Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  Bella stared at Dolly. “I didn’t say you were, Dolly . . . but, seeing as you mentioned it, you were the one who dressed Boxer up in your old man’s cast-offs, gave him money to get pissed and told him Harry was still alive, knowing full well that Boxer’s incapable of keeping his mouth shut.” Even in leather underwear, Bella was a formidable opponent.

  Dolly didn’t respond to the criticism. Instead, she demanded, “Who’s watching over Linda?”

  “She didn’t say and I didn’t ask, but at least she’s not on her own. I’ve got no idea about Shirley, cos she’s not answering her phone.”

  “I’ll keep trying Shirley. Will you be OK?” The instant the words left Dolly’s mouth, she knew they were unnecessary. Bella didn’t bother answering.

  “I’m sure Shirley will turn up as agreed tomorrow,” Bella said. “We can fill her in about Tony and Boxer then. But we do need to talk about it, Dolly,” she went on seriously. “None of us like what’s goin’ on, and it has to be sorted before one of us gets hurt.”

  Dolly liked the way that Bella shot straight from the hip. “Listen, Bella, I’m not making light of what’s happened to Boxer or of Tony Fisher sniffing round and, whether you believe it or not, my priority is the safety of you girls. All of you. We will talk about it but we also got to keep it in perspective for Linda and Shirley. They ain’t like me and you. Tomorrow we need to focus on the job in hand, not be distracted by the Fishers, or an old drunk who could have just pissed off the wrong person for all we know.”

  “You don’t believe that for a second, Dolly Rawlins,” said Bella. “And neither will anyone else.” But she said it with a smile.

  As Dolly pushed her way out of the club her heart was pounding. She clawed through the stench of men and beer, desperate to get to the fresh air beyond. Outside, she leaned against the wall and calmed herself down.

  She had to hold it together. She had to hold it all together.

  Bella was right about Boxer; she knew his beating must be connected to the lies she’d told him about Harry being alive. She knew it was her fault.

  Although Dolly felt sorry for Boxer, she couldn’t bring herself to care that much. She’d given him his chance. She wasn’t heartless, she reasoned, but he was nowhere near as important to her as the widows—or the job they’d vowed to do. Nonetheless, she assured herself that when she got back home, she’d say a little prayer for Boxer Davis.

  Chapter 16

  Resnick sat in the corridor outside the Intensive Care Unit below a no-smoking sign, smoking. He’d brought an ashtray with him from the relatives’ waiting room. He hadn’t stayed there long; he couldn’t stand being surrounded by helpless people. He needed answers, and the quiet of the empty corridor gave him time to think.

  Earlier that night, Resnick had gone to Boxer’s flat only to be told by his landlady that Boxer had gone out with some bloke the night before and not come back. She hadn’t been able to describe the bloke or, more to the point, hadn’t wanted to get involved. “I don’t want no trouble,” she kept saying.

  Resnick had been about to call it a day when he got the call to say that Boxer’s beaten and unconscious body had been found in a Soho alley. Rather than go to the scene of the crime, Resnick had dragged Fuller back to Boxer’s flat to interview the landlady again, whether she wanted to co-operate or not.

  When they arrived, they found the front door had been kicked in. Fran was lying flat on the floor like a beached whale, her face beaten black and blue, blood streaming from her nose and a deep cut to her forehead trickling blood into her eyes.

  “No more! Please, no more!” she screamed as Resnick and Fuller burst in. “I dunno where Boxer is, I swear I don’t. Please don’t hurt me no more.” It took her several moments to focus on Resnick’s face and realize that she was safe.

  “It’s all right,” Resnick said as he bent over her. “We’re police. I was here earlier, remember? You’re all right now. The ambulance is coming.”

  Fran did remember Resnick and quickly calmed down, but she absolutely denied seeing the face of the man who had beaten the crap out of her. Resnick didn’t tell her that Boxer was at death’s door, he just kept repeating that she’d be OK and once she was a little calmer, he started to push her for information.

  “Was the man who beat you the same man who was with Boxer last night?”

  “I dunno!” wailed Fran. “I’m so frightened . . .”

