He poured himself a large vodka and took a sip. This could turn out to be a long night.

  “Receiving? Do me a favor, I run a legit business. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Sonny Chizzel then demanded the right to make a phone call, banging the desk, jabbing his finger at Fuller and telling him he’d have him for wrongful arrest.

  Fuller just smiled, biding his time. He was actually quite enjoying seeing Sonny work himself up into a state. He looked up as Reynolds came in carrying a tray of tea.

  “Tell you what, Sonny,” Fuller said pleasantly, “while we’re waiting for your brief, there’s something I’d like to show you. An antique. Perhaps you could give me a valuation?”

  Sonny looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

  “Ah, here we are,” Fuller said, nodding to the Chief, who’d just appeared at the door, cradling an object wrapped in newspaper. The Chief put the object down on the desk and carefully unwrapped the newspaper, revealing the ormolu clock.

  Sonny squinted at it. “You want me to value this?”

  “Oh, I know how much it’s worth,” Fuller said. “And so do you.”

  “What are you talking about? I don’t . . .” Sonny began. Then it hit him.

  That bloody clock. His stomach churned as he silently called himself all the fucking idiots in the world. That bleeding, blasted clock—and that friggin’ two-faced cunt that brought it in. He’d have her; he’d have the bitch. But deep down he knew the only person to blame was himself. They’d got him. They’d finally got him.

  Then he threw up all over his evening suit.

  Maureen sat by the phone, still wearing her new dress. She was done with waiting. And she was done with crying. Now she was just listening to the phone ringing at the other end and waiting for it to be picked up. She was surprisingly calm.

  She thought it would be him, and was about to deliver the speech she had prepared, when she realized it was his sergeant, the little red-haired one.

  “Would you ask him to come to the phone? It’s important,” she told him, her voice even, her tone polite.

  “He’s rather tied up, I’m afraid. Interviewing a suspect. Can I help at all?”

  Fuller wiped his jacket sleeve, where some of Sonny Chizzel’s puke had splashed it, then rinsed out his handkerchief. His face in the washroom mirror looked drawn, but there was a glint of triumph in his eyes.

  Reynolds pushed open the door, looking sheepish. “I’ve got a message for you, guv. From your wife.”

  Reynolds saw the color drain from his boss’s face. He held the piece of paper out awkwardly. Fuller finished drying his hands, then took the note.

  “I don’t think she can be serious, guv,” Reynolds said. “I mean, you know, cutting up all your clothes and chucking them into the street just because you’re missing dinner . . .”

  Fuller read the note, then carefully tore it into pieces and dropped it in the bin. He pushed past Reynolds without looking at him.

  “She’s serious.”

  Sonny took small sips from a glass of water. He no longer felt sick; just a terrible, hollow feeling inside.

  At first, once the initial shock of seeing that damned clock had passed, he’d had a brief surge of hope. There was someone else who’d been in the shop when he’d bought it, who could testify that he hadn’t known the piece was stolen.

  Gordon Murphy.

  Then his little ray of hope had been extinguished. Gordon Murphy was the one person he couldn’t ask to help him. Not without revealing everything else. Sonny was caught in his own web. The problem was, he wasn’t the spider; he was the fly.

  And all the time, the ormolu clock had been ticking away.

  He knew if they did him for receiving stolen goods, he’d do time, and the thought of it terrified him. It was his recurring nightmare; he could smell the dankness of the cells, taste the awful food.

  So in the end he grassed.

  Saunders joined Fuller and Reynolds at the coffee machine. “So, Gordon Murphy. Never heard of him. You think Sonny’s still playing games with us?”

  Fuller shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Better pick him up anyway, though.”

  Fuller nodded to Reynolds, then looked at his watch. “On our way, sir.”

  He wondered if Maureen would have started on his suits by the time he got home.

  Gordon Murphy tried hard to remember the last time he had worn his evening suit. The problem was the bow tie, the clip-on velvet one. Always, always, when he took off his suit at the end of an evening, he’d slip the bow tie into the right-hand jacket pocket. Then he’d always know where it was.

