Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  “Why didn’t you tell me you pulled the tap?” Resnick said, trying to regain his composure. “It could have been Dolly Rawlins that phoned Boxer Davis and who grassed up Carlos Moreno. It was a woman, sir. A woman who called to speak to Boxer Davis twice on the night he died. You should have told me.”

  Saunders sat back in disbelief. “I should have told you? George—have you any idea how many times I have gone looking for you, only to find you were out God knows where? I left a copy of this memo on your desk. If you failed to read it that’s not my problem.”

  “I’m so close, sir.”

  “Close to what, exactly?” Saunders asked.

  Resnick sucked in his breath, trying to keep control of his temper. He’d already blown his top once; he knew he could only go so far with Saunders before he bit back. They’d been friends for so long . . .

  Saunders placed the pencil down, leaned forward and stuck the knife in. “The Rawlins case is closed, George. You and your men are to assist on the Mayfair robbery. They have a few good leads and need more troops.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, please, just two more weeks. I’ll have something within two weeks.” Resnick pleaded, sharing everything he had with his old friend. “We know there was a fourth man and I’m this close to finding him. When I do, I solve four cases in one go. He’s connected to them all, I know he is. Rawlins is connected to them all. It stands to reason that the fourth man is as well.”

  “Who do you think it is?” Saunders inquired.

  “I’m close. Give me time. A little more time, that’s all. The fourth man and this woman who’s been calling people . . . they’re the key.”

  “I thought Fran was the key? Last week, Boxer Davis was the key. The week before, Len Gulliver was the key.” Saunders shook his head. He’d heard enough; he wasn’t going to back down. “I’m acting on orders that come from higher up, George. Your case is closed.”

  “You’re giving up on me!” Resnick snapped.

  Saunders snapped his pencil in two. He spoke through gritted teeth. “How dare you? How bloody dare you? You were given the Rawlins case on my recommendation. Not one senior officer bar me thought you were up to it, but I fought your corner and got you the case. The case you’ve wanted to close for your entire career. But all you’ve found, George, are dead ends. No useful leads or evidence. My hands are tied.”

  Resnick bowed his head in a mixture of shame and despair; he knew the system well enough to understand where Saunders was coming from, but he still hated it.

  “I know what that bastard Harry Rawlins did to you,” Saunders continued, “but now you’re carrying a personal grievance too far. Give it up George and move on for your—”

  Resnick interrupted him. “What personal grievance?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  Resnick leaned over the desk and slammed his fist down again. “The man’s a bloody villain and—”

  “The man’s dead!” Saunders shouted, shocking Resnick into silence. “Andrews told me what happened with Fran. He told me about the photograph of Harry Rawlins. You were wrong, because she admitted it was Tony Fisher who assaulted her. I hate to say it, George, but you’re becoming obsessed and need to face facts—Rawlins is dead and buried.”

  Resnick opened his mouth, but Saunders held up his hand to stop him. “If you don’t want to move to the Mayfair robbery, might I suggest you take time off? The Chief Superintendent will approve your leave.”

  Resnick stared at Saunders. “Sounds as if you know that for sure. You’ve already asked him, haven’t you?” He held Saunders’s gaze. “I expect he’s already approved my transfer if I want that as well, has he?”

  “He approved your transfer months ago, George. I’ve been fighting to keep you here, on the case you want, doing the job I know you were excellent at.”

  “Were?” This single word from Saunders cut like a knife. “Then I expect it’s pointless me asking if the Super’s read my application for promotion?”

  Saunders chose to ignore Resnick’s last question. He waffled on about what a good officer George was and how he was sure this time he would get the promotion, perhaps to a quieter station where he could serve out his time. He said he knew that, by rights, George should be sitting where he was.

  “Then why aren’t I?” Resnick snapped.

  “Because of the bloody Rawlins case, George! This personal—”

  “It’s not personal! He’s just a villain.”

  “A dead villain,” Saunders said, hammering this home one more time.

