Widows Page 2

  When Harry proposed with a solitaire diamond ring, he took Dolly’s breath away. Harry’s mother Iris had been equally breathless, but for very different reasons. She couldn’t believe that her son wanted to marry a girl she saw as a common money-grabbing little tart. Iris had brought up her only son single-handedly after his father was imprisoned for armed robbery and died of cancer shortly after his release. She established a very successful—and apparently legitimate—antiques business, made sure Harry got a good education, and saw that he traveled extensively to further his knowledge of antique art, silver and precious stones. By the time he took over the business, Iris was struggling with arthritis and blinding migraines and ready to retire. Her final ambition for her only child was to see him married to a rich young woman with class and social connections. It was the first time Harry had ever defied his mother.

  Dolly never told Harry about the day she had called on Iris in the elegant St. John’s Wood flat her doting son had bought. Not exactly elegant in those days, Dolly was nevertheless not quite the brassy blonde that Iris had envisaged. She was attractive, broad for a woman and with hands that had seen hard work, but she was demure, feminine and quietly spoken. Iris had gathered herself and offered tea.

  “No thank you, Mrs. Rawlins,” Dolly had replied. Iris winced at the girl’s East End accent. “I just want you to know that I love Harry and whether you like it or not, we are going to get married. Your constant disapproval and threats only drive us closer, because he loves and needs me.”

  Dolly had paused for Iris to respond—to apologize if she had any sense. Instead, Iris slowly looked Dolly up and down, sneering at her ordinary clothes and unimaginative flat shoes.

  Dolly shrugged and went on. “My dad was a dealer in the antiques business and he knew your husband, so don’t give me all your airs and graces. Everyone knows he fenced stolen goods and done ten years in Pentonville for armed robbery. Everyone knows you used the proceeds to run the business while he was inside. And let’s be honest, you were lucky to get away with it.”

  No one had ever talked to Iris like that before. “Are you pregnant?” she asked, gobsmacked.

  Dolly smoothed her pencil skirt. “No, Mrs. Rawlins, I’m not, but I do want a family, and if you want to be a part of it then you should zip your mouth. Harry and me are getting married, with or without your permission, and threatening to cut him out of the business is just cutting off your nose to spite your face.” Dolly turned to leave. “I’ll show myself out.”

  “If it’s money you want,” said Iris. “I’ll write you a check here and now. Name your price.”

  Dolly held out her left hand with its diamond solitaire engagement ring.

  “I want the gold band to go with this, cos you don’t have enough money to pay me off. He’s all I want and I am going to make him happy. Like I said, you can be part of our lives or not, it’s up to you.”

  Once again, Dolly headed for the door. Once again, Iris’s words made her pause.

  “If you’re thinking of running the antique business with Harry you’d better lose that common East End accent.”

  “I intend to, Mrs. Rawlins.” Dolly glanced over her shoulder and looked Iris square in the eyes. “Just as you managed to lose yours.”

  Eddie Rawlins, the cousin Dolly couldn’t stand, breezed in with his cheeks flushed from the cold, and interrupted her thoughts. He was similar in looks to Harry, but whereas Harry had been strong and muscular, Eddie seemed like a weak version.

  He rubbed his hands and gestured out of the window at the funeral cortege. “They’re all here,” he said, beaming. “Hell of a turn out. The Fishers are here, not to mention the law watching in a car down the road. You can’t even see the end of the line, there must be fifty cars out there!”

  Dolly bit her lip. She hadn’t wanted it this way but Iris had insisted: Harry was an important man who had to be buried in style. Dolly knew how much Iris must be hurting too, so she had given her what she wanted. She’d never be thanked for it, but it would make Dolly’s life less stressful in the long run.

  Collecting her black leather handbag, Dolly stood and smoothed her skirt, checking herself in the hallway mirror on the way out. Just as she got to the front door, Eddie stopped her and took a small brown packet from his pocket. He leaned forward and spoke in a hushed voice even though they were completely alone.

  “This is for you, Dolly. I know it’s probably not appropriate right now, but the law’s been sniffin’ round my place and Harry gave me this to pass on to you if anything ever happened to him.”

