Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  Bill shifted his weight. He was getting pissed off with all this hanging round: he couldn’t see why Harry didn’t just let him pay Dolly a visit and force it out of her. “That cop Resnick turned up and had a good gander at the house,” he added. “He was on his own. Only there for a minute or two.”

  Harry laughed. “Don’t worry about him. He’s an idiot only fit to investigate kids nicking sweets from the corner shop.” He handed Bill a mug of tea and paced round the kitchen, deep in thought. “If nothing has moved by 6 a.m., you come back and pick me up and the three of us will go in. I’ll deal with Dolly and you and Eddie can keep the other one quiet. Eddie owes her a good slap after what she done to his face.”

  “You want my opinion?” Bill chewed his lip and slurped his tea. “We should have gone in that bloody house hours ago and got what we needed. All this farting about has given your missus time to hide the cash and now—”

  As Bill spoke, Harry tightened the towel round his waist and launched himself across the kitchen, grabbing Bill by the scruff of his neck and slamming him against the kitchen wall. Harry already knew what Bill’s opinion was; he knew what went on in his warped head. “I make the decisions, you hear me? And you—you do as I say!”

  Bill stood against the wall, tea held out to the side so as not to spill it, and avoided eye contact. Bill wasn’t frightened of Harry—they were pretty equally matched when it came down to it—but Harry was the boss and Bill respected that. Harry was the one with the money and the brains, the reputation and the power. Bill had none of that, so he held his tongue. Bill liked to live in the shadows, but those who did know him knew he was a man who got things done. Quickly and quietly. That’s why people hired him. Bill had never, and would never, grass on anyone. On the three occasions he’d done some face rearranging for Harry, there had been no trail between Harry and the incident itself. That kind of discretion was worth paying for, and Harry paid well.

  As Harry let go of Bill, Trudie walked in holding the crying baby. Harry, still all fired up, turned on her.

  “What the fuck do you want now?” he snapped, knowing she was just snooping. Bill took his opportunity to slope out of the open door.

  Trudie looked nervous. “Just a cup of tea and some milk for the baby. That’s all.”

  Resnick was waiting outside Jimmy Nunn’s flat. He’d stopped just along the road behind some parked cars so he had a decent view without being visible himself. He saw a man walk out of the flats and recognized him as the passenger from the car parked outside Dolly’s house; the car that had Eddie Rawlins in the driver’s seat.

  As the man passed under a street lamp, Resnick got a good look. “I know you,” Resnick whispered, poking his forehead with his finger, willing himself to remember the name that went with the face. “How do I know you?”

  The man got into a Ford Granada and moved off. Resnick decided to follow and they were soon back in the vicinity of Dolly Rawlins’s house. Resnick pulled up round the corner; he was unsure of his next move until he could place the mystery man. Think, think, think . . . Resnick closed his eyes and, in his head, he flicked back through all the lags he’d arrested over the years. Occasionally he’d shake his head out of frustration at hitting another dead end. His eyes shot open. “Fuck. Grant!” he breathed. Resnick rubbed his eyes, dragging his hands down his face, distorting his features for a moment as his brain worked overtime trying to figure out what the hell was going on. He needed someone to talk to . . . he never thought he’d say it, but he wished Fuller was sitting next to him. He was a pious prick, but he was also a decent officer who listened, reluctantly or otherwise, when Resnick spoke. Unlike Andrews who had, in all honesty, peaked at traffic duty. “Right,” Resnick said, as if Fuller was by his side. “Bill Grant. Why is he watching the Rawlins house? Why has he got Jimmy Nunn’s car? How does he know Eddie Rawlins? You’re working for someone, Bill Grant . . . I know you . . . you get your hands dirty for the highest bidder.” He wished he could call for backup, wished he could nick Eddie Rawlins and Bill Grant and then search Jimmy Nunn’s flat.

  Just then, the Granada came back round the corner. Resnick ducked down and, as the car passed, he sat up just enough to get a glimpse of the driver. It was Eddie Rawlins. So, Bill Grant must now be outside Dolly Rawlins’s house in Jimmy Nunn’s BMW. This was tag-team surveillance: two cars, two foot soldiers obeying orders. But who were they working for? Resnick, of course, in his heart of hearts, knew only too well.