  “Dead or not, he’s responsible for dozens of unsolved robberies and I’m this close to solving all of them,” Resnick repeated. But he’d heard enough. He hated being patronized. He stood up and stabbed his finger at Saunders. “You are too right, sonny. I should have been sitting where you are long ago. You, me and everyone in this bloody place knows I’m not because of Harry Rawlins. It was personal, you’re right—how could it not be? But it’s not anymore. Now, it’s about good solid police work. I want his ledgers, I want the fourth man and I want the woman on the phone. Because that’s how we clean up London! And, just so you know, sir, people with their ear to the ground, people in the know, don’t think Rawlins is dead at all.”

  Resnick took a deep and rasping breath, taking in oxygen to calm himself down. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his warrant card and threw it down on Saunders’s desk. “You can stuff my promotion application and I resign from the Met.”

  Saunders sighed and stood up. This wasn’t what he wanted, but Resnick had overstepped the mark and Saunders had had enough of trying to appease him. “I think you had better take your resignation up with the Chief Super.”

  “I’m taking it up with you! People in the know . . . you remember that: Boxer, Green Teeth, me. The Fishers—they’re running scared from someone bigger and nastier than them! You mark my words; you haven’t heard the last of Harry Rawlins. He’s out there somewhere, alive and well . . . I know it. And it won’t be me he comes back to haunt, it’ll be you!”

  Saunders was now convinced that George was losing it. “Please, George, just go home and rest. Don’t make any rash decisions here and now.”

  “My resignation will be on your desk first thing in the morning. That’s what you’ve wanted all along, isn’t it? Well, I hope yours and everybody else’s heads bloody well roll when you all see I was right.” Resnick stormed out of the office.

  Resnick was on the ground floor heading toward the main exit when he stopped to have a coughing fit. He could hardly catch his breath, his heart was hammering so rapidly he thought it was going to leap out of his chest. As he leaned against the wall, waiting for the heart attack he was sure was coming, he saw Alice walking toward him. Her pace quickened when she saw the state he was in.

  “Deep breaths sir, long deep breaths.” Resnick knew what to do when he got like this, but Alice’s gentle reminder was still soothing. Especially now. She gave him time to get his breathing back to normal then asked if she should fetch a glass of water.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” Resnick said. “But I need you to do me a favor, Alice, love. I want you to write a letter.”

  “I can’t . . .” Alice began, trying to tell him she wasn’t working for his department anymore.

  One more rule broken wasn’t going to harm either him or Alice now. “No,” said Resnick. “I really need you to do this for me, Alice, please. It’s my letter of resignation.”

  “Oh, sir.” Alice didn’t know what else to say.

  “They took the case off me, so I quit.” Resnick looked so wretched, his head bent as he quietly told her exactly what he wanted written.

  Alice wasn’t listening; she never did when he dictated letters. She usually just wrote what she knew he would have said if he’d had the time to think straight. She’d do the same now. She imagined herself saying, “I’ll quit with you, George. We’re both meant for better things.” The very idea of actually calling him “George” brought a lump to her t
hroat and she hoped she didn’t have to say anything before it went away. He’d always been such a grouch, but he was her grouch. He was her grumpy, brilliant, disgusting, dedicated policeman, and no one knew how to handle him except her.

  Once he’d finished, Resnick looked up at Alice. “When you do the whip round for the retirement pressie, no Teasmade, all right?”

  Alice tried to smile but she just wanted to cry.

  Resnick leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “Thanks for everything, Alice. And thanks for putting up with me.”

  As she watched Resnick walk away, with his manky old coat flapping and his moth-eaten briefcase in his hand, she finally broke down. She’d be the first to admit that her feelings for such an outwardly unlikeable man were hard to comprehend. But Alice knew where she stood with Resnick, she knew her role, she knew she empowered him to be the best officer he could be by covering his back, listening to him moan, reassuring him when he had self-doubt and protecting him from . . . well, himself mainly. And she’d failed him. He gave her life purpose and that was more than any other man had ever done. Resnick had no idea how much she loved him—and now he never would.

