“Kathy, take whatever you want, take it, and just go. Leave me alone.”

  “Oh, George!” she wailed. “Why are you being so difficult!”

  Difficult! All he wanted was for her to go away and leave him alone.

  He turned his head away from her and saw a young police constable sitting across the room with his wife—a nice chap, he’d been in the bed next to him. He’d been knocked down by a getaway vehicle for some job or other. Now George couldn’t help watching the way they kissed, the way they touched, laughing and looking into each other’s eyes. Christ, it’d been a long time. He turned back to Kathleen. She was blowing her nose, which was getting even redder. It had already been red from crying when she’d come in. She must have been sobbing for hours, wondering how she was going to tell him. And now it was done, she couldn’t stop.

  “Kathleen, get the divorce, do whatever you want. Just leave me in peace.”

  She stood up and glared at him. “Well, if that’s the way you want it, George, that’s the way you can have it.”

  “It’s the way we both want it.”

  She sniffed. “What about all your things at the house? What about your clothes?”

  “Burn ’em, give ’em to the YMCA, do whatever you like with them. Leave me alone, woman. Get out of my life!”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been in it, George.” She turned and walked away.

  Resnick waited for a minute, then glanced over to the main doors to make sure she was gone. Hovering by the potted plants was Andrews. Why that young feller had ever thought of joining the police force Resnick would never know. He was just too sensitive, too tentative in everything he did.

  Resnick waved him over, and he came and stood by the chair Kathleen had just vacated.

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  “Feel free.”

  Andrews held a bunch of white grapes in his lap. They were already seeping through the paper bag and he didn’t know quite what to do with them. “You got a bowl, guv’nor?”

  Resnick was still holding the check Kathleen had given him. “Look at this. One thousand, five hundred pounds. Not bad for twenty-five years, eh?”

  As Resnick folded the check, Andrews noticed his right hand was stiff and seemed to pain him a lot. There was an embarrassed pause as Andrews desperately thought of what to say, but Resnick came to his rescue.

  “How’s it going, son?”

  Andrews shifted his weight in the chair. His hands were now sticky from the grapes. “Oh, fine . . . er . . . I’m still in uniform. Looks like I’ll be there for quite a while yet.”

  Resnick nodded. There was another awkward pause, then both men spoke at once, Andrews starting to say how nice the conservatory was, then stopping to let Resnick continue.

  “I hear Fuller’s gone up a peg or two.”

  Andrews nodded. Fuller had been made inspector.

  “Always was a sharp little arse, wasn’t he?”

  Andrews nodded again. Fuller was certainly that, as well as being a two-faced bastard, but he had to admit he was very good at his job, and was going to rise to the top, whereas Andrews still wasn’t sure whether he should stay in the police force at all.

  Resnick patted him on the arm. “Thanks for coming. I appreciate it.”

  Andrews smiled. “’S’OK, sir.”

  Resnick felt a pang. Sir, guv’nor—he was going to miss it, and he didn’t know what the hell else he could possibly do.

  “Any word on Rawlins? Anybody picked him up?” he asked.

  Andrews shook his head. “I’m not on that division anymore. No idea what’s going on. There’s a thirty thousand pound reward for any information on the underpass raid, I do know that.”

  Resnick nodded. “Yeah, so I hear.”

  “And you know Eddie Rawlins’ cousin got five years, along with Bill Grant?”

  Andrews wasn’t sure Resnick heard him. He seemed miles away. Andrews could feel the grapes getting stickier and stickier through his fingers as he tried to think of something else to say. Then, to his relief, the bell went. He saw people beginning to shift themselves and got to his own feet.

  “Well, better be off. Matron looks a bit of a dragon.”

  Resnick nodded. He lifted his hand, but Andrews didn’t want to cause him any pain by shaking it. Instead he patted Resnick on the shoulder.

  “I’ll come again soon, sir.”

  Resnick nodded. “I appreciate it, son, I appreciate it. None of those other fuckers have shown their faces.”

