Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  Trudie slammed her hands on the window. There was nothing she could do. She didn’t even know where Harry had lived with Dolly.

  The baby screamed from the bedroom. Trudie knew exactly how he felt: she too wanted to open up her lungs and let it all out. It was all going horribly wrong. Harry had been so careful for so long, and then Dolly soddin’ Rawlins had to go and do one of his robberies! The stupid cow. The stupid, old, ugly cow!

  Trudie raced into the bedroom and shouted, “SHUT UP!” The baby, who was sitting in his playpen, howling for no apparent reason, turned up the volume. Trudie felt as if her world was about to collapse around her and she suddenly snapped and slapped the child hard. Instantly mortified, she picked him up and squeezed him tight. Shaken by the slap, the baby fell silent, while Trudie sobbed her heart out.

  Shirley waited nervously at Heathrow as the bus driver lifted the cases from the luggage compartment. Just wait till I see her, she thought angrily to herself. I’ll tell her what I think. And I’ll tell the girls that she left me in the street. Linda will hate her even more when she hears that! She realized that she sounded like a petty, sulky child but, right now, this anger was helping her keep her focus.

  She got a trolley, placed the two cases on it and, entering the terminal, checked the illuminated notice board for the Rio flight check-in desk. Pushing her trolley over to the check-in queue, she took some deep breaths and got down to the job of looking over the passengers for an appropriate stooge. “Young bloke, very little luggage . . .” she repeated to herself. The thought of flirting with a total stranger filled her with dread. She was surprisingly bad at flirting, except with judging panels at beauty competitions. She took a moment to get her head straight and then practiced fluttering her eyelashes.

  After about twenty minutes, she began to feel scared. Everyone in the queue so far had big cases—and she hadn’t spotted Dolly anywhere. What if the plan failed at the first hurdle because she couldn’t find a single gullible man traveling light?

  Shirley wheeled the trolley up and down, watching and waiting. Fifteen more minutes passed with no one suitable joining the queue. She began to get edgy: she might have to risk taking the case herself and paying for the excess luggage with the cash she’d put into her handbag. She didn’t want to do that as the serial numbers on bank notes could be traced.

  Suddenly she saw a likely candidate. A scruffy-looking young man with only a rucksack had joined the end of the queue and was checking over his flight papers. Shirley grabbed her ticket and passport out of her handbag, quickly pushed her way in behind him and clipped his heel with the trolley.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bump you. Is this the queue for the Rio flight?” Pretending to be flustered, she dropped her ticket and passport. He bent to pick them up for her and handed them back. “I’ve been such a silly thing,” Shirley continued, playing the dumb blonde beautifully. “I’m a model and I’m doing my very first foreign magazine shoot in Rio. I didn’t realize there was a weight restriction on the luggage and I’ve brought two cases filled with dresses and bikinis. Now I’m worried that I’m way over the allowance and I can’t think what on earth to do because I’ve got no money to pay for extra luggage. I really do need seventeen bikinis though and . . .”

  She didn’t even have to finish her sentence. “Why don’t you let me help you out?” the young man said, and moved to grab Shirley’s own case from the trolley. She put her hand on top of his.

  “The other one’s a little heavier,” she said, “so if you don’t mind . . . ?”

  He clearly didn’t mind. He gave her a quick wink and picked up the money case as he shuffled forward.

  Feeling very chuffed with herself, Shirley kept up the polite chat as they queued for check in. He smelt of body odor, looked unwashed and unkempt, but his voice suggested that he was well educated, although clearly not very streetwise. She was relieved to watch her new friend, who told her his name was Charles, check in and put the money case on the conveyor belt. The attendant placed a sticky luggage tag around the handle and Shirley watched her hundred grand head for the plane.

  When it was Shirley’s turn to check in, she whispered to the lady at the desk, “Please can you make sure I’m not sitting near that man?” The lady glanced at Charles, smiled her understanding and with female solidarity sat Shirley a good ten rows away from him.

