“Er . . . it’s ninety-nine pence, sir.”

  Murphy gave him such an icy glare that the boy went white.

  He came over to Sonny’s table. “You mind if I sit ’ere?”

  “Help yourself.” Sonny tried to look casual as he carefully folded the newspaper. The tables behind him were empty. He leaned toward Murphy.

  “Thirty grand, used notes, best I could do. Case under the table.”

  The boy appeared at Murphy’s elbow with the coffee. “Sandwich’ll be two minutes, sir.”

  Murphy slurped a mouthful of coffee. “That’s a very good price, Sonny, very good. My guv’nor’ll be well pleased with that.”

  Sonny felt the briefcase with the £30,000 between his feet and pushed it toward Murphy. “You got it?”

  Murphy made no effort to reach down. He spooned more sugar into the coffee, stirred, took another mouthful, heaped in yet more sugar.

  Sonny got to his feet and busied himself putting on his jacket. He put a pound coin on the table. “I’m not doin’ any more business, understand me? Not that hot, anyway. You wanna see me, leave a message here, don’t come to the shop. I’ve given you a very good deal, Murphy.”

  Murphy stared straight ahead, sipping his coffee as if Sonny didn’t exist. The boy brought the sandwich to the table. Murphy picked up the pound coin and put it in his hand.

  “Thanks very much, son.”

  Shirley slid back in the bath and could feel the hot, soapy water relaxing her. Her little transistor radio was playing quiet, soothing music. It was so lovely, she could have gone to sleep. In fact, she was almost drifting off . . .

  Dolly popped her head round the door. “We’re just off.”

  Shirley jerked awake, sending water splashing over the side.

  “Oh, sorry, did I make you jump?”

  “No, it’s all right,” Shirley said, taking a breath. “You don’t mind me not coming, do you, Dolly?”

  “It doesn’t take three of us to pick up a book, love. See you later.” She gave her a private smile. “Have a nice time, darlin’.”

  Shirley sunk low down into the suds again and closed her eyes. She waited to hear the front door shut, so she could finally be alone. She was sick and tired of the house.

  The front door slammed and Shirley’s whole body relaxed.

  She opened her eyes again. Linda was always here, though. Even though she was dead.

  She tried to conjure up Micky Tesco’s face in her mind, some of his expressions. Funny, the soapsuds smelt like him; he smelt so clean, like a bar of Camay soap. She laughed at the thought of Micky Tesco sitting in the bath, washing himself with pink Camay. Then she saw Linda’s toothbrush. Only Linda would have a Mickey Mouse toothbrush. She saw a vision of her brushing her teeth with the silly thing, and all thoughts of Micky vanished.

  Arnie Fisher was having a helluva day. He’d schlepped all the way to the prison to see his brother, but once he got there he’d had nothing but complaints from him about not having any visitors. Arnie had spoken to the governor; he suspected that Tony was having some kind of nervous breakdown. Life on the inside was tough.

  But life was getting tough on the outside, too. The club was really going downhill, and business was lousy. Arnie was going to have the place done over, completely redecorated; try and get a better class of punter in. All these things were flashing through Arnie’s mind, so he didn’t catch the nervous looks between the waiters.

  “Oi,” Arnie shouted, “any of you seen that ape, Murphy?”

  He felt a looming presence behind him, and turned to see Murphy pushing his rimless glasses up his nose.

  “I’m right here, guv’nor.”

  “Well, I’m bloody glad you are,” Arnie said quickly, recovering himself. “You’re supposed to be on the door. That’s what I’m payin’ you for. That’s what I’m payin’ all these useless idiots for. I just walked through the club an’ I could ’ave been anybody—any Tom, Dick or Harry! We’re not open yet, right? I don’t like people comin’ in an’ out!” Arnie carried yattering on as he climbed the stairs. He undid his overcoat and tossed it over his shoulder to Murphy, who was following behind.

  Arnie opened a door and bellowed into the room: “Gloria!” He turned to Murphy. “You see what happens? I’m not here one half of a day, and what happens? The whole place falls apart!” He opened the door to his office. “You see what I mean, Murphy?” Then he froze.

