Dolly walked into the bedroom, explaining it all to her as Bella followed her into the room. “You get her passport, then you get on a plane, get out of the country.”

  “Oh yeah? How am I gonna do that? What about my money? What about all your promises, Dolly?”

  Dolly opened the case on the bed and began taking out bundles of banknotes. Bella stared at the cash in disbelief.

  “I’ll stick to my part of the bargain. It’s all legitimate cash, Bella. I’m paying you with my own money, you just get out of the country.”

  Seeing the money, hearing Dolly’s voice, calm and in control, brought Bella round. She knew Dolly was right. Soon she was stacking the money in a holdall. All she wanted now was to be gone.

  Frinton was still buzzing, despite his exhaustion. The statements at the club had taken up most of the afternoon, and now he was questioning each man in turn. He’d got little joy out of Colin Soal, Harvey Rintle or Johnny Summers—all old lags, all prepared to keep shtum. But with Kevin White he had an added lever: the girl, the dead girl, Shirley Miller.

  Kevin White had asked for aspirins for his head; he’d almost knocked himself out when that crazy chef had gone for him. He was out of cigarettes and hadn’t been given the phone call he knew he had a right to. He was beginning to get bolshie, giving the officer on duty an earful. The officer stood impassively at the door, without looking at him, letting the stream of abuse flow over him.

  “And what about these bleedin’ handcuffs?” White said finally, holding up his hands, showing the red weals round his wrists.

  The officer looked through the small observation window. Standing outside were Detective Inspector Frinton and a CID officer.

  Frinton gave the officer a wink and gestured for him to move away from the door. Then he walked into the interview room and before White could open his mouth, he was leaning over him, eyes glinting. White shrank back in the chair.

  “I’m going to say one fucking word to you, Kevin: murder.”

  Frinton was so close, White could smell the cigarettes on his breath.

  “What do you—”

  “The girl’s dead, Kevin, an’ I got a witness who says you shot her. You’re goin’ down this time, and you’re never coming up again.”

  Kevin started to panic. “I never shot anyone. It wasn’t me, honest!”

  That was all Frinton needed. “So who was it, Kevin?”

  Harry entered the underground garage and walked smartly over to the Jaguar. He opened up the boot, put his cases inside and slammed the lid down. Then he saw the blood. He stepped back from the car. The trail of blood led to the driver’s side door.

  Micky Tesco, his face swollen and bloody, stared back at Harry. He held the revolver in his right hand, and it was shaking as he pointed it at Harry. His eyes were mad, staring, and when he spoke, his lips were so swollen that his voice was distorted.

  “Get in the car, Harry.”

  Harry wavered. Then he saw Micky lean forward, the gun shaking. He put up his hands in a gesture of compliance, opened the passenger door and sat down.

  “Son of a bitch, you set me up.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s got the jewels.”

  Harry saw the arm hanging limply at Tesco’s side. He inched his hands along the seat.

  “Don’t move!”

  Harry lifted his hands away from the seat and held them in the air. “What happened?”

  Micky didn’t seem able to focus. The gun wavered and he closed his eyes for a moment.

  “You need a doctor. Your face . . . What you done to your arm?”

  Micky started crying like a little boy. “My arm . . .”

  Harry waited, his hands at the ready.

  “I trusted you . . . You were with her.”

  Harry had difficulty making out what Micky was saying. Micky coughed, the hand holding the gun dropped onto the seat, and Harry quickly grabbed hold of Micky’s wrist.

  Micky started wailing, a high-pitched screech. “I’m gonna kill you!”

  Harry put his left hand over Micky’s mouth to shut him up, and Micky sank his teeth into the flesh between Harry’s thumb and first finger. Harry felt a searing flash of pain. He tried to rip his hand away, but Micky just sank his teeth in deeper. And now he was pulling his gun hand away . . .

  The first shot cracked open the windscreen—then there was another, a dull, thudding boom inside the car. Harry’s body twisted and slumped against the seat.

  Fuller was driving home from a squash match. He’d lost, but that was the least of his worries. Maureen had packed up and gone. In her note, she said that when he had the time to talk to her—really talk—she would see him.

