Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  She thought back to two nights before the raid. Harry had come into the bedroom and she knew intuitively that something was very wrong. She could always tell when he had done a bad business deal, or worse, when he was intending to take a big risk. He prowled round the house, in and out of rooms, sitting, getting up again, making coffee and checking his watch. Dolly was wise enough to keep quiet and not ask questions; he would tell her what was on his mind if and when he was ready.

  Harry had not made love to her for months, but on that last night when he slipped into bed beside her, he’d been lustfully insistent and passionately rough with her—she hadn’t minded; she adored the touch of him, the smell of him, the power of him.

  Afterward, she had held him in her arms like a baby. Then he got up and went into the spare room and she had lain there awake for hours, smiling. Even after twenty years he could make her whole body shudder inside. She was as proud of his tight muscular frame as he was. There was not an inch of fat on him. She’d take furtive looks at him when he showered or shaved, watching his muscles tense and relax.

  As Dolly daydreamed, she was grateful for that last night they shared together. It was all that mattered amid the frenetic nature of her life since his death. They’d loved each other so much and, as she recalled all those times he had glanced at his beloved wristwatch, the pain flooded over her again. Harry had woken early the next morning, brought her a cup of tea and gently woken her with a kiss to her sleeping lips.

  “Goodbye, sweetheart,” he’d said. “I’ll see you later.”

  But there had been no “later.” Harry never came home and the filth still refused to give her his beloved watch back.

  Linda stood at the open doors of the mechanic’s garage in the mews. She’d seen enough Italian men to know that the young kid in filthy grease and oil-covered overalls was not Carlos, Gino’s mate from the pub. The kid puffed out his chest to try and impress her; her dismissive look quickly told him that she was way out of his league. “Carlos! There’s some bird here to see ya!” he shouted and then he went back to polishing a nice-looking Jaguar.

  Carlos was in the small Portakabin office on the phone to Arnie Fisher, arranging the pickup of his Jag. He looked out the window but didn’t recognize Linda and, placing his hand over the mouthpiece, shouted that he would be out in a minute.

  Watching Carlos out of the corner of her eye, Linda liked what she saw as he ran his hand through his thick black curly hair and ruffled it up. He wore an old brown boiler suit open almost to his waist and as he turned, still talking on the phone, Linda got a full look at him. She took in every detail. He was a dish with big dark eyes, a great body and a stubbly, unshaven face. There was something very rugged and very sexy about him. Before he had even spoken to her, Linda had decided she’d have him.

  When Carlos eventually came out, Linda introduced herself as Miss Linda Pirelli and, flirting outrageously, she asked him if he’d take a look at her new Capri.

  “Sorry, love.” Carlos was dismissive. “We only do company cars or regular standing customer’s motors.” Brushing her aside, he got onto an inspection trolley and, lying on his back, wheeled himself under the ramped-up Jag to give it a last once-over.

  Linda moved closer and squatted down, making sure her skirt was now up over her knees; she knew Carlos could see between her legs, which she parted slowly. “Look Carlos,” she said, “truth is, I want to learn more about motors and how to service them so I can do me own. I’ll pay you to teach me . . .”

  Carlos could see her red panties as he wheeled himself out from under the car. He lay on the trolley and looked up at her. She was a bit tarty, pushy even, but there was something about her he quite liked. Before he knew what he was doing he heard himself telling her to get in the Jag while he took it for a test run. He lowered the ramp and as Linda got in the passenger seat, she grinned. He couldn’t help smiling back—she was a right cheeky little cow!

  Linda sat with her safety belt on, but Carlos didn’t bother with his as he flung the car round the M4 at high speed. She knew he was trying to scare her, but it took more than a 120 miles an hour to do that, and he was clearly a good driver.

  Carlos kept brushing her thigh when he changed gear, and she made no effort to move her leg. He wasn’t all that tall compared to Joe, who was six foot three. Carlos, she reckoned, was about five nine, but he was a looker and seemed really nice. She also liked the faint smell of whatever cologne he had on, and as he leaned toward her on a sharp bend she could smell it even more . . . yes, she would definitely try it on with this one!

