“Did Mrs. Rawlins leave anything behind when she took her rucksacks, Sister?”

  “No, Mother Superior. I checked and they were all empty.” Sister Teresa looked down. She gasped when she saw a man standing by the door. Harry waited patiently.

  The Mother Superior turned to the man, smiling sweetly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, I’m afraid you must have been mistaken. The lockers, as you just heard, were empty.”

  Harry parked outside his old home. The “For Sale” sign had “Sold” stamped across it. The doors were shuttered and the windows barred. Harry walked up the garden path, wondering how many times he’d done it over the years. He also wondered why he was walking up the path now. He stood at the front door, but didn’t get out his key, knowing the locks would have been changed months before.

  A shiny BMW pulled up near the gate and he could see his lawyer, Sutcliffe, behind the wheel, staring at him as if he’d just seen some kind of apparition. Harry walked round the car, opened the passenger door and got in.

  All Sutcliffe could say was, “Christ almighty, Harry . . .” He gazed at him, shaking his head.

  Eventually, Harry said, “Look, it’s me, Barry, all right? Take a good look. Wanna touch me?”

  Sutcliffe’s mouth went dry. He kept licking his lips. He didn’t know where or how to begin.

  Harry decided he’d better get on with it. “She sell the house?”

  Sutcliffe nodded, loosening his tie. Harry kept staring toward the house. He was miles away, thinking about other times, long gone.

  “It’s not the only thing she sold, Harry.” Sutcliffe shook his head in exasperation. “You should have told me, Harry. Dear God, why didn’t you call me, let me know what the hell was going on? I thought you were dead, Harry. You should have let me know!”

  Harry didn’t reply. He couldn’t drag his eyes away from the house. When he finally spoke, his voice seemed strange, strained. “Got a cigarette, Barry?”

  Sutcliffe rummaged round in his pockets, then opened the glove compartment and brought out a packet of cigarettes. His hand was shaking. Harry took one, and Sutcliffe searched his pockets again for his lighter. He flicked it and flicked it, but it wouldn’t light, his fingers were trembling so much. Harry took it from him, lit his cigarette and took a deep drag.

  “Right, Barry, you’d better give it to me straight. What’s been going on?”

  Barry told him everything, leaving nothing out, but he wasn’t sure if Harry was really listening. He made no reaction, just continued to smoke, flicking the ash into the ashtray. Sutcliffe continued, blow after blow after blow. It was like a judge giving a death sentence, and still Harry said nothing. Finally he stubbed the cigarette out slowly in the ashtray.

  “I’m sorry, Harry, but there was nothing I could do. You were dead, she had a Certificate of Probate, she had a right . . .”

  Harry turned and studied him, and to Sutcliffe it was almost as if Harry was freezing him with his eyes.

  “Is there anything left?”

  Sutcliffe could feel his left leg shaking; he couldn’t stop it jigging up and down.

  “I’m sorry, Harry, there’s nothing, absolutely nothing.” He reached for his briefcase and took out some documents. “Just a couple of leaseholds on those warehouses down by the station—you know, the lock-ups—but you’ve only got a couple of months to go on the leases.” For a moment he thought he saw the flicker of a smile cross Harry’s face.

  Harry took the leases, not bothering to look at them, and stuffed them into his coat pocket.

  Sutcliffe heard himself saying, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Harry, but you should have told me. If only you’d let me know.”

  Harry opened the car door. “Yeah, my own fault, Barry. Thanks for coming anyway.”

  Sutcliffe let out a long breath. He’d thought that maybe Harry would kill him, rough him up a bit at least, but he’d taken it all so calmly. His wife had cleaned him out. She’d taken over every single bank account, every single property. She’d sold—lock, stock and barrel—the little empire that Harry had taken twenty years to build up, and all he had said was: “Thanks for coming.” Sutcliffe waited for the other shoe to drop, for something else to happen, but it didn’t. Harry stepped out of the car, slammed the door behind him and pulled up the collar of his coat. It started to rain. Sutcliffe watched Harry getting into an old, beat-up Jag. In a strange way, he felt sorry for him.

