She got out of the Fiesta and slammed the door shut. In the middle of the car park were two large oak trees. You could either drive between the trees or to a small area to the left. Dolly walked across and looked down. A ditch ran around the car park, and a small wire fence. She began pacing carefully round the park, checking, double-checking, and all the time a voice inside her head kept saying, It won’t work, it can’t work—not here, it’s too open, it’s too vulnerable.

  She heard a car pull up. Shirley was driving with Bella and Linda in the back. Bella got out, very businesslike, with a small notebook. Dolly glanced at her watch; she didn’t bother to mention that the girls were late.

  Linda started wandering off toward the pond, and Bella barked at her like a bossy headmistress to “stop messing about!” It was clear Bella had taken over things.

  “Right,” she said, “everybody pay attention.”

  They all stood in silence as Bella looked at her little notebook.

  “OK, this is the way it goes down.” Bella went over the plans. Bella would be the coordinator and the lookout. She would position herself at the bottom of Pond Street by the cinema, close to a telephone booth. Shirley would park her car facing toward the car park, with a good view to the right and left. Linda would park her car midway between Shirley and Bella. When the girls were in position and saw that all was clear, and there was no sign of anyone else in the area . . .

  At this point Dolly made a sweeping gesture, indicating the hundreds of residents’ cars.

  “Look, come on, Dolly, just let me get through it,” Bella said sharply. “I know there’s gonna be a lot of parked cars, but not in the car park, all right? We’re gonna leave it till two, three o’clock in the morning, and it’ll be empty. There won’t be anybody round. And if it turns out there is, then we don’t go through with it!”

  Dolly nodded her head. “OK, go on, I’m listening.”

  “Right. When everybody’s in position, we check out the area. If there’s anybody around, or anybody sitting in cars, we call it off. It’s crucial that the actual car park area is deserted, all right?”

  All three nodded their heads in agreement.

  “OK, so this is how it goes down. Dolly . . .”

  Dolly kept hearing Bella saying, “This is how it goes down, this is how it goes down . . .” She wondered if they would be going down along with it.

  When Bella, Shirley and Linda had checked the area and it was safe, they would wait. Dolly would have to pass Bella to be given the “OK” signal to go ahead. She would then continue along Heath Street and park her car exactly across the exit gate of the car park. By this time, if all went to plan, Harry, having been given instructions to come alone, would have parked his car dead center of the car park with the interior lights on and his hands held up. This way they could see if he was alone and unarmed. When Dolly saw Harry and got the OK from the girls, she would get out of her car with the briefcase with £60,000 of stolen money from the raid. She would hand the briefcase over to Harry once she’d got his assurance that it would be the pay-off, and that he would leave the girls alone.

  Dolly would then return to her car and be the first to leave the heath. She would be backed up by Shirley, who would drive off behind her. Linda would flash her lights to Bella, who would then put in a call to the police. The call would simply say that Harry Rawlins was alive, that he was at the location in a dark blue Jaguar with this registration number—information they already had from Vic Morgan—and he was believed to be carrying stolen money from the underpass raid.

  Bella looked round at the watching faces. “Well? What d’ya think? It’s gotta work, Dolly. It’ll work, I know it.”

  Dolly stared back. She didn’t think it would work at all. “How long d’you reckon the police will take to get here?” she asked.

  “Well, we’re gonna test it out. I’ll put in a call from the phone booth and we’ll just see. The police station’s only just up the road, Dolly.”

  Dolly sighed. “This area is so open, we’re so vulnerable—he could have any amount of people here.”

  Bella looked exasperated. “Dolly, we’re gonna check out the area before you even drive up!”

  Dolly went back to her car. Over her shoulder, she snapped, “You just make sure the police can be here in time to pick him up. I don’t want him to follow me, because if he does, I’ll lead him straight back to us and straight back to the rest of the money—and you know it.”

  Bella marched after Dolly. “Look, I keep on telling you, it’ll work, Dolly, I know it!”

  Dolly gave her an icy stare. “Fine. So they pick Harry up with the stolen money. What happens if he talks?”