  Charles hovered around her through passport control and into the departure lounge. He rambled on about how he traveled to different destinations and how he had hitchhiked his way across countries, sightseeing and doing all sorts of jobs to pay his way. His parents were wealthy but he refused to sponge off them and always found the cheapest and most economical ways to travel. Oh, my God! Shirley thought to herself as she sipped the champagne Charles had bought her, he’s so boring! Eventually, she made her excuses and said that she had some important calls to make to her agent prior to boarding.

  Shirley looked in every restaurant, burger bar, pub and wine bar—even the bathrooms—but she couldn’t see Dolly anywhere. It was as if Dolly wasn’t taking the flight to Rio at all. Shirley knew she couldn’t turn back, not now the money bag was on the plane: she’d have to go to Rio and tell Bella and Linda that they’d all been stiffed! She took deep breaths as she thought through her plan of action. They’d all have to return to London on the next flight and go to the convent and—oh, God, what if the rest of the money wasn’t there? What if it was never there? What if—Shirley’s head was about to explode when she suddenly saw the one area of the airport she hadn’t searched. And there, in the window of the first class lounge, was Dolly bloody Rawlins, eating her breakfast.

  Bill Grant adjusted the mirror again and looked behind them. “It ain’t an Old Bill car, but he’s definitely keeping one vehicle in between us and him.”

  “Classic filth technique.” Eddie sounded panicked.

  Harry checked out the car, sat back in his seat and shook his head. “No matter how many times you swat some flies, they always come back for more.” There was real hatred in Harry’s voice. The other two didn’t ask for further details.

  “Do I keep going?” said Bill. Going to Dolly’s house in broad daylight was a bad idea, especially if someone was tailing them.

  “Nothing changes,” Harry growled. He looked in the rearview mirror again, just to be sure, and spoke through gritted teeth. “Jesus Christ, I thought I’d done his legs and seen the last of him years ago. He followed me about for years like a bloodhound on the scent of his biggest kill. He got close, real close.”

  “And now he’s back,” said Bill.

  Harry wondered how on earth Resnick could be on to him. How could he know he was still alive? Maybe he didn’t . . . maybe he was watching Eddie and Bill over the murder of Boxer Davis? Harry pulled the scarf a little further up his face. He was confident he hadn’t been seen when they left Jimmy’s flat and he doubted Resnick would recognize him from just his eyes, not after so many years. He smiled behind the scarf. If Bill and Eddie got nicked for Boxer, that wasn’t his problem.

  Bill couldn’t hold back any longer. “He’s filth then, is he?”

  “The bloke on our tail is none other than the infamous Detective Inspector George Resnick.”

  “Shit! What we gonna do, Harry?” Eddie bleated.

  “Don’t worry, son, Resnick’s luck just ran out for good,” Harry said.

  Bill pulled up a good fifty yards from Dolly’s house and Resnick had no choice but to drive on past them. His intention was to go round the block, double back on himself and park up at a safe distance without, he thought, being seen. But as Resnick drove past, Harry taunted the old man by pulling the scarf down to his chin, revealing his face. The inside of the car was too dark for Resnick to be certain; but the speed at which his heart rate increased told him that the man he’d just seen was Harry Rawlins . . .

  Harry was quick to bark his orders. “Eddie, open the garage. Bill—he’s all yours.” Eddie raced across the street as instructed
; Bill got out of the car and hid behind the hedge; Harry slipped across to the driver’s seat and drove the BMW into the garage.

  Now parked opposite, Resnick sat staring at the Rawlins house. His fists gripped the steering wheel and, when he unclenched them, his hands trembled like jelly. He watched Eddie close one garage door behind the BMW, and then another man came out of the garage and closed the second door. This man paused, looked straight at Resnick and lit a cigarette. Briefly, the flame illuminated every feature of the face Resnick had been chasing for so many years. “Rawlins!” Resnick whispered. A broad smile crept across Resnick’s face. He was right! He was always right!