  No one takes a full-on beating as severe as she had without seeing the bastard’s face. He had to have been right in front of her, only inches away. But Fran wasn’t going to tell them anything.

  While they waited for the ambulance, Resnick and Fuller had looked round Boxer’s squalid bedsit. The single bed was upturned and every item of furniture in the room had been smashed. The contents of his suitcase were strewn all over the filthy carpet, but there were a couple of pairs of balled up socks still inside: Boxer had been packing to go somewhere. Stray banknotes were scattered about the room. It was unusual for Boxer to have money and Resnick thought of the rumors he’d heard from Green Teeth. If he was right about Boxer being flush, could he possibly also have been right about Harry Rawlins being alive?

  When the ambulance arrived, Resnick had been given the news that Boxer was alive but critical. Ignoring Fuller’s bored expression, he ordered him to drive straight to the hospital.

  Resnick had rushed straight to the ICU, where the attending doctor told him that Boxer Davis was defying all medical expectations. They now knew that it wasn’t a beating, but a hit and run. Boxer had suffered horrific internal injuries and broken virtually every bone in his body. He wasn’t expected to live—and, if he did, he’d never walk again.

  “Listen, doc, this wasn’t an ordinary hit and run,” Resnick had said. “Both you and I know he was hit more than once before they ran. It’s important that I speak to him.”

  The doctor shrugged. “You’ll be lucky.”

  “Well, I gotta get lucky at some point . . . it might as well be tonight,” Resnick growled.

  Hours passed, but the Intensive Care Unit corridor remained empty. Although he knew Boxer wouldn’t wake up, Resnick couldn’t bring himself to leave. As long as Boxer Davis breathed, he would stay. Boxer was the key to it all, Resnick was sure of that. Questions swirled round his head. Why was Boxer leaving town? Was he scared? Was someone else scared and paying him to leave? Who did Boxer willingly leave his flat with the night before? One thing was clear: the man who had beaten up Fran didn’t know that someone had already tried to kill Boxer, so it couldn’t have been the same person who had left the flat with Boxer and led him straight into the trap. There were two men. Two men, both after Boxer for some reason. Why?

  Resnick again thought back to his conversation with Green Teeth. He’d insisted that Boxer was flashing the cash and parading round in Harry Rawlins’s cast-offs. He’d also implied the ledgers were being talked about as though they might be up for grabs to the highest bidder. Resnick screwed up his eyes in frustration. He felt he was so close to knowing everything, but, once again, he was about to lose the one person who could break this case wide open. First, Len Gulliver had died before he could spill the beans, and now Boxer Davis looked as if he was about to do the same. Surely it was not possible that Rawlins was alive? Even the thought made Resnick’s blood boil. Nevertheless, he had to get this vital information out of poor Boxer’s bastard mangled brain before the doctors decided to turn him off and clear the bed for someone else.

  One packet of cigarettes and eight cups of coffee later, Resnick was still slouched in his chair with his hat over his eyes. It was 5 a.m. when he was woken by the doctor gently shaking his shoulder. He didn’t have to say anything. The look on his face said Boxer was dead.

  Resnick walked away, a small squat figure, head bowed, shoulders down, leaving behind him a mound of squashed coffee cups and dog ends and a faint lingering odor of BO. The doctor watched him go. It was a wonder the man was still on his feet, the number of hours he’d s
at there without eating, and the amount of nicotine and caffeine he’d consumed. He hoped Resnick was off home for a nice bath and some much needed sleep, but he thought it unlikely.

  Back at the station, slumped in his office and contemplating his woes, Resnick ate half a stale pork pie before tossing the rest in the bin. He opened a fresh packet of cigarettes, lit up and flipped open the surveillance reports. He was annoyed that they hadn’t been filed since yesterday; he’d tear a strip off his team when they arrived for work tomorrow. Resnick wasn’t going to let any messy paperwork let him down. His team was under instructions to scour the streets for information on the hit and run, which meant no weekend leave for anyone. He knew this wouldn’t go down well, but he was including himself in the extra legwork, so he didn’t give a shit. If he didn’t give the Super something soon, he’d be taken off the case, and that would mean no more chances at promotion. His case needed to be beyond reproach—especially as he’d missed his review with Saunders.

