Detective Constable John Reynolds was assigned to Fuller. At that moment, Reynolds was sitting behind his desk in the annex, carefully typing Fuller’s diary reports and silently cursing his boss. Fuller was a stickler for accuracy, and everything had to be by the book, while on a personal level he could be stiff and unfriendly. But at least, Reynolds thought to himself, as Detective Inspector Eric Frinton banged through the double doors, Fuller was a professional.

  Frinton was carrying a coffee and eating a bacon sandwich as he strolled over to Reynolds’ desk and perched himself on the corner.

  “Got you going, has he? Bit of a slave-driver, our Detective Inspector.”

  Reynolds stopped typing with a frown. “Something I can do for you?”

  Frinton took a slurp of his coffee, almost spilling it over Reynolds’ neatly typed papers. “Your guv’nor about? Might have somethin’ of interest for him.” He took a big bite of his bacon sandwich and began chewing noisily.

  “Like what?” Reynolds asked, pushing his typewriter to one side.

  Frinton swallowed his mouthful and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Your guv’nor was working on the Rawlins caper, wasn’t he? With Resnick? You gotta fag?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “I don’t smoke.”

  DI Fuller appeared through the swing doors, carrying a coffee cup in a saucer. He gave Frinton a cool nod.

  Frinton pushed himself off the desk. “I was just telling Mabel Privet, here, I might have something that’ll interest you.” He shrugged. “On the other hand, it might not. Christ, I’m gasping for a fag,” he added hopefully.

  Fuller looked at him with distaste. “Come on, out with it, Frinton. I’ve got work to do.”

  Frinton coughed. “Yeah, right. We had a stiff on Hampstead Heath last night, a girl—Linda Pirelli.”

  For a moment Fuller looked blank. “Pirelli?”

  “Yeah, Joe Pirelli’s old lady. He got fried on that underpass raid, remember?”

  “And she’s dead?” Fuller was now very alert.

  Frinton grinned. “Yeah, as a doornail. Could be suspicious. My lads are looking into it.”

  “Suspicious how?” Fuller asked.

  “Well, the body was twenty yards from a car, in a ditch. Hit and run, by the look of it.”

  “Another vehicle?”

  “Well, I don’t suppose she ran over herself.”

  Fuller looked thoughtful. “How come you’re involved?”

  “Couple of my boys were just drivin’ past—seems the Pirelli girl had a smash at the top of the road, they followed her down and found her in the ditch.”

  Fuller looked bemused. “So what the hell happened?”

  Frinton shrugged. “Look, you want any details, come over to my place. I’m on the way home now, but my lads’ll give you anything you want. But just remember you owe me, right?”

  Fuller nodded. “Right.”

  Frinton gave him a wink, took another bite of his sandwich and lurched away, spilling coffee as he went.

  Fuller turned to Reynolds. “Let’s get a car organized and go over to his office. Nothing else on, is there?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Very quiet at the moment, guv.”

  “Right, and while you’re at it, get out that file on . . . Tell you what, go and see if you can pick up all of Resnick’s old files on Harry Rawlins, all right?”

  Fuller picked up his cup and took a sip of his coffee, deep in thought. He didn’t seem to notice that it had gone cold.

  Dolly sat at Vic Morgan’s elegant dining table and thought what an extraordinary jumble the whole place was, with antique furniture rubbing up against modern lamps, typewriters and other gadgets. It had the uncared-for feel of a bachelor pad, but somewhere along the line it could have been his mother’s. She looked at the photograph of a woman and a young boy on the mantelshelf.

  Morgan stood at the door. “They’ve got her in the morgue. I’m sorry.”

  Dolly knew Linda was dead, but hearing him say it was still a shock, somehow.

  “D’you want some more coffee?”

  Dolly shook her head. “She pushed me out of the way. It should have been me.”

  Morgan poured himself another cup. Dolly was ripping up a piece of tissue paper, pulling it apart, piece by piece.

  “They’re doing an autopsy this morning.”

  He wasn’t sure she heard him.

