“You still not interested in coming in on the action, Colin? Fifty G each, man, and that’s just for starters; there could be even more.”

  Harry saw Colin thinking it over, then shake his head. Colin might be short of cash—but he wasn’t that short. Still, plenty of time to work on him, Harry thought, and he was definitely tempted.

  Harry handed him the cash, and with no show of embarrassment Colin counted it, then tucked it into his wallet.

  “I’m gettin’ a bit long in the tooth to be wielding the old shooters, Harry, but I’ll complete the layout as agreed, get it all sewn up for you. There won’t be a door in that place you don’t know about—that and the tip-off. But I want to be clean away before the aggro starts, agreed?”

  “Sure, Colin.”

  “To be honest, Harry, I don’t fancy your chances of pulling it off. You’re gonna need the best there is on this one.” Colin hesitated, and Harry frowned. What was he hedging about?

  Colin picked up his briefcase, then put it down again. “Word is out on you, Harry. Plenty of people won’t touch you; they reckon you ditched those men, let them burn alive. Joe Pirelli and Terry Miller were good blokes, well liked.”

  Harry just wanted Colin out now. Stupid prick with his fancy voice and holes in his shoes.

  “There’s a new DI,” Colin continued, oblivious. “Took over from that old bloke Resnick. Name’s Fuller, and I hear he’s a right bastard, pulls in anyone just to feel the material on their suits. He’s straight, and he’s got the finger on everyone. You gotta be careful, Harry.”

  Harry guided Colin to the door, resisting the urge to give him a kick in the arse to send him on his way. “You know what, Colin? There’s never been a copper, sitting behind a fancy desk or walking the beat, that couldn’t be bought. All you need is the right amount of cash.”

  Bella didn’t move a muscle until the lights went out and she heard the door clang shut behind Harry, then she let out a deep breath. She looked at Dolly, standing hugging herself, her knuckles white.

  “We’ve got him this time, Dolly. My God, we know enough to pull it ourselves.”

  Dolly didn’t answer, just walked back to the door, sloshing through the water without noticing it now.

  Bella hurried to catch her up. “Come on, it was a joke! Just a joke, Dolly.”

  Still Dolly kept walking. When they reached the door she fumbled for the keys.

  “But we can get him this time, Dolly. We can really set him up this time.”

  Dolly shivered, her teeth chattering. She felt frozen to the bone. All she wanted to do was get out, get away from this place, away from Bella. The vision of Harry’s smiling face wouldn’t go away. What had really scared her, made her sick to her stomach, was that even after all this time, she wanted to cry out to him, call his name. Those twenty years couldn’t be blanked out; twenty years she had loved him and no one else. Even now she clung to a pitiful dream that Harry was really only waiting for her to contact him, and then they would be together again, just as it had always been. But it was a dream; the house had gone, the home they had built up, all gone. She had all the money, but it didn’t mean anything to her, not without him, and it was this she couldn’t face—that everything was gone, ruined, destroyed, except her love. Even now Dolly couldn’t stop herself loving him, a man who was not worth—

  “Dolly! Dolly, you all right?”

  She came to as if out of a drugged sleep. For a moment she didn’t know who she was, then it swept over her, like a dark cloud blocking out the sky. There was no way out for her, she just had to keep going—but to what end?

  Trudie had been presented with an invoice from the hotel that scared her as she’d had no concept of the cost of her room, or of how much the constant supply of room service would be.

  There had still been no contact from Harry, and she began to worry that the money would run out. Harry had only sent her a one-way flight and she had no way of discovering whether or not he was coming to join her, or where he was as he hadn’t left her any contact details.

  She rang her sister Vera and, in typical Trudie fashion, had not thought about the time difference. Vera was woken in the middle of the night in her home in Devon by Trudie asking if anyone had called for her. Vera hadn’t heard from Trudie for months.

  “Why would anyone call here for you?” Vera said sleepily.

  “Are you sure there’s been nobody asking where I am?” Trudie had to make sure she didn’t make any reference to Harry Rawlins, as she knew he was wanted by the police.

