Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  Arnie began to sweat. What really terrified him was that Boxer Davis might have been telling the truth about Harry Rawlins. If Boxer was right and Harry Rawlins was alive, there would be severe repercussions. Arnie had been fencing stolen goods for Rawlins for many years, as well as having his hand in various other frauds and robberies. He had to restrain his crazy brother.

  Tony chose that moment to kick open Arnie’s office door. “Look,” he said and held up an early edition of the Evening Standard. “Front page: Daring Armed Robbery on a Security Wagon.” He slapped the newspaper down on the desk in front of Arnie. “Four masked men—and they’ve got away with fuckin’ hundreds of thousands. Whether you like it or not, that fucker’s wife Dolly Rawlins has gotta have a hand in it. I’m gonna go there and slit the bitch’s throat . . .”

  Arnie stood up and threw a large glass paperweight at his brother. It missed. He moved in front of the desk and grabbed Tony’s shirt collar, sweating profusely. “You listen to me,” he said urgently. “We need to back off and go to ground. You’ve already put the frighteners on her, and I’m not havin’ that son of a bitch Harry Rawlins slit my throat.”

  Pushing his brother away, Arnie went back to his desk and unlocked a drawer. He took out a thick wedge of bank notes.

  “Take this and get the first flight out of here, to Spain. Stay there until you hear from me. This time, Tony, you obey me or I swear to God you’ll get the same treatment as Boxer Davis.”

  Tony smirked and reached for the money, tucking it into the inside pocket of his coat. “You’re the boss,” he said.

  Arnie replied softly. “You’d better believe it, because I’m protecting you. Until I say so, don’t show your face here again. I’ll make sure the boys in Spain look after you.”

  In the past, Tony had always been able to argue with his brother, but he had never seen Arnie so determined. He could almost smell his fear. “I’ll leave tonight,” he said.

  “Good boy.” Arnie watched his brother walk out. He hoped this time he would listen, because as soon as he’d seen to some things, he’d be joining him in Spain. Arnie picked up the newspaper and stared at the headlines. With Harry Rawlins dead, Arnie had been free of him and his infamous ledgers. If Harry Rawlins was alive—well, Arnie felt as though he had been given a life sentence.

  Dolly sat in the interview room at Scotland Yard waiting for Fuller. She’d already looked through the pile of mug shots on the table and been asked if she recognized any of them as associates of her deceased husband. Even if she had, there was no way she was going to say anything. It might have got the police off her back, but she didn’t want word getting out she was a grass. Dolly looked at her watch: it was eleven thirty. She tapped her foot, hoping to irritate the policewoman standing by the door. She hated her expressionless face and hatchet eyes.

  “Is there any chance of a cup of coffee?” Dolly asked. There was no response. The policewoman sucked her teeth. “Listen, Uri Gellar—you keep staring like that and your handcuffs will start bending!” Dolly said sarcastically. Still the officer didn’t flinch.

  Dolly lit another cigarette and looked at her watch again. “It’s my dog, you see. He’ll be going nuts by now and he can only keep his legs crossed for so long. So can I, as it happens. Oi! I’m talking to you! Any idea how long they’re going to keep me here? I mean, what’s this all about anyway?” Dolly waved her cigarette around as she pointed at the mug shots in front of her, scattering ash carelessly over the photos. “I told you I don’t know none of these. What’s he supposed to have done anyway, this colored bloke you’re after?” Still no reaction. Dolly began to whistle the theme tune from Dixon of Dock Green.

  DS Fuller walked in and sat down opposite her. The press was going bananas. They were demanding to know what the police were doing about the robbery, whether they had any suspects and whether it was connected to the recent similar robbery where three men died. Fuller hadn’t been able to get any sense out of DCI Saunders; he was like a rabbit caught in headlights. The whole office was in pandemonium.

  Dolly sucked on her cigarette. “How long you gonna keep me here?”

  Fuller looked at Dolly. “As long as it takes.”

  The door opened again and DCI Saunders walked in. He called Fuller over and they had a whispered conversation by the door. Dolly thought she heard something about bringing in the security guards in case it was an inside job, but she couldn’t hear clearly.