  He was taken completely by surprise when the driver’s door was yanked open and blow after blow from Bill’s knuckle duster rained down on his face. Trapped by the steering wheel, Resnick couldn’t get away or defend himself properly. He raised his hands to try and deflect the punches but it was too late. His head reeled backward and forward from the savage attack and then he felt a hand grab his hair and repeatedly smash his face into the steering wheel. As he started to slip into unconsciousness, lights flashed before his eyes, reds, blues, yellows, a mass of bright rainbow colors. He heard the sound of his nose crunching and breaking as Bill’s fist slammed into his face again. And all Resnick could do was wait to pass out, so the terrible pain would end.

  Eventually, he went limp and he fell sideways, his upper body hanging partially out the car. Bill stepped back and kicked out as hard as he could at Resnick’s head, causing it to snap back and shift over toward the passenger’s seat. Looking up and down the street, Bill slammed the car door shut, slipped his knuckle duster back into his pocket and casually crossed back toward the house. The vicious attack on Resnick had taken less than thirty seconds.

  Although Bill thought he’d slammed the car door shut, Resnick’s right arm had been caught in it. The blood streamed down his fingers, his face was covered in blood, but he felt no pain now, just the cool air as the door slowly, inch by inch, swung open and away from his shattered fingers. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t cry out. Unable to open his swollen, bleeding eyes, Resnick simply sat and waited to be found.

  As Bill jogged across the road and disappeared into the darkness of Dolly’s garage, a man out walking his dog headed toward Resnick’s car.

  When Bill slipped in through the gap in the garage door, Eddie was already searching.

  “Harry’s upstairs,” he said to Bill.

  Bill went through to the lounge, where he opened a flick knife and started to cut into the sofa and cushions, the same cushions that had already been slashed by Tony Fisher and neatly sewn up again by Dolly. He was getting Resnick’s blood on the fabric, but he figured that didn’t matter now.

  Upstairs, Harry stood in the doorway of the empty nursery. There wasn’t a scrap of furniture left; only the pale blue wallpaper with dancing teddy bears told him that this had been his son’s bedroom. His nostrils flared as a strange and painful anger filled his soul. Wherever Dolly was, he now knew that she had no intention of ever coming back. This room had meant everything. Wolf had meant everything. He had meant everything. All gone. She had nothing to come back for.

  In the guest room, the unmade bed told Harry that blondie had stayed the night. He searched, but found nothing. He was seething with fury: he had to find something quickly now, anything that would lead him to the money. Dolly had a clear head start and she was covering her tracks well. If he didn’t find some clue as to where she’d gone—and fast—then the game was up and he’d be left with nothing.

  In the master bedroom, he was confronted by a smell of burning and a picture of destruction—the strewn cosmetics, the smashed and trampled photo frame. Dolly was naturally such a pristine woman. He knew this room like the back of this hand but now couldn’t tell if anything was out of place, because everything was out of place. Harry picked up a spilled bottle of face cream and set it back on the dressing table, and then he picked up the smashed photo frame and put it back on the table next to Dolly’s side of the bed. He crossed to her wardrobe, opened it, and saw there were clothes and shoes missing. Then he crossed to his own wardrobe, and discovered that everything had been slashed, torn or stained with nail varnish. “Bitch!” he hissed. Not because of the lost clothes, but because of the hatred Dolly must have felt for him as she destroyed the designer labels he valued so highly. This was the act of a betrayed woman, a woman in pain—and a woman with nothing left to lose. There was no doubt Dolly knew he was alive.

  The last remnants of Harry’s old life hung in tatters before his eyes. As he slammed the wardrobe shut, the mirror on the outside of the door shattered.

  “Seven years bad—” Standing in the bedroom doorway, Eddie shut his own mouth before Harry shut it for him.

  Harry followed his nose to the metal waste bin and saw charred paper at the bottom. It wasn’t at all clear what this was, but the cut-up leather book covers could only mean one thing. He reached into the bin, picked up a handful of ashes and let them fall between his fingers like black snow. His ledgers. His ledgers were gone. He clenched his fists; he wanted to scream at the top of his voice. He had nothing and Dolly, it seemed, had everything. How dare she? How fucking dare she do this? “I’ll kill you,” he whispered. “I swear to God I’ll kill you myself.”

