Bella folded the plans just as they had found them and put them back into the filing cabinet.

  “Tell you one thing, Dolly: I wouldn’t want to try it.”

  “Good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it?” Dolly replied.

  Bella turned with a slight smile. She spoke almost in a whisper. “No, we’re not, are we?”

  Harry hadn’t quite got over the finish line yet, but the list no longer had just crossed-out names. The team was slowly coming together. He yawned, stretched and rubbed his shoulders. He stood by the window, lifted the blinds and looked down to the street below. He stiffened as a patrol car pulled up and let the blind slip back into place.

  Micky appeared at the door, muttering about Arnie drivin’ everyone nuts down in the club. Harry gestured for him to join him at the window.

  “Holy shit, it’s the law.”

  Two men in plain clothes were entering the club.

  “That’s DI Fuller,” Micky said. “What the bloody hell’s he doing here?”

  Harry didn’t seem bothered. He thought for a moment.

  “Go down, treat him like a guest. Open a bottle of Arnie’s best champagne. Let everyone down there know that prick’s here by invitation.”

  Harry began packing up his papers.

  Micky stood, looking hesitant. “I don’t like it, Harry.”

  Harry just laughed and shoved him out the door. “Tell him the champagne is with my compliments.”

  All eyes were on Fuller and Reynolds as they threaded their way toward the bar. Fuller was enjoying himself, making a mental note of the faces as they turned away from him, suddenly looking intently into their drinks. The party seemed to be suspended for a moment—then groups gathered and the talk grew louder again.

  A burly bruiser called Kevin White, who’d clearly had quite a few drinks, watched Fuller as he went past, spat on the floor and returned to telling his dirty joke—but with one eye still on the policeman. He had just agreed to go in on the job; last thing he was hoping to see was the Old Bill showing their faces.

  Colin Soal looked for Muriel. With that cop here, the one who had been shoving his nose in everywhere, it was definitely time to go.

  On the other side of the room, Muriel was deep in conversation with Audrey, discussing wallpaper for the baby’s room. Ray stood at the side of the table, looking bored—until he spotted Fuller and decided it was time to collect the mink and get out.

  Shirley was still queuing for the ladies’. There had to be another one somewhere. As she turned to go into the main club, Micky went past her. She reached out to grab his arm, but he shrugged her off and pushed his way to the bar.

  That was the last straw for Shirley; she was going. She’d see if Ray and Audrey could give her a lift, and then that was it: goodbye Micky. She wasn’t going to be treated like some pick-up for the night.

  Micky slipped behind the bar and grabbed a bottle of Bollinger just as Fuller and Reynolds arrived. He had a fixed smile on his face, keenly aware that everyone in the club was watching him.

  “Glad you could make it.”

  The cork popped and a little of the champagne splashed Fuller’s sleeve. Micky leaned over the bar and started dabbing Fuller’s jacket with a dishcloth, all the while laughing and chatting as if they were the best of pals.

  Colin Soal watched curiously. Maybe Rawlins had these cops in his pocket. It certainly looked like it. Micky was definitely very familiar with them. He saw him fill two glasses, smiling broadly. Then Fuller gave him a friendly pat on the arm.

  In fact, Fuller was telling Micky to piss off and keep his champagne. He turned to Reynolds.

  “Who is this prick, anyway?”

  “Micky Tesco. Small-time crook,” Reynolds replied, eyeing the champagne greedily.

  Fuller was about to give Micky another mouthful, when an attractive blonde shouldered her way to the bar. She looked familiar, but he couldn’t put a name to the face, and again turned to Reynolds, who had a glass of champagne halfway to his lips.

  “The blonde, you know her?”

  Reynolds shook his head and turned to face the room. God almighty, half of London’s underworld was here! Suddenly feeling acutely self-conscious, he put the champagne glass down and turned back to the bar.

  Micky gave Shirley a scowl. “Not now. Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Shirley stepped back, as if slapped, and bumped into Fuller.

  Seeing her up close as she turned to face him, Fuller remembered her. “It’s Shirley, isn’t it? Shirley Miller?”

