“I’ll come into the airport wiv yer.”

  Shirley was still annoyed by Linda’s suspicions about Dolly. “It’s not necessary, Linda.”

  “Oh yes it is. Can’t put a bleedin’ sandwich down in this place without somebody nicking it. Come on, get a move on. You don’t want them posh suitcases nicked, do yer?” Linda insisted, pushing Shirley into the airport.

  Arriving back at the villa, Bella called out for Linda and decided she must still be at the airport. She went into her own room and lifted out the suitcases from their big paper packages. Identical to Shirley’s, she had felt that the mulberry was a little more subtle than bright orange. Opening the wardrobe, she couldn’t help but stand back in admiration. Each garment was so special, so beautifully made, such gorgeous material. She took out her Norma Kamali, with the shoulder pads, and held it against her. Worth every penny of the $280 she’d paid for it.

  Bella folded the dress with exaggerated care, then took out a long, flowing, pure-silk gown. This hadn’t cost $280—more like $2523—but then José had bought it for her. She’d modeled it for him, walking up and down as if she was on a catwalk, and he’d simply said, “If you like it, darling, then you have it.” She got a warm feeling inside when she thought about it. It was funny, all the men she’d screwed, every single one, she couldn’t remember a single face—but as soon as she saw José for the first time, she knew she wouldn’t be able to forget him. She’d been shopping, walking along the main thoroughfare, and she noticed him walking toward her. He was with another woman, talking and laughing, and she’d been so busy staring at him she’d almost walked straight into him. He turned aside for her to pass, and then strolled on. She’d tried to distract herself with more shopping, but when she emerged from a shop an hour later, her arms full of clothes, there he was again. This time, alone. And this time Bella gave him her most seductive smile and said, “Hello.” They started chatting, he offered her a lift, and she’d been with him ever since. José Camarana turned out to be older than the men she usually went for (he was in his late forties) but he was so sexy, and such a gentleman. In fact, he was everything she’d ever looked for in a man, and on top of it all, she reckoned he must be a multimillionaire.

  Bella was still mooning over herself in the mirror when she heard the front door slam, and there was Linda, hands on hips, and a voice like thunder. “Thank you very much!”

  Bella turned. “What?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, you fuckers! Neither of you told me!”

  “Told you what, Linda?”

  “Dolly. Dolly’s not gone to Geneva. She told me a bleedin’ lie! Told me to my face, said she was gonna go to Geneva! She’s only back in London!”

  Bella continued to fold her clothes. “So what?”

  “Didn’t you think?” Linda shouted. “Dolly’s in London, our money’s in London, and Harry’s in London.”

  “Yeah, we thought about it. So what?”

  Linda slumped down on the bed. “I don’t fucking believe it! Dolly Rawlins, Harry Rawlins, and our money!”

  Bella stopped what she was doing. “Don’t be so damned stupid, Linda. Dolly’s not going back to Harry. And she’d protect our money with her life!”

  “Oh yeah? Well, we’ll see, won’t we?” Linda scowled. “We’ll just see about that!” She clocked the suitcases. “What are you doin’?”

  “Well, what does it look like—playing table tennis? I’m packing, aren’t I?”

  “Where you goin’? You goin’ away?”

  “Well, you could say that.”

  “Where’re you goin’? You never told me!”

  “Linda, I don’t have to tell you everything. But you know what we agreed—we would separate, all of us, and change our money. And your bloody money is still in the cistern!”

  “I’m doin’ it tomorrow, aren’t I?” Linda pouted.

  Bella shook her head. “Everything’s tomorrow with you, Linda. You better get off your arse and start moving!”

  “I am moving, I am doing things . . . Hold on, what’s that?”

  Bella turned with a big grin and held out her left hand. “Ta da!”

  Linda’s eyes went wide. “Is that a bleedin’ diamond ring?”

  “Yeah, it’s a diamond, Linda. But look where it is. Look what finger it’s on.”

  Linda’s jaw dropped as it sank in. “Yer goin’ wiv ’im? Yer movin’ in wiv ’im?”

  Bella turned and grinned. “Oh, baby, am I movin’ in! Once I get a foot over that threshold, you’ll have to get a crowbar to get me out!” She sat on the bed. “Oh, Linda, what a place! He’s got this ranch, with orchards, swimming pools . . . The size of it! He’s got stables and—”

  “Well, we’ve got a swimmin’ pool ’ere,” Linda interrupted.