  Andrews flushed with embarrassment and was already halfway to the doors before he realized he was still holding the grapes. He hesitated for a moment and then just kept going, leaving Resnick sitting like an old man in his wheelchair with a tartan rug tucked round his knees.

  Maria opened the door without knocking, walked in and stood holding the white linen suit on a hanger. It looked as if she’d pressed it well, and Rawlins took it from her with a nod of thanks. She gave him a strange look. He knew she didn’t like him, but there was definitely something sexual in it, and Rawlins was sure, even though she was six months’ pregnant, he could have her. She turned and left the room and Rawlins took the suit off the hanger and got dressed.

  Jimmy looked up as Harry entered the lounge. Beer cans littered the table and he was holding a fresh one in his hand. He stood up and gestured for Harry to follow him. Jimmy quietly opened the door to an adjacent room and pointed to the double bed. There, lying curled up, fast asleep, was a little boy of about four or five. With his black curly hair and olive skin, he didn’t look much like Jimmy, but Jimmy beamed and whispered, “My kid.”

  Harry watched Jimmy creep over to the bed and gently touch the child’s head, before bending over and giving him a sloppy, wet kiss from his beer-soaked lips.

  He looked up at Harry. “Great little feller, isn’t he?”

  Harry nodded. It was the way Jimmy looked at him, as if to say, “Here’s something that you haven’t got, Harry—a son,” that made it come out, and Harry heard himself saying, “I’ve got a kid.”

  Jimmy looked surprised. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Harry walked out of the room.

  “Oh.” Jimmy tucked the little boy in, gave him one last adoring look, and followed Harry out.

  Again, Harry had the feeling that Maria was watching him from the kitchen through those wretched plastic strips. He checked his face in the small, cracked mirror by the front door.

  “Where’s the bank?”

  “Can’t miss it, Harry—right in the square. You want me to come with you?”

  Harry shook his head. “I’ll find it.”

  As he walked down the stairs he could hear Maria starting in again on Jimmy, shouting at him in Portuguese. No wonder the man was always drinking.

  After a few minutes walking in the oppressive heat, it was a relief to walk into the bank, with the airy coolness of all the marble. Harry straightened his tie, checked his reflection in one of the cashiers’ windows, and asked for a withdrawal form for one of the private banking accounts. The cashier handed him the sheet without even looking up, and Harry sat down and quickly filled it out, having done it many times before, and brought it back.

  The cashier was tapping away at a calculator. He flicked a look in Harry’s direction, muttering, “Um momento, um momento, senhor,” before resuming his work: click, click, click.

  Harry slipped the paper underneath the railing in front of the cashier, who snatched it up with a grunt of annoyance and marched off before Rawlins could hand him his identification. He watched as the cashier started talking to a colleague, waving the form about in his hand. He then looked down at the form, glanced back at Harry and murmured something to the clerk. Then they turned their backs to him and murmured some more. Harry shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looked at his watch and waited. The clerk then took the form and walked toward him with an embarrassed look on his face.

  “May I inquire if you are a relative of the deceased?” he asked in perfect English.

  Harry didn’t know what he was talking about. “I’m sorry?”

  The clerk repeated the question and Harry gave an uncertain nod, even though the question made no more sense the second time round.

  “You have requested withdrawals from accounts 441880EJ and 4456880. That is correct?”

  Harry nodded. “Yes, but what’s all this about being a relative of the deceased?”

  Even in the cool of the bank, he could feel himself starting to sweat, the drops trickling down his neck and under his arms.

  The clerk seemed to choose his next words very carefully. “Mr. Rawlins’ widow, a Mrs. Dorothy Rawlins, provided a Certificate of Probate.”

  Rawlins swallowed hard. “She’s . . . she’s been here?”

  The clerk nodded. “Mrs. Rawlins withdrew all monies from her late husband’s accounts.”