  “What if he does?” said Shirley. “There’s nothing to link us back to that raid!”

  Dolly opened the driver’s door. “But they may start asking questions, Shirley. So I’d better get to that cash now, hadn’t I, ’cos we’re gonna have to move fast. You said it, Bella—we’ve got to cover ourselves three times over.”

  Dolly slammed the door shut and the three girls watched in silence as she drove away.

  Harry stared at his face in the mirror. He was unrecognizable, unshaven and wearing a filthy boiler suit, a workman’s cap and a scarf pulled round his neck. He turned to Tesco, who was sitting on the sofa, similarly dressed.

  “Less they see of our faces the better.”

  Tesco picked up his cap and jammed it on his head. He grinned. “Sixty grand, eh? You think she’s gonna try something, Harry?”

  Harry didn’t answer, just pointed to the gold watch on Tesco’s wrist.

  “Take that off.”

  Swearing under his breath, Tesco took the watch off and slipped it into his pocket.

  “What d’you think she’s gonna do, Harry?”

  Harry ignored him as he opened the plans of the nightclub. These were architectural blueprints, each area mapped out. Harry pointed at it.

  “We need to know how many work the kitchens, and what the access is like from the back of the club. That’s all we’re gonna do today.” He walked to the door. “You got the crates set up?”

  “Yeah, and the truck’s standing by. We’ve got it for the whole morning. Come on, Harry—what do you think Dolly’s gonna do?”

  Harry picked up a pair of gloves, said, “Don’t forget yours,” and walked out.

  As Tesco followed, he noticed that the phone had been left off the hook.

  Audrey entered the kitchen through the back door. The place was a shambles. Greg was standing at the door eating a piece of toast, butter dribbling down his chin.

  “Don’t you ever clear up?”

  Greg shrugged. “Gotta go to the JobCentre, then I got to sign on.”

  Ray came into the kitchen and gave Greg a friendly clip round the earhole. “Don’t forget, you’ve got to be down at the garage by twelve o’clock.” He grinned at Audrey. “I’ve hired Greg to clean motors for me.”

  Audrey began to take her coat off. “Fine. But no more videos, right, Greg?”

  Greg grinned. “Come on, you enjoyed them really, didn’t you, Mum?”

  Audrey chucked a dirty dishcloth at him. Greg dodged it and darted out of the back door.

  She was in no mood for jokes. She picked up the cloth and threw it into the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. She sighed, muttering under her breath. Ray came up behind her and slipped his arms round her.

  “You get out o’ the wrong side of the bed, did you, darlin’?”

  Audrey pushed him away. “You’re gonna wish I had!”

  Ray collected the rest of the dirty dishes from the table and took them to the sink. “I’ll wash up, Aud.” He turned the tap on.

  Audrey sat down, twisting her hands in her lap. Without looking at Ray, she said, “I bin to the doctor. I’m up the spout.”

  Ray couldn’t hear her properly over the sound of the sink filling up. “What’s that? What you got?”

  He looked at her over his shoulder and could tell from her miserable expression that it was something serious. He came and put his arm round her. “What’s up? Somethin’ serious, is it, darlin’?”

  Audrey still couldn’t look at him. “You could say that. I’m pregnant, Ray.” Audrey’s eyes filled with tears. She finally managed to look Ray in the eye. “Doctor reckons I’m about two months gone.” She managed a teary smile. “So it wasn’t indigestion after all. I never thought . . . Well, I did, I thought it was the change, didn’t I? Gawd almighty, some change!”

  Ray was rooted to the spot, staring, open-mouthed.

  “Well, say somethin’, like ‘I’m packin’ me bags!’ or . . .” Audrey fished in her pocket for a tissue and blew her nose. “I’m sorry, Ray.”

  Ray got down on his knees. “Sorry, bollocks! From now on I’m takin’ care of the two of you. There’ll be no more market for you, my girl, eh?” Ray was almost crying himself.

  They held each other close, and the water spilled over the side of the sink and onto the floor.

