She's Out

by Lynda La Plante

  Kathleen: overweight, wearing a dreadful assortment of ill-matched clothes—a cotton skirt with two hand-knitted sweaters on top of a bright yellow blouse. She had red hair spilling over a wide moon face and her false teeth, yellow with tobacco stains, needed bleaching. But she had a marvelous, generous feel to her, an open Irish nature. Julia delved into her pocket to pay off the driver as Kathleen hauled out her belongings. “They said this was closed down,” she bellowed as she staggered into the hallway. Kathleen dumped her bags in the hall and looked around. “Holy Mother of God, what a dump! Is that chandelier safe, Julia?”

  Julia dropped one of Kathleen’s cases. “Ask Ester—she’s running the show.”

  At that moment Ester came down the stairs. “You made it here, then?”

  “Well, of course I did.” Kathleen embraced her. “I was glad you called, darlin’. I was in shit up to me armpits, I can tell you, with not a roof over my head. So . . . is she here, then?”

  Julia turned, listening.

  “Not yet, and I hope she won’t be for a few hours. We’ve got to get the place ready.”

  Kathleen plodded to the stairs. “Well, let me unpack me gear, darlin’, and I’ll give you a hand.”

  Ester instructed Kathleen to use one of the second-landing bedrooms and went into the kitchen, squeezing past the boys as they scrubbed the floor. Julia picked up the broom again, trying to remember what Kathleen had been in prison for, but her attention was diverted by yet another car making its slow progress down the driveway.

  Connie Stevens sat next to the railway-station attendant, a nice man who, seeing Connie outside the small local station waiting for a taxi, had offered her a lift. Men did that kind of thing for Connie: she had such a helpless Marilyn Monroe quality to her, they went weak at the knees. She even had a soft breathy voice, hair dyed blonde to match her heroine’s, and recent plastic surgery that gave a dimple to her chin, tightened her jaw and removed the lines from her baby eyes. She worked hard to retain her curvaceous figure as she was already in her mid-thirties—not that she ever admitted it to anyone: she had been twenty-five for the past ten years.

  Julia watched as the man, red-faced, struggled to remove an enormous case on wheels from the boot of his car.

  “Thank you, I really appreciate this so much,” Connie cooed. The station attendant returned to his car, and, embarrassed by Julia’s obvious amusement, drove out as fast as he could, crashing into the pothole as he went.

  Ester leaned out of an upstairs window. “Hi, Connie, come on in. Kathleen’s already arrived.”

  Connie dragged her case toward the steps. Julia tossed away the broom and took her case by the handle. “Here, lemme help, Princess.”

  Connie gave a breathy “aweee” as she looked at the hall. “It’s changed so much since I was last here.”

  Ester jumped down the stairs and embraced Connie warmly, then held her at arm’s length to admire her new face. “You look good—really good. Just drag your case upstairs and get into some old gear. We’ve got to clear the place up and make it ready for Dolly.”

  “How many more are coming?” asked Kathleen. “I mean, are we gonna cut it between us all?”

  “I don’t know. Like I said, Ester’s in charge, ask her. She hasn’t told me what she plans on doing.”

  Kathleen moved closer. “They’re worth millions, the diamonds, everyone used to talk about them. Are you certain she’ll be coming?”

  Julia picked up the broom and started sweeping the steps again. “Ester seems to think so, that’s why she’s got us all here.”

  Kathleen started hoovering with venom. She certainly hoped this wasn’t all a waste of time. She was in deep trouble: her three kids had been taken into care and she needed money, a lot of it, and fast. Dolly Rawlins’s diamonds would be her only way out of the mess she had got herself into.

  Way down the lane, Gloria Radford threw up her hands in fury. She’d been down one dead end after another, up onto the motorway three times, and still not found the Manor House. She got out of her dilapidated Mini Traveller and headed toward a man on a tractor in the middle of a field. “Oi, mate, can you direct me to the Grange Manor House?”

  The old farmhand turned in surprise as Gloria, small, plump and wearing spike-heeled shoes and skin-tight black pants, waved from the field gates. Her make-up was plastered on thick: lip gloss-smudged teeth, mascara-clogged lashes with bright blue eye-shadow on the lids—she was like someone from the late Sixties stuck in a time-warp. Gloria Radford waved the hand-drawn map Ester had sent her. The old boy wheeled his tractor toward her.