  Shirley didn’t answer, just gave him a tight smile before backing away. She turned and made her way quickly to Audrey’s table, where Ray was trying to help Audrey into her coat. Just as Shirley joined them, Audrey fell back into her chair with a hoot of laughter, almost too pissed to stand. Ray hauled her up onto her feet and started guiding her toward the exit.

  “Oi! A woman in my condition don’t need to be pushed about,” Audrey protested. “I need to go to the toilet.”

  Fuller noticed the mass move toward the exit with a smile. Funny how everyone in the place suddenly needed to be somewhere else.

  “Two beers,” he said to the barman.

  Micky was still doing his act, repeating loud enough for anyone to hear how glad he was that Detective Inspector Fuller had granted them a visit.

  Fuller gave him an icy stare, then caught Arnie Fisher’s arm as he hurried past, pulling him to one side. Arnie was shaken; he’d been so busy making sure the booze didn’t run out, he hadn’t seen Fuller and Reynolds making their entrance.

  What a night, he thought: the bastards had drunk him dry and now the Old Bill was hanging about. That was all he needed, especially Fuller: he’d had his fill with him trying to get his license revoked a couple of months back.

  “What’s the party in aid of, Arnie?” Fuller pressed his face close.

  Arnie swallowed. He looked at Micky, who was topping up the untouched champagne glasses.

  “You deaf, Arnie? Who’s throwing the bash?”

  “Oh . . . you know . . . just a . . . a private party—nothing special,” he stammered.

  Audrey, leaning heavily on Ray, had made it to the bottom of the stairs by the main entrance.

  “Ooh, I’m desperate, Ray!” she moaned, slumping down onto the stairs. Shirley began moving up the stairs, looking for another ladies’.

  “Just wait here, Mum.”

  Harry had his coat on and was ready to move out. He’d already tidied up the desk and wiped it down. He let himself out of the office and walked toward the fire exit on the landing.

  “Excuse me, is there a ladies’ up here?”

  Harry turned to see an attractive blonde at the top of the stairs. For a second there was a spark of recognition between them, but he didn’t have time to think about it.

  “Sorry, love.” He pushed open the fire exit and walked through.

  For a moment Shirley couldn’t move. She felt her mouth go dry and her knees almost gave way; then she turned and ran back down the stairs.

  When she got to the bottom, Ray and Audrey had gone. Shirley didn’t wait for them. She wasn’t going to spend another second in this place.

  Micky raised his glass and smiled over the rim. Fuller released Arnie’s arm and picked up his beer.

  “Don’t fancy a glass of bubbly, Inspector? Compliments of Harry Rawlins.”

  Kevin White, leaning against the bar, looked over with a smile, lifted his hands in the air and started singing: “Why was he born so beautiful” at the top of his voice. Others nearby picked it up, and soon a raucous chorus was echoing through the club.

  Fuller put his beer down and pushed his way through the crowd of laughing faces.

  “Come on, Reynolds. It’s time we took a look upstairs.”

  Shirley tried hailing two cabs but they drove straight past her. She was about to try for another when she saw a figure slip from the alley running alongside the club, collar turned up, carrying a briefcase. She stared, trying to make out his features in the dim street lighting. Maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Harry after all.

  The figure continued up the road and disappeared.

  “You want a cab, darlin’?”

  Shirley got into the taxi, gave her address and sat back with her eyes closed. What an awful evening. First Micky, and then literally bumping into that dreadful policeman, the one who had searched her house. It brought it all back again—Terry, the robbery. And then that man at the top of the stairs . . .

  It was all too much. She hoped Bella was in bed when she got home. She wasn’t sure she was up to talking to anyone. She just needed to be alone.

  Dolly shone the torch round their lock-up. They had waited long enough; it didn’t look as if Harry was going to show. They’d come back in the morning.

  Bella followed the beam of Dolly’s torch. Dolly had laid rat poison in every corner of the lock-up but there certainly wasn’t a single one to be seen now. Then Bella felt it, crawling over her foot. She gasped and pulled her foot away. Instead of scuttling away, the creature just lay there, twitching. Bella took one look at it and let out a shriek.