  “Excuse me,” Dolly said to DCI Saunders with feigned politeness. “I hate to interrupt your conversation, but I’ve looked through your mug shots and there’s no one I recognize or have seen before, so if you don’t mind, I’ve got a dog at home waiting for me.”

  Saunders went over to Dolly. “Did your husband have any black associates, either as friends or on his payroll?”

  Dolly paused as if was thinking about the question. “No, not that I know of.”

  “That’s all then, Mrs. Rawlins, you can go,” Saunders said, much to Dolly’s surprise and Fuller’s annoyance. He turned to the policewoman. “Show Mrs. Rawlins out,” he ordered.

  As the policewoman opened the door, an officer led in the security guard who had been driving the van. He had small cuts to one side of his face. He passed within inches of Dolly, who stepped back, allowing him to enter the room.

  After Dolly had gone, Fuller laid out the mug shots along the desk in front of the security guard. “Do you recognize any of these men as being involved in the raid this morning?”

  The guard was shaking. All he could say was that he thought one of the men had been black because of the color of his eyes staring through the balaclava. Fuller sat down with a sigh and began going over everything again from start to finish, but he knew it was hopeless. The security guard was still in a state of shock—and all the suspects had been wearing masks.

  Dolly returned to her house in a taxi, paid the fare and almost danced up the drive. She felt so good, so damned good. Opening the front door, she shouted for Shirley. She couldn’t wait to reassure her that they were in the clear.

  “I’m in the lounge,” Shirley called out.

  Dolly launched in, talking nineteen to the dozen, going over everything that had happened, the questions the police had asked her and how they were already linking the robbery to a possible associate of Harry Rawlins. “One of the security guards was there, Shirl, I mean right there. As close to me as you are now—and he never batted an eyelid.” Dolly checked her hair in the ornate gold mirror over the fireplace. “Bloody hell, I look awful!” She laughed. “They suspect one of the robbers was black . . . so I pity all the black lags in London tonight.”

  “That’s good,” Shirley said softly. She sat with her head bent, her bruised eye and cheek turned away from Dolly. She knew she had to tell her about Wolf, but she just couldn’t get it out.

  Dolly poured herself a large brandy. “Want one, Shirl?”

  “No thanks, Dolly. I do need to talk to you about something, though.”

  “Go on girl. What is it—something wrong?” Dolly asked. Just then the phone rang twice and stopped. “Hang on a sec, Shirl . . .” Dolly held her hand up. A second later the phone rang again. This time she picked it up.

  The person on the other end was clearly telling her a long tale. Eventually, Dolly said, “Shirley’s flight was canceled, so she’ll be with you a bit later than planned. Nothing at all to worry about. Have a nice holiday, love . . . yes, yes, everything’s fine here.” Dolly put the phone down. “That was Linda. She’s through passport control and will be in the air soon. Everything’s going to be—” As Dolly turned back to Shirley, she saw the cut from where Eddie’s ring had dug into her beautiful skin, and the bruise now developing around it.

  Slamming her brandy glass down on the telephone table, Dolly moved quickly to Shirley. “Dear God, girl, what happened to you?” she asked as she sat down and took hold of Shirley’s shaking hand.

  “Someone broke in . . .” Shirley stuttered. “They wanted to know wh
ere the money was . . .”

  Dolly looked worried. “You saw him?”

  Shirley nodded.

  “You know him? Did he hurt you, darlin’?”

  Shirley shook her head. “Not really.”

  “The money. Did he take the money?”

  Shirley looked up at Dolly. “No, it’s still in your car.”

  Dolly’s whole manner changed. She toughened up and, in an instant, was back to her usual self. “How the hell did he get in? Did you let him in?”

  “No! He broke in through your French doors at the back.”

  The telephone rang three times and went silent, then two seconds later it rang again and Dolly picked up. Two rings for Linda, three rings for Bella—that was the code they’d agreed. Bella was also about to board her plane and was checking to see if everything was OK with Dolly. “Everything’s fine. Shirley didn’t catch her plane because of her swollen ankle. She’s with me and will be flying out in a couple of days. Have a nice time.” Dolly replaced the phone before Bella could ask any more questions and poured herself another brandy.