  Except that for some reason it wasn’t there, and now here he was, over an hour late, every drawer in the house and every pocket of every suit searched and still he couldn’t find it.

  Murphy’s mum had tried to help, knowing her son was getting his temper up, but in the end she’d decided the best thing was to sit it out in the kitchen. She heard the drawers banging, the swearing. Twice the club had called to find out where he was. And she could see him getting closer and closer to violence. She hated it when he got like this. Not that he’d ever lash out at her—he’d never given his mother so much as a slap—but wardrobe doors often got his fist through them and he’d been known to make a nasty dent in a wall.

  Murphy stomped into the kitchen, now sporting a small red clip-on bow tie. “I’ll have to wear this. I can’t find the other one. It must have been in the pocket when you had it cleaned. Those bastards have nicked it.”

  “It looks just fine,” she soothed. She couldn’t understand why he was in such a state. “Plenty of people wear a colored tie with an evening suit these days.” She saw his fist curl up in anger and busied herself looking at the Radio Times.

  “I’m late now,” he grumbled. “You know how I hate that.”

  She watched him out of the corner of her eye as he squinted at himself in the mirror over the fireplace.

  “You sure I look all right? It’s a posh do and I have to look smart. What do you think?”

  His mum just smiled up at him, nodding. “You better get goin’. If they call again I’ll tell ’em you’re on your way.”

  “Sorry for all the shouting an’ that.” Murphy leaned down and kissed her cheek, then turned on the TV for her. He always felt guilty about upsetting her. She’d suffered so much with his dad. And then there were all his stretches—and she’d always been there waiting when he came out, with never a harsh word, never a reproach. Murphy plumped up her cushions and kissed her again on the forehead.

  “Love you, Ma. God bless.”

  Murphy checked out his bow tie one more time before leaving. He was still angry, angry at himself. Harry had made a point of telling him to look smart, with all the faces coming to the club that night. He wanted to make a good impression, and now that was all up the spout.

  Murphy fished in his pocket for his car keys, then bent down to open the driving door.

  Fuller gave Reynolds the nod, and the two men got out of the patrol car. Reynolds moved behind Murphy and placed his hand on his shoulder before cautioning him. But he didn’t even have the time to open his mouth. Murphy pivoted round and with one swing of his fist smashed Reynolds’ nose. Reynolds collapsed, with his hands to his face, blood spurting through his fingers.

  It was Fuller who got Murphy over the bonnet of the car, right arm twisted up behind him, pushing him forward from the small of his back. Reynolds got to his feet and had the cuffs out in seconds and they managed to bundle Murphy into the patrol car before he could do any more damage.

  Fuller was amazed how calm Murphy was, once the cuffs were on and they’d settled him in the back of the car.

  “Thought I was being mugged, your pal coming at me from behind like that,” he said to Fuller. He leaned over in the car and gave Reynolds a pat. “No hard feelings, eh?”

  After that, he didn’t say another word, just sat staring impassively out of the window. He didn’t even ask why he had been arrested.

  Harry had now been given the thumbs-down by eight different men. He still had his temper under control, but only just. A nervous Micky was walking on eggshells as he ushered in Harvey Rintle, a six-foot-four Jamaican, with shoulders almost as wide as the door. Rintle was relaxed, his manner easy, but his eyes were like a cat’s, sly and wary. Harry knew Rintle’s history, knew he always worked solo, but right now he needed the big man. Fortunately, Harry also knew that Rintle wasn’t particular about who he worked for, so long as he got paid.

  Harry told him about the robbery, leaving out certain key details, but giving him the general idea. All the while he was speaking, Rintle just stared at his black suede shoes, not lifting his eyes until he was sure Harry had finished. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, a trace of accent softening the vowels.

  “How much?”

  Shirley was getting embarrassed about her mother. Every time a waiter passed, she grabbed what he had to offer, whether it was food or drink. She was eating and drinking for two, all right, Shirley thought wryly, and now she was at least three sheets to the wind. All her life Shirley had seen her mother behave like this at parties. She remembered as a kid hearing the taxis pulling up at three or four o’clock in the morning and watching out of her bedroom window as Audrey crawled out onto the pavement.

