as much time as the four of us have spent together these last two weeks."
"Oh, no, that's Detective Superintendent Pullman, the governor. " The hand on her face moves into her hair, burrowing. "Where's the other you hiding?"
Her gaze is steady. "There's only one me, Gerry."
One of them moves, or more likely both of them, and their lips press together. When they break apart she says, "I need to check one thing." He steps back, giving her space, and looks on as she quickly does something on her computer. "You didn't actually learn anything today, did you?"
Gerry looks at her for so long without responding that she snaps, "Earth to Gerry."
He bites his lip. "I did, yeah," he says, but he sounds more like he's admitting a crime than uncovering evidence about one. "I found Claudia's best friend."
Sandra's eyebrows shoot skyward. "Why didn't you say so? Who is she? Does she know anything?"
"Her real name is Susan Collins, but she's going by Hampton now. Lives in Acton. The two of them were thick as thieves, and she lived opposite. I told her you'd be coming to see her tomorrow morning."
She frowns. "Me? Don't you want to go? I mean, it's a long shot, but this woman could finally tell us what we need to know about Claudia and Marissa."
Instead of answering he grabs her and kisses her urgently, holding her so firmly that it almost hurts. They're in the office and it's Monday and Sandra feels almost dizzy with fatigue, but she finds herself thinking, Why not? Why not? He is solid and warm and a much-needed reminder that this bloody awful investigation will end and life will go on.
Fortunately D.A.C. Strickland is already speaking to Sandra as he enters the outer office. Panicked, Sandra shoves Gerry so forcefully that, unprepared, he goes over backwards and crashes into a potted plant.
Strickland interrupts himself. "Sandra?"
"Gerry tripped," she explains, leaning down and extending a helping hand to hide the hot flush shee feels spreading over her face and chest. "Can I help you, sir?"
"I thought you'd gone home, Sandra. – All right there, Gerry? – I was going to leave a note, but as you're here – I just received a call from ex-D.C.I. Walter Hartwright, formerly of the fraud squad. He claims to have information relevant to your current investigation. Do ring him in the morning; he has the ear of the commissioner."
"Of course, sir," she replies a shade too quickly.
"Good night, sir," Gerry adds. "Have a lovely evening."
"That will never happen again," she says sternly in an undertone after her superior has left. She grabs her scarf and coat and pulls them on angrily. "What a bloody idiotic thing to have done. I could've just cocked up my entire career, not to mention our whole team." She stomps down the corridor, her bag slung over her shoulder, seemingly too angry with herself to spare a thought for her partner in crime.
Gerry usually doesn't seek to draw fire toward himself, but he offers, "I was also a participant, as I recall."
Sandra scowls as if she'd like to murder him and emphatically rings for the lift. "Yeah, and I'm your sodding governor, so that makes me responsible."
She's still fuming when they reach the parking lot, so he's more than a little surprised when she pauses, her hand on the driver's side door handle, and demands, "What are you making for tea?"
He shoots her an admiring grin. "Fancy a roasted vegetable lasagna with an arugula and walnut salad?"
"Now you're talking."
He tucks her up on his sofa with a soft quilt and a glass of pinot gris and leaves her to decompress as he prepares the meal. This is the first time he has ever cooked just for her. He likes having her here, relaxing and watching telly in the next room. He's pretty sure he could easily get used to this.
Too bad he knows he won't have the chance.
Because odds are that after she meets SuSu Collins tomorrow morning, he'll be lucky if Sandra ever speaks to him again. More likely she'll murder him, but only after long, excruciating torture.
Like Scarlett O'Hara, he'll think about that tomorrow. Tonight he's going to make a fantastic meal for a beautiful woman, and they're both going to enjoy it, damn it.
What does Susan Collins know? What happened to the Bracknell family? Stay tuned, kids. And thanks, as ever, for the reviews. The make my day.