  It took every ounce of Harry’s willpower to control himself. He clenched and unclenched his fists, feeling the sweat in the palms of his hands, as a dapper little man in a black suit emerged from the manager’s office and started walking purposefully toward them. Even from a distance, Harry could feel the man’s eyes boring into him, and he was suddenly conscious of the sweat running down his forehead and soaking through his shirt.

  The man in the suit stood beside the clerk and gave Harry a polite nod. “How may I be of assistance?”

  Harry nodded back, trying to keep his voice calm. “I would . . . very much like to contact her . . . Mrs. Rawlins. Do you have an address, by any chance?”

  The clerk flicked a look at the manager and, after a moment’s hesitation, got a nod in return. “Yes, the Hilton Hotel.”

  Harry swallowed. “Thank you.”

  The manager gave a little bow. “It’s the least we can do for a relative of Mr. Rawlins.”

  Jimmy knew something was wrong as soon as Harry walked in, slamming the door behind him. He grabbed hold of a beer can, ripped it open and drank most of it in one go.

  “Er, everything all right?” Jimmy stammered.

  Harry banged the can down on the table. “She around? Where is she?”

  Jimmy was starting to get flustered. “You mean Maria?”

  “Where is she?”

  “She’s gone out. I told her to get some food in. Is that OK, Harry? What do you want her for?”

  Harry sat down heavily and put his head in his hands. “I’m gonna need some help, Jimmy. I’m gonna need some help.”

  Jimmy pulled out a chair and sat down. “Sure, Harry, anything you want. Whatever I can do, you know. Has something happened?”

  Harry slowly lifted his hands from his face. “Yeah, you could say that. She’s cleaned me out.” He laughed bitterly. “The little bitch has cleaned me out.”

  Jimmy still didn’t understand. “Who? Who’re you talking about?”

  Harry almost spat out her name. “Dolly.”

  Jimmy finally understood. “You mean she thought you were dead?”

  Harry nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So she’s in Rio?”

  Harry nodded again, and then said, very quietly, “She’s cleaned me out, Jimmy. Five hundred grand.”

  Jimmy swallowed. “Five hundred? Christ almighty!”

  “Yeah, and now she’s got it.”

  “You know where she is?”

  “Hilton Hotel.”

  Then there was a pause. He looked at Jimmy.

  “We’re gonna have to find her. You know somebody who can help us?”

  Jimmy gave him a puzzled look. “Well, if she’s at the Hilton, why don’t you just go and find ’er?”

  Harry shook his head. “I’m a dead man, Jimmy. Understand me? I’m a dead man. I go walking into the Hilton Hotel, I start putting my face about, what the fuck do you think’s gonna happen to me? It cost me a fortune to get a fake passport.”

  “OK, Harry. OK, OK, I understand. OK, leave it to me, I’ll find her.”

  Harry gripped him by the arm. “You bloody well better, Jimmy. You bloody well better.”

  Morgan found Dolly’s hotel in a back street just behind Queen’s Gate. Only the discreet plaque on the wall was any indication that it was a hotel. She had class, this lady, you had to admit it.

  He drove round until he found a meter, but he couldn’t find any change, so he scribbled a note saying “meter out of order” and stuck it on the windscreen.

  Inside, the hotel was as tastefully understated as the outside. At the reception desk he asked for Mrs. Marsh, and a prim-looking, elderly lady informed him in a posh voice that Mrs. Marsh was taking breakfast in the dining room.

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Yes,” he replied with a smile, and the receptionist led him through a thickly carpeted hall, lined with antique-looking oil paintings, to a pair of glass doors leading into the small dining room. He spotted Dolly sitting alone at the far end with her back toward him.

  “Ah, I see her, thank you.”

  As he threaded his way between the tables, there was no talking, only the soft clink of cutlery and the rustle of newspapers. The residents were mostly well into their seventies and eighties. One old gentleman, sitting with his eyes closed and mouth half-open, looked as if he was at death’s door, and Morgan wondered if he was actually still breathing. He was so distracted, he almost bumped into the table as he sidled up to Dolly.