  “Linda, he wants me to live with him.”

  “Oh, so you’re not gonna marry ’im?”

  “Look, I don’t know, maybe I’ll marry him, Linda. But the point is, I love him.” Bella turned back to admiring herself in the mirror.

  “Do me a favor!” Linda snorted. “’Ow d’yer think ’e’s gonna react when ’e knows?”

  Bella glanced at Linda in the mirror. “What do you mean? Knows what?”

  “You know what I mean—when ’e knows!”

  Bella turned. “You don’t think I’m gonna tell him about the raid, do you?”

  Linda rolled her eyes. “I don’t mean the raid, Bella. How d’yer think ’e’s goin’ ter feel when ’e finds out about you?”

  “Well, who’s gonna tell him about me, Linda?”

  “Well . . . nobody . . . but I’m just sayin’, what ’appens if ’e finds out somehow? He’s in politics or somethin’ over here, isn’t ’e? I mean, you don’t know anythin’ about him. ’E’s old!”

  “Don’t try changing the subject, Linda. Who’s gonna tell him about me? Eh? If you open your mouth—”

  “Look, don’t be stupid, I wouldn’t say anythin’ . . .”

  “You better not, Linda. This means everything to me, and I’m not gonna let it go, you understand me? He’s the best thing that’s ever happened in my life, and if you try and fuck it up, by Christ I’ll smash your—”

  “Try it!” Linda jumped up from the bed. “What d’yer bleedin’ think I am, Bella?”

  “I don’t know, Linda. All I do know is you’ve done nothing but moan since you got here and your money’s still stuck in the toilet. This is your chance too, Linda. Why don’t you get yourself together and do something like the rest of us?”

  “I’m goin’ to, I’m goin’ to, all right? Just leave me alone. Everybody’s pickin’ on me!” Linda marched into the bathroom and slammed the door.

  Bella snapped shut the cases with a sigh, then carried them over to the door. How did Linda always manage to turn it round like this? Now Bella was feeling bad. She went and stood in front of the bathroom door.

  “Linda, you comin’ out of there?”

  “No!” came the sullen reply from inside.

  “Look, Linda, we’re going to the Coconut Grove tonight, you hear me?”

  Silence.

  “Linda, d’you wanna come out with us tonight—dinner, cabaret? It’s a dress-up do.”

  A childish little voice said, “What time?”

  “Ten o’clock. We’ll pick you up. And Linda, lay off the booze, all right? Don’t start drinking before we get there.” Bella picked up her suitcases and walked out.

  Linda sat on the loo, wanting to cry. Why couldn’t she get herself together? What was the matter with her? Everyone else seemed to know what they wanted, and how to get it. But she wasn’t like the others. She had never had much interest in clothes and jewelry and all that. She had never had much interest in anything, really. Suddenly she felt all alone, as alone as she’d felt when she was four years old in a convent, and she’d asked one of the nuns, “Is my mummy coming back?” And the nun had just looked down and said, “No, Linda, Mummy’s not coming back, but we’re here, and we love you.” She’d patted Linda’s head gently, but Linda knew it wasn’t love. There’d been no arms round her, no hugs, no real affection, and every visiting hour she’d waited, and every visiting day she’d ask, “Is my mummy coming to see me?” But her mummy never came.

  And then there was Joe. She’d been in the arcade when Charlie limped over and said, “Linda, come into the back for a minute.”

  At first she’d laughed at him. “I’m not goin’ down the back wiv you, Charlie. What you want, a bit of a touch-up?”

  He shook his head. “Come on, Linda, don’t mess about. Come into the back room.”

  She knew then something was wrong. He’d taken her into the back room and shut the door, before reaching into his hip pocket and pulling out a new bottle of brandy. He was unscrewing the top. That’s when she knew something terrible had happened.

  “What is it, Charlie?”

  He’d handed her the bottle. “Have a drink, darlin’.”

  “It’s Joe!”

  “I’m afraid they want you down the police station,” he said.

  “Has there been an accident? What’s ’appened, Charlie?” Already she was beginning to feel numb.

  “He’s dead, Linda. Joe’s dead.”

