Resnick whacked the golf ball hard with the putter, it bounced of the skirting board, flew across the room, hit the wardrobe followed by the dressing table and bounced into Kathleen’s slipper.
“Hole in one!” Resnick exclaimed, punching the air.
Kathleen ignored him. He was just trying to irritate her. He was a devil when he was bored. “What color? The hallway. What color are you going to do it?”
“White?” Resnick said. Kathleen would tell him what color he was going to paint it.
“Peach might be nice,” she said. “It’ll go with the lampshade I’ve bought and, if you carried it on into the lounge, peach would be the perfect color to bring out the curtains.”
“Peach it is then,” Resnick said, not giving two hoots what color the hallway or the lounge were. He fished his golf ball out of Kathleen’s slipper and placed it back on the carpet. He was just about to swing his putter when he saw her glaring over the top of her glasses at him. He lent on his putter, like a walking stick. “What have you got planned for today?” he asked.
Kathleen put her paper down, took her glasses off and smiled at Resnick. It unnerved him; she didn’t do it often. “I expect I’ll be putting the under-stair cupboard back into some semblance of order. Then I’ll wash up your breakfast things. Then I’ll no doubt be polishing your golf shoes—and then, well, if you’re painting, I’ll be at Marjorie’s for the rest of the day.” Kathleen put her glasses back on and returned to her newspaper.
Resnick looked at his wife sitting in their bed. He had more true and honest affection for Alice than he did for her. Alice was good to him; she tolerated his bad habits way better than Kathleen did and she was kind. Resnick couldn’t remember when Kathleen stopped being kind. He wondered if she thought the same about him and was momentarily filled with shame that he hadn’t noticed their marriage was over. The shame didn’t last long: the real tragedy was that he didn’t care.
Suddenly, Resnick dived across the bed and turned the volume on the radio up loud.
“The investigation into the armed raid on a security wagon in the Strand underpass earlier this morning is now well under way. Four masked men are said to have escaped with over one million pounds. Police are searching for a white Leyland truck used in the robbery and a white GLC van in which the suspects made their escape . . .”
Ripping off his pajama top, Resnick started to dress.
Harry Rawlins was listening to exactly the same broadcast on a small transistor radio. He knew newscasters liked to embellish a story for the public and doubted that over a million was stolen—he reckoned it was probably between six and seven hundred thousand pounds—but even so, he was still angry that he didn’t know where the money was. In a fit of fury, Harry swiped at the radio, which flew from the table and smashed against the wall.
Trudie jumped. She was cleaning Eddie’s face with cotton wool swabs and disinfectant at the kitchen table. The scalds from the bubbling coffee were now painful blisters and the scratches on his eyelids and ears from Shirley’s beautifully manicured nails were a dark, burning red. Eddie winced with the pain as Trudie dabbed at his face, but he never took his eyes off Harry.
Harry was in a volatile state of mind. He lit a cigarette, took a deep lungful of smoke and let it stream out slowly from his nose as he glared at his nervous cousin.
“She just came at me, Harry, like a wildcat. I never seen anything like it! I don’t know who the hell she was.”
From the description Eddie had already given, Harry new exactly who she was, but he didn’t tell him. Harry looked at the cheap watch he was wearing and then back at Eddie. “Your face looks bad. Must be real painful, son.”
“It is, Harry, when I get my hands on that cow she’s gonna suffer real bad.”
Trudie looked at Harry. It made her uncomfortable when they spoke about violence, especially toward women. Just then, the baby started crying in the bedroom. Harry looked as if he was about to blow a gasket. He jerked his head for her to go and see to the child, but she continued dabbing Eddie’s face. Harry stood up, kicked a chair over and took a step toward her. Trudie scurried into the bedroom and quietly shut the door.
“You sure the filth didn’t find the money?” Harry said, leaning over the table toward Eddie.
Eddie gulped. “I’m almost certain, Harry,” he said in a shaky voice, “they wasn’t there that long before they put Dolly in the patrol car and left. She was givin’ ’em a right mouthful and not one of them was carrying any holdalls. In fact, they wasn’t carrying anything at all.”
