Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  Upstairs, the beds were stripped and the third wash load was already on. As she began to collect the strewn clothes from the floor, Boxer appeared in the doorway.

  “Found anything?” he asked, his usual big stupid grin on his face. He was acting like her best friend, as if nothing had happened, as if he wasn’t responsible for all of this mess in the first place.

  “Let me salvage what I can first, eh, Boxer? I can’t see the forest for the trees right now.”

  “Sorry, Dolly.”

  “As we get things tidied, we’ll search every nook and cranny—don’t you worry.” She gave him a reassuring smile and Boxer lumbered back downstairs. Her smile disappeared as soon as Boxer was gone. Dolly knew he’d be useless at the tidying and cleaning, but she also knew that she needed to keep him sweet. She had a plan and Boxer would be a big part of it.

  Linda was down at the yard well before the auction had even started. Flicking through the brochure, she paced along the rows of cars for sale, inspecting one after the other, unsure what she was looking for. She knew bits and bobs about cars: what a good engine looked and sounded like, what safety checks to do on a new buy, and how to hotwire one. Joe had taught her a thing or two about what goes on under the bonnet of a car—and on the back seat.

  Eventually she decided she liked a used red Ford Capri and she began chatting up the dealer. He was very helpful and obviously thought she was a sexy little thing and definitely up for it, giggling at his bad jokes and letting him put his arm around her. He agreed to take a look at the engine for her; Linda rubbed her body against him and smiled. She was so busy getting the lowdown on the Capri, she failed to notice Arnie Fisher arrive in a silver Jag.

  Arnie, carrying a leather briefcase, bustled his way through the maze of cars toward the auction room. He stopped when he saw Carlos leaning on the bonnet of a Rolls-Royce he was there to bid on. Arnie straightened his silk tie. “A real nice looker,” he whispered and winked.

  Carlos liked it when Arnie was obvious with his affections; it made him feel special, and a man like Arnie didn’t consider many people in his life to be special at all.

  Carlos was wearing a nice suit. The boy’s learning fast, thought Arnie, assessing him with his ice-blue eyes. Arnie didn’t go for rough trade; he liked his boys neat, tidy and with a bit of class—although Carlos had a bit of the animal in him as well. He noted that perhaps Carlos had on too many gold necklaces. He’d speak to him about that later, when they were alone.

  Carlos started enthusing about the low-mileage Roller, one of the best he’d seen. All it needed was the odd touch-up and an engine tune to make it perfect. Carlos lifted the bonnet and leaned into the engine. Arnie hadn’t the foggiest about engines, but he followed suit, so he could press his body against Carlos. He noted that Carlos had made an effort to clean his nails; yes, the boy was going to go places. He was getting very fond of him.

  Arnie handed over the briefcase and patted Carlos on the cheek. “There’s enough in there to buy the Roller.”

  “How high do you want me to go?”

  “It’s all sorted, Carlos, darlin’. It’ll not go higher than the reserve price. They know I want it. There won’t be no other bidders.”

  Arnie was right: the auction on the Roller was done and dusted in a flash. Carlos bid, bought, paid in cash, and they were on their way for a slap-up lunch in less than thirty minutes.

  Linda, with the aid of the over-amorous dealer, got a good price on the Capri. As she counted out the cash, he moved in with a sleazy grin. His arm slipped beneath Linda’s coat. She gave him an icy glare.

  “Piss off or I’ll start screaming,” she hissed.

  He got the message loud and clear. As she walked away with the keys to her new car, she heard him muttering: “Soddin’ bitch!”

  Shirley’s brother, Greg, was adamant that everything was legit and he hadn’t nicked the car he’d got for her, but she still wasn’t sure, even though it was a good price and she liked it. Audrey, on her fifth cup of tea, chipped in that Greg must have nicked it cos according to Exchange and Mart the motor was worth twice what he’d paid for it. Greg and Audrey were going at it hammer and tongs when Shirley dropped a bundle of cash on the kitchen table. They both fell instantly silent. Audrey gasped, missed her mouth with the cup and dribbled tea down her chin. Greg grabbed for the wad of notes, but Shirley got there first, peeling off the 750 quid she owed him. Handing over the keys and log book, he legged it before anyone could have another go at him.