  Chapter 27

  Bella took off the paint mask and stepped back to breathe in some air. Beads of sweat trickled down her forehead and cheeks. She surveyed the Ford Escort van that was to be their getaway vehicle with pride; she’d never sprayed a vehicle before, but she’d spray-tanned plenty of strippers backstage at the Z-Easy club, and it was pretty much the same.

  When Dolly had bought the van—under a false name and in cash—two weeks ago, it was red. Now it was a gleaming white. The engine had been a bit knackered, but Linda had got to work and it had a lot more poke under the bonnet than before. Linda had learned a lot about engines from Carlos during the few weeks she knew him, the most important being how to “feel” the engine. He’d said she could read manuals if she wanted to, but they didn’t replace intuition. That might have worked for him, but she’d read the manuals too—especially for the vehicles in Dolly’s lock-up. If they broke down, they went to jail. Simple as that.

  Bella wandered across to Shirley, who was humming to herself as she busily painted magnetic signs for the sides of the getaway van. “The van’s ready when you are.”

  Shirley looked up. “Do you think these are OK, Bella?” She cared what Bella thought.

  Bella nodded. “Very professional. It’ll look like a genuine council van when these and the false plates are on.”

  On the far side of the lock-up, Linda was sitting on a crate, cleaning the sawed-off shotguns. Her face was ashen, her mouth a thin tight line, and she kept flicking looks toward the exit. She was waiting for Dolly.

  “Is everything OK, Linda?” Bella asked, worried she was going to blow her top when Dolly arrived. It was early evening now and Bella had been watching Linda all day. At one point she’d tried to persuade her to go home, but Linda had refused. She’d sat in the lock-up, biding her time like a taut wire ready to snap. Now, Bella leaned in and whispered in Linda’s ear.

  “I know you’re hurting about Carlos, but losing it with Dolly ain’t gonna bring him back. Wait until the job’s done and, once you got your cut, you can call her what you want. You can even slap her about if it makes you feel better. Do ya hear me, Linda?”

  “It’s hard, Bella,” said Linda. “It’s like she’s ripped the soul out of me . . . but I’ll do me best to keep me mouth shut. I don’t want to ruin it for you and Shirl.”

  Bella patted her shoulder and went to put the false plates on the van.

  Ten minutes later, Dolly breezed in and plonked a bag of shopping on the floor. She was still on a high and eager to tell the girls about her morning. “I’ve got us the final route and times for security van,” she said with a beaming smile.

  Shirley and Bella went over and congratulated her. Dolly waved her hand to Linda to join the group, and then cleared a space on the table, laid out the route map Brian Marshall had given her and lit up a cigarette. Bella wanted to ask how she had got the route map, but if Dolly wanted them to know, she’d tell them.

  “OK, so I’ve spent the afternoon driving this route,” Dolly started. “I done it about six or seven times. To do timings, and find the best position for the blocking van to be parked up before we head into the underpass, that sort of thing.” Dolly quickly flicked through the other papers given to her by Marshall. “We’ve got the exact date and time now . . . it’s two weeks ahead of schedule.”

  “How come?” Linda asked, just to be awkward.

  “Because that date and time gives us the best balance between cash haul and the opportunity to pull the job quickly and successfully. We’ve got to account for rush hours, road works, school holidays, all that sort of thing. I got it under control, Linda, don’t you worry.”

  As usual, Dolly’s patronizing tone got right up Linda’s nose, but she bit her tongue as Dolly continued.

  “Memorize the route and then we’ll burn it. Drive it as many times as you think you need to, so you learn all the tricky parts, the lights, the roundabouts, the zebra crossings, anywhere things could go wrong.”

  As a train rumbled by overhead, the big dog in the lock-up next door barked. Wolf started yapping. Linda felt the tide of anger rise.