Harry crossed to the window, stubbed his cigarette out between his fingers then flicked it toward the sink. It fell short and landed on the floor. He leaned his head against the cold window and clenched his fists. He felt incredibly frustrated. He was used to being in control, total control. As the cold glass cooled his temper, his cheek muscled jumped. Robbery was a man’s game and the fact that Dolly seemed to have pulled it off and got away with it infuriated him. All he wanted to do now was get the money and disappear. It wasn’t her money, it was his—his plans, his ledgers, his contacts, his brains . . . and she was taking all the credit. A grin crept over his face. He couldn’t help but admire her balls. He knew that she’d be running on pure adrenalin right now, and he hoped she knew how to control it. Harry, head still on the glass, laughed out loud. Shirley fucking Miller, he thought to himself. And it made sense, therefore, that Linda Pirelli was also involved. Unbelievable. Then he spoke out loud.
“Women, eh, Eddie?”
Eddie had no idea what Harry was referring to, so opted to laugh quietly and cautiously.
Harry turned to Eddie and perched on the windowsill. His voice was quiet, as if he was mulling things over to himself. “The Old Bill must have searched the house. If she was yappy with ’em, it sounds like she’s already hidden the cash somewhere. Even if she ain’t, she’ll soon find out from the blonde who scalded you that someone’s looking for the money . . . You really fucked up, Eddie.”
Suddenly Harry moved across the room and punched Eddie hard in the nose. He fell off his chair and onto the floor with a cry of pain. Harry stood over him like a towering, menacing giant. Eddie braced himself for a beating, but thankfully it didn’t come. He sighed with relief as Harry returned to looking out of the window. His nose was throbbing and when he wiped it on his sleeve and saw the blood he thought it might be broken.
“Get Bill. And watch Dolly like a hawk, 24/7,” Harry ordered. “Don’t lose sight of her.”
“Shall we wait till she goes out and then search the place?” Eddie suggested.
Harry spun round. “Is that what I said? Did I say ‘search the house,’ Eddie? Did I?”
Eddie bowed his head and shut his mouth.
“You watch her. You follow her. She’s done this by the book so far—my book—so I know what she’ll be doing next. She’ll need to launder the money. There’re contacts in the ledgers that she might use. She’ll only do this when she’s sure it’s safe, cos she’ll need to have the money out in the open. That’s when we pounce. If she doesn’t make a move soon, then I’m gonna pay her a visit.” Harry had a nasty glint in his eyes.
“But she thinks you’re dead, Harry!”
Harry smiled. “Well, she’s in for a surprise, then, isn’t she? Now get out, go on—out.”
Eddie crossed to the door, frightened at what Harry might be capable of. “I don’t want to hurt her, Harry, not Dolly. I couldn’t. I feel bad enough about the bleedin’ dog, but a person. And a woman—”
Harry interrupted Eddie. “What about the dog?”
Eddie froze, wishing he’d never opened his big mouth. “When the blonde went for me,” he stuttered, “I . . . I’m not sure but I think I might have stood on it. It bit me and she was scratching me face; I punched out at her and I kicked out at . . . well, it was all yap-yap-yapping and then it wasn’t.”
Harry’s look of hatred made Eddie back out of the living room. When he’d cleared the doorway, he turned to
run, but, quick as a flash, Harry had grabbed the scruff of his neck, spun him round and slammed him up against the wall.
“I could kill you, you pathetic worm of a man,” Harry snarled in Eddie’s face. “You can’t kill Boxer Davis, but you can kill a poodle. That sums you up, Eddie. Just you remember this—you’re the one who led Boxer to that alley, you’re the one who put him in front of Bill’s car. If Dolly makes a mistake now cos of losing that dog and things start to go wrong, you’re the one going down for Boxer.”
Eddie was terrified. Why the hell was Harry being so threatening? “It’s only a dog,” Eddie whispered.
Harry landed one solid punch to Eddie’s gut. “She’s grieving now cos of you,” hissed Harry. “And grieving people make mistakes.” He pushed Eddie so hard out of the door he tripped over his own feet and toppled backward onto his backside. Harry looked at him with disgust. “Get Bill. Watch Dolly. Nothing more.” And he slammed the door.