  “Let’s get out of here, Dolly.”

  Vic Morgan couldn’t hold it any longer: he had to take a leak or he was going to wet himself. He was just doing up his zipper again when he heard the scream. It gave him such a shock he almost caught himself. He moved back into the shadows.

  Dolly came out of the lock-up and followed Bella to her car. A few rats didn’t bother Dolly. She unlocked the car.

  “You got to control yourself, Bella,” she chided her. “You could have brought half the neighborhood out.”

  Bella just shivered, thinking about the rat crawling over her foot.

  “I’ll bring a hammer next time. A quick knock’ll finish them off,” Dolly assured her. She shook her head. “Rats are nothing to be afraid of.”

  Bella gave her a look. “Yeah, well, I guess you should know—you married one!”

  As they drove away, Vic Morgan pulled out to follow them. He’d stopped being so cautious, keeping well behind them with at least one other car in between. He’d been on their tail all night and it didn’t look as if it had occurred to them that anyone would be on to them that fast.

  “Where are you staying?” Bella asked.

  Dolly reluctantly gave her the address. She felt safer with the girls not knowing her whereabouts.

  “It’s not much, just a rented place.” At least now she’d given it a good clean, she thought.

  Bella nodded. “Maybe I’ll call round and take a look at it.”

  Dolly dropped Bella off at Shirley’s and drove home.

  Vic Morgan followed her all the way, then took off to an all-night hamburger joint. He got his double-decker and crossed to a window seat, feeling conspicuous among all the punk kids. He sipped his chocolate milkshake and pondered his evening’s work. It seemed he’d put in a lot of hours without being able to piece together what in the hell’s name was going on. He hit the tomato ketchup hard. He’d better pay another visit to old Resnick, see if he could make any sense of it. One thing was sure, in all the time he had tailed Dolly, she had made no contact with her husband. Maybe she’d been telling the truth; maybe she didn’t know where he was.

  Dolly slept like a log and woke up feeling much better. She brewed herself a pot of coffee and was just sitting down to it when the doorbell rang. She moved quickly to the door.

  “It’s me, Bella,” came an urgent voice from the other side of the door.

  Dolly sighed. She knew it had been a mistake to tell Bella where she was living, but there was nothing she could do about it now.

  Dolly hadn’t even closed the door behind Bella before she started slagging off Shirley.

  “She wasn’t even at home when I got back. I waited up for her, but I was so tired I passed out—then when I wake up she’s already pissed off again.”

  Bella chucked the note onto the table: Gone to rehearsals.

  “It’s all right for her, Dolly. She’s out all the time, doing her bleedin’ classes, going out with her fella—while I’m stuck here, just doing what you tell me. ‘Don’t go out. Keep a low profile.’ It’s driving me nuts.”

  Dolly put a mug of coffee in front of her.

  “I want my cash, Dolly. I reckon we’ve hung round long enough. All right, we’ll shop Harry—but I want my cash now. Soon as that’s done, I’m off.”

  Dolly started to say something but Bella interrupted her.

  “Different for you, though, isn’t it? You already got more than enough. How much you got stashed away, then, Dolly? You don’t even need the money from the drill hall.”

  Dolly bristled. “Whatever money I’ve got is my business.”

  Bella wasn’t going to stop, though. She was on a roll.

  “It’s not about the money for you, is it? It’s just about getting Harry put away. You don’t care what happens to me and Shirley.”

  Dolly had had enough. First Shirley was driving Bella mad. Then it was all Dolly’s fault. When would Bella ever take responsibility for her actions? She was about to give Bella what for when the doorbell rang.

  They both froze. Then Bella got up.

  “That’ll be Shirley. I left her a note to meet us here.”

  Vic Morgan was leaning against the doorframe with a cheeky grin. He quickly straightened up when Bella opened the door. Dolly pushed her out of the way.

  Vic recovered himself. “You forgotten our lunch date?”

  Dolly had indeed forgotten.

  “I’m double-parked so we ought to get a move on,” Vic said, trying to get a second look behind Dolly at Bella.

