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  Chapter 4

  From behind the lace curtains of the master bedroom, Dolly checked herself in the dressing table mirror one last time. Her immaculate appearance hid a variety of emotions, all of which she had brought under control in order to do what she needed. The police in the unmarked car in the street outside couldn’t see her anywhere near as well as she could see them, but right now, she needed to lose them and get to Sloane Street. Harry’s safety deposit box was waiting for her. She resented their constant intrusion, their self-righteous assumption that she’d slip up in her “weakened state” and lead them to something that could ruin Harry’s name and reputation. In fact, their presence ensured the exact opposite: although Dolly was dying inside, Harry’s instructions had galvanized her. By following them, she was keeping him alive.

  Dolly set off confidently on one of her regular journeys to Myra’s hair salon on St. John’s Wood Road. A glance in her mirror en route confirmed she was being followed by the unmarked car from outside her house. When she parked her Mercedes near the salon and walked down the road, she recognized Detective Constable Andrews, stuck in the middle of two women arguing as to who had seen a free meter first.

  Myra’s was a boutique place frequented by a very regular, well-to-do clientele. The atmosphere was “home from home” and Dolly loved being pampered here on her twice-weekly visit. The decor was plain and elegant, and the mirrored walls allowed for easy socializing without turning your head. Myra herself was a very astute businesswoman underneath her rather brassy appearance, and Dolly was happy to pay over the odds for her service. Myra knew that cups of tea and coffee, biscuits and the odd glass of wine turned a cut and blowout into an afternoon out—she earned loyalty from her clients and, in return, they earned loyalty from her.

  Today, when Myra greeted Dolly at the door as she always did, Dolly got straight to the point.

  “Can you do me a favor?” She handed little Wolf over. “Take care of him for me for an hour.”

  “What about your tint, Mrs. Rawlins?” Myra asked.

  Dolly smiled and kissed Wolf on the head. “Don’t worry. I’ll pay you.” And with that, she took a headscarf from her handbag and slipped out the back door.

  At the end of the alleyway, Dolly hailed a cab on the main street. DC Andrews was still trying to find a parking space with a clear view of Myra’s salon.

  The corridor that led to the safety deposit boxes seemed to go on forever and every pair of eyes seemed to be on Dolly. Unnerved and strangely excited, she found herself almost swaggering along the marble floor, eyes fixed on the sharp-suited young man waiting for her at the other end. She needed to convince him—and herself—that she belonged to this world of locked-away secrets. That’s all anyone ever really put into safety deposit boxes: secrets.

  Dolly had only been to the bank once before, with Harry. This time she had a nervous tickle in the back of her throat as the straight-laced young clerk took her details. She was so nervous, she nearly signed her real surname by mistake.

  “This way, Mrs. Smith,” the clerk said. Dolly detected the heavy, knowing emphasis on the surname. Reaching the lift, he handed her a key and pressed the button for the basement.

  When the lift doors opened, she was met by a security guard who guided her through a series of four heavy doors, each of which he locked behind them, before they got to the vault. The final door had a barred gate on the inside, which had to be unlocked separately. As the outer door was opened and the security guard searched for the key to open the internal barred gate, Dolly thought of the prison life which Harry had always so adeptly avoided. He’d been so clever and they’d been so lucky to have the life they did. For a split second, grief rose from the pit of her stomach and stopped somewhere in her throat. She felt sick. Hurry up, she thought to herself. I need to sit down.

  Ushering her into the vault, the security guard showed her the bell on the desk, which would summon him when she was ready to leave. Dolly waited for him to leave the vault before she pulled out the key Eddie had given her. She slipped it into the numbered safety deposit box on the wall, and turned it. Inside was a heavy strong box.

  Ten minutes later, the contents of the box were strewn on the table in front of her. She’d not had time to count the vast bundles of bank notes, although they must have totaled tens of thousands of pounds, and she left the .38 revolver concealed under the cash, untouched. It was Harry’s leather-bound ledgers that fascinated her.

