Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  “Then Miss World I suppose?” Dolly said, her sarcastic tone unnoticed by Shirley.

  “That’s right.” Shirley’s eyes glazed over as she dared to dream. “This could be the start of something big for me.”

  Dolly turned her attention to Linda. “And how are you now?”

  “Well, you know Joe. Easy come, easy go. God, it’s bleedin’ hot in here.”

  Dolly poured more water on the coals, adding to Linda’s discomfort. “Sit low down. It’s hotter if you stand or lie on the higher seats.” The casual chat was over. Dolly moved on to why she had brought them both here.

  “You know the Fisher brothers have taken over Harry’s patch, don’t you?”

  “I heard the rumor,” Linda panted as she began to overheat.

  “You had any trouble from them?”

  “Not from them, no.” Linda confirmed. “The pigs did my place over though and they’re a real pain in the arse, keep hanging round the arcade. If they don’t leave off, I’ll get the sack.”

  Dolly glanced at Shirley and raised her eyebrows.

  “They’ve done my place over four times,” said Shirley. “I’ve not seen the Fishers though.”

  Linda, for now, wasn’t remotely curious about Dolly’s questions. She was just focused on not melting, “God, it’s boiling in here. Is it meant to be good for you?”

  Shirley wasn’t good with many topics, but she knew about spas. “Saunas are designed to sweat out all of the impurities from your body,” she explained.

  “I can think of a better way—” began Linda. Dolly held up her hand to interrupt.

  “Now look—I want to talk to you both. The Fisher brothers and the law are sniffing around for information.”

  Linda tried one last joke. “And I thought they just fancied me . . .” She saw a tiny, split-second smile appear on Dolly’s face before it disappeared again behind tight lips and unreadable eyes.

  “You know how Harry worked,” Dolly continued. “He kept records of everyone who ever worked for him. He listed names: informants, gun merchants, bankers. Money in, cash paid out. All logged and dated. He used his books, his ledgers, as protection if anyone grassed or cheated on him.”

  “I dunno what you’re talking about, Doll,” Linda said, feeling a bit dizzy from the heat.

  “Then listen!” Dolly snapped. “And don’t call me that. I don’t like it. The Fisher Brothers want Harry’s ledgers.”

  “Why?” Shirley asked.

  “I reckon it’s cos they’re named inside, along with their dodgy deals, and they’re scared that if the law gets their hands on ’em they’ll be in big trouble.”

  “Who’s got them?” Considering that Shirley wasn’t the sharpest girl in the sauna, Dolly was impressed that she was the one asking the sensible questions.

  “I have,” Dolly said calmly. As she began to explain, she spoke slowly and deliberately, emphasizing every word so the women couldn’t possibly misunderstand. Shirley visibly hung on Dolly’s every word, while Linda tipped her head back, closed her eyes and quietly listened, still panting a little in the unbearable heat. “Harry always said that if anything ever happened to him, he wanted me to be all right. He wanted his team to take over and look after all of us. One time he joked that if he died, as long as his team had the ledgers they could run the business without him. But Joe and Terry went with him, so it’s up to me now. I’m going to look after us. I’m going to look after all of us. Just like Harry wanted.”

  Dolly, with hardly a bead of sweat on her, looked at Shirley’s attentive face. She wasn’t entirely sure if Shirley knew what on earth she was talking about, but at least she seemed to be listening. Then Linda sat bolt upright.

  “I can’t stand this heat much longer, I’m flaking out!” she said.

  Dolly glared at Linda, a look of seething fury on her face. Here she was, bearing her soul and Linda didn’t even have the decency to listen. She got up, gathered her towel around her and stormed out before she did something stupid, like shove Linda’s head in the sauna coals.

  “What did I do wrong?” Linda asked Shirley. But the look on Shirley’s face was just as angry as Dolly’s.

  “Can’t you see she’s upset?” Shirley said, “It must have been terrible for her, even worse than it was for us. Her old man was blown to bits and unrecognizable. They’d been married for twenty years.”

  Linda jumped up from the bench. “An’ I ain’t upset, is that it? Just cos I don’t show it don’t mean I don’t feel things.”