  “Down there.” He pointed.

  “I been down there and I been back up there and I keep gettin’ back on the bleedin’ motorway.”

  “Ay, yes, they cut off the access road. Just keep on this slip road and you’ll get to it. The manor’s off to the right.”

  Gloria stepped over the clods of earth and headed back to her Mini. The farmhand remained watching as she reversed straight into a pothole and let rip with a stream of expletives.

  Ester was now checking the cutlery. Some of it was quite good but it all needed cleaning, as did every plate and cup and saucer. Kathleen was on duty in the dining room, dusting the chairs, when the crate of wine was delivered. She was ready for a drink and about to open a bottle when they all heard the tooting of a car horn and the sound of Gloria Radford arriving, towed in by a tractor.

  They all stood crowded on the doorstep, watching the spectacle. Julia turned to Ester. “Subtle as ever. I suppose you wanted the entire village to know we were here.”

  “Me bleedin’ back end’s fucked!” yelled Gloria, as she heaved out a case.

  Julia winced as Gloria negotiated some complicated financial arrangement with the old man on his tractor to tow the car to the nearest garage. She was so loud and brassy that she was almost comical: her fake-fur leopard coat slung round her shoulders, her too-tight puce wrap-around skirt. “Er, Ester, you got a few quid I can bung ’im?”

  Julia saw Ester purse her lips and join Gloria at the tractor.

  Ester paid ten quid to the tractor driver and directed him to the nearest garage that would be able to repair the Mini.

  Gloria banged into the hallway. “Cor blimey, this is the old doss-house, is it? Hey, Kathleen, how are you doin’, kid?” Kathleen said she was doing fine, then Gloria pointed at Connie. “I know you, don’t I?”

  Connie shook her head. “I don’t think so, I’m Connie.”

  “You one of Ester’s tarts, then, are you?”

  Connie’s jaw dropped. “No, I am not.”

  Gloria seemed unaware of how furious Connie was. She turned to Julia. “I didn’t know you was on this caper, Doc.”

  “Likewise,” said Julia sarcastically.

  “You sure you got Dolly comin’? I mean, I come a hell of a long way to get here, you know.” Julia had to turn away because she wanted to laugh out loud.

  Ester clenched her fists: Gloria had only been there two minutes and she was getting under her skin already. “She’ll be here, Gloria. Just get some old gear on and start helping us, we’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Right, you tell me what you want done, sweet face. I’m ready, I’m willin’ and nobody ever said Gloria Radford wasn’t able.”

  Ester looked at her watch. She thought she should have received a call from Dolly by now but she said nothing, just hoped to God she had played her cards right. She had laid out a lot of cash already and if wily old Dolly Rawlins copped out, she was in trouble. All the women she had chosen were desperate for cash, but Ester more than any of them.

  Dolly was out. She had walked out a free woman two hours ago. The fear crept up unexpectedly. Suddenly she felt alone. She stood on the pavement as her heart began to race and her mouth went bone dry. She was out—and there was no one to meet her, no one to wrap their arms around her, no place to go. She saw the white Rolls Corniche; it was hard to miss, parked outside the prison gates. She stepped back, afraid for a moment, w
hen a uniformed chauffeur got out and looked over.

  “Excuse me, are you Mrs. Rawlins, Mrs. Dolly Rawlins?”

  Dolly frowned, gave a small nod, and he smiled warmly, walking toward her. “Your car, Mrs. Rawlins.”

  “I never ordered it.”

  He touched her elbow gently. “Well, my docket says you did, Mrs. Rawlins, so, where would you like to go?”

  Nonplussed, she allowed herself to be ushered toward the Rolls. He opened the door with a flourish. “Anywhere you want. It’s hired for the entire day, Mrs. Rawlins.”

  “Who by?” she asked suspiciously.

  “You, and it’s paid for, so why not? Get in, Mrs. Rawlins.” Dolly looked at the prison, then back to the car. On the back seat was a small bouquet of roses, a bottle of champagne, and an invitation. “I don’t understand, who did this?”