  Returning to the garage, Carlos found himself taking the Capri out for a road check and then teaching Linda how to do a basic service on it. He told her she’d got a good buy and it only needed a slight bit of work. There was a hole in the radiator, which he repaired there and then. He also cleaned up the spark plugs, points, air filter and rotor arm, explaining what was what and letting Linda do some of the work herself.

  All the time she was at his elbow, getting covered in oil. She made him laugh because she was intent on learning as much as possible in the one hour he’d decided to give her. She even insisted on going under the ramp with him on the trolley. He couldn’t quite make her out. He knew she was coming on strong, but at the same time she seemed genuinely interested in the Capri engine.

  Four hours later they were still there, with the Capri’s engine, as Carlos said, “purring like a kitten.” As Carlos rubbed his hands with degreaser and wiped them on a rag, he could see Linda’s legs still sticking out from beneath the Capri. She had a tidy set of pins. Her skirt was tucked into her knickers, which looked like red satin, and she wore no stockings. As she eased herself out he looked down, legs either side of her. Linda looked up, past his impressive crotch, and straight into his deep brown eyes. “What do I owe you?” she asked.

  “You mean cash or something else?” They both laughed and Carlos helped her to her feet.

  This time Linda drove and it was Carlos’s turn to be the passenger. As the Capri sped over the flyover toward White City, he kept his eye on the radiator temperature gauge, then as Linda changed into top gear he gave her the nod to put her foot down. The car roared forward increasing speed rapidly—ninety-five, one hundred, one hundred and ten . . . Linda flicked him a look, but he was more intent now on looking at her legs than the speedometer.

  Linda wished she had made some effort to tidy the flat. While Carlos was in the bathroom, she slipped into the bedroom and cleared up her dirty washing, before shaking the duvet straight on the bed. She pulled the bedroom curtains closed then went into the small lounge and poured two large brandies. She took one to the bathroom, where Carlos was shirtless having a shave using Joe’s razor. He had a gorgeous, well-defined body and Linda deliberately brushed against him as she placed the glass down on the sink. He didn’t react or say anything and, feeling miffed, she walked out.

  Linda downed her drink in one go then poured herself another shot. She wasn’t sure what to do next, as she’d given him every come on possible and, so far, he hadn’t shown any signs of wanting to rip her clothes off. She heard a sound and, turning round, saw Carlos in his briefs, leaning against the frame of the lounge door holding his brandy. He was even better looking than she had first thought. As he raised his glass and drank the brandy down, Linda could hear the bath running. God, he was certainly making himself at home! Without a word, he poured himself another brandy before heading back to the bathroom.

  Linda kept Carlos waiting for a moment and then followed him. He was standing looking at some bath salts.

  “Which do you like? This one or this?”

  Linda shrugged. She didn’t really give a shit about bath salts if she was being perfectly honest. He chose the salts he liked best, tipped them into the bath, and then moved closer to her.

  “You wanna sleep with me or not?” she said petulantly. Carlos said nothing, but began to unbutton her blouse.

  At last, she thought, and pulled him closer while t
rying to wriggle out of her skirt. God, she had the hots for him! She started to back out of the bathroom, pulling him with her, but he didn’t follow. Then, without a word, he suddenly picked her up and dropped her straight in the bath, fully clothed. He laughed, then whisked off his briefs and, as he stepped into the bath with her, Linda could see a thin white line from where he must have worn bikini brief swimming trunks. He was beautiful.

  DCI Resnick was on his way to the Sunshine Bread Company with Andrews and Fuller. They were following up on a lead that might mean they’d finally traced the bread truck used in the raid. Resnick was looking serious and focused now that they had something solid to work on. Gone was his self-defensive bravado and, for the first time, Fuller could see glimpses of the copper beneath the obsessed wreck of a man. But he still hated the obnoxious, fat bastard.

