Widows

Across the busy street, Boxer Davis was eating a bag of fish and chips. This area of Soho was alive after dark with late-night food stalls, clubs, pubs and arcades. The Fishers’ club was the headline act, but there were plenty of lower-ranking venues, too; something to suit everyone. The streets were an eclectic mix of the flamboyantly stylish like Carlos, scruffy no-hopers like Charlie and general dogsbodies like Boxer. Businessmen met working girls, criminals did deals, stags and hens got pissed, people aged eighteen to eighty mixed and mingled. No one was out of place.

Boxer had seen Carlos snogging Linda and was still gawping, chip hanging out of his mouth, when Charlie passed him on his way for food. ‘All right, Charlie?’ Boxer said. ‘Was that Joe Pirelli’s missus you was talking to? Just cos I knew her old man.’

Charlie nodded and moved off. He hadn’t seen Boxer in ages and didn’t like him, or want to chat with him. As far as Charlie was concerned, Boxer was a drunk always looking for handouts. He glanced back at him, noting the well-cut suit he was wearing. He looked decent for a change, might be doing all right for himself — Charlie decided he might be worth acknowledging. ‘See you around, Boxer... if you need anything, I’m working in the arcade.’

Boxer beamed and gave Charlie a wave. ‘Right you are, Charlie. Right you are.’

Charlie felt a stab of jealousy and then got angry. The day you’re jealous of Boxer Davis, he thought, is the day you should shoot yourself. In the chippy queue, Charlie dug about in his pocket and quickly established he could only afford a small portion of chips and a fish cake. God, he wished he could get out of this shithole! His leg was really playing him up in the colder weather and it made him limp something rotten. Even as a kid Charlie had been weak and when the polio had chosen him out of his whole school he’d been left with a gammy leg. With his coins clenched tight in his clammy fist, he put his other hand back in his pocket and took a gentle grip on his balls. He grinned, comforted, and watched the arses walk by.

Chapter 14

Resnick stormed through the station corridor spoiling for a fight, but no one was obliging. He wanted to smooth things over with Saunders before going to meet Green Teeth, but the station was pretty much deserted apart from the painters and decorators who had taken over the corridors, apparently with the specific aim of getting in Resnick’s way. It was bedlam. Without being consulted, Resnick had been moved into a much smaller office while the main one was being painted. He’d seen the plans and knew he’d end up with a clear glass annex. The very idea of people being able to look in at him while he prowled and thought and smoked and worked infuriated him. He was a private man who trusted very few people — the idea of sitting in a goldfish bowl for all to see made his blood boil.

‘Alice!’ Resnick bellowed. ‘Ali—’

Alice popped her head out of a doorway. She was holding all of the files from Resnick’s desk, neatly stacked in a box. On top of the box was a sandwich from the vending machine.

‘Your filing cabinet’s in my office, locked, I have the key. These will go in my desk drawer till your desk is moved out and Saunders has gone home because the paint fumes gave him a headache. He’ll be continuing his case review tomorrow so you’d better make yourself available. His words, not mine.’ Alice nodded toward the sandwich. ‘Cheese and ham. I take it you’ve not eaten.’

‘Thank you, Alice.’ Resnick took his sandwich and left to meet his snout, Green Teeth.

‘How was your day?’ Alice called after him.

‘We found the man from the bread company who probably helped Rawlins; but I can’t interview him because he’d dead.’

There was nothing Alice could say to make Resnick feel better about that, but moral support was often all he wanted. ‘Well, I hope Green Teeth has some better news for you. Goodnight, sir.’ She gave a sweet smile and bustled off.

Barely ten minutes later, Resnick was sitting in the back seat of the police car with his briefcase open on his lap as Fuller drove toward Regent’s Park. Andrews took a covert glance over his shoulder at Resnick — the concentration on the old man’s face was riveting. His eyes flicked from page to page as he speed-read his way through the reports, looking for anything that would guide him to the Rawlins’ ledgers. Dolly Rawlins’s surveillance notes were a particularly interesting read: hairdressers, the Sanctuary, bank, hairdressers, convent, bank, hairdressers...

‘Andrews. Ask the surveillance team where Dolly Rawlins is right now.’

‘She’s in the house. They radioed through while you were in the station.’