Widows Read online

  If you would like to hear from Lynda, please sign up at www.bit.ly/LyndaLaPlanteClub or you can visit www.lyndalaplante.com for further information. You can also follow Lynda on Facebook and Twitter @LaPlanteLynda.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © La Plante Global Limited, 2018

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover design © Nick Stearn, Cover image © Johnny Ring

  Typeset by Scribe Inc., Philadelphia, PA.

  Originally published in Great Britain by Sphere in 1983

  First published in the United States by Zaffre Publishing, 2018

  Zaffre Publishing, an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd, a Bonnier Publishing company.

  80-81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-49986-154-9

  Also available as a trade paperback.

  For information, contact 251 Park Avenue South, Floor 12, New York, New York 10010

  www.bonnierzaffre.com / www.bonnierpublishing.com

  Contents

  Prologue: London 1984

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Prologue

  London 1984

  The blueprint for the raid was immaculate: Harry Rawlins would not have had it any other way. He was a wealthy antique dealer specializing in high-priced artwork, silverware and jewelry, and he and his wife Dolly made a formidable couple. But there was another side to Harry Rawlins. An accomplished criminal and money launderer, he drew from his men a deep respect and loyalty—but he was a cold, calculating and lethal enemy. And although the police suspected him of being heavily involved in crime, Harry Rawlins had never spent a single day behind bars.

  The plan was simple and, as ever with anything Harry Rawlins led, had been rehearsed over and over again in detail. Four of them, wearing balaclavas, would hold up a security wagon at a pre-set marker on the dual carriageway underpass. A bread truck in front of the security wagon, driven by one of the gang, would act as a blocker by slamming on its brakes. As soon as the security wagon ahead halted, the three men following in a Ford Escort van would take up position. One would hold up the traffic behind at gun point while the other two, using blasting gelatin with a wired detonator cap, would blow open the back doors of the security wagon. The driver of the bread van would join them and each man would fill the others’ rucksacks with money bags before three of the armed raiders ran the last fifty yards to the exit of the underpass to a waiting getaway car. The fourth raider, covering their escape, would then drive the bread truck to a pre-arranged hideout.

  As the bread truck, the security wagon and the Ford Escort van entered the Strand underpass, everything seemed to be going to plan. The raiders, all seasoned villains, were prepared for the next phase. But then, suddenly—the unexpected happened. A short distance behind them, a police car appeared, heading down the underpass in pursuit of two young joyriders.

  As the sirens blared, the driver of the Ford Escort van turned to look behind him in panic—and in that same split second, the driver of the bread truck, continuing with the raid as planned, slammed on his brakes, forcing the security wagon to do the same. By the time the driver of the Ford Escort van turned back, it was too late. He plowed into the back of the security wagon and the joyriders plowed into the back of him.

  The almost simultaneous impacts caused the raider in the front seat to lurch forward. The blasting gelatin flew out of his hand and hit the dashboard, setting off an explosion and fireball that engulfed everything inside.

  The three armed raiders were trapped inside their own vehicle; the flames and smoke making it impossible for anyone to wrench open the driver’s door. No one could reach them, no one could help them, but everyone could hear their screams as the petrol tank finally exploded and blew what remained of their van apart.

  In the awful confusion that followed, no one noticed the driver of the bread truck. He watched in disbelief for a few seconds, then ran back to the bread truck and drove out of the underpass.

  All three charred bodies from the Ford Escort van were taken to Westminster Mortuary. Two days later, the forensic pathologist completed his examination and identified them officially as Harry Rawlins, Joe Pirelli and Terry Miller.

  As the driver of the Ford Escort van, Harry Rawlins’s body had taken the full impact of the gelatin explosion. The upper part of his body had been literally blown to pieces, the skull so badly fragmented it couldn’t be reconstructed, and both legs were charred down to the bone. However, still attached to the wrist of a burned and mutilated left forearm was a gold Rolex watch with the now-blurred inscription: To Harry—love, Dolly—2/12/62

  Although police had suspected from the first that the second body was Joe Pirelli, the face was too badly burned down one side to be 100 percent certain. He had a criminal record, but no fingerprints could be taken, as neither hand was found intact. In the end, a forensic odontologist had to be brought in and eventually identified the body from dental records to within reasonable doubt.

  With three previous convictions, Terry Miller was identified by a partial thumb and forefinger print on what remained of his burnt left hand.

  All three men had been married. All three wives were now widows.

  Chapter 1

  Dolly Rawlins stood in her kitchen ironing the shirt collar and cuffs she had carefully starched, just the way Harry always liked them. Beside her, the laundry basket was piled with ironed sheets and pillowcases. Wolf, the little white poodle Harry had brought home after Dolly had given birth to their stillborn baby boy and their hopes of a family were dashed, sat at her feet, his head drooping. Always alert, every time Dolly moved he padded after her.