  Shirley she knew exactly what her mum was thinking. “The money was in a suitcase belonging to Terry,” Shirley lied. “Or do you think I can make a grand on the game in less than a week?”

  “A grand?” Audrey screeched. Shirley wasn’t a natural liar. “In a suitcase? The coppers missed it, did they?”

  Shirley held her ground. “Yes! It was hidden in the seam of the case and they was too busy flirting with me to notice.”

  “And when exactly did you find this grand? And why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s nothing to do with you, Mum!” Shirley snapped.

  “We’re all hard up, my girl! That washing machine you gave me didn’t walk round to mine on its own you know. I had to hire a van. They don’t cost peanuts! I’d like to have known is all I’m saying. I’m your mum after all.”

  Shirley pulled fifty quid from the bundle of notes and handed it to Audrey. “I’m sorry my washing machine cost you money, mum, I really am,” she said sarcastically.

  If Audrey had been a better person, she’d have walked away leaving Shirley embarrassed at thinking her mum could be so easily bought. But instead, she took the fifty quid.

  “Let’s take your new car for a spin to the pub,” she suggested. “Your round, Shirley.”

  The little Mini Estate wouldn’t start the first time, or the second, but eventually it fired up on the third, then spluttered and kangarooed down the road. Shirley said the brakes seemed a bit stiff, and then swore as the windscreen wiper fell off.

  “Greg had better fix it, or else,” she said furiously.

  “It might be your drivin’, love.” Audrey remarked.

  “Terry taught me how to drive and I passed me test first time.” Shirley replied heatedly.

  After a run round the block, Shirley decided the car wasn’t so bad after all. She dropped her mum off at the pub and said she was taking it for a longer test drive. She’d agreed to buy it because there was plenty of space in the rear to stash all the gear needed for the robbery and the inconspicuous color wouldn’t stand out in the traffic afterward. She’d have picked a canary yellow car if the choice had been hers—but she could do that easily enough with her third of a million. Shirley laughed at herself—fancy buying a car for its robbery qualities!

  As she trundled along, Shirley was beginning to feel more like her old self again. Her thoughts turned to having her hair done. Maybe she’d get some streaks and go a bit blonder, and maybe even have a nice massage . . .

  Linda put her foot down on the Capri’s accelerator and watched the speedometer move quickly upward . . . seventy . . . seventy-five . . . eighty. It felt exhilarating, a quick look in the mirror and no one behind, so she put her foot down further: eighty-five . . . ninety. This motor was a good buy, she thought—and then, suddenly, a small plume of smoke wafted from the bonnet, and began to billow out, flowing over the windscreen so Linda could hardly see the road. She pulled the car over onto the layby, got out, kicked the front tire and swore at it.

  As she perched on the bonnet of her smoking car, she couldn’t help but smile. “What the hell am I doing?” she said out loud. One of Linda’s duties on Dolly’s list was to learn basic car maintenance—and here she was at the side of the road having just bought a shit-heap of a Capri.

  Car after car drove by; men honked their horns but didn’t stop to help. Linda didn’t mind. As she sat there, she felt incredibly strong—she had money in her pocket and a brand-new second-hand car. She’d learn how to fix it properly,
just like Dolly asked. She’d call Gino and get the name of his car mechanic mate from the pub. She’d learn hands-on, not from a book. She’d learn quick and she’d learn right. Not for Dolly’s stupid, pie-in-the-sky robbery, but for herself. Linda couldn’t remember the last time she achieved anything really—but that was all going to change.

  Chapter 10

  Boxer was sitting at Dolly’s newly cleaned dining table stuffing eggs and bacon down his face as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. He wiped a slice of bread round the plate, put it in his mouth and slurped on his tea to wash it down before sitting back and pushing the plate forward.

  Dolly came into the kitchen carrying a couple of old suit jackets belonging to Harry. “Stand up,” she ordered. Boxer jumped to his feet, expecting to be ordered back to work. When he saw Dolly holding up one of Harry’s jackets for him to slip his arms into, he was almost overwhelmed and, just for a second, he choked back the tears.