  Seated at his desk, lounging back in his chair, was Harry Rawlins. Arnie’s stomach churned and he thought he was going to be sick. He took a deep breath. Please not on the new carpets.

  Standing close to Rawlins was a kid he’d never seen before. Good-looking boy, but Arnie still didn’t like the look of him.

  Arnie took a step back and felt Gordon Murphy behind him. He turned, and Murphy pushed his glasses back up on the bridge of his nose with a crooked smile. The double-crossing bastard!

  He watched the blond boy almost skip round the desk, gesturing for him to sit in one of his own chairs.

  Rawlins leaned on his elbows. He nodded to the blond boy. “Get him a drink. The man looks as if he’s seen a ghost.”

  Arnie began sweating. He watched the blond boy go to the drinks cabinet.

  “I’m taking over the club,” Rawlins said, deadpan.

  Arnie’s mouth gaped open, his eyes wide, and Rawlins laughed. “Just for one night, Arnie! Just for one night!”

  Arnie saw the boy filling a glass with his best brandy as if it was cheap whisky. Christ almighty! Then he realized it was just what he needed, and reached out to take the glass. Arnie’s hand was shaking as he swallowed half the brandy in one go, feeling the hot liquid burn its way down. He put the glass back on the desk, pleased to see his hand was steadier. But he didn’t feel any less anxious.

  “We’re throwing a little party, Arnie. You wanna come?” Rawlins said without smiling.

  He got up and came round the desk. For a moment, Arnie thought he was going to smash him in the face, but instead Rawlins put out his hand and said, “Is that a deal, Arnie? Let me take over the club for a night?”

  Arnie swallowed and nodded, trying to make light of it. “I guess I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  Rawlins leaned back against the desk. “No, Arnie, you don’t.”

  Bella was uncharacteristically subdued as Dolly drove to the lock-up, just staring out of the window. Eventually Dolly broke the silence.

  “So who’s this bloke Shirley’s going out with?”

  Bella shrugged. “Some friend of Shirley’s mother.”

  “You know she’s pregnant,” said Dolly.

  Bella whipped round. “What, Shirley? She never told me!”

  Dolly shook her head. “No, her mother.”

  “Oh, right. That’s all Shirley really wants, deep down—getting married, having kids. I mean, she likes the money, the flash clothes, but basically she’s not like you and me, Dolly.”

  Dolly wondered if she and Bella were as alike as she thought.

  “Don’t you want marriage and kids?”

  Bella shook her head. “Me? Kids? Nah, that’s not for me.” She was silent for a while, then quietly she said, “I reckon I lost my chance.”

  Dolly knew she was talking about the man in Rio. Gently, she said, “Maybe you can go back to Rio and patch things up?”

  She felt Bella tense.

  “It’s over, Dolly. Finished. But he was a good man, decent. Guess he just couldn’t really handle my kind.”

  Dolly didn’t pick up on “my kind,” just let it drop. They pulled in alongside the lock-up. Both of them looked at the old place, and it was Bella who said, “Well, I never thought I’d come back here.”

  “You and me both,” said Dolly.

  They got out of the car, and Dolly searched in her handbag for the keys. From where they were standing it was obvious that there had been some changes in the row of lock-ups. One, in particular, had been done up, with freshly painted doors and a large sign saying Mercury Stationery Depot. The lock-up sandwiched between this and Harry’s place looked defunct, but scrawled across its doors in white paint were the words, “Property of Mercury Depot.”

  Dolly unlocked the door and they walked into Harry’s lock-up. For a moment they just stood and looked round. Nothing seemed to have changed; it was still cavernous, dark and dank, with water dripping from the ceiling. They heard a train rumbling overhead. They made their way to the annex at the back, and Dolly removed the padlock and slid the door aside. As soon as they were inside the familiar space, it all started flashing through their minds: the raid, all the time they had spent working here, respraying the van. It was all a long time ago, but it felt like yesterday.

  Dolly suddenly wanted to find her coat and get out as fast as she could. She went to the small kitchenette and checked behind the door. No coat.