  The ledgers were bound in heavy brown leather like ones she’d seen in a Dickens play on TV. Each page was neatly handwritten, dated and labeled, with entries going back for almost the whole of their twenty years of married life. As she flicked through the pages she realized some of the names recorded were of people she knew to be dead, but it was the most recent ledger that stunned and amazed her. Page after page was filled with copious lists of names and the monies paid out to them, as well as monies stashed here, there and everywhere. The back of the ledger was filled with pasted and neatly aligned newspaper cuttings, resembling something like a film star’s scrapbook of reviews. But these cuttings were detailed articles on various armed robberies Harry had obviously committed and, next to the articles, were names that Dolly suspected referred to those who had been involved in each robbery. No wonder the Fishers wanted these ledgers! They could put all the competition away for a very long time and acquire a very tidy sum of stashed cash from Harry’s old jobs.

  Dolly shivered slightly. She hadn’t realized that Harry had organized and committed so much heavy crime. Looking at the dates, she realized that most of the robberies had taken place after her third miscarriage; then there was a lull before they picked up again after her baby boy was stillborn. This hurt her deeply, but she also understood. The untouched nursery had been a sanctuary for Dolly, who suffered bouts of depression, but Harry had never once set foot inside the beautiful, cornflower-blue room. She knew he had distracted himself from the traumas of their personal life by throwing himself into his work; but she’d thought he was away at antiques auctions. He hadn’t exactly lied, but he had allowed her to misunderstand exactly what “work” he was throwing himself into.

  Dolly continued to flick through the last ledger—and stopped, shattered. There, in Harry’s neat, immaculate handwriting, were the detailed plans for the raid in which he died. Dolly saw the number of guns required, the vehicles to be used and the names and contact numbers for Joe Pirelli, Terry Miller and the security firm insider. The names Pirelli and Miller both rang a bell with Dolly. They’d been at some event or other with their respective wives—respective widows now. For a second Dolly wondered what the two women were doing right now, allowing herself a smile. Well, they won’t be doing what I’m doing, she thought to herself.

  The meticulously detailed plans, drawings and directions for the robbery read like the script for a play. She couldn’t quite believe that a man so reluctant to pick up his dirty clothes from the bedroom floor could be so organized when it came to robbing an armed security wagon . . . but then, there was nothing life or death about laundry. Suddenly she remembered Harry’s blackened wristwatch. Feeling sickened, she slowly shut the book. Within seconds, she’d opened it again, now turning the pages rapidly to see what Harry had planned for their future, desperate to find out all the secrets she could about the man she loved.

  “My God,” she whispered to Harry as she read his words, “you even worked out crimes as far ahead as ’86!” As the scope of his plans sank in, Dolly looked at her watch. An hour had gone by since she’d left the hairdressers and she knew she had to go.

  In the taxi on the way back to Myra’s, Dolly made copious notes in her small black Gucci diary of what she had read in the ledger about the failed robbery. She used her own shorthand, just in case the coppers watching her ever fancied a random stop and search.

  Dolly snuck back into Myra’s the way she had gone out. From inside the salon, she spotted one of the detectives approaching the front door. Thinking quickly, she pulled o
ff her coat, grabbed a magazine and sat down under the hairdryer just as the officer entered the salon. Dolly smiled sweetly at him then, as he walked out looking embarrassed, got out the diary to read over what she’d written.

  Chapter 5

  Arnie Fisher was in a fury, the sort of fury that used to get him shut in a cupboard as a little boy. His hard blue eyes flickered with anger, and spittle foamed at the side of his thin lips as he paced around his enormous desk. He wore a pale gray suit, immaculate, handmade gray shoes and a silk blue-gray tie, which was now loose around his neck. He pulled out one of the desk drawers and threw it across the room.

  Arnie had just had his Soho office on Berwick Street redecorated; the velvet wallpaper and plush carpet were now a matching snooker-table green. He’d also ordered new furniture: two heavy brown leather sofas, a brown mahogany bookcase and a matching cabriole-legged coffee table. The log-effect gas fire was half in, half out of its hole, waiting to be connected to the gas supply. A chandelier, yet to be fitted, balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, and stacked on the floor next to it was a collection of sporting prints waiting to be hung on the green walls. In his efforts to be tasteful, Arnie had created a hideous, gloomy room. He’d even had an en suite bathroom fitted with a dark green bath, green wash basin and gold taps. The bidet he’d wanted had had to be abandoned because there wasn’t enough room. Arnie was moving up in the world: new office, new patch—once he’d got his hands on the Rawlins’ ledgers, there’d be no stopping him.