  Unable to sleep, Dolly had gone into the spare room where Shirley was sleeping to get a better view of the street. Outside, Eddie was sitting alone in the BMW. She needed to know for definite if he was the man who broke into the house.

  Dolly shook Shirley, but she didn’t stir. Dolly pulled the covers off. “Come on, Shirley. Wake up,” Dolly said firmly. Eventually, Shirley’s eyes opened and Dolly helped her to her feet.

  Together, they peered out from behind the curtains just as Bill Grant pulled up in a Granada and swapped places with Eddie. Shirley was shaking like a leaf. It was obvious that she was terrified at the sight of Eddie. Dolly put her arm round Shirley’s shoulder.

  “That’s Eddie Rawlins, Harry’s cousin. He’s a coward, Shirley. A runt of a man who slaps women and kills dogs. He’s nothing, you hear me? And he won’t hurt you again. I can promise you that.”

  The sincerity in Dolly’s voice made Shirley feel safe—she loved the way Dolly could do that. She wished her mum was as strong.

  Shirley didn’t recognize the other man, but Dolly did. He was the man who had come to the door of the lock-up and introduced himself as Bill Grant. Dolly screwed her eyes shut and whispered, “Idiot!” Every move at the lock-up could have been watched by Grant. If he knew everything, right from the very beginning, then no wonder Eddie had been at the house looking for the money . . .

  Dolly needed to think about how they could leave the house with Bill Grant watching, and then lose him if he tailed them. And if Eddie returned, there would be the further complication of two men in separate cars to follow them. Too physically and mentally exhausted to think straight, Dolly felt scared, and this was very new to her. She wished Shirley had got on her flight as arranged: at least if Dolly had a meltdown, she could have had it in private! But Shirley was here and, like a child, needed constant reassurance.

  Dolly paced up and down the landing, while Shirley went to make them both something to eat. Dolly didn’t want anything, but she needed to be left alone to think. She looked at her watch. It was nearly 2 a.m. and the flight from Heathrow wasn’t until midday. They didn’t have to be at the airport until 10 a.m. at the latest and the airport was, at best, an hour away. Dolly sighed. Leaving the house in daylight was not a good idea and she knew that the sooner they were out under the cover of darkness, the better chance they had of losing a tail.

  After a while, Dolly had an idea. It was only a partial plan and it was a bit outrageous, but what the hell—she had become used to outrageous over the past few months! She headed for the kitchen.

  “I thought I’d make a fry up Dolly, do you want—”

  “We need to leave here between four and 4:30 a.m.,” Dolly interrupted. “Can you trust your mum?”

  Shirley turned the gas off on the stove. “Yes, of course.”

  “Can she drive?”

  “Yes,” Shirley replied, waiting for Dolly to reveal her plan.

  “And you’ve got a brother, that right?”

  “Greg. He lives with Mum.”

  “Right,” Dolly said, pointing her finger at Shirley. “Get Greg to go to the car park in Covent Garden and get your car. Tell him to park it in Mount Close—that’s the large cul-de-sac off the second street down if you go right out of my driveway. Tell him to leave the driver’s door unlocked, the keys under the seat and to ring here when it’s done.”

  Shirley looked doubtful. “At 2 a.m., he’ll either be pissed as a fart somewhere or comatose in his bed. If he’s in, I’ll definitely get Mum to wake him. But if he’s out
. . .”

  “Well, let’s hope he’s in bed, then. Tell him, if your car’s gone, if it’s been nicked, then he’ll have to use his imagination and find us something else. But, no matter what, I need a car, any car, parked in that cul-de-sac by 4 a.m. at the very latest. There’ll be a hundred quid in it for him. And get your mum round here as soon as. I’ll give the money to her to pass on to your brother. You got all that?”

  “Got it,” Shirley confirmed. She got a plate out of the cupboard and picked up the frying pan to dish up her breakfast.

  Dolly moved swiftly across the kitchen, got two slices of bread from the bread bin and slammed them down on Shirley’s plate, leaving deep finger marks in the soft white dough. “Make a sandwich.” Dolly glared. “Eat as you dial.”