  “Do you know what time it is? Where on earth are you?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Trudie could feel the panic rising as she said that she would call again and asked if it would be possible for her to stay in Devon. She also asked that if someone should call for her, just to say that she was still at the hotel.

  Micky was driving fast, and Murphy hated fast drivers. His mother had almost been killed by an idiot like Micky. He glanced at the speedo: eighty-five. Eighty-five miles an hour down the bleeding Euston Road. He looked at Micky.

  “You in a hurry to get someplace? Take it a bit slower, son.”

  In answer, Micky put his foot down and they hit ninety through the underpass, shooting the lights at Marylebone Road.

  Murphy grabbed Micky’s arm. “If you don’t slow down, I’m going to put the bleedin’ handbrake on.”

  Micky grinned, taking his foot off the gas a little. “Can’t take it, Murphy?”

  “I’ll take anything you want to dish out, any time, any place, son,” Murphy assured him. “But getting picked up for speeding just before a blag is fuckin’ idiotic.”

  Micky slowed to forty and drove on in silence for a while. Then he started to tell Murphy about the whore he’d given Harry for a present, something to loosen up the tension.

  Murphy looked out of the window; he hated tarts.

  Micky prattled on, gave Murphy a sideways look and chuckled. “Next morning, she was sitting there waiting for me in her rabbit fur coat, in a right old state.”

  Murphy pricked up his ears, interested now.

  “I paid her off, and then she says I should get my friend some vitamins or something—turns out Harry couldn’t get it up. It wasn’t for want of trying, neither; said she’d tried every trick in the book, but nothing doing.”

  Micky was laughing as they pulled up outside Murphy’s council house. He was about to open the door when Murphy put a hand on his arm.

  “You need to get a few things straight, son,” he said in a quiet voice. “First off: loyalty. I don’t like hearing filthy gossip, you understand? You’re lucky enough to be working with one of the best, so you treat him with the respect he’s due. If that filthy slag is puttin’ round stories about the guv’nor, then you better give me her name.” Murphy pushed his tinted glasses up his nose. “She’ll never be able to open her legs again, and the same goes for your mouth if you’re not careful. So learn to keep it shut.”

  Then Murphy was out of the car, the door slamming behind him.

  Micky slammed the steering wheel. “Prick.”

  Murphy had made him feel like a ten-year-old kid. He thought about going round to see Shirley, then thought better of it. He’d given her a right old seeing-to; she might not even be up and walking yet. He roared off down the road, grinning.

  Murphy opened his front door and closed it quietly behind him. He took off his shoes and crept into his mother’s room. Her bedside lamp was still on but she was fast asleep, her mouth open and her teeth in a glass by the bed. He tucked the bedclothes in, checked the electric blanket was off and took away the teapot and cup to wash. He left the light on, in case she woke up in the night.

  In the kitchen, he made sure everything was spotless and in the right place, his breakfast dishes laid out ready for the morning. He had never got out of the habit of leaving his cup face down on the saucer, spoon at the side. In prison, some things you never forget.

  Bella watched Dolly drive off. She hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left the lock-up, and the drive back to the house had been made in uncomfortable silence.

  Sometimes Dolly unnerved Bella, the way you couldn’t tell what she was thinking, what was going on in her head. Not like Shirley—or Linda. Bella bit her lip. Linda . . . poor Linda. She wasn’t coming home again, not now, not ever. And they’d let her be buried without so much as a single flower. Dolly had given them strict orders: no one was to contact the morgue or the Pirelli family. Linda would be laid to rest with Joe. Well, that was one thing, at least: the Pirelli family might have hated Linda, but in the end they had to let her be buried with him.

  Bella slipped into the house. The hall light was on. She popped her head into the lounge and saw Shirley’s dress on the sofa. She turned the lights off and went quietly up the stairs. The landing was dark, and Bella pushed open Shirley’s bedroom door. She could see a vase of roses on each side of the bed, and Shirley sprawled out between them, with just a sheet over her, deeply asleep. Bella closed the door. It was strange, Shirley didn’t seem to have been affected by Linda’s death; she’d cried at first, but just as quickly it was over.