  “You find it, Dolly?”

  “No.”

  Bella started searching round, lifting up boxes. Dolly went further into the kitchenette. She remembered how they’d first come here, just after she’d been told that Harry was dead. Her stomach churned, and she remembered how she’d clung on to the kitchen sink to stop herself falling, trying not to weep. Now the memory just made her angry. She hated Harry even more, hated him for what he’d done to her.

  She began searching the kitchen. There were the coffee mugs they’d used. She picked up a packet of biscuits. There was something wrong: the biscuits were fresh. She picked up a coffee mug. The dregs were still warm.

  “Bella,” Dolly said quickly, “we’d better get out. Somebody’s using this lock-up.”

  Shirley put on her underslip and sat at the dressing table. She brushed her hair, then plugged in the Carmen rollers and studied her face. She got out all her pots of make-up, then looked at her watch. Micky wasn’t due for more than an hour. Plenty of time to make herself look wonderful for him. She got up and switched on the radio. The disc jockey was saying, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, climbing up the charts we have the new single, ‘Widows’ Tears.’”

  Shirley hummed along for a while. She looked at herself again in the dressing table mirror. It was true: widows’ tears didn’t last forever. There was a warm feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Micky, oh Micky . . .” she whispered.

  With Arnie Fisher onside and the venue set up, Harry’s next task was sorting out the guests. Back at his new pad, he began making a list.

  Tesco remembered his date with Shirley and looked at his watch. “You still want me round, Harry?”

  Harry nodded. “I’m gonna give you this list of names, and I want you to personally invite each of them. No mention of me; just say there might be a little bit of business going on, right?”

  “OK.” Tesco cursed silently, went to the bedroom, shut the door and picked up the phone.

  Harry was trying to remember everybody he’d ever worked with. He swore under his breath. If only he had the ledgers, it would make things a lot easier. All the names were in there. Now he sat back and tried to recall every job, all the faces and the names. Who would be the best men to use on the robbery, he wondered? He made careful notes, wondering what the hell Micky was doing in the bedroom. He poured himself a glass of wine from a bottle chilling in the fridge and gulped it down. He was beginning to feel good again, feeling like his old self. He went into the bathroom, turned the taps on, saw the Badedas and smiled. He squirted some into the water. Why not? he thought.

  In the lounge, he picked up his list. Micky was standing there, looking anxious.

  “Those the men you want?”

  “Yeah, just check ’em over for me.”

  Micky sighed. “What’re you gonna do, Harry?”

  Harry was walking toward the bedroom. “I’m gonna take a bath—if that’s all right with you, Micky?”

  Micky shrugged. Harry went into the bedroom and Micky checked the time. He was going to be late for Shirley. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he would make the date at all.

  Dolly had searched every corner of the lock-up, and still no raincoat. Bella was rummaging in the old filing cabinet.

  “You sure it’s here, Dolly?”

  Dolly shook her head. “I dunno where it is. Maybe I never left it here. It’s just that I could have sworn I did. You remember the way I used to hang it behind the door?”

  Bella was now on her knees, searching the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet.

  “I think we should go, Bella. Somebody’s using this place and if they come in now we’re trapped back here.”

  Another train rumbled overhead and Dolly shivered.

  Bella held up a notebook. It was red. “Is this it, Dolly?”

  “No, it’s a black book, a little black book.” She turned away. The drip, drip of the water, the damp and the cold were getting to her. “Bella, I want to get out of here, I can’t stand this place.”

  Bella straightened up. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand. She spread them out on the orange boxes.

  “Dolly, look at this lot!” She unfolded a large sheet—architect’s drawings.

  “For Christ’s sake, Bella!” Dolly walked out of the annex—and suddenly caught sight of what looked like the sleeve of her raincoat poking out from under one of the trucks.

  “There it is, Bella, look! There’s the coat! Somebody must have chucked it under here.” She pulled it out and searched in the pockets. “Got it! I’ve got the notebook!”

  Bella was still poring over the papers, opening one after the other. “I think you’d better take a look at these, Dolly. What d’you think all this is?”