  He burped, tasted the stale pork pie in his mouth and dragged heavily on his cigarette. Tapping the desk with a pencil, he acknowledged that the only tangible witness he now had to work on was Boxer’s landlady, Fran. But she was so scared he doubted she would ever tell or even describe who had been responsible for assaulting her. He had to get tougher with her. Boxer was dead; this was now a murder inquiry. Being frightened wasn’t a good enough excuse. He’d get her down the Yard as soon as she was released from hospital and make her go over every mug shot of every known associate of the Fishers or of Harry Rawlins until she came up with the man who beat her up and scarred her face for life.

  Opening a bottle of Scotch, Resnick poured a large measure into a dirty coffee mug on his desk and almost swigged a bit of green mold floating in it. He winced as he tried to pick it out, mulling the details of the case over again and again. He kept returning to the identity of the fourth man, the man who had walked safely away from the armed robbery and the exploding Ford Escort van. Eventually, he gave up chasing the mold round his Scotch, picked up another slightly cleaner mug and poured another measure. As he drank he got up and stared at the row of photographs stuck up along his office wall: all known associates of Harry Rawlins.

  “One of you is my fourth man,” he mumbled to himself. “Was that why Boxer was silenced, because he knew who you were?” Dear God, it couldn’t possibly be Harry Rawlins!

  Resnick was confused by the cash strewn all over Boxer’s bedsit. Boxer had been telling people that he was back on Harry Rawlins’s payroll, which would explain why he had money, but why did the thug who turned his place over and half-killed Fran just leave the cash lying around? He can’t have been interested in the money; he was after something very specific. Did he think Boxer had the ledgers?

  Another interesting detail Resnick had noted was that whoever had taken Boxer out on the night he was murdered had washed and wiped clean one chipped mug; the one he had used, no doubt. It had been the only clean thing in the whole place. So, this mystery person was someone with whom Boxer was happy to have a drink and go out on the town. “Careful bastards,” Resnick whispered to himself, “are careful for a reason.” He moved along the wall to the mug shots of the three dead robbers and stared at the image of Harry Rawlins, the most careful bastard he’d ever known. “Was it you, Rawlins?”

  Resnick doubted Rawlins was Boxer’s mystery drinking companion, or the frenzied attacker of Fat Fran or the hit and run driver. If he really was alive, he wouldn’t be out in the open like that. But he might pay someone else to be . . . Boxer’s killing bore all the hallmarks of a professional, and Rawlins knew plenty of them.

  Picking up three darts from his desk, Resnick took aim with one and threw it at the wall. It bounced off and he had to jump out the way as it flew back toward him. He picked it up again and threw it harder. This time it stuck with a thud in the wall just above Terry Miller’s photo. He smiled, poured another drink and swigged it back in one go.

  In early for work, Fuller saw the light on in Resnick’s office. With no one else around, this was his opportunity to vent his frustration at all weekend leave being canceled. He’d already arranged to go out with his wife and he was damned if he was going to miss out just because Resnick was trying to save his already ruined career. As Fuller marched to Resnick’s office, he tried to control his breathing; he would start by asking Resnick nicely to keep the weekend clear for him.

  Fuller knocked and at Resnick’s barked “Enter!” stepped into the untidy office. Resnick was sitting staring at the three photos on the wall aiming another dart. He threw it across Fuller’s path instead.

  “Unless you’ve got something positive to say, don’t bother opening your mouth,” growled Resnick.

  “It’s about the weekend leave, sir. I’ve actually got plans.”

  Resnick flapped a hand at Fuller. “Don’t we all, Fuller.”

  “I’ve done forty-eight hours on the trot!” Fuller was tired of being treated like a dogsbody.

  “We’ve all been working hard,” said Resnick, “but we’re close to the payoff.”

  “Are we really?” Fuller said sarcastically. This was a dead-in-the-water case.

