Dolly turned, smiling, toward Ester, feeling buoyant because she knew now they had nothing to worry about. Craigh and Palmer weren’t there because of the robbery and she couldn’t wait to have a laugh about it with them all.
Then she saw the gun.
It was all over within seconds. Dolly was faster to register Ester’s intention than either police officer and, as Ester raised the gun to fire at Craigh, Dolly moved in front of him, protecting him with her body as she screamed one word, “No!”
She felt the impact of the bullet like a stab from a red-hot poker, her blood splattering Ester’s face. DCI Craigh took a step backward, arms up to brace himself against the next shot. Palmer sidestepped at the same time, Dolly’s blood speckling his shirt. Ester’s body was rigid, her teeth clenched, her arm still outstretched. She pulled the trigger again. The second bullet spun Dolly a half-step backward and everything began to blur. She could hear a distant, distorted voice and then saw her own face.
“I have never committed a criminal act in my life.” The social services board looked toward the straight-backed Dorothy Rawlins.
Ester fired the third bullet.
“No, I killed someone who betrayed me, there’s a difference, Julia.”
Ester pulled the trigger again.
No pain now, she was urging her horse forward, loving the feel of the cold morning air on her face, enjoying the fact that she had succeeded in learning not just to ride but gallop flat out and jump hedges and ditches—at her age.
Ester fired again.
Dolly’s shirt was covered in blood. She was still on her feet, but the impact of the fifth bullet almost toppled her. The images and echoes of voices were fainter now and she could only just make out the figure in an old brown coat standing by a garden gate. “It’s me, Dorothy, it’s your auntie. Your mum won’t talk about it but that young lad, he’s no good. You got a good life ahead of you, grammar-school scholarship and everything.”
With the sixth bullet, her body buckled at the knees, her hands hanging limply at her sides. “I’ll always be here for you, Doll, you know that. I’ll always love you, take care of you. Come on, open your arms wide and hold me, hold me, sweetheart, that’s my girl. Come on, come to me, it’s all over now.”
At last she lay still. In death her face looked older: there was no expression—it was already a mask. Her mouth hung open, and her eyes were wide, staring sightlessly. It had only taken Ester a few moments to fire six shots at point-blank range, but in those seconds Dolly Rawlins’s life had flashed from the present to the distant past. She had died a violent death like her beloved husband. Like him, she had not been expecting it; she had been confident, proud of herself and looking forward to the future, looking to make her dreams of a children’s home come true. Maybe that had all been a fantasy, maybe this was how it was meant to end. Fate had drawn these women together, and it was fate that it was Ester who killed her, Ester, who she had never really trusted. She had taken such care of them all, checking her back and sides just like Harry had done. And like him, she had faced death straight on, face forward.
Now her cheek lay on the old, dirty, stained carpet, blood trickling from her mouth and her body lying half curled in a fetal position. Her death had been as ugly as her husband’s, the only difference being that she had never betrayed anyone.
The sound of the shots brought the officers in the woods running toward the house, shouting into their radios as the others in the lane turned back toward the manor. A patrol car had already received the call and they in turn radioed for further assistance.
Within minutes, the manor was surrounded. Gloria and Julia were hauled out of the Mini, Connie was arrested halfway up the stairs, and Ester was handcuffed by DCI Craigh. She said not one word but stared vacantly ahead, her face drained of color.
One by one the women were led to the waiting patrol cars and taken away. They were in a state of shocked confusion. None of them spoke or looked at each other.
Dolly Rawlins lay where she had been shot, a deep, dark pool of blood spreading across the threadbare carpet. She had been covered by a sheet taken from the linen closet and the blood was soaking through it. Angela sat huddled with the little girls. They had heard the gunfire but did not understand what had taken place. For the time being, Angela was allowed to remain upstairs with them while the rest of the house filled with more police, plainclothes and uniform, and the women were led out.
Dolly Rawlins’s body was removed, after a doctor had certified she was dead, and taken directly to the mortuary. Angela saw the stretcher from the little girls’ bedroom window. They stared down, not understanding, and then Sheena asked Angela if she would read their favorite story, The Three Little Piggies.
“The big bad wolf huffed and he puffed but no matter how hard he tried, he could not blow the house down.” The tears trickled down Angela’s face as she closed the book. It was the end of the story.
The old coal chute at Rose Cottage was never opened by the police. Its black-painted door remained a charming, old-fashioned feature of the “olde worlde” cottage. So no one discovered the sixteen heavy-duty black bin liners tied tightly at the neck, each containing several million pounds in untraceable notes.
If you enjoyed She’s Out, why not join the LYNDA LA PLANTE READERS’ CLUB by visiting www.lyndalaplante.com?
A message from Lynda La Plante . . .
Dear Reader,
Thank you very much for reading She’s Out. Widows, as many of you may know, was my first ever TV show. It was commissioned by one of the first female television producers in the UK, Verity Lambert of Euston Films for Thames Television and it remains a special favorite of mine. In the wake of the phenomenal TV success—it became one of the highest rating series of the early 1980s—I turned the screenplay and script into a tie-in novel, which was first published in 1983. The original Widows ran to two series on ITV and went on to have a sequel set ten years later—She’s Out—the book adaptation of which you have just read.