  And even then it still didn’t feel real. She’d been to the morgue, she’d identified the terrible, charred remains of Joe. And then she’d gone home and she’d been just like that little girl in the convent, sitting, waiting and asking, “Is Joe coming home?” And her own voice had answered her, saying, “No, Linda, Joe’s not coming home. He’s never coming home ever again.”

  And then Dolly had come along, taking charge of her life, bossing her round and telling her what to do. But even though she’d fought her corner and argued with her, she’d had a good time when she’d been with Dolly and the girls. She’d felt as though things were happening in her life. She had to admit it, she’d never known such excitement, such a buzz.

  And now they’d all gone!

  Bella didn’t see the sad little face at the window, watching her as the Rolls-Royce slowly glided down the driveway and away from the villa. Nobody saw it, and nobody heard the sobbing from the girl sitting by herself in the bathroom—the girl who in some ways had everything going for her. Now she had money, she just had to decide what to do with her life. But the cash meant nothing to Linda, and the rest of her life stretched ahead like a long, empty road.

  With the girls gone, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in the whole of her life.

  Jimmy opened the bedroom door and edged over to the bed, where Harry was still fast asleep. He nudged the bed with his knee. “Oi, Harry! Harry, wake up!” Jimmy leaned closer. “Banks are open, if you wan’ ’em. You’ve had a couple of hours.”

  Harry opened his eyes and squinted against the sunlight coming through the shutters. “What time is it?”

  “Almost five.”

  “All right. Thanks, Jimmy.”

  “D’ye wanna drink?”

  Harry shook his head, and Jimmy edged out of the room. “If you want somethin’ to eat I can get it on now.”

  “No, no thanks, I’ll just go to the bank.”

  The door shut and Harry started to scratch his arm where the mosquitoes had bitten him. Christ, what a shithole! He sat up on the edge of the bed.

  “Jimmy!”

  He was there in a second, almost as if he’d been waiting outside the door. “Yeah, Harry?”

  “Could that . . . your woman . . . do something with my suit?”

  “Sure, Harry!” Jimmy scuffled round and picked up the crumpled jacket and trousers. “You got a clean shirt?”

  Harry nodded, unzipping his holdall. “Soon’s you can, Jimmy. I wanna get this over and done with.”

  “Right you are, Harry.” And he was gone again.

  Harry took out a clean white T-shirt, crossed over to the small dressing table and looked at himself, pinching his waist. He’d put on a little weight, but he was still looking fit. Yeah, he didn’t look bad at all, considering. He leaned down closer to the mirror and rubbed his stubble. He needed a shave.

  Harry could hear Jimmy and Maria going at it hammer and tongs in the kitchen. It sounded like she wasn’t happy about valeting his suit.

  He crossed to the shutters and pushed them open, the stench from the street filling the room. Poor old Jimmy—he’d got out of one shithole and straight into another one.

  As they sat opposite each other in the restaurant, Dolly remembered why she had never liked Barry Sutcliffe. They always said if you want to get yourself a sharp lawyer, make sure he’s Jewish—and if he’s a little bit crooked with it, then you’ve got the best. Well, Barry Sutcliffe certainly ticked all of those boxes, but his pushy and uncouth manner had always grated on her. Now, with his pot belly pushing against the table, he cracked open the topping of his crème brûlée with his spoon and a couple of pieces shot across the table. Sutcliffe quickly scooped them up and shoveled them into his mouth, dribbling creamy custard down his shirt.

  Dolly looked up from the papers she was checking. “All right, are you, Barry?”

  “Yeah,” he said, dabbing at his shirt with his napkin. “I don’t think it’ll stain.”

  Dolly went back to reading.

  Sutcliffe jabbed at the custard with his spoon. “You know, Dolly, you’re outta your mind. Take those two betting shops—I coulda got another twenty grand for them, easy. It’s the wrong time to sell, sweetheart, how many times do I have to tell you? There was no need to do it all in one go.”

  “And how many times do I have to tell you, Barry,” Dolly shot back, “this is what I want!”

  “Harry’ll turn in his grave,” he muttered. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Dolly ignored him and carried on going through the papers—signing, checking, signing, reading the small print.

  Barry began scraping his bowl. “You’ve given away those betting shops, Dolly, when Harry—”

  She looked up. “Well, with all your business acumen, I’m surprised you didn’t put a bid in for them yourself, Barry.”