  Dolly put the jacket on him, instinctively brushing his shoulders and pulling the back straight—just as she’d done a thousand times for Harry. Boxer was about the same build as Harry, but his belly was bigger and the jacket looked a little tight. He thought he looked a million dollars though.

  “Eh, pure wool, very nice, very nice indeed,” he said to Dolly as he brushed his hands up and down the material.

  Dolly’s face was expressionless as she looked at Boxer wearing her dead husband’s expensive clothes. “There’s a couple of shirts and two pairs of trousers as well if you want them,” she said, as if it didn’t matter either way to her.

  Boxer paused. “I’ll treasure them,” he said clumsily.

  “I’m sorry I can’t give you his best things, Boxer.”

  Harry’s best clothes were impossible to part with right now and were hanging in his wardrobe, all freshly washed and ironed. Dolly had even polished Harry’s shoes and they too were in his wardrobe, as though he was simply away on business.

  Emotions close to the surface, Dolly put the kettle on and brewed another pot of tea to regain control of herself so that she could do what she needed to do. While Boxer had been gobbling down his makeshift dinner, Dolly had been tidying the nursery. Tony Fisher had thrown the baby clothes around the small blue room and then trodden mud all over them. The cot was upside down, the tiny newborn nappies were ripped apart and the photos were smashed. There was no reason for most of the destruction; it was an act of pure evil and the thought of the Fishers taking over Harry’s patch made Dolly’s blood boil. As she’d stood in the nursery, she’d decided two things.

  First, she was going to pack up everything in the nursery and give it to the convent this afternoon, for the underprivileged and orphaned babies and children to get some use out of. After her son was stillborn, Dolly had received great comfort from her religion. The convent doors were always open to her and she could come and go as she pleased, day or night. Some weeks, she was there every day. Her visits got fewer and fewer as her pain subsided, but by then she’d got to love the simplicity of it all in comparison to her hectic life with Harry. She’d spent hours painting and drawing and playing games with the children; all they wanted from her was love and she had so very much of that to give. And, in return, the children loved Dolly. In those initial months after losing the baby, Dolly would have fallen into a deep depression without her friends at the convent; she owed them so much and they never asked anything of her in return. So now, she’d pack up the nursery and take it all to them this afternoon when she did her weekly visit, to help the living instead of commemorating the dead. This would be closure and would allow her to move forward unhindered. Dolly kept only one toy from her son’s nursery—a small white poodle.

  The second thing Dolly had decided was to implement her plan for getting the Fishers off her back.

  Boxer sat at the kitchen table admiring his new jacket and waiting for his top up of tea. Dolly brought the pot to the table and poured two cups. As Boxer spooned three heaps of sugar into his mug, Dolly decided he was ready to hear what she had been up all night rehearsing.

  “I’ve got something to tell you, Boxer. It’s about the ledgers. You see, I lied to you. I do know where they are.”

  Boxer looked dumbstruck.

  “The thing is,” Dolly continued, feigning concern for this stupid lump of a man in her kitchen. “The thing is . . . Harry told me before he died that you’re named in the ledgers along with a long list of others. It could get you into a lot of trouble—even banged up if the Old Bill gets hold of them.”

  Boxer felt a chill run down his spine. Lost for words, all he could manage was to let Dolly talk.

  “I worked out that Harry must have used four men in the robbery, one up front, three at the back. It’s the only thing that makes sense. I know it; the coppers know it.” Dolly knew she didn’t need to explain her reasoning any further for Boxer. “Three are dead, but the fourth man is still out there somewhere. I think he’s either got the ledgers or he knows where they are.” Dolly paused to take a slow sip of tea and leave Boxer’s little brain to think of the right question to ask. She didn’t want to tell him everything in one go, in case that might start to sound planned. Eventually, Boxer spoke.

  “Who do you think this fourth man is, Dolly?”

  Dolly hesitated, pretending to be thinking hard about her next sentence. “You mustn’t tell no one, Boxer. If I tell you, it’s got to stay between us. You hear me? It could be very dangerous for you to know what I know.”

  “I swear it. You can trust me.”

  “The fourth man, the man that escaped from the robbery . . . was my Harry.”

