Widows' Revenge Read online

  Shirley looked at Bella. “Just waiting for the cab, then I’m off.”

  At that moment the taxi appeared through the wrought-iron gates and came to a halt with a spray of gravel.

  Linda was already shouting at the top of her voice: “Four suitcases, amigo, to the airport, pronto!”

  Shirley turned to her. “There’s no need to shout, Linda.”

  The driver got out of the cab and started piling the suitcases into the boot. At the same time the chauffeur got out of the Roller and opened the rear passenger door for Bella.

  She turned to Shirley with a grin before getting in. “This is the life, eh, kiddo? This is the life.” The chauffeur shut the door, and the electric windows slowly glided down. “Look after yourself, hon. See you back in London.”

  The chauffeur slowly turned the Roller round and drove off, as Bella gave a last wave to Linda, which she pointedly ignored.

  Shirley started checking that all the suitcases had been packed into the taxi, then suddenly remembered and shouted after the Roller as it disappeared through the gates, “Thanks for the present!”

  Linda gave her a bemused look. “What present?”

  “Oh, Bella gave me ever such a nice little thing. A farewell gift.”

  Linda looked miffed: one, because she hadn’t thought of it herself, and two, because nobody ever told her anything. She started to get into the taxi but Shirley put a hand on her arm. “Oh, come on, Linda, there’s no need for you to come with me.”

  Linda turned. “I’m just comin’ as far as the airport, OK? Come on, get in.” She flicked the driver on the back of the neck as Shirley settled in next to her. “OK, amigo, move it, pronto!”

  Both girls slammed into the back of the seat as the taxi whipped round in a U-turn and sped down the drive.

  Harry Rawlins looked round Jimmy Glazier’s small, untidy flat. It was crazy—it was as if they’d moved a tower block from Paddington smack into the center of Rio. The building was certainly just as noisy, as the sound of stereos and transistors blaring, couples arguing and screaming kids drifted up from outside and through the shutters. The kitchen was separated from the dining room by stripped plastic curtains, from behind which he could see a woman furtively watching them.

  “Maria!” Jimmy yelled. “Come out and meet my friend!”

  Maria stepped through the curtains. She was heavily pregnant and there was something very sensual about her, with her long, dark hair in one big braid down her back. She nodded to Harry, looked at Jimmy, then turned and went back into the kitchen.

  Jimmy was sweating freely, and Rawlins could smell the reek of it filling the little room.

  “Hey, don’t pay any attention to her,” he said, popping open two cans of beer. “She’s a bit broody. She’s expecting another kid. It’s this heat. With no air-conditioning in here, it boils you up, yer know what I mean? Boils you up, Harry. Siddown!”

  Harry pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. “What time do the banks open, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy looked at his watch. “It’s siesta now, so give it about an hour. The bank’s in the square.”

  He pulled his chair closer and Harry was overpowered by the sickly sweet smell of Jimmy’s body odor.

  “Harry . . . I’ve got a little number lined up in England. It’s a doddle, honest!”

  Harry couldn’t help but smile. How many times had Jimmy Glazier been put away because of his sure-fire doddles?

  He patted him on the shoulder. “Look, Jimmy, I’m over here to collect cash, and that’s it. I’m out of the business now, OK?”

  Jimmy nodded. “Anything you say, Harry.” He guzzled down his beer and flipped open another one.

  Harry stood up. “I’m a bit whacked, Jimmy. Mind if I put my head down?”

  Jimmy was on his feet. “Anything you say, Harry. All you gotta do is ask. My place is your place, you know what I mean? You been good to me, Harry. This is my chance to repay you.” He continued to prattle on as he led Harry toward an even smaller room off the lounge. This was a child’s bedroom, with a tiny cot bed and toys littering the floor. The shutters were closed, but the air was still hot. Jimmy kicked the toys out of the way and pulled back the grimy sheets.

  “’Ere you go, ’Arry. I’ll give you a shout in a couple of hours, OK?”