When award-winning film director Steve McQueen chose to use Widows for a major movie that was released in November 2018, I decided to edit and reshape my original novel of Widows for a new audience. I loved doing it and both the reworked novel and the film were a huge success, so I went on to do the same with the second book, Widows’ Revenge, and now with She’s Out, a book which sees Dolly ten years after the events of Widows’ Revenge, where she has just been released from prison.
It’s always wonderful to revisit my characters. Dolly Rawlins was the first of my heroines to emerge into the limelight on screen and on the page. She was followed by, among others, Anna Travis in Above Suspicion and, most famously, Jane Tennison in Prime Suspect, who was portrayed brilliantly on screen by Helen Mirren. My book series about the young Jane Tennison, who goes on to become the heroine of Prime Suspect, follows Jane as she starts out as a police detective on the streets of London. The first five books in the series—Tennison, Hidden Killers, Good Friday, Murder Mile and The Dirty Dozen—are all available now. The newest of these, The Dirty Dozen, is set in 1980 and sees Jane as the first female detective posted to the Met’s renowned Flying Squad, commonly known as “the Sweeney.” If you enjoyed She’s Out and the other Widows books, do look out for the Jane Tennison series.
I am also very excited to announce that in March 2020 I will be launching a new series, the first of which is called Buried. It is set loosely around the Widows world, but with a present day setting and a brilliant new protagonist, Jack Warr. Jack is a young DCI who finds himself investigating a fire at a cottage where a body has been found, along with stacks of charred bank notes. Adopted at birth, as Jack investigates, he starts to learn more about his own identity. Soon he finds he’ll stop at nothing to uncover the truth—including breaking the law himself.
If you would like to hear more about the new series, or about the Tennison series, you can visit www.lyndalaplante.com, where you can join the LYNDA LA PLANTE READERS’ CLUB. It only takes a few moments to
sign up, there are no catches or costs and new members will automatically receive a message from me with some exclusive insights into what I am writing presently.
We promise to keep your data private and confidential, and it will never be passed on to a third party. We won’t spam you with loads of emails, just get in touch now and again with news about my books, and you can unsubscribe any time you want.
And if you would like to get involved in a wider conversation about my novels, please do review She’s Out on Amazon, on GoodReads, on any other e-store, on your own blog and social media accounts, or talk about it with friends, family or reader groups! Sharing your thoughts helps other readers, and I always enjoy hearing about what people experience from my writing.
Thanks again for your interest in She’s Out, and I hope you’ll return for Buried.
With my very best wishes,
Lynda La Plante
Turn the page to read an extract from Lynda La Plante’s brand new book
BURIED
Coming March 2020
Chapter 1
Rose Cottage had lain empty for eight months. It was a neat, two story, white stone building with thick, black wooden lintels above the central front door and each of the five small windows—three up, two down. On the more sheltered, west side of the front wall, the ivy had completely taken over and was lifting the slate from the roof, but on the exposed east side, the stonework was bare and had been flattened by centuries of strong winter winds swirling down from the hills. From some angles the cottage looked as though it was leaning to the left.
As the cottage was rural, with stables and a hay barn, the land surrounding it had been fairly unkept even before it was left empty, but a small area directly outside the front door had been landscaped into narrow, winding footpaths circling rose beds. The wild roses, left to their own devices, were still fighting against the changing seasons, but today they looked particularly beautiful. In fact, they were the only real reminder of how lovely the cottage had once been.
Suddenly, the small downstairs windows to the left and right of the front door exploded under the immense pressure from the heat inside, sending glass and wood showering into the multi-colored rose heads. Flames quickly took hold of the black wooden lintels and, within seconds, the smoke from the fire had blackened the white stone wall.
Inside, the furniture had been moved into the center of the room, just in front of the hearth. A heavy wooden chest of drawers and two bookshelves surrounded a two-seater, horse-hair sofa, which had four occasional tables piled high on top of it. Some of the books from the bookshelves had been forced into the gaps of this makeshift bonfire, and the rest had been thrown into the hearth on top of a huge stack of paper.
The fire had taken hold extremely quickly, and the small lounge was soon consumed by flames, which rose to the ceiling beams, traveled to the wooden staircase and up the stairs. They eventually pushed their way out between the slate roof tiles from the engulfed wooden ceiling beams beneath, and it wasn’t long before a spark leapt across to the hay barn, which was full of bales of hay, despite the horses being long gone. The barn went up like a roman candle and, from that point onward, there was no stopping the fire.
A quarter of a mile away, in a small housing estate, the first of the 999 calls was finally made. Neighbors watched as the dark brown smoke billowed into the clear blue sky. When the house had been occupied, the smoke from the chimney had always been the expected light gray, but this was different. It looked heavy and rancid, and just kept coming.
Speculation was rife as to how the fire had started. Was it “that bloody tramp” trying to keep warm again? Was it kids taking their games too far?
Fourteen 999 calls were made in total, sending two fire engines racing toward Rose Cottage from Aylesbury Fire Station. By the time the engines arrived, the contents of the cottage had almost gone and the hay barn was a pile of rubble and ashes. However, the stables, which were furthest away from the cottage, were still fully ablaze, with the flames heading for the surrounding trees.