  Eddie couldn’t hear Harry’s words and had no idea what he had just discovered. “I’ll carry on searching, shall I?” he said. “Don’t worry about the mess, Harry. Your Trudie will have this ship-shape in no time at all. And your nursery will finally get a bit of use—”

  Harry erupted in sheer, uncontrolled anger and kicked Eddie in the balls, sending him crumpling to his knees. He wanted to kill Eddie, wanted to rip his heart out and feed it to him, but the weasely little runt wasn’t worth the effort. Harry spun round, let out a huge roar and slammed his fist into the wardrobe door, punching a hole straight though the wood. Splinters shot into his hand, but he didn’t feel a thing.

  As Eddie whimpered from the carpet, Bill ran up the stairs.

  “Harry, come and see . . .” Bill stopped at the sight of Harry standing, shoulders hunched, chest heaving and blood dripping from his knuckles. His hooded eyes were as angry as the devil himself. Bill thought Harry had flipped beyond the point of no return and, if he had, then Bill was out of here—he was a cautious thug, never killing or maiming in anger, always with controlled violence. He said what he’d come up to say, in case Harry was capable of snapping back to reality. “I found something in the garden. Something buried. You interested or do you just want to kill everybody?”

  Harry’s eyes blinked and the glazed look disappeared. He was just stepping over Eddie, who was still on the floor nursing his balls, when the phone rang. Harry froze. He took his time to cross the bedroom and, two rings in, the phone stopped. Harry stopped. The phone rang again and, this time, it kept on ringing. He stood over the phone, his hand outstretched toward it. He knew it was Dolly; it had to be. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of answering, but he had to. He sat on the bed and slowly picked up the receiver. No one spoke, yet through the echo of eerie silence he could sense her. “That you, Doll?”

  The line went dead.

  Harry ripped the phone from the socket and hurled it across the room.

  Chapter 38

  Linda’s hand was shaking as she replaced the receiver on the hotel room phone. She felt numb and the hairs on her arms were standing on end, as if a blast of ice-cold air had struck her body. She looked up at Bella, who was standing at the bathroom door in yet another creation she had bought from the hotel boutique store the night before. This time, she was wearing a green and white silk dress and she was swathed from head to foot like a Greek goddess in a matching body scarf.

  “Right, tell me straight Linda, do you think I should change this dress for the blue one, or treat myself and buy both?”

  Linda was staring at the wall. That voice—she knew that voice . . .

  Bella was oblivious as she
plonked a sequin-covered hat at a jaunty angle on her head. “What do you think? Does the hat go with the outfit or not?”

  They’d only been in Rio for a matter of hours, but Bella had been going spend-crazy in the hotel boutique. The money Dolly had given her had gone in the blink of an eye, and her bed was covered in dress boxes, handbags, shoes and bathing suits. The hotel staff were already treating Bella as if she was Shirley Bassey, and so they should: she had so far spent thousands on hotel credit and was still going strong.

  Bella looked over to Linda. She was beginning to get on her nerves. “You been phoning London again? Shirley will be here when she’s here. Stop worrying. If you call again, I’ll chuck the phone in the pool.”

  While Bella had been spending herself silly, Linda had been drinking herself silly. She’d drunk all the bottles of miniatures from the fridge and had been on to room service so often last night that they’d stopped asking her what she wanted; they just brought her “usual.” She’d been drunk all night, barely slept, and now she was getting neurotic and imagining all sorts of terrible things had happened to Shirley.

  Bella threw one of her new swimsuits at Linda and it hit her on the head. “Come on, Linda, stop worrying about Shirley. Dolly told me her ankle was bad and she’d fly out later. Let’s go for a morning dip—there were some good-looking guys down by the pool last night.”

  Linda was looking confused. “Dolly told me that Shirley’s flight was canceled; she never said anything about her ankle being too bad to fly. Why give each of us a different story? Something’s happened.”

  “Like what?” Bella asked sarcastically.

  “Like—I don’t know. But I’m really worried about her now.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Linda. All that booze is mushing your brains.” Bella began to strip off to change into one of her new bikinis. She held it up for Linda to see. “What do you reckon—skimpy and sexy, yet classy and upmarket, right?”