Excerpt: The Geographical Relocation of Currency

“Who, Sir?”

“Dougie McDonald.”

There was a moment of silence and then he thought perhaps he’d actually heard the penny drop. “The Dougie McDonald?”

“I don’t know about *the* Dougie McDonald. Definitely *a* Dougie McDonald.”

“Stole two million from the old Midlands Bank in Stow years ago?”

John raised a cautioning finger, “Allegedly, Ben. Arrested three times, questioned for hours but never once charged and certainly wasn’t convicted.” He looked at Ben looking at him.

“But you think he did it?”

“I know he did it. Could never prove it, no one could.” They stopped at the end of the terrace row. The last house was as beautifully kept as the rest of them, clean red-gold brick walls, varnished wooden door with a pane of glass set near the top – a stained glass green rose with red petals at the centre – clean windows with lace curtains hanging in them.

“How do you know he did it, Sir, if it was never proven?”

“Because he told me, Ben, in the pub one night about five years ago. I nagged him until he told me, but a bar-side confession wouldn’t stand up in court and by then… no one was really hurt, were they?”

“It was two million pounds!”

“One point eight million, actually, Dougie said. And he said he didn’t do it alone, so the money was split between quite a number of people. He said there was a copper they paid off, in the Met, but we could never prove that either.” He walked passed the house and turned up a narrow path at the side of the house. “Even unsolved cases have their uses, Ben,” he said obscurely, trying to be as reassuring as he could be under the circumstances. The situation wasn’t exactly ideal for his brand spanking new sergeant but he’d have to make the best of it. The thought reminded him of what Kath had said to him that morning and he put the whole thing out of his mind as they came out into a small garden which was basically a vegetable patch with a path running through it and a wooden hut at the end of it. Ben followed him up the path which was less than half a paving slab wide and he had to be careful not to tread on a sprout or a carrot or whatever else was growing under the earth. At the end of the path he knocked on the wooden door of the hut, which looked new and possibly was – there were always stories of Dougie having to pull down his sheds and put up new ones for all sorts of different reasons, most of them explosion-related.

“Who is it?” a strong Scottish voice called out, sounded slightly slurred and while Ben, whispering in his ear, put that immediately down to drink, John knew better. He shook his head as he called out, “It’s the rozzers, Dougie.” He’d known Dougie McDonald as long as the man had lived in the village. Tongues had wagged as tongues in such a close-knit community always did when someone of such notoriety moved into their neighbourhood. His Inspector had sent him over to lay down the law, as it were, and he and Dougie had ended up sharing a dram or two, talking like old friends and coming to a gentlemen’s agreement that was still standing to this day.

A moment, then there was the sound of a bolt being thrown and a key turning in a lock. John stepped back without warning, knocking a surprised huff out of Ben as he stepped into him. He momentarily felt a steadying hand on his waist and felt the heat through his shirt before it was gone and the door was thrown open, revealing a grinning Scotsman. Dougie was around his height – an inch away from six feet – but he had a presence that made him seem somehow taller. A shock of thick, messy blond hair, a perpetual grin around a seemingly permanent cigarette (which is what slurred his voice), narrow eyes that pinned John to the spot while he wiped his hands on a dirty cloth which he threw back inside the hut before sticking out his right arm.

“DCI John Jones,” he announced as John shook his hand firmly, catching the surprise on Ben’s face from out of the corner of his eye. Of course Dougie knew him by his actual rank, that’s how they’d originally met. “How are you?” His eyes slid to Ben. “Had a sex change, Janet?”

The question threw Ben for a moment and John couldn’t help but smile. “Janet left me,” he explained, hamming it up slightly. “This is my new sergeant, Ben Harding.”

Dougie’s blond eyebrows rose but he offered his hand and Ben shook it. “To what do I owe the visit, John? I’m assuming it’s official as the sun’s up and we’re not in the Hanging Man.” John ignored the sideways reminder that his half-a-decade old confession over a dark ale and several whiskey chasers was as off the record as it was possible to get and nodded.

“Someone’s robbed the building society,” he said quietly. There really was no point in saying it wasn’t common knowledge – the police tape around the bank would have created enough interest in the short time it had taken them to walk across here, the Boxwood rumour mill would be running at full pelt by now.

Dougie’s grin got wider and he plucked the smoking cigarette from between his lips. “You’re kiddin’?”

John shook his head, “No, I’m not.”

Dougie shook his head in amazement. “Was bound to happen one day I suppose. Got away with three pounds and fifty in change did they?”

John leaned in for effect. “Seven and a half million.”