  The chauffeur eased her in and shut the door. Dolly opened the invitation.

  Dear Dolly,

  Some of your friends have arranged a “she’s out” party. Take a drive around London and then call us. Here’s to your successful future, and hoping you will join us for a slap-up dinner and a knees-up,

  Ester

  Dolly read and reread the invitation. She knew Ester Freeman but she’d not been that friendly with her.

  “Where would you like to go, Mrs. Rawlins?”

  She leaned back, still nonplussed. “Oh, just drive around, will you? So I can see the sights.”

  “Right you are.”

  She saw the portable phone positioned by his seat. She leaned forward and picked up the phone.

  “Call any place you want, Mrs. Rawlins.”

  She turned the phone over in her hand, never having seen one before, and then she smiled softly. “My husband would have loved one of these,” she whispered.

  Chapter 2

  James “Jimmy” Donaldson was a small, sandy-haired man. With his trim physique and thick hair with a deep widow’s peak at the temple, he looked younger than his fifty-five years. He was exceedingly nervous, having been brought from a woodwork class to be confronted by DCI Craigh and DS Mike Withey. The prison officers left the three men alone, which seemed to unnerve Donaldson even more, and his eyes darted nervously from one man to the other.

  Craigh asked quietly if he knew a woman called Dorothy Rawlins. Donaldson shook his head, then shifted his buttocks on the chair to sit on his hands, as if afraid they would give him away because they were shaking.

  “You sure about that, Jimmy?”

  He nodded, blinking rapidly, as Craigh, still speaking softly, asked him about the diamonds.

  “I d-d-don’t know anything about them,” he stuttered.

  “She’s out today, Jimmy. Dolly Rawlins is out.”

  Donaldson went white.

  Craigh spoke soothingly. “No need to worry, Jimmy. If you help us, then maybe we can make things easier for you, maybe even get the authorities to move you to a nice, cushy open prison.”

  Two hours later, Donaldson was taken from Brixton Prison to their local nick. It was done fast and Craigh made sure that it was put out that Donaldson required a small operation, so that when and if they sent him back he wouldn’t be subjected to threats for grassing. All he had admitted so far was that he might know about the diamonds but he refused to say anything more unless he was taken out of the jail.

  On the journey he brightened up at the prospect of being moved, even going home to visit his wife. Craigh had laughed. “Don’t get too excited, Jimmy, because we’ll need to know more—a lot more. You’re doing time for fencing hot gear right now and we’ve not got much sway with the prison authorities. All we do is catch ’em, the rest is not down to us unless you have some very good information.”

  It was almost six thirty by the time Donaldson was taken into the station, and he was given some dinner before they really began to pressure him. He admitted that he knew Dolly Rawlins but he had known her husband better, and had held the stones for her as a favor. When asked if Rawlins instigated the diamond raid, he swore he didn’t know and he was certain that Mrs. Rawlins couldn’t have done it because she was a woman. He knew she had killed her husband but word was he’d been fooling around with a young bit of fluff who’d had a kid by him. At the time of the shooting, there were many rumors around as to what had happened, but the truth had always been shrouded in mystery—and fear, because Harry Rawlins was a formidable and exceptionally dangerous man, nicknamed the “Octopus” because he seemed to have so many arms in so many different businesses. A lot of men known to have crossed him had disappeared.

  Harry Rawlins had masterminded a raid on an armored truck. The plan had been to ram it inside the Strand underpass but the raid had gone disastrously wrong. The explosives used by his team had blown their own truck to smithereens; four men inside had died, their charred bodies unrecognizable. Dolly Rawlins had been given a watch, a gold Rolex from the blackened wrist of one of the dead men. She had buried his remains, the funeral an ornate affair, with wreaths from every main criminal in England. In many instances they were sent not out of sympathy, but relief.