  Dolly had been washing, ironing and dusting since she had returned from the police station. It was now after 1 p.m. Sometimes she would stop and just stare into space, but then she would feel the pain building up, and she’d begin working again; anything, anything to stop that pain inside her. The police wouldn’t let her see Harry’s body as it was too badly injured, and part of her refused to accept what she had been told. They were lying to her, she was certain. Any moment Harry would walk back into the house.

  Linda Pirelli had stood frozen to the spot in the cold mortuary, her long dark hair framing her ashen face. She wished she had someone with her, she wished for a lot of things but, right now
, she wished that this was a bad dream and any second she’d wake up.

  “Dental records suggest this is your husband, Mrs. Pirelli, but, as we didn’t find all the teeth, we’d like you to take a look as well,” the mortician said. “One side of his face is not too badly burned, so if you remain standing where you are, you’ll be fine. Ready?” Before Linda had chance to answer, he’d pulled the white sheet back.

  Linda gasped, held her hand to her mouth and froze. She felt something warm trickling down the inside of her leg.

  “Toilet, I need the toilet . . .” she started to mumble softly.

  “Is this your husband, Joseph Pirelli?” the escorting policewoman asked.

  “Yes, yes, it is. Now please get me out of here,” Linda pleaded.

  The policewoman gripped Linda’s arm, and gently guided her from the mortuary to the toilets in the corridor.

  Audrey, Shirley Miller’s mother, was worn out and fed up. She glanced down with distaste at her old shapeless woolen dress, her bare legs and her ankle boots. Catching a glimpse of herself in the kitchen window, Audrey saw the gray roots were showing in her dyed orange hair; she needed a tint to feel human again. As she stared at her haggard reflection, she could hear her daughter sobbing her heart out upstairs.

  Shirley lay on her bed, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping. Every time she wiped her eyes she started crying again, repeating his name over and over.

  “Terry . . . Terry . . . Terry . . .” Shirley screeched, clutching a framed photo of her husband to her chest.

  Audrey bustled in carrying some hot milk and buttered toast on a tray, but Shirley couldn’t touch it so Audrey polished it off instead. As she ate, she looked at the small silver-framed photograph of Terry clenched in Shirley’s hand.

  Sitting back on the edge of the bed, Audrey considered her beautiful daughter, the pride of her life. Shirley was a stunning young woman, with a curvaceous figure and long natural-blonde curly hair reaching to below her shoulders. She had the sweetest, most trusting temperament and had only ever gone against Audrey’s wishes once, and that was to marry Terry Miller. She’ll get over him, Audrey thought to herself. In time she’ll be herself again. But for now it was best just to let her cry.

  2 p.m., Dolly dragged herself and the ironing up the stairs of her immaculate suburban home. Wolf followed sleepily behind. Wolf’s normal sleeping spot in the living room was on the thick Persian rug in front of the ornate fireplace. The mantelpiece displayed a lifetime of photographs of Dolly and Harry: their wedding at Chelsea Registry Office, with Dolly in a Chanel suit, carrying a small bouquet of white roses, their honeymoon in Paris, and then from every anniversary, Christmas and charity ball after that. In the winter, the open log fire warmed Wolf’s little body and in the summer he enjoyed the cool air circling the room from the open sash windows. When Harry was away on business, however, Wolf always curled up next to Dolly on the sofa—plush red velvet with gold tassels.

  Dolly opened the bedroom door. Inside, the bedside lamp gave a soft warm glow across the spotless room, the matching draped curtains, bedspread and scatter cushions were all neat and tidy; nothing was out of place. After putting the ironing away, Dolly dug her hand into her apron pocket and lit her hundredth cigarette of the day. As she gulped in the smoke she felt her heart heave heavily inside her.

  Back downstairs, Dolly opened the mahogany doors of the stereo cabinet, switched on the record player and gently placed the needle on the LP that was already on the turntable. She had played it over and over since she got home from the police station: the deep rich tones of Kathleen Ferrier singing “Life without Death” seemed to soothe her.

  Dolly sat in the living room smoking, with Wolf curled up at her side. She sat there all night. She didn’t cry, she couldn’t—it was as if someone had drained every emotion from inside her. She thought back to the morning two days ago, when Harry had kissed her goodbye. His business trip to buy some antiques should only take a couple of days, he’d said. She’d missed him every moment he was gone and last night had been preparing lasagna for dinner on his return home—Harry liked it with the cheese crisped up over the pasta—when the doorbell rang.

  She had wiped her hands on a dishcloth as Wolf yapped and bounded toward the studded mahogany front door. She went to follow him into the hallway and froze. There, outlined in the stained-glass panels, were two dark figures. The doorbell rang again.

  The two detectives had shown her their warrant cards and asked her whether her husband was at home. The law had come knocking a few times in the past, so Dolly was immediately guarded and non-committal, telling them Harry was away on business. They had then told her to get her shoes and coat on and accompany them to the station to identify something they believed belonged to her husband. They were unhelpful in the patrol car, refusing to answer her questions, which scared her. What if they had arrested Harry? She decided not to say or ask anything until she knew more.