  Vic Morgan walked down the hospital corridor, tapped on the sister’s open door and popped his head in. She was standing at a filing cabinet, looking through the files.

  “Sorry to bother you, Sister, but I was wondering if there’s a George Resnick on the ward—Detective Inspector Resnick.”

  She gave him a quick, appraising look, then nodded, before carrying two files over to her desk.

  Morgan still stood at the door. “Er, I wonder if I could see him for a few minutes?”

  She sat down, then opened a drawer in the desk and took out a biro. “Are you a relative?” she asked without looking up from the files.

  Morgan grinned. “Brother-in-law. I know it’s not visiting hours but I would appreciate it if I could just have a couple of minutes with him.”

  He could tell from her expression that she knew he was lying. “I’m afraid Mr. Resnick is rather poorly.”

  Morgan stepped into the room. “Is he going to have another operation?”

  Sister shook her head. “No.”

  “Oh good—no need to cancel next Saturday’s football match, then!”

  The sister showed no reaction to his joke.

  Morgan moved a little closer to the desk. “Is he . . . er, having chemotherapy, then?”

  She looked at him properly for the first time. “You know what a melanoma is? I would be grateful if you would stick to visiting hours in the future. You’ll see them on the board outside the ward. But since you’re here, I’ll let it go today. You can see Mr. Resnick for a few moments.” A sad expression crossed her face. “He has so few visitors.”

  Morgan walked out of the office and closed the door quietly behind him. It was as if somebody had slapped him in the face. Melanoma . . . Morgan pinched his nose and closed his eyes. Disconnected pictures, like a jigsaw puzzle, flashed across his eyes, and he saw his wife’s face, smiling at him, holding his hand—then the doctor telling them that she only had a little time to live. He couldn’t believe how little time. He remembered his wife clinging to his hand, knowing she was going to die, but what she was worried about was their son, Mark.

  “Take care of him, Vic,” she’d said.

  He tried to joke with her, told her that Mark could take care of himself, all they were worried about was her, they wanted to take care of her. And she smiled a sweet, gentle, dying smile, and said, “It’s too late, Vic. It’s too late.”

  She died the following morning. He hadn’t been able to get to the hospital because of his work. They’d all been very kind down at the station, given him a couple of weeks’ leave, but it had happened so fast, so brutally fast. He didn’t take the leave they’d offered him but continued to work, and four weeks later his son Mark had died from an overdose. He took the two weeks’ leave then, and never returned.

  Later, he’d opened his own investigation bureau. It seemed that he’d been alone for a long time now. Eight years. And one word had brought it all back in one flashing moment.

  He breathed in, like an actor about to go on stage, put a smile on his face and pushed through the swing doors into the ward.

  Micky Tesco drove the Warrington’s delivery truck slowly through the gates marked “In” at Amanda’s nightclub and round the small car park at the front, with Harry in the passenger seat beside him. The “Out” gates were on their right as they continued down a dip at the side of the club, and down a narrow alley that led into the large, open rear space of the club. There was building work going on, a couple of extensions in progress, as well as trees, garages and a fire escape. The only exit was the way they’d come in.

  Harry swore under his breath. “This is a bitch, you know that.”

  They parked the truck outside the kitchen exit and Harry hauled a beer crate out of the back of the truck, all the time carefully taking in the whole area. He looked at the fire escape, the trees, the row of garages. He saw a number of parked cars, presumably belonging to the kitchen staff.

  Again, he turned to Tesco. “Christ almighty, a bitch and a half.”

  Tesco began lugging a crate down. “Reckon we’ll need three or four blokes just to take the kitchens.”

  Harry was already on his way to the kitchen entrance, down a flight of stairs in the basement of the building. As he got to the top of the steps, he paused.

  “You do the talking, and leave the rest to me.”

  George Resnick looked much more like his old self than Morgan had anticipated. He was very pale and most of his hair was gone, but at least he was sitting up, and Morgan was grateful for that. As he walked along the row of beds, he passed what looked like several terminal cases. The smell of the ward kept bringing back painful memories and the effort of pushing them away made him hold the bag of grapes too tightly—he could feel the juice squeezing out between his fingers. As he reached Resnick’s bed, a wisp of smoke curled up.