  “Why in God’s name didn’t you go to the police in the first place?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You must have known he’d come after you. You took everything he had—plus you sent his girlfriend and baby to Australia!”

  Dolly stood up and walked across the room to a wastepaper basket, dropping the torn-up tissue in. “I was frightened. I told you, I just wanted to pay him off, to be left alone.”

  Morgan spooned sugar into his coffee. “Didn’t look that way to me.”

  “Well, it’s the truth,” said Dolly.

  Morgan took a sip, frowned, and added some more sugar. “When I found you last night, what were you going to do?”

  Dolly sat down at the table again. “I was going to kill him.”

  “Well, that wouldn’t have been very clever, would it?”

  Dolly gave a short, sharp laugh. “Obviously not; he wasn’t there.”

  Morgan shook his head. “What I meant was, there are other ways of getting rid of someone. Did he get any money from you?” He leaned across the table. “You said you were going to pay him off. Did he get the money?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head and picked up her handbag. “No.”

  Morgan chose his words carefully. “You see, there’s a friend of mine who wouldn’t mind getting his hands on your husband.”

  Dolly shrugged. “Well, you won’t find him in that flat. He’ll have moved on by now.”

  Morgan persisted. “There’s a big reward up for grabs, for any information on the cash missing from the underpass raid—thirty thousand.”

  Dolly snapped her bag closed. “I see.” She stood and picked up her coat. “That what all the questions are for? Reward money?”

  He watched her put on her coat.

  “You’re all the same, whichever side you’re on. It’s all he ever wanted, all my husband ever cared for—money. Well, you can chase after it all you like, but don’t try using me to get it.”

  She walked out. He didn’t try to stop her, but he was angry with himself for the way he’d mishandled things. At least he had a lot more information now, even though he knew for certain that Dolly Rawlins was holding something back, something big.

  He took another sip of his coffee, thinking what a strange, fascinating woman she was. He’d held her half the night, held her tenderly as she’d sobbed her heart out for Linda Pirelli. Yet in the morning she behaved like a total stranger. It was going to take time before she truly trusted him.

  Ray Bates was sorting through a pile of bills, tapping his pencil on the desk, when Micky Tesco arrived at the garage.

  Micky leaned against the door. “Come on, what d’ya say? I just need a couple of motors, two Transit vans, maybe a spot of driving?”

  Ray scratched his head. “I dunno. I been straight for a long time, Micky. I don’t want to get into anything heavy.”

  Micky picked up a handful of bills. “Business doesn’t look too good to me. Reckon you could do with a few readies.”

  Too right, Ray thought. His business was going down the drain—and at the worst possible time, with Audrey pregnant.

  “Who’s running the show?”

  Micky shook his head. “Can’t tell you the name—but a big man, well known. And the money’s big, too. But if you’re not interested—” he shrugged—“there’s plenty of people who will be.”

  He turned away, knowing Ray was hooked like a big, fat salmon.

  “I’m in, Micky. I’ll do it.”

  Micky smiled. “Good boy! OK, first off I want you to sort that Jag out for me, get a replacement . . .”

  When Dolly finally reappeared at Shirley’s, her relief was short-lived, because Bella couldn’t stop crying. Dolly calmed her down and put the kettle on, thinking how odd it was the way everybody always offered cups of tea, not wanting to actually talk about what had happened. Eventually Bella calmed down enough for Dolly to ask her how Shirley had taken it.

  Bella sniffed. “Yeah, she cried, you know, but I don’t think it’s really hit her yet. I think it’s the same for me. I still can’t believe Linda isn’t going to walk through the door.”

  Dolly watched the kettle. “She isn’t coming back, Bella, and we’re just going to have to carry on without her.”

  Bella badly needed someone to hold her, but Dolly made no move toward her.

  “What are we gonna do, Dolly?”

  Dolly just shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t know . . .”

  It was the last thing Bella expected Dolly to say and it shook her. Dolly suddenly seemed just as vulnerable and lost as she felt herself. But without a leader, someone to organize the three of them, what were they going to do?

