“Take it. She’s killed him—he’s in the water under the bridge. Wait.”

  Fuller stepped back, as if frozen by Morgan’s command.

  Morgan took off his overcoat, wrapped it round Dolly’s shoulders, and gently guided her away from the bridge. She was shivering, her hands icy cold to the touch.

  Glancing back, Morgan nodded to Fuller, said he would take her to the car. Reynolds now appeared at the side of the bridge. Fuller pointed beneath the bridge. Reynolds stepped down the side and saw the floating body.

  As Morgan and Dolly moved away from the bridge, he felt her ease away from him slightly, as if she wanted to walk alone, without his help. She held her head up proudly.

  Reynolds was now knee-deep in the stagnant water. He reached for the body and grabbed hold of the left leg, pulling it toward the bank. Fuller stepped down into the water to help him. Together they dragged the body closer to the bank and turned it over.

  Harry Rawlins was dead. On his face was a peaceful, almost serene smile.

  Fuller was shocked. He straightened up, as if the body was contagious.

  Dolly turned midway up the hill and gripped Morgan’s coat tightly round her for warmth. She looked back to Fuller, their eyes briefly met, and she gave him a small nod, like a tiny salute. That, too, unnerved him. He watched her continue her walk to the waiting patrol car, head held high.

  Fuller sighed. It was finally over. He looked back down to the body as the water lapped round it. Then it started to rain, small drops at first, then the sky opened up and it was coming down in torrents. The wind seemed to shift the water, and the body moved slowly with it. It was as if, even in death, Rawlins was still trying to get away.

  Afterword

  Detective Inspector George Resnick died the day after he learned that Rawlins had finally been buried. The only mourners at Resnick’s funeral were DI Alex Fuller and Victor Morgan.

  Morgan received a large share of the reward money from the underpass raid, and donated it to charity. He closed the investigation bureau and retired. He never made any further contact with Dolly Rawlins.

  All the men involved in the jewel raid received lengthy sentences.

  Bella O’Reilly caught a plane to Mexico. She never made any further contact with Dolly Rawlins either.

  Shirley Miller was buried alongside her husband, Terry Miller.

  Dolly Rawlins was arrested and charged with the murder of her husband. This was later dropped to manslaughter. She was sentenced to nine years’ imprisonment and taken to Holloway.

  The bulk of the money stolen from Samson’s Security Company in the underpass raid was recovered with the help of Dolly Rawlins. The cash was stashed under the stage at a drill hall.

  There was never any acknowledgment that the women had been involved in the raid. The widows took their secret to the grave—or to prison.

  Audrey did as Dolly requested but she would have a long wait for her promised security.

  The police never recovered the £8 million worth of gems stolen from Amanda’s nightclub.

  If you enjoyed Widows’ Revenge, why not join the LYNDA LA PLANTE READERS’ CLUB by visiting www.Lyndalaplante.com?

  A Message from Lynda La Plante . . .

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you very much for reading Widows’ Revenge. Widows, as many of you may know, was my first ever TV show, commissioned by Verity Lambert of Euston Films for Thames Television and it remains a special favorite of mine. In the wake of the phenomenal TV success—it became one of the highest rating series of the early 1980s—I turned the screenplay and script into a tie-in novel, which was first published in 1983. The original Widows ran to two series on ITV and went on to have a sequel set ten years later—She’s Out.

  Since then I have produced many TV series, films and novels. However, I was particularly delighted when award-winning film director Steve McQueen chose to use Widows for a major movie that was released in November 2018. Following Steve McQueen’s decision to make the film, I decided to edit and reshape my original novel of Widows for a new audience. I loved doing it and both the reworked novel and the film were a huge success, so I have gone on to write this second book, following directly on from the events of the first book when Dolly, Linda, Shirley and Bella had successfully carried out the raid and fled to Rio after hiding the money. It’s been brilliant to revisit these characters.