  “Morning,” he said brightly.

  Far from seeming surprised, Dolly turned round and nodded to the place opposite. As Morgan sat down, a pretty young waitress appeared with a cup and saucer, and inquired if he would like tea or coffee.

  “Coffee’s fine, thank you.” He lowered his voice. “Very nice hotel, if I may say so.”

  Dolly smiled. “Yes.”

  “Very quiet,” he whispered.

  Dolly’s plate of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon and thinly sliced toast looked very appetizing, and Morgan found himself licking his lips.

  “Er, mind if I take my coat off?”

  “Please, make yourself comfortable,” Dolly replied.

  Shrugging himself out of his coat, he almost slapped the elderly man at the table next to them with his sleeve—“Sorry, sorry!”—but the old gentleman was buried so deeply in his Telegraph that he didn’t seem to notice. Morgan finally managed to hang the coat over the back of the chair without further upsets, but Dolly held on to the table with both hands as he sat down, just in case he overturned it.

  The waitress appeared with the coffee pot and poured Morgan a cup. He heaped in the sugar and looked greedily at Dolly’s plate.

  “Mind if I have a piece of toast?”

  Dolly passed him her side plate and clean knife, watching as he heaped on butter and marmalade and started chomping noisily. Dolly placed her knife and fork together, even though she’d hardly touched her breakfast. Her appetite seemed to have disappeared.

  She waited patiently as Morgan finished his toast, wiped his mouth on a napkin, turned and fished a Woolworth’s notepad out of his coat pocket, then started leafing through it.

  “Right,” he said. “Trudie Nunn. Works as a waitress cum hostess at the Golden Slipper, a tatty little drinking club in Soho. Maybe she should apply for a job here.” He looked round. “Liven the place up a bit, eh?”

  Dolly didn’t smile.

  “Oh, there’s a kid. Did you know about him? A little boy.”

  Dolly said nothing.

  “This kid seems . . . He’s left with a landlady most days, or a neighbor.”

  Again he looked at Dolly. No reaction.

  She pushed the toast toward him. “Another slice, Mr. Morgan?”

  “Oh, ta.” As Morgan buttered the toast, he sensed a tension behind his client’s composed demeanor. He took a bite, then consulted his notebook again. “Er, it seems that Trudie, Mrs. Nunn, had a live-in lover. Husband went missing about six, seven months back. This chap moved in, kept himself very much to himself . . . The law not looking for your sister’s husband, are they?”

  Dolly shook her head. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, it was just that there seems to have been a bit of a rumpus one night. Cops came, broke down the door, searched the place, but whoever the feller was, he’d done a runner.”

  “Did you find out his name?” Dolly asked.

  Morgan laughed. “I think he went by the name of Mr. Smith. But then they all do, don’t they, Mrs. Marsh?”

  Dolly opened her bag. “I really wouldn’t know, Mr. Morgan.” She handed him an envelope. “I’d like you to continue watching Mrs. Nunn for at least another two days. And like I said, don’t bother calling me. I’ll be in touch.” She stood up and Morgan watched her curiously as she made her way out of the dining room.

  Funny woman, he thought. Something not quite right there. He knew she was lying, but that was common with women looking for their husbands. He couldn’t quite work out what she was lying about. Then he suddenly remembered something, got up from the table and caught up with her in the foyer as she was about to walk up the stairs.

  “Mrs. Marsh!”

  Dolly turned with a startled expression.

  “About the photograph. I did ask you for a photograph of your sister’s husband.”

  Dolly nodded. “Y-yes, I-I’m sorry, I’d forgotten. I’ll get one to you as soon as I can.” Then she hurried up the stairs.

  Morgan was now certain his instincts were right. There’s a lot more going on with Mrs. Marsh than meets the eye, he thought to himself. And he was now actually looking forward to getting back on the job watching Trudie Nunn’s house. He was curious to find out what sort of a man this Mr. Jarrow, the husband, was.