  At the station they took her into a cold, bare room with a Formica-topped table and four matching hard chairs. A uniformed policewoman stood beside Dolly as a detective handed her a plastic property bag containing a gold Rolex watch with a diamond encrusted face. When she tried to open the bag, the detective had snatched it away.

  “Don’t touch!” he snapped. He put on white forensic rubber gloves, removed the watch and turned the face over to reveal the faded inscription.

  “To Harry—love, Dolly—2/12/62,” whispered Dolly. Somehow she managed to maintain control. “That’s my husband’s,” she said. “That’s Harry’s.” And her world collapsed.

  “We took it from the wrist of a dead body.” The lead detective paused to gauge her reaction. “The charred, dead body of a man.”

  Dolly grabbed the watch, backing away from the detective until she hit the far wall of the room. The female officer came after her, hand held out.

  “That’s evidence!” she said. “Give it here!”

  Dolly held on to the watch with all her strength. Shock had made her lose all inhibition. “You’re lying!” she screeched. “He’s not dead. He’s not!” As Harry’s precious watch was pried from her fingers, she hissed, “I want to see him. I need to see him!”

  The female officer had had enough. “There’s nothing left to see,” she said coldly.

  All the way home in the police car, Dolly kept telling herself that it could not have been Harry, even though the voice in her head kept whispering to her . . . She’d given that watch to him on their tenth wedding anniversary. He’d kissed her and promised that he would never take it off. Dolly had loved the way he would glance at it; would hold his arm out straight, turn his wrist and watch the light catch the diamonds. He was never without his Rolex—even in bed. For their next anniversary, she had bought him a solid gold Dunhill cigarette lighter engraved with his initials. He’d laughed and told her that, like the watch, he would always carry it with him.

  But, even so, she could not accept that he wouldn’t be coming home.

  Audrey had arranged Terry’s funeral. It was a quiet family affair, just a few drinks back at the house, nothing special; besides, Shirley was still in such a state that it was all Audrey could do to get her dressed.

  Greg, Shirley’s punk brother, helped out as best he could, but he was still very young and couldn’t cope with his older sister’s outpouring of emotion. When Shirley had tried to jump into the grave on top of the coffin, he’d been so embarrassed he’d walked off and attached himself to a completely different and far more dignified funeral party.

  No headstone had yet been ordered because Audrey hadn’t liked to ask for money, but she planned to arrange something as soon as Shirley was back on her feet. She had high hopes of Shirley going back onto the beauty queen circuit; with her stunning looks, Audrey thought her daughter could make it through to the Miss England heats. In fact, she had already put her down for Miss Paddington . . . she would bring that up later, when Shirley wasn’t crying so much.

  Linda was in the living room of the c
rowded Pirelli family council flat. All Joe’s relatives had been invited to the funeral and wake and were howling and carrying on in voluble Italian, dressed from head to toe in black. Her mother-in-law, Mama Pirelli, had been cooking for days, preparing a feast—pasta, pizza, salami—you name it, it was on the table. Linda was an orphan and had no family of her own to invite. As for friends, the lads from the arcade where she worked never really knew Joe, so Linda was getting very drunk on her own. She could sense the guests watching her, shaking their heads at her bright red dress. She didn’t care.

  Looking round the sea of tearful faces, Linda suddenly spotted a woman at the far end of the room and recognized the little blonde slag she’d seen with Joe a few weeks ago. Blazing with fury, she pushed her way through the guests toward the weeping woman.

  “Who the hell invited you?” Linda screamed. She’d give her something to remember him by! She threw her glass of wine over the girl and would have laid in to her if Gino, Joe’s younger brother, hadn’t pulled her away in time. Holding Linda tight as she sobbed, Gino whispered soft comfort in her ear, and casually placed his drunken hand on her right tit.

  Consumed by grief, Dolly Rawlins had barely eaten. She felt as if night and day had blurred together, but somehow, on autopilot, she had agreed to bury her husband. She sat in the living room wearing a neat black suit and black hat with a small veil. She smoothed her black kid-leather gloves over and over, feeling her wedding and engagement rings through the soft leather. Wolf sat on the sofa beside her, his little warm body pushed against her hip.

  Even today, Dolly was a strikingly composed figure; her sandy hair was immaculate, her make-up was discreet and her manner was businesslike. She was a woman determined to let no one share her very personal and very private grief. They couldn’t possibly understand and the last thing she wanted was anyone suggesting that they did.

  Dolly’s partnership with Harry had been a very special one. They had met when she was running her late father’s antique and junk stall in Petticoat Lane, but it wasn’t Harry’s flash E-type Jag, his good looks and charm that had drawn her to him, although of course she noticed them. No, the connection went much deeper than that.