Page 100 of Joker in the Pack

“I don’t think Mickey would lie. So, how did she afford that stuff?”

“That, babe, is what we’re going to find out. She could have kept funds in an online eWallet. PayPal or similar. I’ve got someone looking into that.”

“Do we just wait again now?”

“No, we’ve got another visit to make.”

“We?”

“Reckon this one’ll be safe enough for you to come with me. Your presence might even help.”

“Who are we going to see?”

“Ronnie’s ex-partner.”

“Like his girlfriend?”

“No, his partner in crime. Are you up for a road trip?”

With Nye? Always, and I trusted he wouldn’t take me anywhere dangerous. “Where does he live?”

“About an hour north. Straight up the M1.”

Edward had always insisted that conversation in the car distracted him from driving, but Nye was happy to chat away. Not only that, he held my hand the entire trip, and I snuck surreptitious glances at him while he concentrated on the road. My imagination began to run away with me. Maybe we could take a proper road trip together, driving across France, or even farther into Europe. Beautiful scenery, gourmet food, boutique hotels…

Olivia, stop it!

“Uh, was Ronnie’s partner in prison too?”

“He never got caught. I don’t even know for sure they were partners, but I’ve seen his name pop up a few too many times. Call it a hunch.”

“But surely he won’t admit to being a criminal if we just turn up and ask?”

Nye shrugged. “I’ll play it by ear. I’m hoping he’ll decide it’s the right time to confess.”

Confess? Who in their right mind… Nye pulled up outside a small cottage next to a church in a village that reminded me of Upper Foxford, all twee and a bit of a time warp. I got the chance to ogle his muscles when he swapped his leather jacket for a sports one in the boot.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

I took his hand and read the name on the gate as he held it open for me.

“Thevicarage? Are you kidding? Ronnie’s ex-partner’s a priest?”

“Seems he saw the error of his ways. Either that or he’s pilfering from the collection plate.”

A man wearing a white collar answered our knock. Clean-shaven, wholesome-looking, in his late thirties at a guess. Not at all how I’d imagined Ronnie’s accomplice would look. Could Nye have got this wrong?

“Have you come to request a hymn for the service on Sunday?” the vicar asked.

“Not exactly. Can we come in? It shouldn’t take long.”

“What’s this about?”

“Ronnie Rigby.”

I’d heard the expression “white as a sheet” many times, but this was the first time I’d seen it. The man matched his own collar. Score one for Nye’s intuition. The vicar swung the door open and shuffled along in front of us to his kitchen, a condemned man on his trip to the gallows. He’d aged a decade by the time he took a seat opposite us.

“I knew this would come back to haunt me one day. I’ve begged God for forgiveness every day since I became a believer. If I had the money, I’d repay everyone, but I live simply now. And I do good work in the community—the church, the youth group, the local scouts.”

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