Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  “Your filing cabinet’s in my office, locked, I have the key. These will go in my desk drawer till your desk is moved out and Saunders has gone home because the paint fumes gave him a headache. He’ll be continuing his case review tomorrow so you’d better make yourself available. His words, not mine.” Alice nodded toward the sandwich. “Cheese and ham. I take it you’ve not eaten.”

  “Thank you, Alice.” Resnick took his sandwich and left to meet his snout, Green Teeth.

  “How was your day?” Alice called after him.

  “We found the man from the bread company who probably helped Rawlins; but I can’t interview him because he’d dead.”

  There was nothing Alice could say to make Resnick feel better about that, but moral support was often all he wanted. “Well, I hope Green Teeth has some better news for you. Goodnight, sir.” She gave a sweet smile and bustled off.

  Barely ten minutes later, Resnick was sitting in the back seat of the police car with his briefcase open on his lap as Fuller drove toward Regent’s Park. Andrews took a covert glance over his shoulder at Resnick—the concentration on the old man’s face was riveting. His eyes flicked from page to page as he speed-read his way through the reports, looking for anything that would guide him to the Rawlins’ ledgers. Dolly Rawlins’s surveillance notes were a particularly interesting read: hairdressers, the Sanctuary, bank, hairdressers, convent, bank, hairdressers . . .

  “Andrews. Ask the surveillance team where Dolly Rawlins is right now.”

  “She’s in the house. They radioed through while you were in the station.”

  “You seen how many times she goes to the hairdressers? No? The bank? How many times has she lost you, Fuller? Andrews?” Fuller and Andrews didn’t answer. At least Andrews had the decency to look ashamed; Fuller just looked bored. “Do you think she’s playing games, Andrews, or do you think she’s up to something?”

  “I wouldn’t know, sir.”

  “No, you wouldn’t, you soft—” Resnick was too tired to abuse Andrews anymore today. “Here’s another one you won’t know the answer to: is she very good at losing police tails, or are you all shit at tailing? Guess we’ll never know, eh?”

  Resnick lit up a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Fuller winced and started to open the window as the smoke wafted round the inside of the car. “Close it,” Resnick barked. “It’s cold in the back.”

  The brakes slammed on; the car came to a quick stop. Resnick’s papers fell to the floor and he glared at Fuller.

  “Regent’s Park, as you requested . . . sir,” Fuller said, knowing how to get under Resnick’s skin.

  Resnick picked up the papers, stuffed them in his briefcase and opened the car door. He took one last look at his “best men”—Fuller was staring straight ahead with a stupid grin on his face, while Andrews was yawning. God, what a dozy pair of buggers, he thought as he slammed the car door shut. Maybe he’d strike it lucky with Green Teeth. He certainly needed some good news today.

  Resnick made his way into the park and sat on a bench, eating his sandwich, the first thing he’d had to eat all day. He gazed, mesmerized, at the branches swaying in the trees; he was so tired. He knew that Green Teeth would have watched him arrive and would come out of hiding and join him on the bench when he was ready.

  True enough, once Fuller and Andrews were out of sight, Green Teeth sidled up to Resnick with all the subtlety of a caped TV villain. Like a starving dog, he sat staring at the sandwich. Resnick handed the remainder of his food over and then had to wait for Green Teeth to stop stuffing his face before he spoke.

  “What’s so important?” Resnick asked eventually.

  “There’s a rumor, Mr. Resnick, spreading like the clappers.” Green Teeth mumbled, spitting crumbs all over Resnick’s coat. He moved away and lit a cigarette. “The rumor is about Harry Rawlins.”

  “Well, I should bloody well hope it is.” Resnick brushed wet cheese and bread from his coat.

  “If someone got hold of his ledgers it’d be like having Aladdin’s bleedin’ lamp . . . know what I mean?”

  “Who’s got them?”

  “The man himself. Harry Rawlins.”

  Resnick tutted. “Have I come all this way just to hear that load of old bollocks?”

  “No, he was serious.” Green Teeth insisted.

  “How the bloody hell do you get hold of information like that?” Resnick barked, furious. “You’re not in Harry Rawlins’s league, mate! Even if it was true, that kind of information doesn’t make its way to you!”