  Shirley turned to Dolly. “I swear I’ve never seen him before, Dolly! He just came at me and then he kicked . . .” Still Shirley couldn’t get it out. She bent her head and covered her face.

  Dolly sat down next to her again and put her hand on Shirley’s knee. “All right, love, just calm down and we’ll go over it all. Here, have a sip of my brandy.” Dolly took Shirley’s hands and cupped them round the crystal glass. “You settle your nerves. I’ll nip and let Wolf out before he waters the plants for me.”

  Shirley had to say something before Dolly got to the lounge door. “I’m sorry, Dolly. I’m so sorry.” Dolly paused. “He was protecting me from the man. He bit him and—I didn’t see exactly, but Wolf was right in the middle of all the scuffling, biting and barking, and then . . .” Shirley broke down in tears. Dolly’s reaction was like nothing Shirley had ever seen from her before. She looked like a lost and frightened child.

  “Please tell me he’s all right.” Dolly nervously picked at a thread of loose cotton on the seam of her trousers; all she could do was stare at Shirley. “Where is he?”

  “I put him in his basket,” Shirley said, broken-voiced.

  Shirley followed Dolly into the kitchen and watched as she knelt beside the motionless little dog. She picked up his limp body, held him close and nursed him in her arms. He was still warm as Dolly nuzzled his neck. Her voice was filled with grief. “Oh, my little darlin’, my poor little darlin’.”

  Dolly took two or three minutes to say goodbye to Wolf, while Shirley stood silently in the kitchen doorway. When the moment was right, Dolly visibly seemed to stiffen; her whole body went rigid, her mouth hard and tight. She gently put Wolf down in his basket and stroked his head. Then she got up, opened a drawer and took out a lace table cloth, which she laid out on the kitchen floor. She gently wrapped the cloth round Wolf’s body, like a baby at a christening. She picked him up and turned to Shirley.

  “Bury him in the garden, in his basket, with his bowls and leads as well. Anything you see belonging to him gets buried with him.” Dolly kissed Wolf’s head, handed him to Shirley and picked up her car keys.

  “Where are you going, Dolly? Please don’t leave me on my own,” Shirley pleaded.

  “I’ve got things to do, but I won’t be long. We’ll leave the country together in a day or so. There’s no reason for me to stay now, not with my baby gone. Close the garage doors for me after I’ve left.”

  Dolly was out of the kitchen door and in the garage before Shirley could ask her anything else. She limped over to the basket, put Wolf in it, followed by his dog bowl and lead, and then carried everything out to the garden.

  As she opened the garage doors and stood by her car, Dolly couldn’t stop herself. The inner pain and numbing grief was just like the day her baby boy was stillborn in the hospital. Harry wasn’t with her at the time—he’d been away on “business”—and she’d been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance with stomach pains. It was weeks before her due date. Dolly could remember the kind midwife handing her over the still-warm body of her dead son. He was beautiful. His pale skin was perfect and, as she put her little finger in his hand, she sobbed her heart out. She was so proud of her little boy for trying so hard; he’d done so well to make it that far and she thanked him for the time they shared. She told him that he had his dad’s features and that she was so very sad not to have known him for longer. The pain of her loss was compounded by having to lie in a ward filled with other women who gently cradled their newborns.

  At the time, Dolly hadn’t known how she would tell Harry when he eventually turned up at the hospital. He had been so happy when she fell pregnant; their love had grown even stronger and he had been so affectionate, promising to take great care of them both. He’d been immensely proud at the prospect of being a father—especially to a son—and in many ways Dolly was more upset for Harry than herself. She longed to give Harry everything he desired; she loved him so very much. She’d sensed the moment he’d arrived at the hospital; even before he walked through the doors to the maternity ward, she knew he was there.