  Dolly Rawlins was the first of my heroines to emerge into the limelight on screen and on the page. She was followed by, among others, Anna Travis and, most famously, Jane Tennison. I particularly enjoy writing about strong, independent women making their way in this tough male world. My series about the young Jane Tennison, who goes on to become the heroine of Prime Suspect, follows Jane as she starts out as a police detective on the streets of London. The first four books in the series—Tennison, Hidden Killers, Good Friday and Murder Mile—are all available in paperback and ebook now. There will also be a new book in the series following in Autumn 2019—The Dirty Dozen—which is set in 1980 and sees Jane as the first female detective posted to the Met’s renowned Flying Squad, commonly known as the “Sweeney.” If you enjoyed Widows’ Revenge, do look out for the Jane Tennison series.

  If you would like to hear more about the next Widows book, or about the new book in the Tennison series, you can visit www.lyndalaplante.com, where you can join the LYNDA LA PLANTE READERS’ CLUB. It only takes a few moments to sign up, there are no catches or costs and new members will automatically receive a message from me with some exclusive insights into what I am writing presently.

  We promise to keep your data private and confidential, and it will never be passed on to a third party. We won’t spam you with loads of emails, just get in touch now and again with news about my books, and you can unsubscribe any time you want.

  And if you would like to get involved in a wider conversation about my novels, please do review Widows’ Revenge on Amazon, on GoodReads, on any other e-store, on your own blog and social media accounts, or talk about it with friends, family or reader groups! Sharing your thoughts helps other readers, and I always enjoy hearing about what people experience from my writing.

  Thanks again for your interest in Widows’ Revenge, and I hope you’ll return for The Dirty Dozen, the fifth in the Jane Tennison series. And you can read the first chapter of The Dirty Dozen following this letter.

  With my very best wishes,

  Lynda La Plante

  THE DIRTY DOZEN

  The fifth book in the Sunday Times bestselling Jane Tennison series.

  April 1980 and Jane is the first female detective to be posted to the Met’s renowned Flying Squad, commonly known as the “Sweeney.” Based at Rigg Approach in East London, they investigate armed robberies on banks, cash in transit and other business premises.

  Jane thinks her transfer is on merit and is surprised to discover she is actually part of a short term internal experiment, intended to have a calming influence on a team that likes to dub themselves as the “Dirty Dozen.”

  The men on the squad don’t think a woman is up to the dangers they face when dealing with some of London’s most ruthless armed criminals, who think the only “good cop” is a dead cop. Determined to prove she’s as good as the men, Jane discovers from a reliable witness that a gang is going to carry out a massive robbery involving millions of pounds.

  But she doesn’t know who they are, or where and when they will strike . . .

  Coming 2019

  CHAPTER ONE

  It was a rainy and overcast April morning as the brown 1976 Mark 4 Ford Cortina saloon parked up on the offside of Aylmer Road, a few meters down from the junction with Leytonstone High Road. The four men in the vehicle sat in silence as the engine slowly ticked over, and the windscreen wipers swept away the rain. The men were dressed in blue boiler suits, heavy black donkey jackets and leather driving gloves. The heating was on to stop the windows misting up, but it made the men sweat profusely and a musty odor filled the car. The two men in the front used their jacket sleeves to wipe the condensation off the windscreen, so they could get a better view of Barclays Bank on the far side of the High Road. The bank manager was holding an umbrella as he opened the large wooden front doors for business at 9:30 a.m. Smartly dressed in a three-piece gray pinstripe suit, white shirt and tie, he stood to one side to let two customers in, and looked up the High Road, which was quieter than usual for a Thursday morning, due to the bad weather.

  As the manager turned and walked back inside, the driver of the Cortina put a cap on and opened the car door. He hadn’t seen the elderly lady pulling a canvas shopping trolley along the pavement, and narrowly missed hitting her with the door. The lady swore at him, but the driver ignored her and pulled the peak of his cap down, before walking toward the bank.

  As the old lady moved off, one of the men in the back of the Cortina reached under the driver’s seat and pulled out a twelve bore, double-barrel, sawed-off shotgun. He pushed the unlocking lever to one side to “break” the gun, then placed a cartridge in each chamber. Holding the wooden stock of the gun with one hand, he snapped the barrel closed with a well-practiced upward flick of his wrist, then slid the shotgun into a self-made pocket inside his jacket.