  Five minutes later, Dolly lent over the banister and shouted down to Shirley, who appeared from the kitchen, sandwich in hand.

  “The phone just keeps ringing and ringing,” Shirley reported. “I’ll keep trying.”

  Five minutes after that, Dolly lent over the banister again. She was holding a pair of scissors.

  “No luck,” said Shirley. “Me brother may be at his girlfriend’s and I haven’t got a number for her, and Mum sometimes wears earplugs at night . . .”

  “Well, keep bloody trying,” Dolly said, pointing the scissors at Shirley.

  “You cutting your hair?” Shirley asked.

  “What?”

  “Like a disguise. I don’t have to cut mine, do I?”

  “Honest to God, Shirley, I don’t know how your brain works sometimes. Would you rather go to prison for life or cut your lovely blonde curls? Choose!”

  Shirley stood in the hallway, running her ringers through her hair and mulling over what she might look like with a bob cut. Dolly rolled her eyes.

  “We ain’t cutting our hair! Phone your mum!”

  Shirley rang her mum’s house again and, this time, the phone was answered, but there was silence at the other end. “Mum, is that you?” Shirley shouted.

  “Nah, it’s me . . .” Greg’s response was slurred. “What you doin’ ringing home this time in the morning?” He’d been drinking and probably been sniffing God knows what as well; but he soon sobered up when Shirley mentioned the hundred pounds.

  Shirley shouted up to Dolly. “I’m going to get dressed, Dolly. Greg’s doing what you said and Mum’s on her way round.”

  Upstairs, Dolly closed her eyes and sighed out of sheer relief. She was in the master bedroom setting light to the last few pages of the ledgers. She’d used the metal bin from Harry’s study. The leather covers wouldn’t burn but, as she watched every page turn to ashes, she cut them up with the scissors.

  She’d been in two minds about bringing the ledgers home after her last visit to the bank but she was glad she had, as she’d never have got another chance to collect them. She’d kept the location of the ledgers from the girls for their own protection; after all, what they didn’t know couldn’t hurt them.

  Standing at the dressing table, Dolly smiled to herself. She looked at the array of beautiful cosmetics and designer perfumes, and then she swept them all onto the floor with one hard, fast swipe of her arm. She was ready; she felt good.

  She glanced down at the ashes in the metal bin. Harry’s only means of protecting himself and blackmailing other villains was gone. One way or another, she’d make sure that word got out.

  Taking one last look around the bedroom, her eyes fixed on the bedside cabinet and the photo of her and Harry. She picked it up, placed it face-up on the floor and stamped her foot down hard, gouging and twisting with her heel and grinding the broken glass into the photo. “Bastard,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Then she picked up two suitcases and left her bedroom for the last time.

  Dolly carried her suitcases into the lounge and sat down. She picked up her handbag and got out the flight tickets, then she opened one of the suitcases and began to remove some of the men’s clothes packed neatly inside and stack them on the arm of the chair.

  Shirley finished putting on her lipstick and checked her hair in the dressing table mirror. She looked pretty damn good considering it was the early hours. As she walked down the stairs, the smell of breakfast was mixing with Dolly’s heavy perfume. In the lounge, Shirley found Dolly and her two red suitcases, one of which was open. The base was covered with rows of bank notes. “There’s over a hundred thousand in here,” Dolly announced. “Spending money for Rio. Enough to keep us living well for two months or so. Sit down, love, I need you to listen carefully to this.”

  Shirley sat down obediently.

  “Two identical suitcases, right? One with a red tag, one with a blue tag.”

  “Right,” Shirley agreed, her forehead frowning with concentration. The suitcase with the red tag was the one open on the floor with the money inside.

  “The case with the red tag has been cleaned from top to bottom, inside and out, so there’re no prints on it from either of us. Not one. You don’t touch this suitcase without gloves on.” Dolly handed Shirley a pair of stunning cream silk gloves.

  “Red case, red tag—the one with the money in it—is clean. I’m not to touch it without gloves on,” Shirley repeated. “These are beautiful by the way,” she added.

  “Consider them a gift,” Dolly replied, getting quickly back on track. “The red case with a blue tag is mine. The red case with the red tag has the money at the bottom and will have men’s clothes at the top.”