  Dolly had been in deep shock. The husband she had worshipped for twenty years was gone, her loss made worse by the pressure from villains trying to take over her husband’s manor. Her grief had turned to anger when they approached her at his graveside, and then to icy fury. When she found Harry’s detailed plans for the abortive robbery, Dolly drew together the widows of the men who had died alongside Harry in the truck. She manipulated and cajoled them into repeating the raid that had taken their men. Always a strong-minded woman, Dolly grew more confident and arrogant each day. Her belief that they could handle it quelled their fears, and her constant encouragement and furious determination ensured that they not only succeeded in pulling off one of the most daring armed robberies ever, but she also made sure they got away with it. She had been doing it for Harry, using his carefully crafted plans. Never for one moment had she believed or even contemplated his betrayal.

  Harry Rawlins was alive. He had been the only one to escape from the nightmare raid that killed his men. Rawlins had arranged that when the raid was over he would never return to his wife, and would leave Dolly for his twenty-five-year-old mistress. To his amazement, Harry Rawlins had found himself watching as Dolly went ahead with the raid, and then laughed because he knew that if she succeeded he would take the money. Her audacity amused him. Safe in his girlfriend’s apartment, he had watched and waited, had played with his baby boy, the child Dolly had been desperate to give him.

  But Harry Rawlins had underestimated his wife.

  Dolly succeeded in the raid and she also found out the terrible truth. She never confronted him—it would have been too dangerous, not for herself but for the other women concerned. Instead she planned their escape from England, leaving him penniless and desperate.

  For a while the widows had lived high but the bulk of the money became a monster they could not control. Dolly had chosen to hide out in Rio, not only for safety, but because she knew Harry had a bank account there with over fifty thousand in it, and as she had his death certificate she knew she would be able to claim it. Their sojourn in Rio did not last long, though, as Dolly discovered Harry had arrived there and when he found out she had cleaned out his bank account, he would come after her. She was able to move the money from the security raid from a convent where she had worked to beneath the stage of the local church hall. She also discovered that Harry, desperate to track her down, was organizing a jewelry raid. As she recalled the women back to London, her plan was to tip off the police about the diamond heist, but tragically, not everything had gone according to plan. One of them, Linda Pirelli, was killed in a car accident, a second, the young beautiful Shirley Miller, who had unwittingly become involved as a catwalk model wearing some of the diamonds, was shot during the robbery.

  Dolly got away with a large portion of the diamonds, but the police net was drawing in.

  Yet again she reacted as her husband would have.
She knew Jimmy Donaldson could be trusted; small-time he might be but he had done a lot of work for Harry in the past and had never been charged so she used that as a lever to ensure that he would keep the diamonds safe. She could have got away with it but something was more important than the diamonds: her guilt about little Shirley. She went to Audrey, Shirley’s mother, because she felt she owed her a debt. Audrey would also be unlikely to go the police, because Dolly had used Audrey in the first raid when they had escaped from England. Dolly was hoping the promise of a cut of the diamonds would atone for Shirley’s death. All Dolly had asked Audrey to do was wait, and in time she would get her share. Audrey wept but had delivered the diamonds to Jimmy that same night, as Dolly had instructed, agreeing that they would have no further contact until Dolly gave the word. Neither Jimmy nor Audrey knew that while they were organizing a hiding place for the diamonds, Dolly had arranged a meeting with her husband and was waiting for him with a .22 handgun. Harry had been sure as soon as she saw him that he would be able to talk her round, make her believe that he’d had to lie low because he would have been arrested. He had allowed her to go through the charade of a funeral because if he hadn’t, the filth would have known he was still alive. So he had waited, confident he could manipulate her. Never had he properly considered the pain he had caused her, the terrible grief he had put her through—the wife who had stood by him for twenty years.

  Harry had smiled when Dolly approached and had taken a few steps toward her. He had still been smiling when she fired at point-blank range into his heart.

  Dolly Rawlins was arrested and charged with manslaughter, a nine-year sentence to be served at Holloway Prison. She had never stopped loving him and the pain never did go away, but the years eased it. In prison she embraced the hurt inside her, like the child she was never able to conceive.

  Even after Harry’s death, Jimmy Donaldson’s fear of Harry Rawlins remained. All he had admitted to was having received a package from Dolly Rawlins. Even after his subsequent arrest for fencing, he had remained silent about the diamonds. In reality, he had been too scared to fence them or mention them to anyone else. But now he began to talk.