  Jane drove up and down Rigg Approach twice, but couldn’t see a police station or blue lamp anywhere. She was becoming frustrated and beginning to wonder if she’d got the right place, as she appeared to be in an industrial site with a variety of different businesses. She parked her yellow Volkswagen Golf near a mobile burger van, and got out to speak with the owner. Pulling her coat up over her head, to protect her hair from the rain, she ran across the road.

  “Excuse me, is there a police station near here?” she asked.

  “There’s no nick around here, love . . . the nearest are Stoke Newington or Hackney—a couple of miles away, but in opposite directions.”

  “I know where they are, but I’m looking for the Flying Squad offices, which I was told were in Rigg Approach.”

  “The Sweeney work out of that place over there, not a nick,” he said, pointing to a two story, gray brick office building with a flat roof. “I know most of the lads, as they’re regulars at my van. Anyone in particular you’re looking for?”

  “The DCI. I’ve got an appointment with him.”

  “Bill Murphy? That’s his office on the top floor—far right. I don’t think he’s in yet, as he hasn’t been down for his usual bacon and egg roll.”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Jane crossed the road and on closer inspection thought the building looked run down. Although there were large windows on both floors, the ground floor ones all had faded white metal Venetian blinds, which were closed. The metal front door had a push button entry number pad above the handle, and an intercom on the wall beside it. As Jane pressed the button on the intercom, she wondered what the building would be like on the inside.

  “How can I help you?” a female voice asked over the intercom.

  “I’m WDS Tennison. I’m here to see DCI Murphy.”

  “Is he expecting you?” the woman asked, in a haughty manner.

  “Yes, he is. I start on the Flying Squad today and was told to report to his office for 10 a.m.”

  “It’s only 9:30, and he didn’t mention you to me . . . new officers generally start on Mondays.”

  “I’ve been in court all week and . . . Look, I’m getting soaked out here; can you please open the door or tell me the number for the entry pad?”

  The woman sighed. “I suppose so . . . the Squad office is on the first floor.”

  Jane thought the woman was rude and wondered if she was a detective on the squad or clerical staff. As she waited for the electronic lock to be released, she flapped her coat to remove some of the rain. As it was her first day on the Flying Squad, Jane wanted to look good and had worn a blue two-piece skirt suit, white blouse, stockings and black high-heeled shoes. She heard the electric lock on the door buzz, and leaned forward to open it. Her hand was on the round knob when the door was pulled open with force from the inside, causing Jane to stumble forward. She felt a hand grab her arm tightly, stopping her from falling over.

  “You all right, luv?” a deep male voice asked, as the man helped her straighten up.

  Jane was dwarfed by the man. She noticed he had a pickax handle in his left hand. He was about six foot seven, with wide shoulders and a muscular frame. He had blonde hair, blue eyes and boyish looks. He was dressed in a white England rugby shirt with the red rose emblem on the left breast.

  “Come on, Bax, I need to get the motor fired up,” the man behind him said, in a broad Scottish accent, as he used a pickax handle to usher Jane and Bax to one side. He was in his late thirties, and although slightly smaller, at about six foot two, he had a large beer belly.

  Bax frowned, “All right, Cam, less haste more speed.”

  Jane heard footsteps running down the metal stairs and a male voice called out, “Right, I’m tooled up, so we’re good to go, Bax. The Guv and the Colonel are booking out their guns and will go in Cam’s car. Teflon is on his way round the front with Dabs in the Triumph for us.”

  Jane instantly recognized the voice of Detective Sergeant Stanley, whom she had worked with on the “dip squad” a few years ago. They had also been involved in the hunt for an active IRA unit that had bombed Covent Garden Tube station. Stanley had helped to disarm a car bomb and been awarded the Queens Police Medal for his bravery.

  Jane looked up and saw the short, slim frame of Stanley tucking a police issue .38 revolver into a shoulder holster under his brown leather jacket. He still had his long, dark straggly hair, but had grown a “Jason King” style mustache, which on first sight didn’t suit him.