  Sutcliffe started the car, but thought he’d better wait for Harry to go first, just in case. You never knew, with that kind of man, when they might turn. He might feel sorry for him, but that didn’t mean he trusted him. The Jag coughed into life, the engine sounding as if it needed a good tune. Harry gave a brief nod in his direction and drove off.

  Time to take a holiday, Sutcliffe decided. Get away from it all. As he started thinking about where he would go, he didn’t notice the Rover pulling out and starting to follow the Jaguar.

  Vic Morgan clocked the number of the BMW, jotting it down with his left hand as he steered with his right. He wondered what was going on. First he’d followed Rawlins to Trudie Nunn’s flat, then to a convent, and now to an empty house in Totteridge. He kept his distance, making sure he wasn’t spotted, but Rawlins seemed in no hurry. He drove slowly all the way back to Elgin Mansions.

  Morgan passed Rawlins as he parked his Jaguar, driving two hundred yards further before he stopped. He got out of the car, keeping his back toward Rawlins, but still able to watch him in the wing mirror. He saw Rawlins enter the mansion block, and gave it a few moments before hurrying after him and pushing open the double doors. The old stone staircase was reasonably clean, but the place had a run-down feel to it. He could hear Rawlins’ footsteps above him as he followed him up the stairs, trying to stay at least one floor below. Eventually he spotted him through the banister railings, letting himself in to one of the flats, then shutting the door behind him.

  Morgan jogged up the stairs to the flat, number 44. The name on the doorbell was “A. D. Judd”.

  Now he had the name and address, Morgan decided he’d done enough work for the day. The question was, how much of this was he going to tell Mrs. Marsh?

  The following day, in Morgan’s office, Dolly was twisting the strap of her handbag round and round her hand anxiously.

  “So he’s living at Elgin Mansions, then?”

  Morgan shrugged and repeated what he’d seen.

  “I can have the bloke in the BMW checked out. A friend of mine at the Yard, he can—”

  Dolly stood up. “That won’t be necessary. I know who that was—my . . . er . . . sister’s husband’s lawyer.” She seemed very nervous. She opened her bag and handed him yet another brown envelope. “That’s what I owe you to date, plus a bonus. Thank you for everything.”

  Morgan held the brown envelope between his fingers. “I’m off the job now, am I?”

  Dolly was suddenly desperate to get out. “Yes, I think you’ve done everything that . . . Well . . . I now know where my sister’s husband is, so thank you very much.”

  She put out her hand. He could see it was trembling, and there were also red marks from the handbag strap. He shook her hand.

  “Oh, there is just one thing, Mr. Morgan—the photograph.”

  Morgan leaned back in his chair. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Marsh, I’ve left it in the car. I’m afraid it’s at the garage. If you like—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll, er, call in for it sometime. Thanks again for everything.”

  Morgan waited until she was gone, lifted a copy of the Guardian off the desk and stared down at the face of Harry Rawlins. He picked up the photograph, opened his wallet and put it inside.

  The bedroom at 44 Elgin Mansions was as seedy as the rest of the apartment. The threadbare curtains were drawn, a couple of hooks hanging loose. No lights.

  Harry lay face down on the bed. His coat and crumpled jacket were in a heap on the floor where he’d thrown them. The little teddy bear was peeking out of one of the jacket pockets.

  His head buried in the pillow, Harry murmured over and over to himself, “Bitch, bitch, bitch . . .” He turned over and punched the pillow viciously. His teeth were clenched as he said the word yet again. “Bitch.” And then he lay, stretched across the bed, arms spread wide, and found tears were streaming down his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried, and he didn’t want to be doing it now. He tried to stop, but the tears just kept on coming, and eventually he gave in and let the wave of sadness wash over him.

  The women were all sitting in Shirley’s lounge, watching her thumb through the phone directory.

  “Here it is, A. D. Judd, 44 Elgin . . .”

  Bella leaned back against the sofa and sniffed, looking at the three of them all staring at the phone book as if it was the Holy Grail.

  “So now what? We know where he is, an’ that he’s got a phone, so what’s the next move? Phone him up for a chat?”

  Shirley stubbed out her cigarette, took another one out of the packet and offered it to Dolly.