  Fuller was driving the unmarked CID car like a maiden aunt. Resnick’s impatience finally got the better of him. “Put your bloody foot down, Fuller, for God’s sake!” he shouted. “Give it the lights and sirens! We’re after the biggest criminal gang in London here, not going on a fucking picnic!”

  At the bread company, a uniformed PC was standing on guard next to the suspect truck. Wally Titherington from forensics was already working on the inside of the vehicle, dusting for fingerprints, and one of his colleagues was taping the seats for fibers. Wally looked up as Resnick approached. “Looks like he thinks he’s in a Sam Peckinpah movie.”

  “Right!” Resnick barked at the Sunshine Bread Company manager. “I need an office to use as an interview room.”

  The manager was clearly put out. “How long is this disruption going on for?” he complained. “Who exactly do you want to interview?”

  “Every driver, every mechanic, every company worker and visitor using this yard, including you. Everyone who has ever come into contact with that bread truck. DC Andrews here will take everyone’s fingerprints for elimination purposes.” Resnick stalked off.

  Fuller stepped forward as the manager’s face started to turn bright pink. “This is a very important case, sir, and we’re grateful for your help. The sooner we get set up, the sooner we’ll be out of your hair.”

  Resnick looked round the ladies’ cloakroom, hands on hips, and took an enormous drag of his cigarette. He tried to make light of the fact that he’d not been given an office as requested. “If we’re lucky, we’ll still be here when they change out of their overalls at home time, eh, Andrews? You might even get to see your first lady.”

  Andrews was keeping very quiet; the black fingerprint ink was already all over his shirt sleeves.

  “Look at you!” Resnick snarled. “How the hell do you manage to get dressed in the morning? You do know how to take fingerprints, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Andrews whimpered.

  “I’m only checking because you sure as hell don’t know how to follow an old lady walking a poodle!” Resnick stepped close to Andrews and the smell of the fat man’s BO almost made him gag. “Front desk got a call from a pensioner saying that two young hooligans had thrown burgers and milkshakes into her front garden.” Andrews squirmed. “One more incident like that and you’ll pounding the beat in hobnails. Got it?”

  “Got it, sir.” Andrews said, trying not to breathe in.

  Once Resnick had walked away, Fuller gave Andrews a reassuring nod of the head. They both knew Resnick was picking on the easiest target because he was embarrassed at being given the ladies’ cloakroom as an interview space.

  Dolly’s taxi waited while she went down to Linda’s basement flat. She kept her finger on the doorbell until she saw the front bedroom curtain flick aside and Linda peer out.

  Inside the bedroom, Linda’s head was in an instant spin of panic at the sight of Dolly. She looked at Carlos’s beautiful and sweaty body, and felt like an underage kid caught by her mum. “You gotta keep quiet,” she whispered as she grabbed the top bedsheet and wrapped it round herself.

  Dolly didn’t even wait for Linda to open the front door fully before she stepped in.

  “Why the hell don’t you answer your phone?” Dolly demanded. “Get dressed. I need an urgent meeting with you and Shirley at the lock-up right now.”

  There was the sound of movement from the bedroom and Dolly froze and stared at the closed bedroom door. She glared at Linda in shock and anger. Shock at the thought of Linda being with another man so soon after the death of Joe, and anger at the terrifying thought that stupid, gobby, drunken Linda’s pillow talk could easily include details of their upcoming robbery.

  “You got someone in there?” Dolly whispered through gritted teeth.

  Linda had no choice. “He’s no one, Dolly. He’s a mechanic helping with the new car, that’s all.”

  Dolly gripped Linda’s wrist hard, pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “Did he see me? Did he bloody see me, you stupid slut?” Dolly twisted and tightened her grip, shaking with anger. “You got five minutes. I’ll be in the taxi.” Then Dolly was gone, slamming the door behind her.

  Feeling grubby and ashamed, Linda cried as she got dressed.

  “What’s wrong?” Carlos asked, trying to comfort her. “Who was it?” he demanded. “Who’s frightened you? I can help.”

  “I ain’t frightened!” Linda screeched, pushing him away. “And it’s none of your business who it was. Just leave, I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go now.”