  Harry nodded. “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy hovered by the door for a few moments, still beaming, before going back to the lounge. After a moment, Harry heard the sound of yet another beer can being ripped open, and the low murmuring of Jimmy and Maria, speaking in Portuguese. Obviously Maria didn’t want Harry to stay, but by now he was too tired to even think about it. He lay on the bed, the clammy heat stifling him, and then he fell asleep.

  Dolly looked at the sheet of instructions Mr. Jarrow’s over-polite Frenchified assistant had just handed her. She was supposed to bring night clothes and dark glasses. The operation was to be in two weeks, the only time Mr. Jarrow had available. He was obviously a very, very busy man.

  Dolly looked up at the assistant. “Are the glasses compulsory?”

  “No, Mrs. Rawlins, just a suggestion. If you could be here at 3:30 on the day of the operation just to have a final check, we’ll take you over to the clinic.”

  Dolly smiled. She felt as if she was actually bursting with happiness, like a child who’s just been told she’s won a prize. She picked up her handbag, gave the assistant a brief nod, and walked out into the street. The sun was shining and she felt good; things were going just as she’d planned.

  She walked across to the meter—it was always a good sign when you got a meter immediately, particularly in Harley Street—and got into her hired green Ford Fiesta.

  Now, she thought, for stage two.

  She’d found his name in the Yellow Pages. She soon discovered that most private detectives were connected to one large firm, so she’d kept on ringing numbers until she found one who seemed to work on his own. That was the kind of man she wanted. His name was Victor Morgan—Victor Morgan of the Victor Morgan Private Investigation Bureau.

  Victor Morgan had had his offices in Kensington for about four years, in a sprawling old building off the Cromwell Road. That afternoon he was studying his newest acquisition, a word processor that had set him back five and a half grand. But he thought it was going to be worth it. In a few months he would have a filing system of floppy disks that would fit into one drawer. Yes, things were looking up.

  He was busily checking over the computer’s manual when he heard footsteps outside the door. He looked at his watch—Mrs. Marsh was smack on time.

  The door handle rattled and he yelled out, “Push . . . push, Mrs. Marsh!”

  Dolly, from outside, turned the handle one more time, gave it an almighty shove and hurtled into the office.

  “You OK?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” she said, patting herself down. “Something wrong with your door?”

  He smiled. “Gotta get it fixed one day. It’s a tricky lock, but it’s all right when you get the hang of it. Do sit down.”

  He shut the door behind her, and Dolly took stock of the man she’d chosen. He was big, well over six foot, and stocky with it. Not particularly good-looking, but there was a kind of warmth to him that didn’t fit with the conventional image of a private investigator.

  His bulk filled the chair as he sat back down at his desk and leaned forward. “Well, Mrs. Marsh, what can I do for you?”

  Dolly placed her handbag on the desk. “I would like you to watch . . . er . . .” She broke off.

  Here we go again, thought Victor: the hesitant wives too embarrassed to admit they wanted you to follow their husbands.

  Dolly coughed. “I’m here on behalf of my sister, actually.”

  Why they had to lie, Vic never knew. He looked her in the eye. “Your sister?”

  “Yes. My sister believes her husband is having an affair with another woman, and we would like you to watch her house and find out a little about her. Do you do that kind of
thing?”

  He nodded. He did do that kind of thing. He didn’t like it, but the truth of it was that it was his bread and butter.

  “Yes,” he said. “You’d like me to keep a woman under surveillance?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  He got out a sheet of paper and began to make notes, in what seemed to Dolly a very professional manner.

  “Right. Her name?”

  Dolly hesitated for another moment. “Trudie. Trudie Nunn.”

  “OK.” He nodded. “And the address?”

  Dolly gave him Trudie Nunn’s address in Islington.

  “And how long would you like the surveillance on Mrs. Nunn?”

  Again Dolly hesitated. She’d had it all worked out in her mind before she came in but suddenly she was all of a dither.

  “Well . . . we . . . my sister and I would like to know . . . what kind of work she’s doing, and if . . . my sister’s husband is visiting her and who she sees . . .”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “That’s all part of the job. But how long do you want me to watch—” he looked at the page—“Mrs. Nunn? Or Miss Nunn?”