  Fuller hadn’t had the time. Well, maybe he had; it was just that he couldn’t bring himself to drive round to his mother-in-law’s for a scene. It would be too painful.

  The newsflash on the radio interrupted his thoughts, making him almost drive into the back of an ice cream van.

  Reynolds was waiting for him when he arrived at the office, still in his tracksuit. Reynolds had got a few details—as much as he could get from Kensington—but the gist of it seemed to be that DI Frinton had made the coup of all time, and his nick was bursting at the seams. Fuller slumped in his chair, head in hands.

  “Tip-off came from a woman—said that Harry Rawlins was on the raid. She had all the details—was right about most things. Except one.”

  Fuller looked up. “Have they got him?”

  Reynolds shook his head. “Two men escaped on a motorbike with £8 million in gems.”

  Fuller was on his feet. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get in on the act.

  At first Bella had tried to persuade Dolly to come with her. “If Shirley spills the beans, you’re better off out of it, too.”

  Dolly had shaken her head. “She’ll need a lawyer if they’ve got her. She’ll need money. I’m staying.”

  Dolly could have added that she had more faith in Shirley than Bella did, but there was no point getting into that.

  “You go, Bella. At least one of us will be safe. Take the twenty-five grand. I’ll get more to you as soon as I can.”

  Now here they were at Victoria. Bella got out of the car, gave Dolly a wan smile, then walked into the station. From there she would catch a train to Gatwick, and then . . . Dolly didn’t know where she was going to go; the important thing was she was gone.

  Dolly heaved a sigh of relief as she got back into the car. As she started the engine, she saw the jewel pouch, sticking out from under the passenger seat. She tucked it away and drove off.

  Kevin White had finally broken. It had taken a lot longer than Frinton had anticipated, but now he finally had two more names: Brian Fisk and Micky Tesco. Harry Rawlins was still missing, but he’d have to wait. Kevin White had told him who had shot the girl. The first thing was to get a warrant for the arrest of Micky Tesco on a murder charge.

  Frinton was feeling buoyant, even when he spotted DI Fuller lurking.

  “Sorry.” Frinton smiled. “I’m a bit busy right now. Perhaps you could talk to a junior officer?”

  “Of course,” Fuller replied stiffly.

  It was a slap in the face, but Fuller took it, desperate for so much as a crumb. Frinton almost felt sorry for him, but he knew if things had been the other way round, Fuller wouldn’t have given him the time of day. This was Frinton’s baby now, and he didn’t want anyone else getting in on the act. It was still Sunday; come Monday he’d have the Chief all over it, with the possibility of the Yard taking over. He knew he had to move fast. He could almost see the headlines: Detective Inspector Frinton single-handedly nets the biggest team of villains since the Great Train Robbery . . .

  He just needed to pick up Tesco and hit him with a murder charge. Then it would only be a matter of time before they picked up Rawlins, the elusive dead man, himself.

  Vic Morgan sat by Resnick’s bedside, beginning to wish he hadn’t come. He’d thought, on first seeing the pathetic scarecrow in the bed, that Resnick wouldn’t have the strength to talk to him. What little hair Resnick had left after the chemotherapy stuck to his skull in pathetic wisps. His face was gaunt, and his pajamas seemed four or five sizes too big. To put it simply, he looked as if he was dying.

  But now here he was, fighting to push himself up in the bed, his face almost puce with anger, as he jabbed a bony finger at Morgan’s chest.

  “So she bought you a bleedin’ jacket, and you think she’s God’s gift? I’m telling you, she’s been with him all along, you stupid son of a bitch. I told you, warned you to keep your eye on ’er. Any chance we had of that reward money’s gone out of the bloody window now.”

  Moans of “shut up” came from some of the other beds in the ward.

  Morgan sighed, still desperately hanging on to the small thread of hope that Dolly wasn’t involved.

  The night nurse appeared beside the bed.

  “You’re really going to have to go, I’m afraid. If Matron finds out you were here, I’ll more than likely get the sack.”

  Morgan nodded. “I’ll come back soon,” he assured Resnick. “As soon as I have anything.”

