Dolly blushed and turned away.

  “I got a tough hide, Dolly. And little Shirley’s not as sweet as she seems, neither. Next thing we do, we do it together, the three of us. No more ordering us about. What I want is Harry caught, and put away. Linda deserves that at least. And we can do it. We just have to hold our bloody nerve.”

  Sonny Chizzel stood behind the door of his shop and peeked through the blind. The patrol car was still there. Bastards. What had they put a bleeding car on him for? Sonny shook out his wet raincoat and put his umbrella in the holder. The whole world and his mother would know something was going up, sitting directly outside like that, the sons of bitches.

  Sonny went through into the back and put the kettle on, picked up his accounts and began checking the figures. Business was bad; the bottom seemed to have fallen out of the Louis Quatorze period and he hadn’t shifted half the stuff he’d been buying of late. Bloody fads, he thought, they come and they go, and he was left with a shop full of legit pieces that he couldn’t shift. It was then that he remembered the small ormolu clock under the counter. Sonny bustled back into the shop. There was thunder now, booming right over his head. He bent down to unwrap the clock, and the doorbell pinged. A customer. He scuttled to the door and opened it, but it was just some student, wanting to know if the magazine shop next door opened on Saturday. Sonny told him to piss off, and again he saw the police car sitting like a squat frog opposite. He was going to have to tread very carefully. If the cash Murphy had brought round was from the underpass raid he’d make a nice bundle, thirty grand. He could put the finger on Murphy, and that would get him off his back. The last thing he wanted was bastards like Murphy coming round with more cash and coming on heavy to make him change it. He was through with that; it wasn’t worth the risk anymore. And besides, his wife Sadie had made him promise to go on the straight and narrow.

  Sonny decided to give her a call and tell her what he fancied for dinner. The phone rang for a long time before it was answered.

  “Oh, it’s you. Hold on, I’m covered in flour. Let me get cleaned up.”

  He waited for a minute, then she started speaking again, but her voice was muffled by the sound of running water. He just managed to catch the end of what she was saying. “. . . put on weight. I’m going to have to get your suit let out.”

  “What? What are you talking about, woman?”

  “Arnie Fisher’s club, I’m telling you. There’s a big do on—everyone’s invited. He said DJ so I’m going to need a new dress . . .”

  “Who said? A do at Arnie Fisher’s club? Why the hell would he invite us? I can’t stand the man, and he knows it. Ever since he tried to knock me down on that desk—”

  “Sonny, listen to what I’m saying,” his wife interrupted. “It was a Mr. Murphy that rang, said his guv’nor wanted to meet you, and that you’d understand. Now, if I wear the red . . .”

  Sonny put the phone down without hearing any more. Why was Murphy ringing up, and at his home? He didn’t like that. “His guv’nor”—did he mean Arnie? Sonny paced up and down, his brain ticking over, trying to make sense of it.

  Shirley was exhausted. She’d had a two-hour dance class, then worked out at Lucy Clayton’s, and on top of it practically killing her, it had cost her an arm and a leg. Still, the photos had turned out well, not that Marion deigned to see her when she’d turned up at the office; in fact, the girl on reception had seemed a little bit frosty.

  “You listenin’?”

  Shirley snapped out of her reverie as Bella gave her a prod.

  “Yeah, of course I am.”

  “OK, we’re gonna go through each name in turn, see who offers us the best deal, right?”

  Shirley thought they’d already agreed on it. Bella kept going on and on about all three agreeing, all three working together. Shirley wondered what the hell she thought they’d been doing up to now. Bella spoke to Shirley as if she was a retard.

  “The one that offers us the best deal we’ll go with, OK?”

  Shirley sighed. Well, they wouldn’t go with the one that offered them the worst deal, for God’s sake. Surely all you had to do was ring the numbers and get on with it.

  The phone rang and Dolly and Bella jumped. What are they so edgy about? Shirley wondered as she picked up the phone.