  Dolly stared at the package. Eddie shifted his weight and moved closer.

  “I think it’s the keys to his lock-up,” he said.

  Dolly slipped the packet into her handbag and followed Eddie outside. She couldn’t believe she was about to bury Harry. All she wanted to do was lie down and die. Her little dog was all that kept her alive now.

  The neighbors were out on their driveways and, as Dolly walked down her front garden path, she could feel everyone watching her. Car after car was lined up, waiting patiently to follow the hearse, which was weighed down with wreaths and bunches of flowers. Dolly had never seen so many hearts and crosses, the splashes of color standing out in contrast to the line of black cars.

  Eddie ushered Dolly into the back of a black Mercedes-Benz with dark tinted windows. As she bent her head to step into the car she saw her mother-in-law in the Rolls-Royce behind. Iris mouthed the word: “bitch.” Dolly ignored her, just as she had done throughout most of her married life.

  Once she had settled herself, Dolly gave the nod for Eddie to follow the slow-moving hearse. Through the driver’s mirror, he saw the trickle of tears start to run down her ashen face. She made no effort to wipe them away as she spoke in a tight voice.

  “I hope you told them I’m doing nothing back at the house after the funeral . . . nothing. The sooner this is over the better.”

  “Yeah, I did,” Eddie replied cautiously “But I think Iris is havin’ a few folks back at her flat. She asked me to go and said she’s paid for everythin’.” Dolly closed her eyes and shook her head. Iris hadn’t been financially self-sufficient since retiring so “paying for everything” actually meant that Harry was paying. Or, more accurately now, Dolly.

  Harry Rawlins was buried in the style his mother wanted, with hundreds gathered at the cemetery, and even more flowers surrounding the graveside. Throughout the ceremony, Dolly remained solitary and unmoved. She was the first to leave the graveside and the nosy, intrusive crowd of mourners raised their bowed heads to watch her go.

  Among the mourners was Arnie Fisher, in his navy cashmere coat, immaculately tailored suit and shirt. As soon as Dolly’s car moved off he nodded to a huge bear of a man standing at the back of the crowd. Boxer Davis pushed his way forward. Boxer’s suit, in comparison, was shoddy and threadbare and even his shirt was grimy and stained. His big stupid face appeared moved by the ceremony, and he wiped his flattened nose—dripping from the cold—with the back of his hand. Arnie Fisher flicked a look at Dolly’s slowly retreating Mercedes and nodded for Boxer to follow. Boxer shuffled, slightly embarrassed.

  “Don’t you think I should wait a few days, boss? I mean, she only just buried him.”

  Arnie stared at Boxer for a couple of seconds, jerked his head toward the Merc again, and turned away. Conversation over.

  Standing a few feet away from Arnie was his younger brother, Tony, who towered above everyone, making even Boxer look small by comparison. The cold sun glinted off the diamond in his right ear as he fingered it while he chatted to some friends. He came to the end of some joke he was obviously telling and they roared with laughter. Unlike his brother, Tony was a handsome man; in fact, the only similarity between them was their steely blue ice-cold eyes. Arnie was short-sighted so he wore rimless glasses—but there was something about those unfeeling, unemotional eyes they both shared. Boxer looked from Tony back to Arnie and obediently made his way through the dispersing mourners
to follow Dolly back to the huge, empty home where she and Harry had been so happy for so long.

  A short distance from the main crowd, Detective Sergeant Fuller leaned against a tombstone, making a mental note of everyone there. My God, he thought, it’s like looking at the mug shots down the Yard. All the villains were there—the old timers and the new blood. A diligent young officer out to impress the powers that be, Fuller was pissed off to have been sent on what he considered a fool’s errand. His boss, Detective Inspector George Resnick, had been obsessed with catching Harry Rawlins for longer than Fuller had been alive. “There’ll be something, Fuller,” Resnick had barked to Fuller and Detective Constable Andrews that morning. “Every criminal in London will be in that graveyard today, either to pay their respects or to make certain Rawlins doesn’t come back from the dead. So, there’ll be something. And I want to know what.”