  Bella undressed, tossing her clothes onto the spare bed—Linda’s old bed. She pulled back the covers and climbed in, not bothering to wash or clean her teeth.

  Sleep wouldn’t come. She lay there, staring at the empty bed beside her, going over what had happened that night: the lock-up, Harry, the plans. Then she turned and whispered to the empty bed: “We’ll get him this time, Linda. This time we will.”

  Dolly was exhausted. All she wanted was sleep, but like Bella, everything that had happened was churning over in her mind. Her feet were like lead as she turned the bend in the stairs up to her flat and saw Vic Morgan.

  Her face fell. This was all she needed.

  She opened her bag, not meeting his eyes, and searched for the keys. Morgan was holding a bunch of wilting flowers. He gave her a grin.

  “I’d just about given up on you.”

  Dolly dropped the keys and he bent down to pick them up, glancing at her filthy shoes. It hadn’t been raining, and he wondered where she’d been. He fitted the key into the lock and opened the door.

  “Please leave me alone, Mr. Morgan. I’m very tired.”

  Morgan tried to hand her the flowers but she wouldn’t take them. She just stood there, holding the door, frowning.

  “I wondered if we could have dinner one evening . . . or lunch? OK, cup of tea then? I’m not fussy.”

  “Oh, just take your flowers and get out, will you?” she snapped angrily, turning to close the door.

  He put his foot inside, not too forcefully, but she couldn’t shut the door.

  “D’you want me to start screaming the place down?”

  Morgan knew she meant it. Her expression was cold and hard. She was hardly recognizable as the woman who had spent the night at his place. He slowly removed his foot and looked down at the flowers still in his hand.

  “Blimey, these look about as wilted as I am. I’ll get some fresh ones next time.” He made no move to go.

  “All right, I’ll meet you for lunch,” Dolly said, just wanting him to go away. “Next Saturday.” It was far enough off that she didn’t have to think about it.

  He grinned. “OK, good. Saturday. Lunch it is.”

  The door slammed shut.

  “I’ll just leave these on the mat . . . if you want them,” he called through the door. He laid the flowers down gently and started down the stairs. Halfway he stopped, hearing her door open. He crept back up to see Dolly reach down and pick up the flowers. She held them close to her, almost burying her face in the wilting heads, then she shut the door.

  As Morgan turned back down the stairs, he could hear her sobbing.

  The rain was pelting down and Fuller was in one of his moods as the patrol car turned through the gates of Regent’s Park. He’d had yet another silent breakfast, and now he had indigestion. He popped a tablet out of the packet in his pocket and put it in his mouth.

  They were cruising slowly down the lane toward the cricket pavilion. “How close do you want, guv’nor?” the driver asked.

  Fuller tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Here will do.” He turned to Reynolds. “You see him?”

  Reynolds leaned forward and they both scanned the park, squinting to see through the rain.

  “There he is, sir.”

  Sonny Chizzel was standing under a large golfing umbrella, facing the boating pond, throwing soggy bread to the ducks.

  Fuller watched for a few moments, then hitched up his collar and got out. “Shit.” He’d forgotten his umbrella. He began to walk briskly toward the boat house.

  Reynolds leaned back, watching. “Right old mood he’s in this morning, isn’t ’e? Trouble at home, I reckon.”

  The driver turned round, holding out a packet of cigarettes. Reynolds shook his head.

  “You’re probably right. He does his nut if he smells smoke in the car—starts spraying deodorizer all over the place.” The driver put the cigarettes back in his pocket without lighting up.

  They could see Fuller talking to the man with the umbrella, but both men were still facing away from them, toward the water. Fuller was gesticulating animatedly, shaking his head. Reynolds laughed as a goose went up behind Fuller and started nipping at his trousers. Fuller turned and shooed the bird away, then continued his discussion. Eventually the man with the umbrella moved off, and Fuller, with shoulders hunched, walked to a nearby bin and started rummaging through the refuse before he found what looked like an old Mother’s Pride wrapper. He jogged back to the patrol car and yanked open the door.