  “Boxer Davis is flashing tenners round the manor and shooting his mouth off. He’s even wearing Harry’s gear.”

  Resnick’s eyes narrowed—Boxer Davis was certainly more in Green Teeth’s league. It was possible he might have heard something after all.

  “Boxer worked for Harry for years, and he’s telling people that he’s working for him again.”

  Resnick flicked his cigarette onto the grass and started to walk away.

  “Hold up!” Green Teeth shouted, chasing after him and grabbing his arm.

  Resnick pulled sharply away. “I don’t pay for rumors. And don’t paw my coat. Look at that—you gobbed cheese on me as well! You should be paying me to fumigate my sodding clothes.”

  Green Teeth sniffed and picked bread out of his teeth. Resnick handed him a fiver and headed back to the car.

  As Fuller slowed down by the main gates on his third loop of the park, he spotted Resnick pissing behind a tree.

  “Look at that,” Fuller said in disgust. “How am I ever going to get promoted when I have to rely on that for a reference?”

  Resnick walked toward the car, wiping his hands on the arse of his trousers and lighting another cigarette. Andrews laughed.

  “Now he’s going to sit his pissy backside on your nice clean seats and smoke in your face.”

  But Resnick was very subdued when he got back into the car. “Green Teeth reckons Boxer Davis is suddenly very flush. He’s spreadin’ it around town that he’s working for . . .” He paused briefly and thought about what Green Teeth had told him “Ah, well—forget it. It’s gotta be a load of bollocks anyway.”

  “Why do you doubt the information?” Fuller asked. He was pleased that the information was bollocks, but was still desperate to know what it was so he could add it to his list of Resnick’s cock-ups.

  Resnick sighed. “He’s bloody rapping on about working for Harry Rawlins.”

  Andrews rubbed his head. “What? Green Teeth is working for Rawlins?”

  Resnick snorted and spat his cigarette butt out the window. “Not Green Teeth! Boxer Davis, you idiot! Apparently, Boxer’s flouncing round dressed in one of Harry’s expensive suits and a pair of his shoes. And he’s got a few bob to throw about from somewhere.”

  Still rubbing his head, Andrews raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Resnick. “Maybe Boxer’s working for Dolly? He did visit her house a couple of times.”

  Resnick was stunned. “What an idiotic suggestion,” he snapped.

  Fuller frowned at Andrews. “There’s no way an old woman who spends all her time between the hairdressers and a bunch of nuns would be employing old lags like Boxer Davis.”

  “Will you shut up, the pair of you! Fuller, drive down to Soho. I wanna have a look round for Boxer Davis and if he’s there we’ll nick him.”

  “But it’s almost midnight,” Fuller exclaimed.

  “Then we’re more likely to find him, aren’t we? These old lags aren’t tucked up by nine like you prissy bunch.”

  Fuller and Andrews exchanged a glance; then Fuller pulled away and headed toward Soho.

  Boxer returned to his run-down bedsit with his fish and chips and, for the third time, counted out the money Dolly had given him. He was tickled pink as he stacked it up in neat piles on his bed. Dolly had told him that Harry was still lying low and that felt it best that Boxer did the same and got out of town for a couple of weeks. Dolly had given Boxer the address of a nice B & B in the countryside and said
she’d drop round some more cash before he went. Harry would contact him at the B & B when the time was right. Boxer had fallen for all of this—hook, line and sinker.

  Picking up a faded, unframed photograph of himself and his son from the bedside table, Boxer looked at it for a moment. The little boy was perched on his dad’s shoulders, waving at the camera. Boxer rubbed his flat nose. His little fella must be about eight by now. He shook his head, annoyed with himself that he couldn’t even remember his own son’s age, and wondered if he should track down his ex-wife, Ruby, so he could see his beautiful little boy. She’d be proud he was still on the wagon, he thought, and his boy might even look up to him in his new suit and shiny shoes.

  Boxer carefully propped the photo up against the bedside lamp; apart from missing his son he felt good, damned good. He shook his head and chuckled at the thought of his old friend and boss, Harry Rawlins, pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes. He stuffed a handful of cold, soggy chips into his mouth, but they tasted awful now, so he spat them back into the paper wrapping, scrunched it up and chucked it into the already overflowing waste basket. He surveyed the battered, dirty room. “What a shit hole . . .” he muttered, but then he brightened. Things were about to change for the better. Harry Rawlins would see that he had a decent place to move into and he’d pay him well.