Clutching his head in his hands, Harry paced the living room, struggling with a whirlwind of emotions. He hated Dolly for succeeding where he’d failed. He wanted to snatch it all away from her to show her who was boss—but, my God, if Wolf was really dead! The idea of pulling the rug from underneath Dolly when she was on a high, flooded with adrenalin, didn’t faze Harry one little bit. She was strong. She’d recover. But snatching her defeat from the jaws of victory if she’d really just lost her baby, well . . . he couldn’t handle the guilt, and that was why he wanted to kill Eddie.
Harry had known before his botched robbery that he was going to leave Dolly, which was why he couldn’t have cared less about giving his watch away to Jimmy Nunn. His plans were always to go to Spain with Trudie and the baby and stay away for good, but to do that he needed money, lots of money. As he’d driven away from the inferno in the Strand tunnel on that fateful day, he had had no idea what he was going to do next. Dolly going half mad with grief at losing him, then stepping up to the plate and pulling off his robbery, was his saving grace. Now all he had to do was get the money.
Trudie came back into the lounge. “What you hit him for?” she asked.
Harry ignored her and walked into the bedroom. She followed.
“You shouldn’t push him too far, you know,” she said. “What if he turns on you and blabs to Dolly, what d’ya think she’ll do then?”
Still ignoring her, he began to undo his shirt.
“I’ll tell you what she’ll do,” Trudie persisted. “She’ll scarper with all the money and you’ll never see her again.”
Harry shrugged his shoulders, pulled off his shirt, threw it in the corner and lay back on the bed with a sensual come and get it grin. He didn’t want to do any more talking today.
“Promise me you won’t do anything silly, Harry?” Trudie begged, distracted by Harry’s toned, muscular body. She could feel the pull of desire inside her; he’d had that effect from the first moment she ever set eyes on him.
Trudie had first met Harry Rawlins over a year before her husband Jimmy Nunn started working for him. She’d been on a girls’ night out with Shirley Miller and they’d gone to the Fishers’ club for a little flutter on the roulette table. Harry had been there on his own, and Shirley, who had met him a couple of times before, had introduced Trudie. She’d felt an instant attraction and flirted with him, but Shirley had told her to back off as he was married and, even if he wasn’t, he was not a man to get involved with. Trudie hadn’t cared: she wanted him and nothing Shirley said was going to stop her having what she wanted.
Harry had been at the blackjack table when Trudie sat down next to him and deliberately let her thigh brush against his. He looked at her and she smiled seductively. It had the desired effect. His hand moved under the table and he gently pressed and ran one finger along her inner thigh. The tingling sensation that ran through her body was exquisite torture; she didn’t want it to stop. When Harry began to move his hand away, she grabbed it and moved it closer to her crotch. The way he made her feel, she’d have let him take her there and then on the blackjack table.
After that first chance meeting, days and nights of illicit passionate sex followed, mostly in cheap hotels, the back of a car, woodland—in fact anywhere they were unlikely to be caught. No matter where or when Trudie was with Harry, she was always putty in his hands.
She remembered Harry’s face that one special afternoon in a grubby hotel when she told him she was having his baby. At first, he’d doubted her and asked if it could be Jimmy’s child. She assured him it wasn’t: she and Jimmy had not had sex for over a month. Harry had held her close. He’d hugged and kissed her and then he’d rested his head on her stomach. Trudie couldn’t see his face, but she knew his eyes were wet.
After the child was born, Harry had sat in his car at the hospital, waiting for Jimmy to leave. When he did, Harry snuck up to the maternity ward. He was quiet, almost as if there was something about the maternity ward that disturbed him, and she could see the adoration in Harry’s eyes—the boy that Dolly could never give him. But he never said it out loud.
Harry had held the baby close and kissed its soft silky head, but then the smile turned to a scowl and his eyes had narrowed to a glare of distrust.
“Why was Jimmy here if it can’t possibly be his?” Harry had asked.
“I lied to him,” Trudie explained. “All the way through the pregnancy I lied about how far gone I was. I swear to you Harry, on my life, he’s your baby . . .”