  “Look,” Resnick said, ignoring Fuller’s tone. “Rawlins used four men in that raid, right? Now we know where those three men are—” he pointed to the mug shots of Rawlins, Miller and Pirelli—“but as for the fourth man’s identity, we’ve got bugger all on him . . . until last night.” Resnick paced up and down as he recapped. “The rumor is that Boxer was on the up, and Green Teeth thought he had the ledgers, or he knew who did. Then he ends up in an alley, lured to his death by someone he knew—a proper professional job it was, too. Twenty-four hours later we still haven’t had any dabs off those mugs in his place and the landlady’s too terrified to talk. But she’s all we got, Fuller. So, first thing tomorrow, I want her in here and I want to know who gave her that thrashing.”

  Even with his stupid glazed expression, Resnick knew Fuller was listening. “You think it was the fourth man,” Fuller said slowly.

  “Now you’re getting it, son.” Resnick almost beamed. “Now you are getting it.” He sat back down behind his desk, picked up a dart, took aim and hit Harry Rawlins right in the forehead.

  Fuller stood for a moment, looking at the dart sticking out of the wall, looked to Resnick, then back to the dart. He shifted his weight. The fat man had probably got a point, but there was no way he’d say as much.

  “You going for a few jars? Reckon we deserve it.” This was Resnick’s attempt at being nice. It didn’t mean he was going to buy them, of course. The only person he’d ever bought a pint for was Alice . . . and she’d asked for a gin and tonic. She’d drunk it nonetheless so as not to offend him.

  Fuller turned to go. “It’s 6 a.m. . . . sir,” he said.

  “Oi!” Resnick shouted. “Being tired is no excuse for being a bad copper. Tell the rest of them when they come in to do their surveillance sheets and get this file up to date.”

  Fuller sighed and took a deep breath. “DCI Saunders removed the surveillance on the Rawlins house.” He watched Resnick’s face as it slowly went crimson from the neck up. “It was one of the things he was going to discuss with you during your meeting. The meeting you missed.”

  “It starts again!” hissed Resnick, “You hear me, Fuller? It starts again right now.”

  Fuller nodded, too tired and too pissed off with this ridiculous case to argue. He left Resnick’s office, closing the door behind him.

  As Resnick sat alone, there was much that bothered him about the conversation he’d just had with Fuller. It wasn’t just that he’d been up all night. What really got his goat was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the words: “Coming for a snifter, guv?” Before his suspension over the newspaper fit-up, no one ever left the station without giving him a yell. Now, nobody gave a toss about him, and it would only get worse when he moved into the new glass office annex, where everyone could look at him. And how the bloody
hell could Saunders cancel surveillance on his case, and not one of his officers give him the heads up?

  Resnick suddenly felt terribly lonely. His marriage was stale and empty. His wife hardly even spoke to him, never mind had sex with him—not that he’d want her to. For months, he’d been using the box room to sleep in because of coming in so late and going out so early—or at least that was the excuse. In truth, the idea of lying next to a woman who disliked him was too much to deal with; he hid in the box room because it was easier.

  As he walked slowly to his office door, the exhaustion finally hit him. Glancing at the faces of the three dead men one last time, he headed to the local cafe for a solitary breakfast.

  Chapter 17

  The motorbike’s wheels tore up the sandy gravel path, leaving deep tracks as the rider spun and slid, enjoying the thrill of being able to let loose and really test what this machine could do. As the bike came to a skidding halt, it sent a tidal wave of sand and pebbles spraying up against the cliff face.

  The beach below was beautiful. Miles and miles of nothing much—just what the doctor ordered. Bella took her helmet off and sat on Oil Head’s bike, admiring the view. Oil Head had recently been put away for six months for dealing drugs and he’d asked Bella to run his bike out every now and then so it didn’t lie idle. He’d meant her just to start the engine every three or four weeks but—what the hell! It was a fabulous bike and because he was behind on the payments, Bella knew it’d be repossessed before he got out of prison. She might as well get the most from it before the repo men turned up, flexing their muscles.

  Cruising down clear early morning roads in her black leather motorcycle gear, Bella had opened the throttle and bent low over the handle bars . . . even though she had been riding motorbikes for years, this was the first time she had hit a hundred miles an hour solo. She had felt exhilarated, speeding through the country lanes like a TT racer.