  Again, Dolly paused to allow Boxer to register what she was saying. It was incredibly important that he believed her. “He’s not dead, Boxer. I buried another member of the gang, genuinely thinking it was Harry, but I now know that it wasn’t.”

  “How . . . how can you know?” Boxer asked, visibly shaking.

  “Because I’ve seen him alive. Harry’s hiding from everyone right now, but he wants you back on his payroll, just like old times.”

  Boxer automatically sat bolt upright, like an army private who’d just been told he’s been selected for a secret mission. The fear on his face was replaced by an uncontrollably broad smile. He’s so easy to lie to, Dolly thought, it almost seems cruel.

  “Now this is what you’ve got to do. You’re to keep an eye on the Fishers for him. Stay safe, though, Boxer, Harry doesn’t want you taking any risks for him. You’ll be his eyes and ears until he’s ready to come back and take over again. You’ll report to me and I’ll report to Harry. No one can know he’s alive, Boxer . . . you promise me?”

  Boxer slapped his thigh and roared with laughter, “I promise, Dolly! Old Harry, what a brilliant man, he bloody escaped. He played a bleedin’ blinder.” He shook his head repeatedly. “What a turn up for the books!”

  Dolly gripped his hand and Boxer focused intently on her again. “Get it all out of your system here, Boxer, because once you leave this house, you got to keep your mouth shut. I need you to be on my side. On Harry’s side.”

  Boxer squeezed Dolly’s hand back so hard, she nearly cried out in pain. He looked her square in the eyes and spoke with total sincerity. “I’ve always been on your and Harry’s side, you know that. On my life, Dolly, I won’t repeat a word of this to anyone.”

  “Inside jacket pocket,” Dolly whispered.

  Boxer reached inside the pocket of the jacket he’d been given and pulled out an envelope.

  “Two hundred from Harry. That’s just for starters.”

  Boxer didn’t open the envelope; he didn’t need to. If Dolly said there was two hundred in there, then there was. “Back on the payroll,” he whispered.

  Dolly watched Boxer swagger down the driveway. He looked full of himself as he straightened his new jacket and nodded to the detectives still parked along the road.

  Back in her much cleaner and tidier lounge, Dolly slumped on her torn sofa, where she was quickly joined by Wolf. “
Hello, darlin’,” she said, stroking his belly as he rolled over for her. She rested her head back and took a moment to contemplate where she had got to.

  Dolly speculated that it’d be no more than two days before Boxer blurted the news that Harry was alive to someone. Especially if the tempting money in his pocket meant that he ended up off the wagon and down the local pub. Once the rumor was out there, the Fishers would know soon enough and that should, she hoped, keep them hyper-cautious and away from her and the other widows for fear of reprisals.

  “So much still to do, my love,” she said to Wolf. She patted him, got up and went over to her writing desk.

  Taking out her diary, Dolly began to make more encrypted notes. She needed to go back to the bank and check the ledgers again. She now needed a fourth person for her own robbery and she hoped that there’d be a name in the ledgers of someone she could trust completely—although it would be tricky if the fourth person was a man, she knew that much, as she’d not only have to convince them to join her but also to take orders from her. The second thing on her list was to try and find the actual man who got away from Harry’s failed bank robbery. If the Fishers found him first, they’d know she lied about Harry being alive and come after her. She hoped and prayed that whoever it was had gone abroad and had no plans to return. And lastly, she had to let Shirley and Linda know what she’d said to Boxer. They needed to be right up to speed with all her plans, so they could stay alert and stay safe.

  Dolly looked across at Wolf, who had bedded down into a tear in the sofa and was snuggling into the stuffing inside. There was still so much to do to make this house back into a home—but it would keep. The main thing to do right now was keep her appointment at the convent so that the watching detectives wouldn’t get suspicious. She’d become very adept at losing her tail, but she knew that she must also be very careful to allow the police to follow her unhindered if she was to convince them that life was going on as normal. It made it difficult to fit everything in, but somehow the excitement of it all was giving her extra energy—she was daring to feel alive again. She turned and smiled at the photos of Harry and herself that Boxer had replaced along the mantelpiece, all in exactly the right date order. She almost felt Harry with her now and, as she shut her eyes to see him more clearly, her body ached to hold him.