  Shirley tried to calm Linda, but she wasn’t having any of it, pacing and threatening to give Dolly a piece of her mind. She could easily have left the sauna and gone after Dolly, so Shirley thought it was all bravado—and then suddenly Linda stopped shouting and crumpled up on the seat, hugging her knees and burying her face in her hands. She spoke in a muffled voice.

  “I had a shower this morning and got soap in me eyes. When I tried to grab a towel from the hook on the door I picked up his dressing gown instead. I could smell him, I could still smell his body, it was as if he was right there with me again, but it was just his dressing gown . . .” Linda broke down and sobbed.

  Shirley’s mouth twitched as she felt the tears welling up in her, and the next minute she too was sobbing, thinking of all the things in her flat that reminded her of Terry.

  When Dolly re-entered she found the pair of them in floods of tears, hugging each other. Dolly tried to keep herself in check, but then she started crying too. This was the first time Dolly had cried properly in front of anyone, but she didn’t care. It seemed OK to share her grief with the other widows; she wasn’t embarrassed or worried that they’d see her as weak. She instinctively trusted them, and this was a momentous thing for Dolly to do with anyone. Trust. This is what she needed.

  The tension eased and Dolly started the conversation again.

  “When I asked you here, I wasn’t sure how much I was going to say. But now I am. We’ve got two options regarding Harry’s ledgers—”

  “We?” Linda interrupted. At Dolly’s slight smile she quieted down and began to listen.

  “Harry planned jobs months in advance, all written down, so if the Fishers got their hands on the ledgers, they could stay on top. Just like Harry did. So, option one is that we sell the ledgers to the Fishers and they would offer us a percentage of anything they make. Or option two, if we don’t sell—” Dolly took a deep breath as Shirley and Linda leaned in closer—“we pull the job Harry had lined up.”

  Linda started to laugh hysterically. Shirley sat with her mouth open.

  “You are joking?” Linda stuttered.

  “If you don’t want to do it, that’s fine. But I can’t do it on my own, so I’d have to sell and the Fishers are cheap double-crossing villains and will no doubt stitch me up.”

  “We can’t do an armed robbery, Dolly,” Shirley whispered.

  “Yes, we can. We can finish what our men started. It was a good plan that would have worked if they hadn’t used explosives.”

  Linda and Shirley glanced at each other, not knowing how to respond. Was Dolly mad? Had grief tipped her over the edge?

  Dolly continued, slowly and calmly, “I could have sold the ledgers without telling you and avoided a three-way split, but I want to do right by you as Harry always did right by Joe and Terry. And this job is right.” Dolly hit them with her killer blow. “If you don’t want to do it, I understand. I’ll do my best to get a couple of grand each for us off the Fishers. Then they can do the job Harry was planning and pocket the million quid.”

  “A million quid?” Shirley shouted before slamming her hand over her mouth.

  Linda, streetwise and sharp as a tack, knew that if something sounded too good to be true, it probably was. She was married to Joe long enough to realize that a million-quid job would be dangerous. She smiled and shook her head. “Do us a favor, Mrs. Rawlins. What do you take us for, a pair of mugs?”

  “Far from it,” said Dolly. “We’re more similar than
we are different, Linda. I know what you’re feeling inside right now and I know how to make that better. One last job. For our men, yes. But for us, more. This is your ticket out of struggling in shooting galleries for less than half you’re worth, and you—” Dolly said, looking at Shirley—“you’d never have to work a day in your life.”

  A panicked Shirley piped up, “I don’t want to leave London.”

  “You won’t have to, love. No one will know it’s us. I know exactly what to do.”

  Dolly could see Shirley and Linda faltering, so pushed them a little closer to the decision she wanted. “You think your Terry and your Joe left you with nothing? They didn’t. They left you with me. Me, the ledgers and their next job. We were never just the little women sitting at home. We know what they did. We know why they did it. Harry led me to his ledgers for a reason—and that reason is us. He didn’t want us to be alone and he didn’t want us to struggle. We deserve this, ladies.” Dolly stood up. “Just think about it. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t think we could do it. And I’ll pay all your outgoings before the job in ready cash.”

  Linda and Shirley sat open-mouthed and mute. Dolly could almost hear the cogs turning as they weighed up their options.