Harry had settled down, but she’d never forgotten the look of evil as he stroked the baby’s head. “If I ever find out you lied to me,” he’d whispered, “you’ll regret it.”
Trudie snapped out of her daydream as soon as Harry pulled her down onto the bed and slid his hand inside her dressing gown and onto her breast. He pulled her on top of him and slipped the dressing gown over her shoulders so she was naked. When Harry wanted sex, his smile altered his whole face, softening his eyes. She found it hard to believe this was the same man who, no more than two minutes ago, had frightened her and whacked Eddie.
Harry sat up and started kissing her neck and moved down slowly to her breasts. Wrapping her legs round his waist, she squeezed him tight as her body started to tingle and quiver. None of the men she’d ever had sex with had been able to make her feel the floods of erotic sensation that Harry did. He laid her gently onto her back and began kissing every inch of her body. The weeks of being closeted up with him since his “death” had made no difference to how much she wanted him. All he had ever had to do was touch her and she needed him inside her. When Harry made love to her, he never spoke a word. He didn’t need to, because the sex was that good—but she so wished that once, just once, he would tell her that he loved her.
Chapter 33
Once at the convent, Dolly had to work fast in the empty classroom. The children would be coming back from lunch in a few minutes. She was relieved to see that the brightly colored floor-to-ceiling lockers, which she had bought as a gift for the convent, were now in place and being used. All except the top ones, which were far too high for the children to put their coats and play equipment in. This was where the money from the robbery would live until Dolly was ready to collect. She couldn’t think of a better guardian than the Mother Superior.
On her way to the convent, Dolly had taken a diversion to the lock-up. It was a risk, but she needed somewhere to count the money into four equal amounts and fill four identical bags. Dolly had taken a small amount of cash from each of the bags to create a fifth, smaller share—their spending money for the next few weeks.
As she hefted the four bags into four of the lockers, the sweat poured from her forehead and stung her eyes. Each locker had its own key: one for herself and one each for Bella, Linda and Shirley. Once the lockers were secure and the keys were safely in Dolly’s pocket, she set to, pasting the back of a series of large nursery posters. Once they were stuck across the doors, no one would know there were any lockers up there at all.
With one more poster to st
ick in place, Dolly heard the bell ring to indicate lunch was over. She quickly dunked a brush in one of the glue pots she had lined up on the trestle table and smeared the paste over the back of “Little Miss Muffet.”
“Hello, Mrs. Rawlins, not gone on holiday yet?” Sister Teresa bustled in. She seemed surprised.
Dolly accidently knocked a brush off the table and bent over to pick it up. “Flying off in a day or so,” she said cheerfully. “I just thought I’d decorate the lockers with some nursery rhyme posters before I go . . .” Dolly noticed the fifth, smaller bag on the floor. It was open and the stacks of bank notes could be seen on the top of it. “Oh, God . . .” she muttered, slightly louder than she’d intended.
“Can I help you with anything?” Sister Teresa asked.
Dolly flipped the bag shut and stood up. “I’ve just got this last poster to stick up, and then we’re done.” Once Dolly had finished, Sister Teresa helped her stick the final poster in place and they both stood back to admire Dolly’s handiwork.
“They are fabulous, Mrs. Rawlins. It’s so kind of you—they’ll definitely help the children learn their nursery rhymes,” said Sister Teresa.
Dolly smiled to herself. Perfect, she thought. Not one keyhole or join could be seen in the top row. It didn’t look as if there were any lockers there.
The classroom filled with laughing, chattering children. One child, a particularly lovely little girl called Isabelle, wrapped herself round Dolly’s leg, as she always did. Isabelle never said much but her unconditional affection now reminded Dolly a little of Wolf. She’d miss these children—and the unquestioning generosity of the nuns themselves.
Dolly spent the afternoon doing ABCs with Isabelle and the other children, reveling in this particular classroom session: it would be her last one ever. She had loved her time working at the convent—it was so pure, uncomplicated and enjoyable. All the children wanted from Dolly was her time, and this was something she willingly gave. She’d certainly miss the simple certainty of convent life.
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