  “I’ll have to ask you to put that out, Mr. Resnick.”

  George Resnick was startled for a moment, then grinned. “Hello, you old so-and-so. You nearly gave me heart failure. How’re you doing?”

  There was something of the old Resnick there, but the spark had definitely dimmed. Morgan found he couldn’t meet his eyes. He looked round Resnick’s bedside table.

  “You got something I can put these grapes in, George?”

  Resnick leaned over to open the cabinet. “So what brings you here, Vic?”

  Morgan managed a weak grin. “Heard you were running short of grapes.” He pulled up a chair and placed it close to the bed.

  Resnick was bent over, pulling a bowl out of the cabinet, when he winced with pain. He lay back on the bed, his face drawn, teeth clenched, and snorted as if the pain was coming through his nose.

  Morgan looked round the bed and saw the tubes. “You all right, George?”

  Resnick lay back, exhausted, and let out his breath. “I’m OK now. I’m OK.”

  He didn’t look OK, and Morgan decided to cut out all the chitchat and get right down to it before the sister threw him out. He took out his wallet and held up the photograph.

  “This is Harry Rawlins, isn’t it?”

  Resnick reached for the photo with his bad hand. Morgan could see how little movement he had in the fingers. Resnick nodded.

  “And Rawlins’ wife, she’d be blonde, about five-six, medium build, good taste in clothes?”

  “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

  Morgan moved closer to the bed. “I’ve got her. She’s looking for him, which is why she came to me. Gave me a cock and bull story about a sister with a cheating husband.”

  A little gleam came back into Resnick’s eyes. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Just you and me. Maybe we could do a deal, the pair of us. I’ll trade you for what you know, and get a slice of that reward for any information on the underpass security raid.”

  Resnick was now much perkier. “You’re on!” he said with a grin.

  Morgan smiled. “OK! You can start by telling me everything you know about Dolly Rawlins.”

  The basement kitchens of Amanda’s nightclub were a warren of little rooms. In one, there were two chefs, carving up some veal. In another, there were two washers-up, cleaning dishes and glasses.

  Micky Tesco was going to town, chatting away with one of the chefs, saying that it wasn’t worth his job to let these crates go in without being signed for; he had to have a docket filled in. So where was the manager?

  “Too early. He’s not here. You better come back later,” the chef told him.

  Rawlins admired how Tesco worked on the chef, nattering on, picking up bits of food, acting as if he had all the time in the world.

  Eventually the chef paused in his carving. “Look, mate, if you want to try and find him, feel free to go on into the club, but I’m telling you he’s not there.”

  Tesco shot Harry a look and moved off.

  Now it was Harry’s turn. He asked the chef how many men worked in the kitchens, when they came on, what time they left, all the time keeping up the chat as if it was just one working stiff to another. In between chopping meat and barking orders at his second-in-command, the chef revealed that at least fourteen people worked in the kitchens at night when the club was in full swing.

  He suddenly turned to Harry. “What company did you say you were from again?”

  “Warrington’s,” Harry replied without a flicker. The chef grunted and carried on what he was doing.

  Tesco reappeared in the kitchen with a grin. “After all that, turns out we’re in the wrong club!” He looked at Harry. “We’d better get going.”

  They picked up their crates and with a friendly nod to the chef, they walked out of the door and up the basement steps.

  Tesco threw the crates in the back of the truck, then walked round and got into the driving seat. He turned to Harry.

  “So what do you think?”

  “What do I think? Like I said, Micky, the place is a bitch.”

  As Shirley came downstairs, she could hear the TV blaring. She walked into the lounge and there was Linda, curled up nice and comfy amid the cushions, gawping at the screen. Shirley swore she was so fed up with having Linda and Bella living in her house—particularly Linda—she’d prefer to have Greg back. She stood in the doorway with her arms folded.