  “Got it,” Shirley confirmed. “I think . . .”

  Dolly continued. “You take the money case and your own case—”

  “What if my car’s been nicked?” Shirley asked in a panic.

  “Then we buy you another suitcase and clothes to go in it. But your car’ll be there. I can’t see any respectable thief nicking that old crap heap. Listening? Right, I take the red case with the blue tag—that’s full of my clothes—and I go through check-in as normal. You take the money case and your own case. You hang about in the check-in area, looking for a bloke—a decoy, someone we can use.”

  “Like a pigeon!” Shirley exclaimed.

  “More like a stoolpigeon, but yes, you’ve got the idea. It must be a man.”

  “Yes, I got that. Male clothes, right? And then only his prints will be on the case if customs try it on. I’m right, aren’t I?” Shirley was proud of herself for picking up on the plan so quickly.

  “Bang on, Shirl. So, you’re looking for a man who’s traveling light. You tell him you didn’t realize there was a weight allowance, play the dumb blonde, tell him that with two cases, you’re overweight and don’t want to pay the excess baggage fine. Flutter your eyelashes and get him to check the money case in for you in his name.”

  Shirley was now chewing her fingertip through the silk glove.

  “Don’t chew them—they was an anniversary present!” Dolly shouted.

  “Sorry.” Shirley said, forcing her hands down by her side and mouthing the entire plan back to herself.

  “When we land in Rio,” Dolly continued. “The money case—”

  “Red tag,” Shirley whispered to herself.

  “—and my identical case—”

  “Blue tag.”

  “—will be on the carousel together. I’m going to pick up the money case and take it through customs.”

  “So, do I take your case?” Shirley asked, getting very confused.

  Dolly was about to explode, but she had to keep her calm in order to keep Shirley calm. “No, not right away. You leave it on the carousel and watch me. If customs stop me and open the case, I act all surprised that there’s men’s clothes inside, and even more surprised if they dig down as far as the money. I say I must have picked up the wrong case. I go back to the carousel and pick up the suitcase with the blue tag. My case, my clothes. And I deny all knowledge of the other one.”

  Shirley was staring, hands clasped together between her heaving bosoms, taking huge deep breaths. She looked like a rabbit caught in the headlig
hts. But she was listening . . . really listening. A tornado could have swept through the lounge and Shirley wouldn’t have taken her eyes off Dolly’s face.

  “Now, listen hard,” Dolly continued, slow and exact. “If, and only if, I get through customs safely, then you pick up my case. If you get stopped there’s no problem because both of your cases are full of women’s clothes.” Dolly ended with a triumphant smile. Her plan was brilliant!

  Shirley’s mind had gone to putty. She slumped into an armchair. “I’ll never remember all that!”

  Dolly controlled her temper and sat on the arm of the chair. The last thing she needed was for Shirley to lose her nerve. “Course you can do it, darlin’. Look at everything you’ve done so far! The case switch is a doddle compared to the robbery. So, in your own time, go over it once again, just to be sure.”

  Shirley began again, but Dolly wasn’t really listening; her eyes were on the clock. Where was bloody Audrey? As Shirley talked the whole plan through again, Dolly got up, crossed to the window and pulled the curtains back very slightly. Bill Grant was still there, still watching.

  “I don’t see why we’re taking such a risk, Dolly,” Shirley was beginning to whine. “I mean, why do we have to take this amount of money with us? It’s crazy! We don’t need all this. What if you’re caught?”

  Dolly clenched her fists and her face twisted. “It’s me taking the risk!” she snapped. “Me carrying it through Rio customs, not you. You’ve got bloody sod all to do except to carry your case and mine through. If the customs officers don’t believe me then I’m the one that gets arrested, so shut your face and do as I ask!”

  Shirley was close to tears, not because Dolly had shouted at her, but because she was so stressed the slightest thing might tip her over the edge. She picked up Harry’s clothes and threw them into the case.

  “Is that how you pack for a holiday?” Dolly demanded. Shirley stopped what she was doing and shook her head. “Then please pack them properly,” Dolly went on. “Because if customs do open the case, I don’t want them to suspect anything out of the ordinary.”