  She put her hand over the receiver and mouthed “my mum,” then listened while Audrey told her all about her visit to the clinic, how she’d had a scan, then had a test done, and the baby was normal, and it was a he—she was going to have a baby boy.

  Shirley listened, rolling her eyes, while Dolly and Bella paced up and down, glaring at her.

  “Look, Mum, I’ve got to go.” Then the pips started, but Audrey shouted that she had another ten pence, if she could just hold on . . .

  “Sorry, Mum.” Shirley put the phone down.

  Audrey sat with the coin in her hand, listening to the dialing tone at the other end of the phone. She sighed and put the receiver back in its cradle.

  At the bus stop, she recognized a girl who’d been at the clinic.

  She patted her stomach and smiled. “Well, I’ve had the test, and it looks like everything’s all right.”

  The young girl just looked at her, then looked away.

  “And guess what? I’m going to have a boy,” Audrey continued. “How about you?”

  The girl scowled. “Me?”

  She wanted to tell Audrey that, yes, her test had been positive, but that she’d been told she’d have to wait another three or four weeks for an abortion, and that was going to be shit because now she’d have to go through all the lies and the dramas and the Britsh Pregnancy Advisory Service, the concerned faces asking if she was sure, sure she didn’t want it, on and on.

  But she didn’t say any of that. Instead she just turned her face away.

  When the bus pulled up, the conductor shouted that there was only room for one.

  The bus moved off, and the girl was left standing alone at the bus stop.

  Sonny didn’t recognize the voice of the woman on the other end of the phone. She seemed nervous, asking twice if she was speaking to Sonny, Sonny Chizzel. He had a lot like her, usually flogging something they shouldn’t be.

  “Yes, this is Sonny. Now what can I do for you? I didn’t catch the name, darlin’?”

  He listened while she told him what she was proposing.

  “Rawlins . . . You’re calling on behalf of Harry Rawlins?”

  His hand was clammy as he put the phone down. His mind started racing. What if—dear God, pray that it wasn’t—but what if Murphy’s guv’nor turned out to be none other than Harry Rawlins? Sonny paced up and down. Rumor had it that he was alive. What if he was, and what if it had been his sixty grand? Sonny got more and more agitated. If Rawlins was behind the sixty grand that Murphy had brought to him, then he had just grassed him up.

  Sonny went to the door and checked the police car was still there, his brain working overtime. Think, Sonny! Think! OK, it was still possible he could wriggle out of it. He’d never said a name, all they had were some of the serial numbers. He could feel his lunch coming up. Never a good idea to get involved with the likes of Rawlins. He had done once before and Harry had squeezed him dry. Now if Harry knew he’d grassed him up, then he was in real danger—or Sadie, or his—

  Sonny had to run to the sink. He stood there retching, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. The thought of anyone harming a hair of his daughter’s head, his lovely Dinah, was too awful even to think about. He had to get home, get away from that damned patrol car, get away and think, and work out what to do.

  Fuller ran to the patrol car, with Reynolds trailing behind. Reynolds had never seen him so hyped up. The serial numbers Sonny Chizzel had given them matched some from the £60,000 stolen in the underpass raid. At last they had a solid link. Sonny Chizzel would be in line for the thirty grand reward money—but he’d have to cough up a lot more than a list of numbers before that.

  As soon as they arrived at the shop, Fuller’s patrol car pulled in alongside the surveillance vehicle. Reynolds jumped out and ran to the shop door. The lights were on and Sonny’s raincoat and brolly were hanging on a coat-stand. Reynolds hammered on the door.

  “Round the back!” shouted Fuller, jumping into the car.

  His driver put the car in gear and screeched off round the corner. Reynolds took a couple of steps back, then put his shoulder into the door with a crash.

  Sonny slipped out the back door without bothering to lock it and scuttled down the back alley, coming to a sudden halt when the patrol car appeared, blocking his exit. Fuller let the door swing open.

  “Hello, Sonny. In a hurry to get somewhere?”