  He dropped his spoon. “Come on, do me a favor, Doll, you know that’s not my line. I’m just trying to guide you, darling, trying to help you do what your old man would’ve done.”

  “I’m handling it now, Barry. Not Harry—me.”

  “I know that, Dolly, I know that.”

  She picked up one sheet of paper and began staring at it quizzically.

  “You remember about the house?” he asked. “You know, the Chinese are willing to pay outright cash, but you’ve gotta get any stuff you want out of there by noon tomorrow.”

  She nodded. “I know, I know. Don’t worry, it’ll be done.”

  Sutcliffe tried to see what Dolly was reading. It looked like a bank statement. Even if she was giving it away, Dolly was still a very rich woman.

  He waved a waiter over. “Want a brandy, Dolly? Port?”

  She shook her head.

  “Gimme a Martell, large. You sure you don’t want one, Dolly?”

  Again, she shook her head.

  Sutcliffe lit up a fat cigar, then leaned across the table, blowing smoke into her face. “I believe Harry had a couple of accounts in Rio. Don’t know how much he had in ’em and I don’t know much about them. He kept those to himself.”

  Dolly signed one last paper and smiled. “No, he didn’t keep them entirely to himself, Barry. He told me all about them, in fact.” She passed the bundle of papers over the table, satisfied that she’d been through them with a fine-toothed comb. “Anything else I should sign? Anything else I should read?”

  “Nope. Just a couple of leases he had on lock-ups round the place, but you said you weren’t interested in them.”

  Dolly picked up her handbag. She caught the waiter’s eye and made a sign in the air indicating she wanted the bill.

  Sutcliffe looked at her. She was looking good, elegant as always. “So, Dolly, you’re a very rich woman now. Whatcha gonna do with your life?”

  “I would say that’s none of your business, Barry, wouldn’t you?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. Beneath the smart exterior, she was tough as old boots, this one, but he admired her—liked her, even, despite the fact that she didn’t like him. He watched the way she picked up the bill, looked through it carefully, then took out her wallet and counted out the notes, rubbing each one between her fingers just in case there were two stuck together.

  She looked back to the waiter. “Service included, is it?”

  The waiter nodded.

  Barry noticed she gave no extra, just folded the bill neatly on the plate and handed it back with the cash.

  “Cheers, Dolly.”

  “You’re welcome, Barry.” She stood up. “By the way, you shouldn’t be doing that, darlin’.”

  He looked puzzled.

  “Smoking. Not good for you.” She turned on her heel, swinging her bag, and walked out.

  Sutcliffe looked at the half-smoked cigar in his hand. Very odd. He was sure she used to chain-smoke. Well, maybe she’d given up. Come to think of it, maybe there were a lot of things about Dolly he didn’t know.

  Ex-detective George Resnick was sitting in a wheelchair in the conservatory of the convalescent home. Kathleen, his wife, was sitting in a chair beside him, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. It was the second time she’d been in tears.

  He turned to her with a sigh. “Look, dear, if you want the house, have it. Take anything you want. You’ll be doing me a favor.”

  With a sob, the tears started up again. She wanted the house. It was her home and she didn’t want to sell it. But somehow it would have been easier if he’d argued about it. It had taken all her courage to tell him that she wanted him out. She wanted the divorce finalized and everything settled. She’d handed him a check for £1500—the money her father had left her—hoping it would be enough to put a deposit on a place of his own. And then he’d have his pension. But instead of arguing, he didn’t seem to care, and that made it even worse—made her realize that they hadn’t really had any love for each other the whole twenty-five years they’d been married.

  The fact was, he was simply too tired. Talk about being in a convalescent home, he’d felt ill from the moment he’d been brought here. He’d known something was wrong with him, something inside, even before the symptoms started. Now he couldn’t move his right arm properly, and he still had the terrible nagging pain in his groin, never stopping, day in, day out. They said he might have to have a prostate operation, but he hoped to God it wasn’t true. If he could just get out of this place, and the sooner, the better. But what was going to be waiting for him when he did? Well, one thing was for sure, he didn’t want it to be this shell of a woman he’d once loved, muttering on about how she wanted the house, she’d always loved the house, and he’d never loved her. He looked at her, tight-lipped and red-eyed. Maybe she was right.