  The en suite toilet flushed and his brother Tony came out, doing up his fly and rearranging his balls. He never washed his hands.

  “Who did you get to do this?” Arnie asked, pointing to his desk.

  “Do what?”

  Arnie slapped his hand down on the desk. “I said I wanted it French polished! It’s a bleedin’ antique. Some ham-fisted git’s only gone and bloody varnished it!”

  Spittle shot out of his mouth and he dabbed it with a crumpled silk handkerchief. He repeatedly banged his hand on the desk, venting his fury. Then, he removed a pen from his pocket and, gripping it like a knife, scratched a deep mark across the surface.

  Tony shrugged, unmoved by Arnie’s rage. “It only cost a ton to do up,” he said. “You should be grateful!”

  Arnie pulled out another drawer and flung it across the room, missing Tony’s head by inches. Tony didn’t give a toss. He never worried when Arnie threw a right old wobbler. It always blew over. The only time you needed to be worried or cautious where his brother was concerned was when he was nice to you, when he smiled that strange, thin-lipped, tight smile. Right now, his teeth were chomping up and down like a donkey’s. Tony left the room as Boxer entered.

  Arnie got himself back in control, rubbing his hand gently up and down the varnished antique desk. “Look at this, Boxer. This desk is inlaid and that idiot gets some . . .” Arnie stopped himself before he got angry again. “He’s got no class, my brother. No eye for beautiful things.” Boxer was just as ignorant as Tony, of course, but at least he had the decency to look sorry. Arnie sat back in his leather-studded chair and folded his arms behind his head.

  “So, what’ve you got for me, Boxer?” he asked.

  “Not a lot, Mr. Fisher. I told her you were willing to pay good money for Harry’s ledgers, but she didn’t even flinch. If you ask me, she doesn’t know where they are.”

  “I’m not asking you!” Arnie snapped. Tony slipped back into the room to see if everything was all right.

  “If you give me a bit more time, Mr. Fisher, I’ll try again. She’s still very upset. It’ll be easier to talk to her when she’s calmer.” Tony was standing very close to Boxer’s right shoulder now, practically staring down his ear as he listened to Boxer’s feeble excuses. He was dying to interrupt, to intimidate and bully this weak and pathetic man. Boxer stood with his head bent, shuffling his feet.

  “Is that it?” Tony asked as he closed in even further on Boxer.

  Arnie raised his hand—just a flick, but it was enough for Tony to keep quiet. Then he jerked his head. Tony was about to stand his ground, but he saw that tight nasty smile, thought better of it, and left the room.

  Boxer shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He was scared of Arnie; he hated himself for it, but the nasty little queen gave him the runs. You just never knew where you stood with him. Tony was different. A real womanizer who would screw anything if it had all its limbs, he was quick to use his fists if he felt it necessary. At times he was punch-crazy—but at least you could see it coming with Tony. Arnie’s stare was far more terrifying.

  “Time, Boxer, is something I may not have,” said Arnie. “You do understand what might be in those ledgers, don’t you?”

  “I do. I do know, Mr. Fisher, and I am doing my very best for you.”

  “Your very best is shit. When exactly did you have this pointless conversation with Dolly Rawlins? I sent you there days ago.”

  Boxer stuttered his way through another excuse. “I didn’t want to come back with nothing, Mr. Fisher. I was trying to think of another way to get her to cooperate, you see. I didn’t come up with nothin’, so I thought I’d better come round and tell it like it is. I told her straight though. I said: ‘Don’t you go to anyone else cos Mr. Fisher’ll be very angry.’ She won’t do anything stupid, honest she won’t.”

  One raised finger from Arnie and Boxer fell silent, like a terrified dog with a bullying owner.

  “You’re gettin’ your knickers in a right twist, ain’t ya, Boxer? Job too much for you, is it? Can’t you handle it? Want Tony to take over with Dolly Rawlins, do you? Eh?”

  Boxer knew exactly what Tony would do if he got given the job of getting Dolly to talk. “No, don’t do that, Mr. Fisher. Let me speak to Dolly again. Please!”