  DI Resnick had always believed that Harry Rawlins was the ringleader behind three armed robberies on security vans. His attempts to prove it became an overwhelming obsession—and had been a constant irritation to Rawlins. Eventually Rawlins took action. Resnick was photographed accepting an envelope from a known criminal and, when the story was leaked to the News of the World, he had found himself under investigation for corruption. It took him months to prove his innocence, and by the time Resnick returned to work, the stigma had ruined any hopes of promotion. The irreparable damage to his career fueled Resnick’s festering hatred for Rawlins and he swore that one day, no matter how many years it took, he would see Harry Rawlins behind bars. Death had beaten Resnick to it, but it was an obsession that seemingly extended beyond the grave.

  Fuller didn’t care about Resnick because he didn’t believe for a second that Resnick cared about him—he had put nothing and no one above catching Harry bloody Rawlins. However, they both cared what the Fisher brothers were up to and who they were talking to, so Fuller watched them like a hawk. Fuller was ambitious to climb the ranks, and the Fishers had been on every copper’s most wanted list ever since he was a uniformed recruit. They’d be the catch of the century, now Rawlins was dead!

  After the mourners dispersed, Fuller threaded his way between the gravestones toward the exit. He was about to get into the waiting police car when he noticed the mud on his £40 shoes and, irritated, wiped them on the grass verge. DC Andrews grinned at him from the driver’s seat. Fuller was not amused, particularly as he also had mud on the hem of his best trousers.

  Fuller opened the car door and sat down heavily inside. He took a clean, white, perfectly ironed and folded handkerchief and spat on it before wiping the mud from his right trouser leg.

  “See anything interesting?” Andrews was making conversation. He’d watched Fuller looking bored shitless for the past hour.

  “That prick Resnick can ruin his own career if he wants to, but he’s not ruining mine.” Fuller snapped back.

  “I remember reading about him in the News of the World.” Andrews was on top of all the gossip. He thought it impressed the female officers at the station. “Suspended from duty for taking bribes. The crooked cop who took a pay-off.”

  “Am I supposed to care?” Fuller snarled. He slammed the car door shut and jerked his head for Andrews to drive.

  “He got two Commissioners’ Commendations for bravery before he was even a sergeant,” said Andrews as he put the car in gear. “He was a good officer.”

  “Well, he’s not now!” Everyone knew that Resnick’s chances of promotion were scuppered—he’d kept his rank as DI by the skin of his teeth but, every time his name was mentioned for promotion, someone dragged up the dirt and he was passed over. It was only recently that DCI Saunders had persuaded the CID Commander to let Resnick have an operational posting again, and he had been reluctantly given a small cold crime investigation team to run.

  “Every copper associated with that chain-smoking dinosaur is seen as just as big a joke as he is. I’m not taking that lying down, Andrews, I can tell you that much.”

  Fuller flipped open his ever-present notebook and stared down at the list of names he had taken at the funeral. “Now, he’s a fool chasing ghosts. Our attentions should be on the living.” As the car moved off, Fuller turned and stared at the throng of people waiting in the car park, looking for Arnie Fisher, but he had already left. Fuller frowned and tapped his book.

  “Let’s take a look at Rawlins’s do, see who’s at the wake to pay their last respects to that bastard.”

  Chapter 2

  Dolly sat in the plush velvet chair watching Boxer carefully pour her a brandy. He was drinking orange juice, trying to make a good impression no doubt. Why on earth had she let the big stupid idiot in? Why him, of all people? But she found his presence strangely comforting; in his own funny way he seemed genuinely moved by Harry’s death. She slipped her hand down to touch Wolf, sitting as always close to her side. The tiny dog looked up and licked the tips of her fingers. She felt lonely, terribly, terribly lonely.

  Boxer was a waste of space, but he’d thought a lot of Harry and considered him to be a friend. Harry wasn’t Boxer’s friend of course; Harry had simply chosen to look after Boxer and give him the odd handout, not because he liked him, but because he could manipulate him. Boxer followed Harry like Wolf followed Dolly; the difference was that Wolf was smart enough to realize he was truly loved back.