  Sonny turned to run back into the shop. Then he saw Reynolds walking calmly toward him. Too late. It was all too late. He held out his hands to indicate that he wasn’t going to make any more trouble, then walked to the patrol car and got in the back. Fuller moved over to make room for him.

  “Numbers match, Sonny,” he said with a broad smile. “That money’s definitely from the underpass raid.”

  Sonny’s head was pounding and he felt sick again. The passenger door slammed shut and Reynolds got into the front seat. Sonny tried to hide the fact that he was shaking.

  “Look, there’s n-n-no deal,” he stammered. “The guy . . . he never called back.”

  Fuller’s mouth tightened. He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  As the car moved off, Fuller wound down his window. He could smell Sonny’s fear.

  Somebody’s got to him, he thought.

  Chapter Five

  By the time they got to the station and put him in an interview room, Sonny had stopped panicking. During the journey in the patrol car he’d had time to think it through, and now he had it all straight in his head. Yes, the serial numbers tallied, but without the actual banknotes, and without Sonny giving them Murphy’s name, that’s all they had: a list of numbers.

  Detective Chief Inspector Saunders joined Fuller and Reynolds to question him, really putting the pressure on, but Sonny stayed with his story: he had received a phone call from someone who refused to identify himself, the caller had given him the numbers and told him to contact the police. Sonny had agreed that if the numbers tallied with the underpass raid cash then they would split the £30,000 reward money fifty-fifty. That, Sonny insisted, was all he knew, and his partner, whoever he was, had not called him again.

  The three policemen made him go over it all several times, trying to get him to contradict himself and trip himself up, but Sonny remained firm.

  He knew they’d have got search warrants for his shop and his home while he was being questioned, hoping to find something that could help them break Sonny’s story, but he also knew there was nothing.

  “I’m a businessman,” he told them. “Who’d turn their nose up at a bite of that reward money? But I run a legit business.”

  It was 4:15 in the morning when they finally gave up. Sonny hadn’t even bothered to call his solicitor. They didn’t have enough to charge him, so he knew they’d have to let him go eventually.

  “Last time I try an’ help out the bleedin’ law,” he muttered as he walked out of the interview room.

  Fuller let himself into his flat. The place was in darkness; he tripped over something left in the hall.

  “Fuck.”

  The bedroom light went on, then was turned off again.

  Fuller went into the kitchen and switched on the light. Cold steak and kidney pie, mashed potatoes and peas stared up at him from a plate on the table. He sat down and started eating without taking his coat off. Sellotaped to the HP Sauce bottle was a note: Please don’t wake me up. Use the spare bedroom.

  Fuller took his half-finished dinner to the sink and put the plate on the draining board. It was about the only thing out of place in the immaculate kitchen.

  In the spare bedroom, Fuller made up the bed, tucking the ends of the sheets neatly under the mattress, just as he had been trained to do in the army. He loosened his tie and looked at his watch. It was now almost six in the morning, hardly worth even getting into bed. He got in anyway, without bothering to take off his clothes, and was asleep in seconds.

  The following morning, Sadie Chizzel watched as the two officers went through the contents of the shop with a fine-toothed comb, examining items and checking the account books. She was sitting in a velvet chair, knitting contentedly. It didn’t bother her; she’d been through it all before on numerous occasions. They wouldn’t find anything out of place, anything not listed in the ledgers or the accounts. Sonny ran a good legitimate business; her father had taught him that.

  Sadie saw the young red-haired officer glance over the books at her. She smiled and carried on knitting, thinking to herself that he didn’t look old enough to be in uniform, let alone plain clothes.

  Reynolds sighed. They’d found nothing; every item in the shop had been listed meticulously, each purchase tagged, sale prices, everything.

  He was just about to call it quits when he saw one officer bending over the counter. He came up with a small object wrapped in newspaper. Carefully, he unwrapped an ormolu clock.

  Fuller woke to hear his wife Maureen banging round in the kitchen. He had a thudding headache. He threw off the bedclothes and got up. He had overslept. It was after ten. He examined his face in the mirror. He looked shattered.