  He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d turned up feeling quite pleased with himself, but now he was leaving with his tail between his legs.

  “You stick to her like I told you to,” Resnick added. “Don’t for a minute think she’s straight. She’s as bent as my crippled hand.”

  Morgan stood to go.

  “And take your soddin’ roses with you. They give me hay fever.”

  As Reynolds drove them to Tesco’s place, Fuller tried to piece it together. Micky Tesco had last been seen at Arnie Fisher’s club with Shirley Miller. And Rawlins had been there, too. Then, when Shirley was shot, she apparently called out “Dolly.”

  Fuller sat back and closed his eyes. Dolly was Harry Rawlins’ wife. Could she have been working with Rawlins all along? Fuller remembered Dolly’s face when she asked for the watch, the gold watch that had identified her husband. If she had been acting then, she was National Theatre material. Had she also been acting when they told her her husband was dead? He shook his head, seeing her face again, the eyes wide, staring, her body taut. She had been unable to speak. If Dolly Rawlins was in cahoots with her husband, then by God they were one hell of a team.

  Audrey had wheeled her new pram and carrycot combined into the tower block. She pressed the button for the lift. Nothing happened. She waited, then tried the second one. The graffiti was hacked into the chrome: “FUCK off cunts.”

  Audrey muttered that they all were, then pushed the pram toward the stairs, hauling it up awkwardly, knowing she had three floors to go and wishing she had waited for Ray. She managed the pram up the first flight, and was wheeling it round to begin the next flight when a female police officer appeared.

  Audrey was glad of the assistance. The WPC called for her male colleague, and together they carried the pram up to Audrey’s flat.

  “It’s the first time I’ve needed you lot.” Audrey caught the look between the two and felt a moment of panic. “You’re not coming to see me, are you?”

  They helped her wheel her pram into the hallway, then both stood by the door.

  “It’s Greg, isn’t it? What’s he done this time? I’ve told ’im and told ’im. He’s not been thieving again, ’as he?”

  The WPC followed Audrey into the kitchen. Audrey was wheeling the pram through to put it out on the fire escape.

  “You’d better sit down, love. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.”

  Audrey looked at her, her hands tightening on the handle of the pram. The male officer pulled out a chair and Audrey sat, still holding on to the pram.

  “Is it Greg? An accident . . . ? Has there been an accident?”

  “No, it’s not Greg. It’s your daughter, Shirley.”

  Fuller pulled up at the block of flats, behind the patrol car stationed outside. An officer was standing on duty outside the entrance to the underground car park and walked over. Fuller showed his badge and the officer stepped aside.

  Blue and white tape had been hung round the Jaguar, and DI Frinton was in the middle of politely but firmly explaining to a tenant that no he could not remove his car, and that, yes, he needed to leave the car park now.

  Frinton turned to see Fuller’s car heading down the ramp. “What’s he bloody doing here?” he muttered.

  Fuller got out of the car and walked toward the Jag. Face down on the concrete, with one leg still in the car, was a body.

  Frinton stormed over. “What do you think you’re doing? This is a crime scene.”

  Fuller looked at the sprawled body, then back to Frinton. “I can see that.”

  “My crime scene,” Frinton added.

  Fuller ignored him. “Who is it?”

  An ambulance came down the ramp and stopped behind Fuller’s car.

  Fuller looked up. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?” He stepped over the red tape and bent over the body. One arm was bent upward, partially obscuring the face, but Fuller knew it was Tesco. It was the hair, even matted with dried blood—that blond hair.

  Frinton had had it. “All right, you’ve seen enough. Now get the fuck out of it.”

  Fuller stood to one side as a pair of medics approached.

  “Don’t worry, Frinton,” he said with a sour smile. “He’s all yours.”

  Dozing in the TV room, Resnick almost fell out of his wheelchair when he heard the newsflash. He’d missed half of it, and it was over before he got the facts straight. He felt trapped, helpless, with no one to scream at. As if on cue, the nurse opened the door, carrying a beaker of tepid tea. Vic Morgan followed in behind her.