  Dolly looked over Bella’s shoulder, holding on tightly to the notebook. Then she picked up a sheet of paper. “This is Harry’s writing.” She studied the plans. “Do you know what this is? Vans, motorbikes . . . Good God, it’s a route! Security vans! Bella, he’s planning another raid!”

  Micky could hear Harry whistling in the bedroom when the doorbell rang. About bloody time!

  The blonde standing at the door wasn’t bad, but she was a bit older than he’d expected.

  “You Micky?” she asked. “Micky Tesco?”

  “Yeah, that’s right, darlin’. Come in.” He shut the door. “I want you to be very nice to a friend of mine.”

  She smiled. “Oh, I can be very nice. You know what I charge, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, yeah, there’s no problem. He’s a very important man, so you make sure he has a good night, you understand me? What did you say your name was?”

  “Sharon,” said the blonde.

  “Right, Sharon, let’s wheel you in, then, shall we?”

  He guided the girl toward the bedroom door, tapped and pushed it open. Harry was in his dressing gown, combing his hair in front of the mirror.

  “What d’ya want?”

  “Got a little present for you, Harry.” Micky grinned. “Something you might enjoy.”

  Harry turned with a puzzled look and saw Sharon standing behind Micky. The blonde hair, the over-made-up face, the seductive smile. He turned back to the mirror.

  “Get her out of here.”

  “Hey, come on, Harry! She only wants to be nice to you! You wanna be nice to him, don’t you, Sharon?”

  “Get her out, Micky, just get her out!”

  Micky hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do next. Sharon gave him a wink, and then went over and put her hands on Harry’s shoulders.

  “It’s up to you, darlin’.” She slid her fingers gently down his back. “You want me to go, I’ll go.”

  Harry heard the door close. He turned toward her and she took a step back, let him look at her.

  “Take your coat off.”

  Sharon obliged. She had a good figure, nice legs. Maybe she’d do, after all. Besides, he was a bit tense. It’d been quite a while.

  “You want me to stay then, do you?”

  Harry smiled. “Yeah . . . Yeah, I guess you can stay.”

  Sharon turned her back to him and wriggled her shoulders as an invitation for him to unzip her dress. He touched her hair and ran his finger down her neck.

  “What’s your name again, darlin’?”

  “Sharon.” She reached round and began to unzip her dress herself. “What’s your name, then?”

  He didn’t answer, just pulled her roughly toward the bed.

  Trudie was occupying quite a luxurious suite at the Hilton Hotel in Sydney. It had taken her a while to get over the jet lag, and the baby had been fretful on the lengthy flight. The experience of first class travel and the flow of free champagne had made her very unsteady when the plane had landed. She still blamed the jet lag for her being so tired, and not the minibar, which was kept replenished by the attentive hotel staff. She was constantly drinking and ordering room service. She had, by now, become agitated that after numerous calls to hotel reception asking if a Mr. Rawlins had left a message, there was still no contact. She was even concerned about leaving the hotel in case he tried to reach her. She was disappointed when she went out for some cigarettes and formula for the baby and returned to the hotel hoping to see the blinking light on her telephone alerting her to a new message. There never was.

  Shirley was beginning to think that she’d been stood up. She felt a fool, dressed to kill, sitting with the wine chilling in the ice bucket, two glasses, candles lit—and no date. She took a gulp of wine and looked at the clock again. Micky was three-quarters of an hour late. She was just pouring herself another when the doorbell rang. She’d been ready for nearly an hour, but now he was here she ran round the room in a panic, straightening the cushions, checking her face in the mirror.

  When she opened the door, Micky’s arms were full of roses.

  “Wow, you look beautiful!” he said.

  She didn’t know what to say. Part of her was angry with him; part of her thrilled he was finally here.

  She began stuttering like a stupid schoolgirl. “You’d . . . You’d better come in, then . . .”

  “Sorry I’m late, darlin’.” He handed her the roses.

  “D’you want to come through into the lounge? I’ve got some wine. D’you drink wine?”