  Maureen was sitting with a cup of coffee, reading the Guardian. She didn’t even look up when Fuller walked in. He took a carton of fresh orange juice from the fridge and poured himself a glass.

  “Sorry if I woke you last night.”

  She shrugged and turned the page, then flattened the paper and began to do the crossword. “There’s eggs, bacon, whatever you want,” she said without taking her eyes off the puzzle.

  Fuller ran the tap and rinsed out his fruit juice glass. “No time, overslept, better get off.”

  He saw her pursing her lips. He put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Maybe tonight we could go out, eat someplace nice.”

  Maureen sighed, shrugged off his hand, then turned. She didn’t seem angry, just resigned.

  “Do you want me to book the table?”

  He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Leave it to me. I’ll get home early. We can dress up, make a night of it.”

  She could tell he was eager to go, so she got up and walked with him to the front door. She opened it as he got into his raincoat. He looked beat, worn out.

  He fished in his pocket and took out his wallet. “Why don’t you buy yourself something new?”

  Maureen sighed and took the money. She had a wardrobe full of dresses she never wore, but she’d go out and buy something anyway. She’d try her best to have a nice evening, too, but the truth was she couldn’t take this much longer. It would be so much easier if they had kids; at least she would have something to occupy her time. She didn’t want a job; she’d only ever worked at the local estate agent’s as a receptionist and part-time secretary and she’d hated it. She was happy being a housewife; that was what she’d always wanted—a husband and kids. But how in the hell was she ever going to have any when she hardly saw him?

  Fuller hovered a moment on the doorstep. She seemed to be deep in her own thoughts. Then she came back to herself.

  “Is it still this Harry Rawlins business?”

  Fuller nodded. He didn’t want to go into details.

  “But we’re definitely going out, yes? I don’t want to get all dressed up and then you not turn up until the restaurant’s closed.”

  “Don’t you worry.” He kissed her and walked to his car. He turned before getting in, but the door had already closed behind her.

  Shirley tried another turn under the watchful gaze of Mrs. Hyde White. Along with ten other girls, she had enrolled in a two-week crash course at the Lucy Clayton model school. They were mostly debby types, who all seemed to know each other and giggled a lot. Mrs. Hyde White, an ex-model herself, paid them scant attention. But she seemed to think Shirley had potential, even if that meant directing more criticism at her.

  Shirley crossed the large gym floor, trying to walk in time with the music. She didn’t mind being picked on and paid close attention to everything she was told. If she didn’t make a good turn, she went back and tried again—and kept going until she got it right.

  Mrs. Hyde White took Shirley aside and made her walk alongside her, showing the spin turn on the base of the heel, making it look easy and natural. Shirley tried again, up and down, up and down.

  “Better. Now keep your head up! Stop looking at your feet!”

  Mrs. Hyde White clapped her hands. “Now pay attention, girls.” She began tossing out long drapes, and demonstrated how to tie them round their waists to act as trains. Then she switched tapes and heavy rock music started thundering through the studio. The girls huddled together and watched as Mrs. Hyde White moved across the room at an angle, tossing the train, spinning on her heels with head held high and a haughty expression.

  A few giggles accompanied the hopeless attempts of the girls as they tripped over their trains, but Shirley quickly got the hang of it, beginning to swing her body from side to side, the way the catwalk girls did.

  After dismissing the class, Mrs. Hyde White took Shirley to one side.

  “I’m quite pleased with the way you’re coming along. Have you thought very much about the future, what you want to do?”

  “Well, I already have an agent—Marion Gordon,” Shirley replied rather self-consciously. “I really want to be a professional model.”

  Mrs. Hyde White raised her carefully penciled eyebrows. “I see. Yes, well, Marion Gordon is certainly very . . . She has a very good eye for talent. I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

  Shirley beamed. “Oh, thank you.” She skipped back to the changing rooms.

  Mrs. Hyde White watched her go. Marion Gordon. Well, you couldn’t deny she was very successful . . . but one did hear such dreadful stories.