  “You can have ten minutes, but, really, that’s all.” The nurse wheeled out one of the sleeping wheelchair patients.

  Morgan sat down. “Don’t know where to begin—all hell’s been let loose.”

  Resnick pointed to the TV. “What the hell ’ave you been soddin’ doin’? I told you, what did I tell you—”

  Morgan held up a hand. “Let me give you what I know, all right?”

  Resnick’s face was bursting with fury. He swore that Morgan didn’t know anything, hadn’t from the beginning—that’s why he was out of the force. He was wet, more occupied with getting his leg over with that bitch Dolly Rawlins.

  Morgan let him have his tirade, then quietly began to tell him what he had gathered so far from his contacts about the raid on Amanda’s nightclub, the bottom line being that they were still looking for Micky Tesco and Harry Rawlins. Also missing was £8 million pounds’ worth of gems.

  Resnick looked at him with barely concealed contempt. “You bloody idiot.”

  Morgan sighed. “Wait. There’s something else. The only reason the police were able to prevent the raid from succeeding was because they got a tip-off—one hell of a tip-off, as it happened, giving all the names, the details of the getaway, the lot. And the tipster had been a woman; a woman who seemed desperate to have the raiders caught, but one in particular—the one name she repeated over and over again: Harry Rawlins.”

  Resnick was quieted. He thought for a moment, then looked at Morgan. “But was he on the raid? And where are the jewels?”

  Dolly finished cleaning her flat, then started on the packing. That done, she took out a packet of envelopes. She remembered the way Vic had laughed at her, always paying his account in cash placed neatly inside an envelope with his name printed on it. Had she bought a job lot, he asked? But she didn’t have time to think about him, not now. She began placing the jewels, neatly wrapped in tissue, into the stack of envelopes, and then Sellotaped them all into a toiletry bag, securing them with yet more tape.

  Reynolds and Fuller sat in a quiet corner of the cafe, going over everything they knew. The conclusion was obvious: if they could find Dolly Rawlins, then they would have her husband.

  The night nurse almost hit the roof when they arrived, but Fuller was insistent, saying it was a police matter.

  “That’s what they all say,” she muttered to herself, leading Fuller and Reynolds to the TV room.

  Fuller was surprised to see Resnick and Vic Morgan sitting and chatting together at almost ten o’clock at night. He was even more taken aback by Resnick’s shrunken body and wasted features.

  “Evening, gents.” Fuller brought out a bottle of malt whisky from under his coat, along with a packet of plastic cups.

  “Don’t mind if I do, Alex.”

  Resnick took in Fuller’s appearance as he poured a generous measure into three cups. He was unshaven and wearing a tracksuit under his coat. Gone was the cockiness: he looked as if he had had the stuffing knocked out of him. Resnick also noted that for a so-called non-drinker, Fuller knocked back his scotch remarkably quickly.

  Resnick felt the whisky hit him hard, making him flush. He held out his cup for a refill with his left hand, his right hand curled in his lap. He felt better than he had felt for weeks. He liked them coming to him; it made him feel needed, made him believe he would be back with the lads as soon as he got himself fixed up.

  “Shirley Miller, Terry Miller’s widow, was shot in the raid—died almost instantly. The last word she uttered was ‘Dolly.’”

  Resnick glanced at Morgan, who looked stunned.

  “They got Tesco,” Fuller added. “Hell of a mess. Found him shot dead in his car park.”

  Fuller poured another round of drinks. They sipped in silence, then Fuller placed his cup carefully on the table.

  “Rawlins is still on the loose. I’ve tried to track down his wife, but it looks like wherever he is, she is too. I need anything you’ve got, and I swear if you have anything that can help me, help me in any way at all, I’ll see you clear to getting a slice of that reward.”

  Morgan stayed silent, his head bowed, looking into his drink. Resnick looked at him. Now was his chance. He couldn’t do it on his own. He was a fool to keep shtum.

  “You’d better cough up, Vic.” He looked at Fuller. “He knows where she is.”

  Morgan picked up his jacket, the one Dolly had given him, and walked to the door. As he opened it, his voice was heavy with emotion.