  Dolly eased him out. “Just give me a moment, will you?” She shut the door and leaned against it. “Shit.”

  “What’s that all about?”

  Dolly filled Bella in about Vic Morgan while she dressed, flinging clothes out of the wardrobe.

  “So what do I do all day then?”

  “I won’t be more than an hour. I’ll see you back at Shirley’s.”

  Bella bit her lip. “Maybe I’ll go to the lock-up. See if anything’s going on.”

  Dolly spun round furiously. “Don’t you bloody dare go there on your own! It’s too bloody dangerous. I thought you were supposed to be scared of the rats.”

  “Come on, your fancy man’s waiting,” Bella said by way of an answer, pushing Dolly out of the door.

  DI Fuller walked into his office with a bunch of M&S shirts tucked under his arm. He shoved the shirts into a desk drawer, then yanked his coat off.

  He fingered his collar and realized he had left the cardboard in. He was pulling it out when Saunders appeared at his desk.

  “Gordon Murphy must have someone heavy behind him,” Saunders told him with a frown. “He’s got the best brief money can buy, swearing blue murder and telling us to charge him with something or release him.” He paused. “Which room’s Chizzel in?”

  “Can’t say, guv.”

  Saunders placed a clock on the desk, similar to the one taken from Chizzel’s shop. “I just want him to take a look at this. An aunt left it to me. Never thought much about it, but that ormolu one was worth—what?”

  Reynolds joined them, sporting a fresh plaster across his nose. “Two grand, guv.”

  Saunders held up his own clock and whistled. It looked almost identical. Fuller gave Reynolds a look.

  Saunders caught it. “Right, Fuller. You’ve got work to do. Looks like you had Rawlins right under your nose an’ you let him walk away. You were made a right idiot of. ’Bout time you got it together on this one, Alex. It looks like you’ve taken your eye off the ball.”

  Fuller was too tired to come up with a response. Which was probably just as well, he thought. He’d been on duty almost round the clock, and the last thing he needed was his Chief yelling at him.

  Saunders strode off, clutching his aunt’s clock.

  “Jesus,” Fuller muttered. “What does he think this place is, the Antiques bloody Roadshow?”

  Shirley had expected Amanda’s nightclub to be a lot more glamorous. After reading about it in Vogue and Harper’s she’d been dying to actually see it. But now that she was here, an hour early for her rehearsal, it just smelt of stale cigarettes and booze, like all the other clubs. In the harsh daylight, the dainty tables and chairs seemed rather scruffy, the plush carpet covered in cigarette burns.

  Shirley asked where the models were supposed to go, but nobody seemed to know anything about it. So she sat watching the ramp being built up in the center of the main club room, while lights, drapes and masses of floral displays were being carried in. The sound of hammering and banging almost deafened her.

  Shirley watched a girl wearing a beautiful fox fur jacket and dark glasses walk into the club and knew immediately that she was a model. She chucked the coat over a chair. Underneath she was wearing a dirty old tracksuit and plimsolls. In her smart high heels and posh dress Shirley felt overdressed. The girl yelled out a few abusive remarks to the workmen, opened up a newspaper and began reading.

  Two more models wandered in, shouting, “Hi, Myra.” They were also casually dressed, wearing work clothes and no make-up, and they all seemed to know each other. But Myra was clearly the queen bee.

  Two more models waltzed in, there was a lot of shrieking, and someone shouted for coffee. Shirley sat to one side, feeling very much an outsider. The girls nattered on about this job and that model, discussing agents. Shirley heard Marion Gordon’s name being mentioned. Then an assistant brought in take-out coffee and handed it round. Shirley still made no move to join them, just sat there with her holdall, feeling embarrassed, her stomach churning. They all looked so confident, lounging round together. She just hoped she wasn’t going to make a fool of herself.

  A dapper little Japanese boy arrived wearing a bomber jacket and tight black leather trousers. He screamed excitedly at the girls, and they kissed and petted him. When the excitement had died down, he took a clipboard out and looked over.

  “You Shirley?” he asked in a rasping Cockney accent.