  “I’m on the up, my son,” Boxer said to the photo of his boy. “I’d like to take you with me. I hope you let me try.” Easing his huge frame into a tattered and worn armchair, he closed his eyes and thought about Harry. He could see him clear as day, as if he was in the room, standing tall in front of him.

  The first time Boxer met Harry Rawlins, it had been ringside at a boxing night in York Hall, Bethnal Green. Boxer had been just about to step under the ropes and into the ring when he felt a tug on his robe. Looking round, he saw a young man with a cigar clamped in his mouth.

  “I’m Harry Rawlins,” he’d said. “And there’s a grand riding on you tonight, me old son, so knock him out and I’ll see you right with two hundred.”

  The fight was over in the third round and Harry was true to his word. He was an honorable thief, thought Boxer, and that’s what he always loved about him—you knew where you stood.

  A loud knock on the door interrupted Boxer’s trip down memory lane and his eyes sprang open. He could hear puffing and panting outside his door.

  “Eh, Boxer! You in? Boxer open up, ya hear me?”

  Boxer stayed silent. It was Fran, Fran the ten-ton landlady—the huge, over made-up, foul-breathed Frances Welland. When he was on the booze and really drunk, he vaguely recalled her coming onto him and, much to his regret, he had had sex with her. He was glad that he couldn’t actually remember the sex, but he could remember waking up and seeing her next to him in bed. He knew she wanted a repeat performance, but he was equally determined to ignore her.

  The doorknob rattled. “Boxer! I know you’re in there. You’ve got a visitor—open the door!”

  Boxer reluctantly hauled himself to his feet and unlocked the door. The visitor was hidden behind Fran’s huge body, so Boxer couldn’t see who it was until he stepped forward. Boxer’s face lit up with a big smile.

  “Eddie Rawlins—my old mate! Come in, come in.”

  Boxer dragged Eddie inside his room and shut the door in Fran’s face with a grin. He always smiled at her; he didn’t want her to throw him out.

  Going over to the tiny kitchen space in the corner of the bedsit, Boxer put the kettle on. “It’s great to see you, Eddie. I can’t offer you much I’m afraid, but I always got tea.”

  “No, no, no,” Eddie insisted. “Let’s catch up properly.” He produced a bottle of malt whisky from his coat pocket, banged it down on the table. “Got any glasses?” he asked.

  Boxer’s eyes widened. The longing for alcohol was back in a split second, but he gave a strong smile, “I’m off the hard stuff, Eddie, have been for months now. I don’t mind if you have a drink, though.” Boxer passed Eddie a chipped, stained mug and they both sat at the small table beneath the window.

  “Come on, Boxer. Have a small one with me . . . let’s drink to Harry.”

  Boxer smiled and held his hands up. Eddie must know everything, he must know Harry was alive and well and planning to take back his patch from the Fishers. “In that case,” he said, “I guess a small one will be OK.” He was even more excited: the old gang was getting back together.

  Boxer put a second mug on the table and Eddie talked as he poured. He started by whining about his missus and the kids, then about the car-wrecking business, all the time topping up Boxer’s mug. Each time he poured Boxer a double measure, he poured himself a single and, after about half an hour, Boxer was on his way to being pissed.

  Eddie waffled on so much that Boxer couldn’t get a word in. He was desperate to ask about Harry, but figured that Eddie would talk about him when he was good and ready. The next time Eddie went to pour Boxer a whisky, he put his hand over his mug.

  “I ain’t drunk in such a long time, Eddie. It’s gone straight to me head. I should stop.”

  “Don’t worry, Boxer, me old mate,” Eddie said kindly. “I’ll look after you.” Boxer removed his hand from his mug and Eddie emptied the bottle into it.

  As Boxer took another sip, the pay phone on the landing started ringing. Boxer ignored it. “It’ll be for Fran,” he said with a drunken shrug. But the phone still rang. “She’s a lazy old lard-arse.”

  But Fran had shifted her huge bulk out of her armchair and waddled her way out to the landing. “Boxer! It’s for you!” she shrieked up the stairs. Even Eddie winced.