  “Mrs. Nunn. Mrs. Trudie Nunn.”

  “Right.”

  Dolly thought for a moment. “Well, how much do you charge, Mr. Morgan?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “Twelve-fifty per hour, plus expenses. Usually I don’t do round the clock—I work from seven in the morning to seven at night, but if you want the night shift I can go from seven at night through to two in the morning.” He smiled. “In my experience, if there is any hanky-panky going on, it will have happened before then, if it’s going to happen at all.”

  Dolly was not amused. “I see. Well, I’d like you to do three or four days to begin with, and see how we go from there.”

  “OK, four days of seven to seven, or on the seven to—”

  “Day and night,” insisted Dolly. She’d already opened her bag and taken out her wallet.

  Ah. He rubbed his hands. Now’s my chance, he thought. He shifted his chair round toward his new toy and began tapping out numbers. Instantly a flashing sign appeared, saying: “BOOT ERROR—BOOT ERROR—BOOT ERROR.”

  Dolly looked up from her calculations. “I’ll pay you in advance for two days, is that all right? I make that £475.” She counted out the money and put it on his desk.

  Morgan’s computer was now flashing: “£35.02.” He shook his head sadly.

  “I’ve not quite got the hang of this yet . . . But that’s fine.” He tried to switch off the machine. “Er . . . another thing, Mrs. Marsh. Do you have a photograph of your sister’s husband, or any particulars? His name, for a start.”

  Dolly was taken aback. “Yes, his name is John, er, Jonathan . . . Jarrow . . . J-A-R-R-O-W.” She spelled it out, then described Harry Rawlins while Morgan nodded, taking careful notes.

  “Right you are. So you want me to watch this Trudie Nunn, and if this Mr. Jarrow turns up you want me to make a note of it—how long he stays, et cetera. Is that it?”

  Dolly nodded. “Yes, yes, that’s precisely it.” Despite the shenanigans with the computer, she reckoned Mr. Morgan wasn’t as dumb as he looked. She made a mental note not to make any slips in front of him.

  Business done, she stood up. “Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “Well, I’d like to know where I can contact you.”

  Dolly opened her bag, searching through her wallet for the card she’d picked up at the hotel desk that morning. Morgan went back to tapping out something on his word processor.

  “You’ll find me here, should you need me.”

  Still tapping, he flicked a look at the card she’d placed on his desk and said, “I don’t know that one.”

  “It’s very quiet, just by Queen’s Gate.”

  “And that’s where you’ll be, Mrs. Marsh?”

  “Yes, you can contact me there . . . but I’ll call in.”

  He smiled. “I’m sure you will, Mrs. Marsh.”

  He stood up and they shook hands. His grip was firm.

  As he walked Dolly toward the door, Helen, the group secretary for a number of offices, entered with her arms full of papers. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t know you had—”

  “That’s all right,” said Dolly, “I’m just leaving.”

  As Dolly closed the door delicately behind her, Helen gave Morgan an inquiring look. “Something juicy?”

  “Not really.” Morgan crossed back to his desk. “Oh my God,” he said, “now what’s happening?” The machine seemed to have taken on a life of its own, the printer churning out sheets and sheets of paper.

  Helen rushed up behind him. “You’ve got it on repeat!”

  “God damn it, I set it to receipt! I wanted a receipt!”

  Helen turned the machine off and looked at the receipt. “Ooh,” she said, “cash. That’s unusual for you!”

  He smiled. “Yes. Look, there’s some letters for you to do, and whatever you put in the machine yesterday, I’m afraid you’re going to have to put back in today. I wiped it!”

  She shook her head. He was reaching for his old camel hair coat, the one he always wore, whatever the time of year.

  “OK,” she said. “You know you’re going to have to employ me full-time now you’ve got that machine.”

  He turned with a grin. “My darling girl, this is the age of technology. When I get that machine going I won’t even need an office!”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” she retorted.

  He went to open the door, giving it its usual tug, followed by its usual pull—but it remained firmly stuck.