  Dolly’s eyes were already smarting from all the smoke. “No, thanks.”

  Shirley shrugged and lit up, then blew out a thin stream of smoke, looking thoughtful.

  “We could hire a hitman, have him bumped off,” Linda suggested.

  Bella kicked her and told her to shut up. “Why don’t we hire Batman and Robin while we’re at it?”

  Linda pouted. “It’s not such a stupid idea. I even know someone who’d do it for a grand.”

  Dolly massaged her temples. Her head was throbbing, and the arguing was only making it worse.

  Shirley took another deep drag of her cigarette. For a non-smoker she was certainly making up for lost time. She blew the smoke out and Dolly wafted it away.

  “Dolly, what if we told the police where he was? D’you think they’d come after us? Dolly?”

  Dolly didn’t bother to reply. Sometimes she felt as if she was back at the convent with the kids.

  Shirley nudged her.

  “Yes,” Dolly said, sounding as if she was lecturing a bunch of ten-year-olds. “If we tell the police where he is and they pick him up, then he’s going to tell them he had nothing to do with the raid, and even if they don’t believe him, they’re going to have to follow through and pull us in.”

  Bella stood up, hands on hips. She hated the way Dolly talked down to them.

  “OK, so what do we do?”

  Linda looked at Dolly. “Why can’t we just pay him off, get him to leave us alone?”

  Dolly gave Linda a look, as if that was too stupid for comment.

  “Hold on, why not?” Bella said. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

  “It’s got to be worth thinking about,” Shirley agreed.

  Bella leaned over Dolly. “What if we each chip in fifteen grand? That would give Harry sixty thousand. He might go for that.”

  Dolly looked at their expectant faces, not believing what she was hearing.

  “You wanna know what he’ll say?” she said angrily, almost spitting the words out. “Sixty grand? Out of seven hundred and fifty? Oh, yes, please!”

  Bella’s temper was heating up. She jabbed a finger at Dolly, almost poking her. “Give us a bit more credit, can’t you? We wouldn’t just fuckin’ hand it over. As soon as he’s got the cash in his hot little hands, we’d tip off the law. They pick up a supposedly dead man, with sixty grand’s worth of stolen money from the underpass raid—”

  “You think they’d believe he wasn’t in on it himself?” Shirley chipped in. “It would work, Dolly. We could get him put away and out of our hair.”

  Dolly felt the pain shooting across her eyes. It was all she could do not to start screaming at them. She clenched her fists and looked each one in the eye.

  “You wanna make a deal with Harry, then you go right ahead. But count me out, you understand? I warn you, he’ll come after you, each one of you—he’ll never let you go.” Dolly walked stiffly to the door and yanked it open. She was icy calm now, her voice clear and strong. “Don’t play games with Harry, I warn you. If you do, you’ll lose.”

  The girls braced themselves for the slam of the door, but Dolly closed it quietly. They heard her walking into Shirley’s kitchen. Then the bang came, as she slammed the kitchen door almost off its hinges.

  Micky Tesco had so many boxes and packages, he almost dropped the lot as he fiddled with the key to Harry’s flat. Inside, he dumped them on the sofa, before pushing open the door to the kitchen.

  “Harry?”

  Tesco looked round. Something was wrong. The place was dark, an empty bottle of vodka lying on its side on the coffee table. He turned the handle of the bedroom door, then thought better and tapped lightly. He waited, then slowly opened the door and looked into the room. A strange muffled sound came from the bed. He closed the door again.

  “Christ, now what?” he muttered to himself.

  Unsure what else to do, Tesco began unwrapping the tissue paper from a stack of shirts, every now and then turning a worried look toward the bedroom. At least that awful sound had stopped now.

  Dolly sat in the kitchen with her handkerchief over her mouth so the girls wouldn’t hear her crying. Her face was puffy, her eyes red-rimmed. Linda walked in and Dolly looked away. She didn’t want to be caught crying, not in front of them. Linda sat down, pulling the kitchen chair close so their knees were touching. She was going to pat Dolly’s hand, but instead suddenly put her arms round her and held her tight. At first Dolly stiffened, trying to resist, but then she gave way and held on to Linda too. They stayed like that for only a moment, but it was as if there was now a real bond between them.