  “You’ve got a boyfriend,” Carlos concluded angrily. “You’re teaching him a lesson by sleeping with me, aren’t you?” The hurt look on Linda’s face told him that he was wrong and he apologized as he got dressed, but it was too little, too late.

  Linda, with tears in her eyes, held fifty quid out for him to take. “Thanks for helping with the car. You can go now.”

  “Linda. Linda, please. I didn’t mean it. I don’t want your money.” Carlos closed Linda’s fingers round the money, held her gently and apologized again.

  Linda looked into his eyes as she kissed him hard. “I really do have to go. Let yourself out.” Linda was out the door before she’d finished talking.

  As Carlos finished dressing, he noticed a face-down photo frame on the bedside table and picked it up. Carlos didn’t recognize Joe Pirelli, but this man was clearly important to Linda. Maybe she has got a boyfriend, or a husband, he thought to himself. Unnerved at the thought, he replaced the photo and was on his way out when he stopped and looked down at the phone in the hallway. He picked up a pen and made a note of the phone number on the back of his hand.

  He’d ask Gino a little more about Linda.

  Dolly sat hunched up in the corner of the taxi, looking out of the window. She didn’t speak a single word to Linda all the way to the lock-up.

  Linda was in turmoil, every emotion written on her face like a petulant child who knows she’s done something wrong. What the hell is it to do with her? Linda thought to herself. If I want a screw, I’ll bloody well have one and it’s no business of Dolly’s. But at the same time, she felt incredibly guilty. Linda struggled in silence, but then realized that she actually felt an overriding feeling of what she could only describe as happiness. She really liked Carlos and, as she crossed her legs away from Dolly, she could feel that she was still wet inside from him. She glanced sideways at Dolly. When was the last time you got your rocks off? she wondered. It must have been at least twenty years ago. What had a stud like Harry Rawlins ever seen in Dolly? He was good looking for an old bloke, though he could be a mean bastard at times. She decided right there and then that she wasn’t going to take any more verbal insults or physical outbursts from Dolly about Carlos or about anything else. She’d give as good as she got from now on . . . she just wished she didn’t feel so bloody guilty.

  In the lock-up, Shirley sensed the heavy tension. Linda was unusually silent, sitting with her head bent, foot twitching and a sulky look on her face. She hadn’t said a word to Dolly and Dolly was definitely giving her the silent treatment.

  Shirley decided to break the ice. She wa
s wearing one of the jumpsuits Dolly had instructed her to buy for the raid, so she paraded up and down as though she was on a catwalk, “They were on offer,” Shirley said with a beaming smile. “And I got us all some lovely plimsolls, really comfy for running in.”

  “Oh, I been looking for some just like that,” said Linda. Dolly sniffed.

  “And I got three ski masks, just like you asked.” Shirley searched among the shopping bags. “One black, one blue and one red, so we know whose is whose. I got red for you Linda, on account of your black hair.”

  “Thanks, Shirl. That’ll be great for winter in the arcade. It gets bloody freezing in that booth when the door’s open.”

  Dolly looked from Linda to Shirley. She couldn’t quite believe how stupid these two were. “Red?! What kind of armed robbers wear red ski masks? And that overall you’ve got on is far too small.”

  “It fits perfect.” Shirley turned round with the black ski mask in her hand and smoothed the tight jumpsuit fabric over her slim figure.

  “Overalls, I said! Big, dirty, baggy overalls. We’re supposed to be men. I can see every curve, and look at your bloody ankles.”

  Shirley had been told on many occasions that her ankles were one of her best features. “What’s wrong with them?” she whined, looking down at her feet.

  “I can see them for a start!” Dolly barked back. “You’ve even done alterations on that suit to show off your bust and put extra bloody zips everywhere. What are they for? Your lippy? I told you . . . plain black overalls, at least three to four sizes too big, as we have to pad ’em out. We’ve got to be wearing our own clothes underneath and be able to slip the overalls off real quick. These suits are useless, absolutely useless.”