  As Fuller dried himself off with his handkerchief, Reynolds opened the bag and found a slip of paper inside.

  “This is it?” It was just a list of numbers.

  “I bloody well hope so. Should be serial numbers.”

  Reynolds nodded. “Who was it?”

  “The Jewish Chronicle himself, Sonny Chizzel. Says a bloke wants to launder some cash, and it might tally with the missing dough from the underpass raid. He’s very cagey. We got something on him?”

  Reynolds nodded and looked down the list of scrawled numbers. It should be easy enough to check them with the security firm.

  Fuller prodded the driver’s shoulder. “Let’s get bloody going. I’m soaked to the skin.” He took the list of serial numbers from Reynolds. “Sixty thousand quid. Reckon he’s been tapped, and he thinks he’ll make more from the reward. If these numbers are notes from the underpass raid, we’ll haul the little prick in.”

  “Did you offer him a deal?” Reynolds asked.

  “Look, I could have offered him the Crown jewels—doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gonna come across. And definitely not with a bastard who won’t even let me under his brolly.” Fuller blew his nose loudly. “First thing we do back at the office, we take another look at all those files Resnick hoarded and see if Mr. Chizzel’s in there somewhere . . .”

  As they drove on toward the station, a radio message came though confirming that Sonny’s tail was in position.

  Fuller rubbed his hands. “Good. I told them to make it obvious. Let him know we mean business.”

  Bella opened up the door. She’d had a rotten night’s sleep, only finally getting into a nice dream just before the doorbell had woken her up, and there was Dolly, fresh as a daisy, giving her a ticking off for keeping her waiting for the whole world to see. Bella picked up the milk from the doorstep, peeled off the gold top and drank.

  “Don’t do that, it’s a filthy habit.”

  Inside the kitchen, Dolly put her shopping bag on the table, then picked it up again and went to the sink for a wet cloth to wipe the table down.

  “Where’s Shirley?”

  Bella, still drinking from the milk bottle, took the note that had been stuck to the fridge and handed it to her. Dolly read: “. . . dance class . . . modeling class.” She ripped it up and dropped the pieces in the bin. “What did she say—about last night?”

  Bella dropped a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the switch down. “I haven’t had a chance to tell her. She was dead to the world when I came in. And by the look on her face I’d say she got her rocks off well and good.”

  Dolly made a sour face.

  “You get out of bed on the wrong side, huh?”

  Dolly turned on her. “I came back here to work out how we’re going to exchange the money, now that we’ve found the book, but Shirley’s not even bloody here—she’s off dancing or modeling or Christ knows what, while we’re sat here twiddling our thumbs.”

  Bella’s toast began to burn, and she fished it out of the toaster with a fork, then opened the fridge for butter.

  “Well, as soon as Sleepin’ Beauty gets back, we’ll sort it.”

  Dolly sat down. “D’you have to treat everything as a joke?”

  Bella slammed the butter dish down and let fly. “A joke? Do I think it’s a joke Linda’s dead? Do I think it’s a joke that I’ve lost the only decent thing I ever had in my life back in Rio? No, Dolly, I don’t think it’s a fucking joke.” She glared at her and went back to furiously buttering her toast.

  Dolly sighed, seeming to sag in her chair. “I’m sorry, Bella. It’s just I haven’t been able to sleep, thinking about whether it’s really going to work, watching the lock-up and then tipping off the law about the job, without Harry getting on to us. I just don’t know . . .”

  Bella jabbed the air with her knife. “Don’t you worry about us, and don’t you treat us like idiots. It’s you he’s after, and you think we don’t know why? You wiped him out, Dolly—sent his girlfriend off to Australia. It’s you he’s after, not me, not Shirley . . . but it was Linda he killed.”

  Dolly swallowed, then got up and put the kettle on. She leaned against the sink.

  “I underestimated you.”

  Bella laughed. “If things had been different, you wouldn’t have given me the time of day, would you? Turnin’ tricks for a living’s not your style, is it, Mrs. Rawlins?”