  Audrey was getting ready for a singsong now, looking round for a piano.

  Oh no, Shirley thought.

  Audrey grabbed Micky’s arm as he came past. “Where’s the old joanna, Micky?”

  Micky smiled and whispered something in Audrey’s ear that made her roar with laughter. Shirley noticed that Micky never touched a drink. He was still immaculate, still perfectly groomed, while some of the other partygoers had begun to look distinctly worse for wear. She watched him guiding Audrey across to a table, telling her that she should take the weight off her feet, a woman in her condition. Shirley lit a cigarette. Micky seemed to be ignoring her. He left Audrey and started circulating round the room, chatting away, a friendly word for everyone, his smile showing his perfect teeth.

  Shirley wanted to hit him. She wanted to hit him even more when she saw Micky putting his arm round an attractive, dark-haired woman. The woman stiffened, made to push him away, but he just laughed. Shirley remembered her coming in with the huge black guy. She wondered what the hell Micky was playing at, and began to thread her way through the crowd toward him.

  Micky copped Shirley on the move and eased away. She was getting on his nerves, following him round. He glanced up the stairs. It looked like Rintle was in; he’d certainly been up there longer than all the others.

  Up in the office, Harry had his arm round Rintle’s shoulders as he opened the office door for him.

  Rintle turned. “One thing you should know, Harry, before some prick tells you. I’m with Jackie, Jackie Rawlins. Eddie’s old lady.”

  For a moment Harry didn’t know who he was talking about. Eddie? Then it hit him: his cousin.

  He shrugged. “That’s your business. She’s a lovely girl.”

  Harry was smiling as he closed the door. But as soon as he was alone, it changed. His face became a mask of fury. He made a fist and was about to pound the desk with it when the door opened again. He looked up and Jackie Rawlins was standing there.

  “Well, well, so the bastard’s alive an’ well, is he? Wondered how long it’d take for you to surface.”

  Harry took a deep breath. “Hello, Jackie. Long time no see.”

  He poured Jackie a large vodka and tonic with ice and lemon, then handed it to her. Jackie’s eyes were dark, her face was angular, her nose a little too big, but somehow it looked right on her. She was a sensual woman; even after two kids her body was still firm and strong. He’d always wondered what she saw in Eddie: big, soft, stupid Eddie.

  Jackie sat down and sipped her drink. Then she placed the glass on the desk and lit a cigarette. After a couple of deep drags, she stubbed it out, took a breath, stood up and let him have it with both barrels.

  “How could you fuckin’ do it, Harry? Your own fuckin’ cousin! You didn’t just walk out on him—you let him rot in prison.”

  Jackie picked up her drink and took a gulp. Her eyes were filling up, but she didn’t want to cry; not until she’d said all she came to say.

  “They got him in the hospital now. He’s cracked up. He don’t even know me half the time. I hate you! You must have known what prison’d do to him—an’ he thought all along you’d see him right, but you never so much as sent him a tenner. He took the rap for you, Harry, an’ never mentioned your name. You owe him, you owe his kids. You’re his cousin, you bastard. Now he doesn’t even know who he is.”

  Harry watched her, the way her nostrils flared when she was angry, the way she held her head high, tossing her thick, black, glossy hair away from her face, the gold chain swinging on her neck.

  He waited until she was finished, then opened up his wallet and took out a thick bundle of notes. He walked round and pushed the roll down the front of her dress. She breathed in hard. Her heavy breasts felt warm to the touch.

  She smiled, all her rage gone. “I know what all this is about, Harry. I’ve seen it all before: you putting a team together, are you?” Jackie stroked his thigh, moving her hand up toward his groin. “Just leave Harvey out of it, for me, Harry. That’s all I ask. He’s a decent man. He’s looking after me an’ the kids.”

  Harry pulled away.

  “I love him, Harry. I really love him.”