  “Hi, Stanley.” Jane waved. She still didn’t know what his Christian name was, as everyone just called him “Stanley.”

  “Tennison, what you doing here?”

  “I’ve been transferred to the Flying Squad.”

  “Have you? That’s news to me.”

  “And me,” Bax said.

  Jane thought it strange that no one seemed to know about her transfer, and began to wonder if she’d got the right starting day.

  “Are you off on a shout?” she asked.

  “Yeah, we just got a call from I.R. There might be a blagging about to go down in Leytonstone. Gotta go, so I’ll catch up with you later,” Stanley said, and hurried out of the building with Bax.

  Jane started to walk up the stairs when two more men appeared armed with .38 revolvers carried in belt holsters around their waists. The man in front was wearing a blue baseball cap and tight white T-shirt, which accentuated his muscular frame and large biceps. As he hurried down the stairs two at a time, Jane moved quickly to one side to let him pass.

  The man behind wasn’t rushing and stopped in front of Jane. He had a healthy-looking complexion and misshapen nose, which looked like it had been broken in a fight. He wasn’t dressed casually like the others, and wore a tailored slim-fit gray suit and white open-neck shirt. He sniffed and stared at Jane with narrow eyes.

  “You Tennison?”

  “Yes, Sir,” she replied, sensing his air of authority.

  “I’m DI Kingston. We’re short on the ground today as some of the team are out with the surveillance squad on another job, so you may as well come with us.”

  “What, to Leytonstone?”

  “No, to a tea party,” he replied, drily.

  “DCI Murphy was expecting . . .”

  “He’s not back from Scotland Yard yet, so come on, shift your backside.”

  Kingston had the swagger of a confident man and Jane followed him out to the street where she saw Stanley sitting in the front of a dark green four door Triumph 2500S, which had a blue magnetic flashing light on top of it. A black man was driving and Bax was in the back, with a diminutive looking man wearing dark glasses next to him.

  Behind the Triumph, Cam was in the driver’s seat of a four door black BMW 525i, again with a flashing light on the roof and its engine running.

  “We’re in the beamer,” Kingston told her.

  “Come on, Guv!” the man in the white T-shirt shouted from the back seat of the BMW.

  Kingston got in the front passenger seat as Jane ran around the back of the car and got in behind Cam, but there was little room for her legs as the driver’s seat was almost as far back as it would go. No sooner was she in the car than Cam pulled the automatic gear stick to drive, and pushed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The car took off at high speed, causing Jane to jolt backward, and it felt like someone had pushed her hard in the chest as her back slammed against the seat. As Cam braked at the T-junction, Jane felt her body lurch forward, but just managed to get her hands on the back of his seat to brace herself before her head hit it. The Colonel had his feet firmly propped up against the front passenger seat and a large London A–Z open on his lap.

  “Fastest route is left on to Lea Bridge Road, then right . . .”

  “I’ve worked this manor for years, so I know how to get there, Colonel,” Cam said calmly, and turned the siren on.

  Kingston opened the glove box and picked up the radio mike. “M.P, from Central 888 receiving, over . . .”

  “Yes, go ahead, Central 888, M.P. over,” a male voice replied.

  “We are en route with Central 887 to Aylmer Road and the men acting suspiciously near Barclays bank. Any updates?”

  “The vehicle is still in situ. It’s a brown Mark 4 Ford Cortina, 1.6L saloon, index Sierra Lima Mike 273 Romeo. The vehicle is not reported stolen and may have false plates as the PNC shows a blue Mark 4, 1.6 GL saloon with a registered keeper in Sussex.”

  “Can you give me the informant’s details, please?” Kingston got out his notebook and pen.

  “Fiona Simpson. She’s the landlady of the Crown public house on the High Road and corner of Aylmer. She lives on the premises and noticed the suspect vehicle parked up with its engine running and wipers on. The driver has left the vehicle and turned right into the High Road, out of sight of the informant. He’s wearing a gray cap, black donkey jacket and blue overalls.”