  Well pissed by now, Boxer knocked his chair over as he staggered to the door. Fran stood panting on the landing as Boxer gripped the rail for support and moved unsteadily down the stairs.

  “Thought you’d gone all deaf on me,” she said as she handed him the phone.

  Boxer grabbed Fran in his arms, squeezed her tightly and kissed her long and hard.

  “Ooh!” she said and giggled. “When your friend’s gone I got a nice bottle of gin in my room,” she whispered in his ear, “And an electric blanket warming up the bed . . .”

  Boxer waved to Fran as she walked away, smiling stupidly and watching her huge bum with drunken lust. With his “whisky glasses” on, she looked positively lovely.

  “Who is it?” Boxer slurred into the phone. After a pause, he shouted, “Doll! How are you?”

  “You been drinking?” demanded Dolly. She had only called Boxer to ask if he was packed and ready to go to the B & B she’d recommended.

  “I’ve had a little one, Dolly, but don’t worry, everything’s under control.” Boxer hiccupped. “I’m packed and ready. ’Ere . . . guess what I saw in Soho—this’ll make you laugh—I only saw Joe Pirelli’s widow with an Italian lad called Carlos! She must really like the continental sort, eh? But, guess who he is, Dolly? He’s only Arnie Fisher’s bum-boy mechanic!” Boxer was laughing so loud he failed to hear Dolly’s reply.

  “Carlos who?” Dolly repeated in a stern voice. All she could hear was Boxer coughing and spluttering as he got his breath back, “Boxer! Carlos who?”

  Oblivious, Boxer rambled on. “Ain’t that sweet, Doll? Between that little tart and us, Arnie’s lost everything and he don’t even know it!” With the next belly laugh, Boxer dropped the receiver on the floor. By the time he’d risen unsteadily from picking it up, Eddie was behind him on the stairs. “’Ere, Dolly, you’ll never guess who come to see me . . .” In a flash, Eddie’s gloved hand slammed down on the phone and cut off the call. Boxer swayed and stumbled as he turned but Eddie caught him, holding him up.

  “Come on, no time for gassing.” Eddie said with a huge smile on his face. “I’m going to take you up West. My treat.”

  Boxer didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Resnick and Fuller were parked outside the last known address for Boxer Davis, which he had given when arrested on a drunk and disorderly charge six months previously. Andrews came down the
steps of the seedy rooming house and got in the car.

  “Not here, but the landlady gave me an address in Ladbroke Grove she thinks he may be at now.”

  Fuller drove off and Resnick pulled his hat over his eyes. “Boxer Davis is a huge piece of the puzzle, you mark my words. One huge, ugly, stupid piece of the puzzle. He’ll tell us everything we need to know.” Smiling to himself, Resnick closed his eyes and was snoring in seconds.

  In the Sports Club, Boxer was well and truly legless, barely able to string a sentence together. He stood with Eddie at the bar, surrounded by a handful of onlookers listening to him relive his last bout, blow by blow. The walls of the club were covered with faded photos of retired boxers and wrestlers, Boxer among them. His audience knew who he was, but they also knew he was way past his prime and the fight he was currently relaying had to have been at least twenty years ago. Still, they listened; one or two even cheered and egged him on. Boxer was in his element as he charged down memory lane, flailing his arms, shadow boxing, ducking and weaving. At one point he spun round and spilled the drink of a man behind him. Apologizing profusely, Boxer slung his arm round the little man’s shoulders and gave him a slobbery kiss on his bald head.

  The only person in the crowd not listening to Boxer was Eddie; he was watching the entrance to the bar. Then he saw what he’d been waiting for. A casually dressed man in jeans and bomber jacket appeared briefly, part-hidden in the shadows, and nodded to Eddie. Although the man’s face wasn’t visible, Eddie knew who it was. He nodded back and the deal was done.

  One more spin and Boxer knocked into the bar, sending a tray of dirty glasses crashing to the floor. The barman had had enough, and told Eddie to get him out, using the back alley. He didn’t want pissheads staggering out the front throwing up on his steps.

  Eddie and the little bald man, who was still soaked in beer, burst through the exit doors and into the back alley with Boxer between them. Loud rock music thudded out from street bars, rubbish and crates of beer were stacked either side of the doors and an old tramp was busily picking his way through one of the bins.