  Harry shook his head, then laughed, grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him. “You leave that big lump alone and you’ll get this every month.”

  Jackie backed away from him. “Please, Harry, don’t get him involved in anything. He’s straight.”

  Harry let her prattle on, bleating about her precious man. Straight! She had no idea that her precious lover belonged to the highest bidder. Suddenly he wanted Jackie out; she was beginning to bore him.

  He took her by the elbow. “Whatever you say, darlin’. Just take care o’ the kids. There’s more coming your way, a lot more.”

  Harry felt better about Eddie now. Not that his conscience had bothered him—but five grand should at least shut Jackie’s mouth. He opened the door.

  “Oh, one thing, Jackie. You’ve not heard or seen anything from Dolly?”

  Jackie shook her head, then looked up into his face, his handsome, smiling, arrogant face. She’d often wondered why on earth he’d ever married Dolly. She had seemed so plain, so straight, compared to all the other women Harry had run round with. Jackie had never really thought about Dolly, what Harry must have put her through.

  She looked up at him, touched him lightly on the cheek. “She always knew about us, Harry. She knew, but never said.”

  Harry shrugged. He didn’t care about all that. “You haven’t seen her, then?”

  “No one’s seen her, Harry.” Jackie almost smiled. She’d heard Dolly had cleaned Harry out, and in a way she was pleased: good on her, bitch that she was. When Dolly had somehow found out about Jackie and Harry, she had never allowed Jackie to set foot in her house again. The reason was never mentioned, but the invites stopped, and the Christmas presents—even for the kids. Dolly had totally cut them out of her life—as if what happened outside her beloved home couldn’t touch her.

  Well, it had. In the end, Harry had cut her out of his life. He’d let her bury a stranger. Jackie shivered. For the first time, she felt truly sorry for Dolly—sorry because she was too damned stupid to see through the bastard she had lived with for twenty years. As Jackie was gently pushed out of the office, she wondered what Dolly Rawlins was feeling now.

  If she were in Dolly’s place, she would want revenge.

  Fuller could get nothing out of Gordon Murphy. He still refused to admit to his own name. Sitting there, eyes half-closed, chain-smoking—maybe when his cigarettes ran out he’d be easier to break. Fuller felt exhausted. He looked at his watch. Maureen was probably busy on his jackets by now.

  Reynolds, with a plaster across his nose, was standing outside the interview room. He jerked his head toward the Chief’s office. Fuller sighed and walked down the corridor. He looked through the glass window and saw Saunders still talking to Sonny Chizzel. Chizzel now looked tired and deflated, a sad, pink-faced little man with all the air let out of him. Saunders saw Fuller through the window and joined him in the corridor.

  “Sonny’s chatting away like an old parrot,” Saunders told him with a grin. “Not all of it of interest to us, of course, but one or two interesting things have come up. He had a call from a woman, for instance. He swears he doesn’t know who it was, but she had mentioned Harry Rawlins, said she had something of his. Another interesting titbit: there is a big bash, a private party down at Arnie Fisher’s place. Seems Sonny was on his way there. And now we’ve got Gordon Murphy wearing his DJ, so maybe he was on his way there, too.”

  Fuller sighed. The last thing he fancied was a trip up west to a smoke-filled nightclub.

  “Keep a low profile, just take a look round. Be interesting to see the faces at this so-called private party.” Saunders beamed, patted Fuller’s arm and went back to Sonny Chizzel.

  Fuller beckoned Reynolds over. “Keep a low bleeding profile? What in Christ’s name does he think we’d do, swing on the chandeliers?”

  Dolly hovered at the entrance to Harry’s lock-up, peeking from behind the door. The street was deserted, the rest of the lock-ups silent. Dolly closed the door and made her way to join Bella in the annex. She was going over the plans, making notes in Dolly’s black book. She looked up as Dolly joined her.

  “OK, now we know for sure how he’s gonna do it.”

  “Come on then, let’s get out of here.” Dolly swore this would be the last time just the two of them came; it had to be three so they had a proper look-out and early warning if anyone was on their way.