  “I’ll contact you again in two days,” she said. “Don’t try and get in touch with me. I’m being watched by the old bill and they might have my phone tapped. They’re the reason I didn’t turn up here at the same time as you. I don’t want us seen together, so make sure you leave separately, and at least twenty minutes after me.”

  And she was gone.

  Linda and Shirley sat in exactly the same position, wearing exactly the same vacant facial expressions, for what seemed like ten minutes. Then Linda spoke.

  “She’s off her trolley.”

  “Should we tell someone?”

  “No one would believe us.”

  Chapter 8

  Dolly had been driving around for ages, to West London and back, trying to lose the plain-clothes officers in their unmarked car, but they were still on her tail. “Damn you!” she shouted out loud as she looked again in her rearview mirror. No matter how many turns or side roads she took, she just couldn’t lose them. When she’d called a couple of days after the spa, both Linda and Shirley had agreed to meet up and hear more. And now all three of them had planned to get together. Dolly didn’t want to be late—but what could she do? Unless she was 100 percent certain that she wasn’t being followed, she simply couldn’t risk meeting or contacting the other widows in any way.

  Dolly remembered a film she’d once seen and smiled to herself wondering if maybe, just maybe, the same ruse would work for her. She started to accelerate and sped round Shepherd’s Bush roundabout, then headed along Notting Hill Gate, straight down Bayswater Road toward Marble Arch. They were still there, still behind her. She zipped in and out of the line of traffic, then took a right turn toward Hyde Park, keeping in the inside lane. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she could see the police tail about four cars behind. She overtook a heavy goods vehicle that was on her inside, then nipped in front of it and turned sharply into the drop-off entrance of the Dorchester Hotel. She was out of her car in seconds with Wolf under her arm. She handed the doorman the keys and a £10 note.

  “Park it, darlin’. Be back in an hour or so after dinner.” And she whisked into the Dorchester.

  The doorman went over to the Merc, got into the driver’s seat and was about to start the engine when he saw a blue flashing light in the front grill of the car behind him. DC Andrews jumped out of the still-moving police car, ran over to the Merc, pulled open the door and grabbed the doorman by his lapel. “Where did she go? Which way?” Terrified, the doorman just pointed to the hotel entrance.

  Andrews ran inside the lobby and began frantically looking around for Dolly, but she was nowhere to be seen. And no one, even the receptionist, had noticed her. He was in for another bollocking from Resnick, who was still pissed off about the hamburger incident.

  Andrews got back in his car, slammed the door and found a parking spot. He was hoping beyond hope that Dolly was simply in the hotel somewhere, so he decided to stay with her car. It’s all he could do.

  Linda had arrived at the Liverpool Street railway arches fifteen minutes early. It was bitterly cold and she was freezing. She hadn’t realized the area would be so dark, and hadn’t brought a torch, so was having difficulty in finding lock-up number fifteen. She’d not been surprised when Dolly called; agreeing to meet up with her and Shirley again was an easy decision. What else did she have to get her heart racing these days? Since Joe’s death, Linda’s life had been horrible, truly horrible. The half-empty bed was impossible to get used to, the people who came into her arcade disgusted her and the police treated her like shit on their shoe. Above all, life was boring as hell—and Linda hated boring. Whatever Dolly thought she was doing, Linda was happy to tag along, catch up with Shirl every now and then, and maybe make a bit of money out of Dolly along the way.

  She approached one of the premises and, peering through the crack between the large wooden doors, nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw a huge Alsatian pounce toward her, snarling and barking. She quickly scurried one door along, raised her fist to knock and—

  “You’re early,” Dolly said from behind her.

  “I wasn’t sure where it was and I don’t like being late.”

  The cold had put Linda in a grumpy mood, which Dolly sensed immediately. Fortunately, Dolly was feeling cheerful after losing Andrews and her comfy cab ride over. She smiled at Linda as she unlocked the door. “It’s a good way to be.”

  Inside the lock-up, Dolly calmly lit a cigarette as Linda stepped from foot to foot trying to warm up. She could murder a cuppa, but Dolly just sat on a packing case, got out her black leather diary and reviewed her notes while they waited for Shirley. Linda was no good at being silently irritated and, eventually, her under-the-breath mumblings made Dolly speak.