  They drank in silence. Boxer, who was still standing, seemed ill at ease, as if unsure whether he should move his bulky body into one of the chairs. Dolly nodded and he sat down, holding his now empty glass on his knee. Dolly was tired, her head ached, she wanted him to go, but he just sat there. Eventually he coughed and touched his collar.

  “They want Harry’s ledgers,” he blurted out.

  “They?” Dolly hid her frown as she looked at him. She was giving nothing away.

  Boxer got up again and paced the room nervously. “I’m working for the Fisher brothers now, Dolly . . . they . . . they want Harry’s ledgers.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied.

  “They’ll pay good money for them.” Boxer’s voice trembled slightly. He was trying to sound serious, but not demanding.

  Dolly’s apparent lack of interest was making Boxer anxious. She knew him well enough to know that making him anxious also made him careless. He’d tell her everything without even realizing.

  “Harry’s ledgers,” Boxer continued. “He was famous for them. He named names, Dolly, you know he did. Every lag he ever came across and maybe some he hadn’t yet, but knew he would. If the filth gets hold of them ledgers, there won’t be a decent villain walking the streets of London.”

  “I told you, I don’t know—.”

  Quick as lightening, Boxer was beside her, bending down, his big moon face close to hers as he pointed at her with his index finger. Dolly didn’t flinch. He wasn’t angry—he was frightened.

  “Yes, you do! You do know! So, where are his ledgers, Doll?”

  In a flash of uncontrollable anger, Dolly sprang to her feet. Boxer backed away. “Don’t you call me that, you hear me? Only Harry ever calls me that! I don’t know nothing about no ledgers! And what’s it got to do with the Fisher brothers anyway?”

  Boxer gripped her upper arms as he desperately tried again. “The brothers have taken over his patch. They sent me and if I go back empty-handed it’ll be Tony visitin’ you next, so do yourself a favor and tell me where they are!”

  Dolly stepped back, face twisting with rage as she clenched her fists, nails cutting into her palms. “I only just buried him, for Christ’s sake!” For a split second, Dolly’s grief surfaced at the thought of Harry being replaced so quickly by lowlifes like the Fishers.

  Boxer recognized her grief instantly because he felt it himself. Suffused by guilt, his face softened. “I’ll come back.”

  “I don’t want nobody round here! Nobody! Get out!”

  “It’s all right, Dolly, don’t worry. Just don’t go to anyone else, OK? The Fishers wouldn’t
like it. I’ll come back.”

  “GET OUT . . . GO ON, GET OUT NOW, BOXER!” she shouted and hurled her glass at him. He ducked just in time and it shattered against the door. Raising his hands in surrender, he turned and made a hasty retreat.

  As soon as the front door slammed, Dolly went over to the record player. As the heavy beautiful voice of Kathleen Ferrier filled the room, she felt her anger calm. She sang along to the record: “What is life to me without thee? What is life if thou art dead . . .” Suddenly she remembered the package that Eddie had given her before the funeral. Picking up her handbag, she tipped out the contents onto the floor in a jumbled mess. Dolly fell to her knees, scrambling to find the piece of paper wrapped round a set of keys, hoping and wanting it to be a message from Harry. Quickly unwrapping the note, she instantly recognized his neat writing.

  Bank vault—H. R. SMITH—PASSWORD—“HUNGERFORD.”

  Sign in as Mrs. H. R. SMITH

  There was more written below.

  Dear Doll,

  Remember the day you signed at the bank with me for the deposit box? It’s all yours now. The keys are to the lock-up near Liverpool Street. You’ll find some things there, but you need to get rid of them.

  Harry

  Dolly knelt on her plush cream carpet with Wolf by her side and clutched the paper to her chest. She read and reread it, trying to make out when it was written. There was no date, no message of love, just simple instructions. The bank vault contained the ledgers, she was sure of it. She’d always known they existed because Harry was always making lists. His mother had taught him that without the trust of contacts—criminal or legitimate—any business would fail. She had shown him how to keep a ledger, recording names, dates and purchases made, legitimate or illegitimate, and insisted he keep the ledgers safely locked away; they would be insurance against anyone who turned against him.