  She dreaded telling him the heart-breaking news but, as he walked through the swing doors and onto the ward, she knew from the look of sadness in his eyes that the doctor had already told him. Harry was never one freely to show emotion, but he did that day. They wept together and they held each other so tight that Dolly could still remember the feel of Harry’s strong arms round her shoulders. She also remembered his voice as he whispered in her ear . . . “Never again Dolly. I can’t lose any more.” And that was the moment that her hopes of a family disappeared.

  When she and Harry returned home, he didn’t go into work for weeks. He waited on her hand and foot until she was physically well again, bringing trays of food and drink to her bedside and even doing the housework—sort of.

  Dolly leaned her head against the roof of her car as she recalled how Harry had helped her deal with their tragic loss—the day he had come home with a tiny white bundle of fur and gently placed him on her lap.

  “I think we should call him Wolf,” Harry had said with a loving smile. But his eyes had a different message. His eyes said: “This is an end to it. This is your baby. Subject closed.” He wasn’t being unkind; he was being practical. Their lives had to get back to how they were and that couldn’t happen with all the sadness and mourning in the air. Life goes on.

  Dolly recalled holding Wolf as a tiny puppy in her arms and rocking him like a baby. He had snuggled down and fallen asleep almost immediately. He had been so content—and so had she. But now . . . now she felt the pain of loss bursting her body open. A sound—not a cry, but a deep low sound of anguish and anger inched out of her. Dolly turned toward the garage wall and there was a sickening thud as she smashed her fist against it, then another and another as she punched the wall for a second and third time. Only when she saw the red patch on the wall from her bleeding knuckles did she realize what she was doing and stop. The pain that filled her chest filtered slowly to her hand and distracted her from wanting to curl up and die.

  Chapter 32

  Resnick wiped the remains of the egg yolk with a slice of bread, then sucked on it before swallowing it down and neatly placing his knife and fork on the plate. He slurped his tea and looked round the clean, orderly kitchen. His dirty frying pan and plate were the only things out of place. From upstairs, Resnick could hear the Irish DJ Terry Wogan burbling on his wife Kathleen’s radio. Resnick sighed. Jesus, I hope I’m good at golf.

  It was a long time since he’d played golf, so he set about looking for his set of clubs in the cupboard under the stairs. He had to chuck out Wellington boots, a walking stick and an old upright Hoover to get to them. Some of the clubs were a bit rusty and his golf shoes were covered in mildew, but they’d be easy enough to clean. If he left them on newspaper on the kitchen table with the polish and brush by their side, Kathleen would clean them for him.
That’s how his shoes normally got polished.

  He got a putter and four golf balls out of the bag. Placing his used tea mug on its side on the hallway floor, he practiced putting the balls toward the mug. He was rubbish, but as he stood there, head down and focused, he smiled at the thought of having something to take his mind off work.

  Upstairs, Kathleen could hear the golf balls hitting the hallway skirting board. She pursed her lips and called out. “George! George, what on earth are you doing?”

  Resnick hit the next ball hard, it went straight into the mug, spinning it round and breaking the bottom off it. “Yeah!” Resnick yelled.

  “George!”

  The mug stopped spinning. The side of it facing him bore the legend “Best Boss.” It had been a Secret Santa Christmas present seven years ago. He knew it was from Alice, as she’d filled it to the top with his favorite chocolates and also bought him a quarter bottle of his favorite whisky. She was good like that—he’d mention something in passing, such as his favorite tipple, and she’d remember. Resnick stared at the mug for a moment, then at the skirting board behind it, then at the rest of the hallway. God, it was drab. There was the odd feminine touch here and there, but the paintwork and the decor was boring and unloved.

  Resnick picked up his putter and golf ball and went upstairs.

  Kathleen lay in bed, the newspapers and morning tea tray at her side. “I’m going to paint the hallway.” Resnick said, placing his golf ball on the carpet and lining up his first bedroom shot.

  Kathleen didn’t even look up. She turned a page of the paper. “Get dressed first, dear,” she mocked.

  “I don’t mean right this very minute. It’ll take planning.”

  “That’s what you’re doing now, is it? Planning?”

  “I’m taking golf up again.” Resnick beamed.

  “It’ll do you good to get some fresh air,” she replied. “Not to mention get you out from under my feet,” she added under her breath.