  Shirley’s brother, Greg, was in one of the garages washing the Jag with an old, white T-shirt when Ray slid the doors open. Greg got up off his knees and held out the shirt.

  “See these stains, Ray? I think this is blood.” He pointed at the front of the car. “It’s all along the mudguard. I think he must’ve hit a dog.”

  Ray turned on him sharply. “Just do as you’re told, son, and keep it buttoned. You understand? Keep your mouth shut.”

  Greg nodded.

  “Just get it cleaned up and then take it to the paint shop for a respray. Got it?”

  The garage door clanged shut behind him. Greg dipped the cloth in the bucket and went back to washing the car, trying not to think too hard about what had really happened.

  Suddenly everything that had happened the night before was forgotten. Shirley was perched on a high stool in front of a blue 174 backdrop in the photographer’s studio. She only had her underslip on, which had been Sellotaped to her nipples, giving her a very low cleavage. At first it had embarrassed her, having Sellotape stuck round her, having her body touched and painted, but gradually she relaxed and even began to enjoy it. The girl who had done her make-up was very chatty, helping her to feel at home, and the outrageously camp hairdresser, who spent hours putting a blonde rinse in her hair, was hilarious. He used a can of gold spray, then back-combed, teased, pulled, pushed, and now her hair was like a lion’s mane. The make-up girl had matched the hair, using glistening, golden tones and heavy black eyelashes. She’d plucked away at Shirley’s eyebrows, giving her a very high arch, molded her cheeks, and instead of lipstick she’d used a silky gloss. Shirley looked in the mirror and hardly recognized herself.

  The photographer was obviously well into his forties, but didn’t behave like it—he was like an old hippie. He spent hours in the make-up room, looking at her, checking her out before photographing her. He’d decided that they should lower the slip even more, but there was nothing sexual in it—just professional. He wanted to do all the shots cut low, just neck and shoulders. The make-up girl told Shirley that he was one of the best.

  “Cost a fortune, he does. You from Marion Gordon?”

  Shirley had nodded, feeling like a million dollars. This was what she had always dreamt about . . .

  And then she remembered Linda.

  “You all right?” the make-up girl asked.

  Shirley took a breath. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Then the photographer had come in. “We’re ready to roll in a minute, darling. I want you up on this stool.”

  Shirley’s blondeness against the deep blue backdrop looked fantastic. Shirley went hot and cold as the lights went on, then off, and then they started work.

  The photographer rapped out instructions: “Turn your head right, left, just relax, chin up, now chin down, look at me, now right to the camera, left to the camera, flick your head back, come on, back, back, open your lips slightly . . .”

  Shirley felt self-conscious and slightly foolish, especially when he said, “OK, now I want you to look really angry—come on, come on, give me an angry look!”

  Then Shirley let herself go and just did whatever he asked her to.

  “Run your fingers through your hair, that’s it. Hairdresser! Hairdresser!” And there was the hairdresser teasing her hair, giving her a wink, and the make-up girl redoing her lips.

  “That’s a lovely girl. Hold that, Shirley, hold that.”

  Shirley lost track of time as they went through roll after roll of film, and all the while he was telling her how beautiful she was, how perfect. Then he changed tack.

  “Now give me something a bit different, different mood, lips parted slightly, that’s it. Now think of something sad, something really sad—yes! That’s it. Just hold it like that.” And all of a sudden it was as if Shirley was frozen. She’d thought of Linda, and as the photographer kept snapping away, telling her how brilliant she was, how beautiful, the tears started to slide down her cheeks.

  The camera kept clicking, and then he called for a rest.

  He nodded enthusiastically to Shirley. “That was a good session, darling. I’ve got some really good stuff.”

  Shirley slid off the stool and ran to the make-up room.

  He turned to the hairdresser. “What do you reckon?”

  The hairdresser pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I think she’s special. She could really do something.”

  “She’s a bit neurotic, though—all that bursting into tears,” the make-up girl chipped in.

  The photographer began packing away the lights. “Well, darling, all the really good ones are—they’re all neurotic. I mean, if all you’ve got is a face, wouldn’t you be?”