  “Forget about your fancy computer—why don’t you get that door fixed?” Helen said.

  He gave it one more tug and the door swung open. “Just a matter of technique!” he said with a wink and breezed out.

  Helen sighed. She’d been in love with Victor Morgan for almost two years, but he’d remained totally oblivious, showing no sign that he thought of her as anything more than just another piece of office equipment.

  In fact, he didn’t seem to care very much about anything—with the possible exception of his old car. Whatever the ups and downs of the business, he didn’t seem to worry about money, and she wondered if he had private income from somewhere. She knew he’d been in the police for twenty years before retiring to open his own investigation bureau—mostly dealing with petty debt collecting, marriage troubles, divorce settlements, writs, warrants and, of course, the odd industrial espionage job, which paid a bit more. But there was an awful lot about Morgan that she didn’t know, like the story of the boy in the photograph that was always tucked behind his bookcase. Good-looking boy; the image of his father. Once she’d asked about him, asked his name. Morgan had just shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what his name is, Helen. He’s been gone a long time.”

  “Gone where? Abroad somewhere?” she’d asked.

  “No, he was a heroin addict,” he’d replied. And that was all he’d ever said.

  There had been a wife, she knew that much, and maybe a divorce. But Helen would have had to be a very good private investigator to find out anything more about Morgan’s personal life.

  As for her chances, she’d given up thinking anything would ever come of it. She’d once screwed up her courage to ask him to her place for dinner. He’d said yes, briefly kindling her hopes, and it had been a very pleasant evening. But that was as far as he’d ever let it go.

  Helen sighed, then began to read the manual for his new word processor. If he was never going to get the hang of it, maybe she’d better.

  Shirley squinted at her watch as the taxi pulled up at the airport. “You know something, I can’t tell the time on this. I wish to God I’d got the other watch. What do you think, Linda, d’you like it?”

  Linda looked and said, “Well, if you can’t tell the bloody time by it, what’s the point?”

  Shirley looked at it again. “Oh my God, I’ve got it on upside down. No wonder I couldn’t te
ll the time!”

  She reached to open the door, but Linda grabbed hold of her. “You know I won’t forgive you for not telling me. I think it’s absolutely disgusting.”

  “Linda, we’ve been over this all the way to the airport,” Shirley sighed. “Bella and I didn’t tell you because we knew you’d react like this.”

  “Oh, so Bella knows, does she? Well, that’s marvelous, that’s bloody marvelous. Both of you know and you don’t tell me!”

  “We didn’t tell you, Linda, because we knew this is what would happen. Dolly went back to England because she—”

  “She wanted a face job, yes,” Linda interrupted. “I hear you, I hear you, you told me that four times already. But do you really believe it?”

  Shirley looked at her. “Why shouldn’t I believe it? She was going to go to Geneva, I know she was going to go to Geneva, but Bella suggested she go to London because there’s this amazing guy there—all Bella’s mates have been to him.”

  “What, all the prostitutes? Come off it. Do you really think Dolly was going for a facelift? God almighty, you two are so stupid!”

  Shirley was starting to get angry. “Why are we stupid, Linda?”

  “You never thought who else was in London, did you? Harry Rawlins, that’s who. Dolly’s husband. And that’s where our money is, too.”

  Shirley was getting to the end of her tether. “What are you insinuating?” she demanded.

  “I’m not insinuating anything, Shirley, love. I’m just saying, don’t you think it’s odd? Dolly Rawlins is in London, Harry Rawlins is in London, and our bloody money is in London!”

  Shirley pushed the car door open. “Well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s just fine. Dolly’ll keep an eye on it for us, and if you think that she’s going to be doing anything else then you’re mistaken, Linda!”

  Linda followed Shirley out of the car and started shouting to the driver about getting a porter.

  Shirley was rummaging in her bag for her passport and ticket. She whipped round and said, “Linda, will you leave it out! I’m trying to find my—”

  “You’ve got everything! You checked it four times in the bleedin’ taxi!”

  Shirley finally had them in her hands. “Oh, yes. Right, Linda, I’m going now.”