  “Kettle’s in the back, darlin’. Mine’s black coffee, no sugar. Keep yourself warm, eh.”

  Linda pulled a face and went into the annex, where three brand-new mugs, a new kettle and a packet of unopened custard creams were waiting for her. “Come on then, tell me the plan,” she called.

  “We wait for Shirl,” Dolly said without looking up. “It’s her Miss Paddington thing tonight so she’ll be another twenty minutes.”

  “You might have told me!” Linda shouted from her tea duties.

  “Why, what were you doing?” This was hurtful. Dolly knew full well that Linda would have been doing nothing of any interest. “We’re a team, Linda. We wait for Shirley.”

  Shirley could feel one of her false eyelashes coming loose as she sat in the taxi with her mum, but she didn’t have the strength to fix it. She was wearing a stunning black glittery evening gown, high heels, fake tan and enough hairspray to sink a ship. She also still wore her Miss Paddington number stuck to her shoulder. She looked a million dollars—apart from the make-up running down her tear-streaked face.

  There was an awkward silence. Eventually Audrey decided to speak first.

  “I didn’t mean to imply you were turning tricks, darlin’,” she whispered, hoping the cabbie wouldn’t hear. “I just wanted to know where you got the money for that dress.” Shirley stared out of the side window of the taxi, trying not to cry again.

  Shirley hadn’t been able to concentrate at all during the pageant, even though she was by far the most beautiful girl there and should easily have won. Audrey was so incredibly proud and just knew it was in the bag, but then, when Shirl took off her coat and revealed her brand-new dress, Audrey had made the clumsy comment about her daughter being a prostitute and things had gone downhill from there. Audrey had tried to redeem herself by giving Shirley a great big hug just as she was lining up to go on stage. “You go out there and steal the show, my girl. You’re beautiful and you’re lovely and you’re a winner.” Then she said the second stupid thing of the night. “Terry and me w
ill be front row center.” She’d meant to say “Greg,” but it had come out as “Terry.” Audrey could have kicked herself as she watched Shirley’s eyes widen and her lower lip tremble. She’d wanted to apologize to her daughter, but didn’t have the opportunity as Freddie, the master of ceremonies, called Shirley’s name and the floor manager shoved her on stage.

  As Shirley had stepped out into the spotlight her mind was so far away that, when Freddie asked her what her hobbies were, she’d mumbled something about liking vegetables and books.

  Audrey had taken full responsibility for the whole fiasco. Shirley had let her, but in fact other things had been on Shirley’s mind. As the cab dropped Audrey off and continued on to Liverpool Street Station, Shirley began to pull herself together and thought back to a week ago.

  She had been waiting in the ladies’ toilet in Regent’s Park for over half an hour when Dolly had eventually breezed down the steps and calmly started to touch-up her make-up in the cracked and peeling wall mirror.

  “You give them the slip?” Shirley had asked, referring to Dolly’s constant police escort.

  “No,” Dolly replied through her stretched lips as she reapplied her lipstick. “DC Andrews is outside, looking after Wolf.”

  Dolly put her make-up away and handed a stuffed envelope to Shirley, who was still trying to figure out whether or not Dolly was pulling her leg. “There’s enough in there to cover your mortgage for a few months and more besides. You’ll get that every month. We’ll meet again next Thursday after Miss Paddington; details are in the envelope.”

  “Dolly, I . . .” Shirley started, “I’m not sure I can handle it. There’ll be shooters, won’t there?”

  “It’s all right. Listen, if you don’t come, we’ll know you’re not up for it, OK?”

  Shirley squeezed the envelope and could feel the wad of money inside.

  “You’ll just have to pay me that back, no harm done, all right, darlin’?” Dolly said with a knowing smile. Then she walked out.

  When Shirley had finally dared to pop her head out of the ladies’ loo, she’d just managed to catch a glimpse of a man in the distance walking to his car, glaring back at Dolly walking off in the opposite direction with Wolf by her side. Balls of steel, Shirley had thought to herself. Bet he doesn’t put that in his daily report!