  Arnie removed his glasses and began polishing them slowly. “You asked for more time and I’m going to give it to you. You got two weeks, my old son, two weeks. If you don’t come up with the ledgers by then I’ll send Tony in to see to the widow, an’ you know how Tony likes the ladies, don’t you?”

  The phone rang, Arnie picked it up and instantly went all coy, wriggling his body. “Hello, Carlos. I’m fine, darlin’, I’m fine. Hang on a sec—piss off then, Boxer, and remember this: if anyone’s named in them ledgers for sure, it’s you. You used to work for the bastard. Now get out before I set Tony on ya.”

  As Boxer scurried across the office, his slow brain churned over what Arnie had just said. He was right. It would be in his interest to get those ledgers. He’d acted as a hammer man for Harry on a couple of robberies. Boxer decided that he’d go and see Dolly again that night, whether she liked it or not. He quietly closed the door to Arnie’s office and moved down the staircase into the club. It was dark and seedy in the daytime as well as at night; the strong smell of stale cigarette and cigar smoke mixed with beer clung to the red velvet curtains. It was pungent and sickening.

  Tony Fisher loitered at the bottom of the stairs. He’d have a bit of fun with poor old Boxer. “Arthur Negus of the Antiques Roadshow calmed down, ’as he?”

  Boxer started to skirt round Tony nervously. Tony stepped in front of him and put his fists up in a boxer’s stance. “Come on, Boxer, come on . . . show me your mettle!”

  Boxer put his fists up half-heartedly, Tony slammed him one, hard below the waist. He buckled, holding his belly and gasping for air.

  Tony leaned over him menacingly. “You’re losing your touch, sunshine,” he said, and laughing his guts out, he ran back up the stairs. Boxer felt like puking his up.

  Chapter 6

  Dolly stood behind the net curtain in the darkness of her bedroom, once again watching the filth watching her. The same unmarked police car that had followed her to the hairdressers was parked not far up the road. She smiled to herself and looked across at Wolf, who was curled up on the bed watching her. “Fancy parking under a street lamp,” she cooed at her little baby. “We can see his stupid, bored face, can’t we?” One o
f the plain-clothed men got out of the car and walked off, leaving Andrews slumped in the passenger seat. Dolly’s smile dropped and she headed downstairs, Wolf at her heels.

  DC Andrews desperately tried to focus on Dolly as she left the house. With just a coat slung over her shoulder and no handbag, she was obviously taking her little dog for a walk. Andrews yawned. Surveillance was tiring. Ahead of him, he could see Dolly as she strolled along the pavement, repeatedly stopping while the tiny dog cocked his leg on every tree, wall and lamp post. Reaching the corner, he turned right out of sight. Dolly stood, hands on hips, with her back to Andrews. She clapped her hands: “Come here! Wolf—come here!”

  Andrews smiled to himself. Dolly wasn’t exactly the commanding voice of Barbara Woodhouse, the TV dog trainer. “If you’re the wife of a master criminal,” he whispered, “I’m a monkey’s uncle.”

  Dolly followed the dog round the corner. Andrews thought briefly about getting out and following her on foot, but it was cold, and she was just fetching the dog. However, when she had still not returned after a minute, he became alarmed, got out of the car and ran to where he had last seen Dolly. “Christ!” he said, squeezing the word out through clenched teeth. Dolly and Wolf were nowhere to be seen. He ran back toward the car just as his colleague, DC Richmond, approached with two cheeseburgers and milkshakes.

  “You seen her?” Andrews was flustered.

  “Who?” Then Richmond realized and snickered. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost an old woman and a pooch?”

  “Do you think Resnick’ll give a shit which one of us was watching her and which one was taking an unscheduled burger break?”

  Richmond got the message loud and clear, threw the incriminating food and drink into the nearest garden and jumped in the car. “I’ll drive,” he said. “We’ll find her.”

  Dolly and Wolf had melted into a stag party crowd at the top end of Barnet Road and then she’d hailed a cab toward Liverpool Street Station. As the cab drove south, Richmond’s unmarked police car passed them going the other way, doing a circuit of the immediate area. Dolly smiled as she stroked little Wolf, who was curled up by her side. She could feel the adrenalin coursing through her body. She liked the way it made her feel close to her Harry.