  The hairdresser was quite surprised the photographer hadn’t made a pass at Shirley. Rumor had it he’d been through most of the beautiful faces in London.

  Then he saw Micky Tesco walk into the studio and instantly knew why.

  Micky gave a brief nod to the photographer, then turned to the hairdresser.

  “How’d it go?”

  “Fine, Micky. New girlfriend, is it?”

  Micky smiled his charming, lopsided smile. “You might be right; there again, you might be wrong.”

  The hairdresser packed up his tools and his scissors in his neat little bag. He’d never liked Micky, ever since they worked on a shoot together, finding him big-headed and pushy. And he’d heard plenty more about him since. Like he was a nasty piece of work, and even that he’d been put away for five years.

  “How’s Marion? You still seeing Marion Gordon?” he asked with a wry smile.

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Micky replied, giving him a cool stare.

  The hairdresser zipped up his bag, tucked it under his arm and left the studio.

  The make-up girl was chatting away to Shirley, trying to cheer her up, when Micky tapped on the door and walked in. He took one look and couldn’t keep the surprise from his face. She looked fantastic.

  She was also half-naked.

  Shirley put her hands across her breasts shyly, and Micky said, “Sorry, I’ll wait outside.”

  The make-up girl gave Shirley a nudge. “That your feller? He’s lovely looking, isn’t he?”

  Shirley just smiled.

  “Is he your feller, or not? If he isn’t, give me a chance. I’ll move in on that!”

  Shirley didn’t answer. She began to pull the Sellotape off her breasts. She looked in the mirror and she could see why Micky had been so impressed. And then Linda’s face floated in front of her again. Shirley reached for a dressing gown, tears swelling up.

  The make-up girl sighed. Not again! What an odd girl. Oh well, you meet all sorts in this business. She began filling her make-up box with all her bottles and tubes. You had to admit, though, neurotic as she was, she’d certainly landed a good-looking bloke.

  Sonny Chizzel’s antique shop was almost as neat and elegant as he was, with his tailored suit and cravat, his pink, clean-shaven face and his coiffured white hair. He’d never seen the woman before. She seemed nervous, well-spoken but rather shabbily dressed. The little ormolu clock she’d brought in was a very nice piece, though, and he reckoned he could get at least two grand for it.

  He took his eyeglass out and put the clock down as the doorbell pinged. He hadn’t seen Gordon Murphy for at least five years, but he wasn’t the sort of man you forget. He gave Murphy a curt nod and turned back to examining the clock.

  Murphy put down his briefcase, looking round the shop. Sonny hadn’t changed; he was still into this fancy Louis Quatorze stuff. He inspected an ornate dresser, tracing the inlaid wood. It was so highly polished that he could see Sonny and the woman as if he was looking in a mirror. The woman saw him observing her and pulled her headscarf round her face.

  Murphy watched Sonny at work. He was a crafty old bastard, always had been. Sonny removed the eyeglass, put it down carefully, then gave a little shake of his head.

  “Mmmm, the timer’s gone, inlay missing, see . . . here . . . here . . . To be honest, I don’t know if I can take it . . . I could give you one-fifty—best I can do.”

  Again the woman looked at Murphy, then turned back to the counter.

  Sonny put his eyeglass in again, held the clock up, then put it down. “As I said, one-fifty. It’s up to you, love. Take it or leave it.”

  Murphy listened to the woman trying to argue, and felt sorry for her.

  “It was my mother’s. I’m sure it’s worth more than that—it’s good, a good clock . . .”

  Sonny shrugged. “Yes, well, it doesn’t work, sweetheart. Look, I tell you what, and this is my last offer—one-sixty. Now, I can’t go any higher than that. As I said, your timer’s gone, there’s inlay missing, it’s gonna take a lot of work. I’m gonna have to take this down to the workshop anyway. I mean, it’s not original, darling, it’s a copy.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, all right.”

  Sonny picked up the clock, wrapped it in its newspaper and shoved it under the counter, then disappeared into the back of the shop, the inner sanctum.