  Linda broke away first, looking into Dolly’s face. She looked old and worn out, and Linda felt her heart go out to her; sometimes they all forgot that Dolly wasn’t as young as the rest of them.

  She touched her cheek. “Your eyes are all puffy.”

  Dolly managed a wobbly smile and blew her nose, then said something about having to cancel her operation. Her eyes filled with tears again.

  “Nothing worked out, Linda—not the way I thought it would.”

  Linda could feel herself wanting to cry with Dolly, but she managed to hold herself back. Instead she hugged her again, and told her not to cry any more.

  “Nobody means to go against you. No one wants to argue. We’re all frightened, Dolly. Bella too. She comes on heavy, but she’s scared. We need you now. We need you more than ever.”

  Bella leaned against the kitchen door. She looked hard at Dolly, then at Linda. “We’ve decided to put in a call to Harry.”

  Linda, holding on to Dolly’s hand, felt her withdraw.

  Harry was in the bathroom when the shrill tone of the old black telephone rang out.

  Micky Tesco walked out of the kitchen, eating a piece of toast, and picked it up.

  Shirley was shaking, and her mouth felt dry. Bella and Linda stood behind her, looking equally nervous. Dolly stood well back at the open door, with her arms folded.

  “He’s coming to the phone,” Shirley whispered. Suddenly she couldn’t carry it through. She held out the receiver to Dolly, but Dolly shrank away, refusing to come within a foot of the phone. Bella snatched it out of Shirley’s hand.

  Tesco looked toward the bathroom, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The bathroom door opened.

  “It’s for you, Harry—said it’s your wife.”

  Shaved and showered, immaculate in a new suit and shirt, with his tie hanging round the collar, Harry felt like a new man. His face seemed to have changed; that beaten-down look had gone. Now he looked confident, even arrogant, and couldn’t help a glimmer of a smile as he put out his hand for the phone.

  Tesco was taken aback. You never knew where the hell you were with this man. He was like a bloody chameleon.

  Harry’s outstretched hand was steady, his voice cold. “OK, you can get out.”

  Tesco didn’t argue. He felt Harry’s eyes boring into him as he picked up his coat and searched round for his car keys. As he reached the front door he was about to say “see you later,” but Harry had turned his back on him.

  Close to the phone was an old gilt-framed mirror. As the door closed behind Tesco, Harry looked at his reflection, smoothed a stray bit of hair behind his ear, then held the phone close to his mouth. He spoke softly, huskily.

  “Hello, Doll, that you?”

  Bella felt herself go cold. That voice, calling her “Doll.” Now she knew why Dolly always hated anyone calling her that; it was his name for her, like a pet name.

  She swallowed. “This isn’t Dolly, this is Bella. She’s here, but . . . Look, we got a proposition for you. We want to make a deal.”

  Behind her, Linda and Shirley, faces tight with worry, almost took a step back, as if they were trying to put more distance between themselves and Harry, while Dolly just stood, clenching and unclenching her hands, her palms slick with sweat.

  At the other end of the phone, Harry was smiling and nodding, his voice relaxed and friendly. He said it was a deal. He would do whatever they wanted.

  He was about to replace the phone when, as an afterthought, he said, “Give Doll my love, won’t you? I’ll wait to hear from her.”

  Harry put the phone down and turned back to his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were laughing, his mouth twisted into a strange smile. He began to knot his new silk tie. He was humming a tune and stopped to wonder where he had heard it. Must have been on the radio. “We will meet again,” he sang tunelessly. “We will meet again . . .” He started to laugh. He was looking forward to it.

  Chapter Three

  Dolly arrived at the car park on Hampstead Heath early, knowing the girls would not be there for at least another ten or fifteen minutes. It was seven in the morning, and she wanted to look over the area by herself. She parked her car dead center of the car park and sat. In front of her was the pond, and she turned round to look up to the hills and trees and the narrow pathways. Through the trees lining the car park she could see the row of elegant houses opposite. She sighed. Even at this hour of the morning the nearby roads were crammed with parked cars.