  “I also marked on the map where the getaway car will be parked, so learn that as well. Drive it from the pick-up point to the car park, where your own motors will be parked, ready to get you to the airport. Time everything down to the last second. Drive it again and again till you can do it blindfolded. You lot got your holiday stories sorted?” Dolly asked.

  They were all prepared; their plans had to be above suspicion. Linda was either to leave the arcade or get herself sacked, and Bella was to quit her job at the strip club. No one must suspect they had any contact with each other. Shirley was uncomfortable lying to her mum, but she’d do it. She had to.

  “Right, here are your tickets to Rio. You got your passports? There’s two flights that day, so I’ve booked Bella and Linda onto the first one. Shirl, you’ll fly later the same day. Keep away from each other till you land,” Dolly continued. “Learn your flight times and numbers, and your weight allowance. We can’t have anyone being stopped for something stupid like their suitcase being too heavy!” Dolly laughed and Bella and Shirley were polite enough to giggle, albeit a little late. Dolly seemed perkier than usual as she ticked off everything she’d covered in her precious notebook. “Right,” she said with a buoyant tone to her voice “Let’s see what you been up to.”

  She was pleased with the work they’d done. The paint job and signs on the van were very good, and the set of number plates were a copy of ones they’d seen on a white Ford van on their trip to the beach near Brighton. Bella demonstrated how fast the signs could be peeled off and the van’s false plates changed back to the originals.

  Dolly walked over to Linda, who was checking the spark plugs on the van. “You sorted the lead truck, yet? You’re going to have to nick it earlier now.”

  Linda couldn’t look Dolly in the face. “I got a big Leyland laundry van lined up,” she said offhandedly. “It’ll be perfect and a doddle to nick.”

  “How big’s ‘big’? Will it fit in here or do we need somewhere else to stash it?”

  Before Linda could snap back, Shirley butted in. “Mum’s block of flats. She’s got a parking bay underneath. You can dump the van there, no problem. Market vans come and go all the time so it won’t look out of place or nothing.”

  Dolly remained focused on Linda. “Can you get it this week?”

  “I can get it whenever,” Linda said curtly, straining to hold back her temper. She walked away from Dolly.

  “We need it quick Linda!” Dolly raised her voice as she followed Linda to the other side of the lock-up. “We got to change the number plates and reinforce the rear bumper with a metal bar . . . you sure a laundry van can withstand a heavy security truck crashing into the back of it?”

  Linda ignored
her and picked up one of the sawed-off shotguns on top of the tool trolley. She would have liked to turn it on Dolly and blast her right there and then.

  “What’s up with Linda?” Dolly asked Bella.

  Bella shrugged and busied herself wiping the false plates with a rag to remove all prints. Dolly suspected Bella did know what the matter was. She looked over at Linda. Wolf was sniffing around Linda’s feet, and the next second Linda kicked the little dog, causing him to yelp in pain. Dolly had had enough.

  “Don’t you ever kick him again!” Dolly shouted, striding over to Linda and pointing her finger straight in her face.

  “Well keep the mangy thing away from me,” Linda replied.

  “Come on—out with it. What’s the matter with you?”

  Linda kept her head down. “Nothing,” she muttered.

  “Is this about me asking you to get rid of your mechanic?”

  Linda looked at Dolly. “I did as you asked. He won’t be a problem no more.”

  “Good,” Dolly replied coldly. “He suss anything?”

  “Wouldn’t matter if he did. He’s dead.”

  Dolly was stunned into silence. For a moment, she wondered if Linda was trying to make her feel as guilty as possible, but the look of anger and sorrow in Linda’s eyes showed she was deadly serious. “I’m so sorry, Linda. What happened?”

  “I saw it, Dolly. I saw the whole thing. Do you want the details or will ‘he’s dead’ be enough for you?”

  “I’m sorry, Linda, I truly am. You should have told me as soon as it happened.”

  “Why? What would you have done to make me feel better about making me kill my boyfriend? Cos that’s what happened, Dolly. You said to grass him up, the police raided his place, and he ran . . . straight under a van.” Linda walked away before she did something she’d regret.