When the fire brigade arrived, they split into two teams—one to tackle the fire inside, and a second on the stables to prevent the flames from jumping to the woodland beyond. The stables were easier to gain control of because, once the wooden frames had gone, there was nothing left to fuel the fire. The interior of the cottage, however, kept re-igniting as the fire found new fuel on the upper floors and from the wooden roof beams. It didn’t take much to give the flames a new lease of life.
By nightfall, the grounds resembled a muddy swamp and the rose beds had been completely destroyed by four hours of torture from eight pairs of heavy fire boots walking backward and forward. Much of the furniture had been thrown into the front garden, to avoid further re-ignition inside the property, so the once beautiful rose garden looked like a fly-tipping site.
“Stop!” the Sub Officer shouted as he emerged through the hole that used to be the front door. “Nobody goes back inside!”
Sub reached for his phone and dialed Sally Bown. It was late and the phone rang for quite some time before it was finally answered. “Sal, this one’s for you. We’ve got a body. Bring your CSI.”
Fire Investigation Officer, Sally Bown, arrived at the scene at 11 p.m. From the neck down, she was kitted out in her well-worn Fire Officers’ Uniform, but from the neck up, she was immaculate. Her long brown hair was in a loose, low braided bun, held in place by an antique hairpin of white beads and silver leaves, and her light makeup enhanced her natural beauty. The whole crew fancied her on an average day, so this post-bridesmaid look was definitely making their arduous night better. She didn’t mind. They respected her position, so them watching her arse every now and then didn’t bother her in the slightest.
“It’s way better than men not watching my arse,” was her response to any woman who objected to the glib sexism that came from the male fire fighters. And Sally looked at them, too, so she thought it only fair.
At Sally’s side was a child of a CSI with puffy eyes and bed hair. He carried a case almost as big as himself, and he stuck to Sally’s side like glue. He wasn’t quite used to shift work yet, but if he’d been called by Sally Bown, then he was good at his job. He’d learn the rest.
In the lounge of Rose Cottage, the pile of heavy wooden furniture was now destroyed. The brass hinges and handles from the chest of drawers lay on the floor, just in front of the hearth and, on the obliterated sofa, part-melted into the springs, lay a dead body, charred and blackened beyond recognition.
“Jesus,” muttered Sally, as she got out her camera and filmed the scene, starting at the front door and moving methodically toward the center of the lounge and the dead body. Her young CSI waited outside until instructed to do otherwise.
“Sally, stop!” Sub shouted. Sally stopped dead. Sub was a man of very few words and everyone who worked with him knew that he only really spoke when he had something important to say. “Retrace your steps, Sal. Now. Please.”
Sally didn’t question his instruction. She started walking backward, toe to heel, following exactly the same path as she’d taken to come in.
There was a deafening crack from directly above Sally’s head. A hand grabbed her belt and she flew backward with the force of a recoiling bungee rope, to be caught by Sub’s waiting arms. Once he had a firm hold on her, he fell backward onto the floor, taking Sally with him, and in the next split second an iron bedframe dropped through the air and landed right where Sally had been standing. A cloud of ash and debris flew into the air and took an age to come back down. When visibility returned, Sub was still seated on the floor, Sally between his legs and his arms gripped tightly round her waist. The two legs of the bed that were closest to them had smashed deep holes through the lounge floorboards, and the other two were straddling the remains of the sofa and the charred body, which was still, luckily, in one piece.
Sub momentarily tightened his grip around Sally’s waist, before letting go completely. That tiny squeeze reassured her that s
he was safe and protected. As Sally gripped Sub’s raised knees to use them as leverage to stand, and he eased her forward with his hands politely in the small of her back, she couldn’t help but think to herself what a massive shame it was that he looked so like her dad.
When he arrived on the scene, Detective Inspector Martin Prescott was frustrated to be held back from entering Rose Cottage until the risk assessment had been done. He couldn’t imagine three more infuriating words in the English language than “risk-fucking-assessment”!
Prescott had been Senior Officer to Sally Bown’s older sister for more than twenty years, and so the families were naturally close. This was not unusual for rural Aylesbury, or for the local emergency services. Sally knew he’d be impatient, so, while the fragile ceiling and crumbling walls were shored up and made safe, she kept him occupied by showing him the video footage of the interior.
“We initially thought he could be a vagrant,” Sally told Prescott.
“He?” Prescott smiled as he corrected Sally’s assumption. It was very clear from the video that there was no way of knowing the gender of the charred remains at this point.
Prescott always made Sally smile without even trying. She thought his thick Yorkshire accent made him sound happy, even when they were disagreeing with each other.
“Sorry,” Sally corrected herself. “We initially thought that the body could be that of a vagrant unlucky enough to have set fire to himself after lighting candles to keep warm. There’s no electricity in the cottage, and we found several tea lights scattered around the lounge—on the mantel and in the hearth—but when I looked more closely at the debris on the floor directly next to the sofa, it was clear that the furniture had been piled up around him. I mean, around the body.”
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