Widows

‘Look,’ Resnick said, ignoring Fuller’s tone. ‘Rawlins used four men in that raid, right? Now we know where those three men are—’ he pointed to the mug shots of Rawlins, Miller and Pirelli — ‘but as for the fourth man’s identity, we’ve got bugger all on him... until last night.’ Resnick paced up and down as he recapped. ‘The rumor is that Boxer was on the up, and Green Teeth thought he had the ledgers, or he knew who did. Then he ends up in an alley, lured to his death by someone he knew — a proper professional job it was, too. Twenty-four hours later we still haven’t had any dabs off those mugs in his place and the landlady’s too terrified to talk. But she’s all we got, Fuller. So, first thing tomorrow, I want her in here and I want to know who gave her that thrashing.’

Even with his stupid glazed expression, Resnick knew Fuller was listening. ‘You think it was the fourth man,’ Fuller said slowly.

‘Now you’re getting it, son.’ Resnick almost beamed. ‘Now you are getting it.’ He sat back down behind his desk, picked up a dart, took aim and hit Harry Rawlins right in the forehead.

Fuller stood for a moment, looking at the dart sticking out of the wall, looked to Resnick, then back to the dart. He shifted his weight. The fat man had probably got a point, but there was no way he’d say as much.

‘You going for a few jars? Reckon we deserve it.’ This was Resnick’s attempt at being nice. It didn’t mean he was going to buy them, of course. The only person he’d ever bought a pint for was Alice... and she’d asked for a gin and tonic. She’d drunk it nonetheless so as not to offend him.

Fuller turned to go. ‘It’s 6 a.m.... sir,’ he said.

‘Oi!’ Resnick shouted. ‘Being tired is no excuse for being a bad copper. Tell the rest of them when they come in to do their surveillance sheets and get this file up to date.’

Fuller sighed and took a deep breath. ‘DCI Saunders removed the surveillance on the Rawlins house.’ He watched Resnick’s face as it slowly went crimson from the neck up. ‘It was one of the things he was going to discuss with you during your meeting. The meeting you missed.’

‘It starts again!’ hissed Resnick, ‘You hear me, Fuller? It starts again right now.’

Fuller nodded, too tired and too pissed off with this ridiculous case to argue. He left Resnick’s office, closing the door behind him.

As Resnick sat alone, there was much that bothered him about the conversation he’d just had with Fuller. It wasn’t just that he’d been up all night. What really got his goat was that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the words: ‘Coming for a snifter, guv?’ Before his suspension over the newspaper fit-up, no one ever left the station without giving him a yell. Now, nobody gave a toss about him, and it would only get worse when he moved into the new glass office annex, where everyone could look at him. And how the bloody hell could Saunders cancel surveillance on his case, and not one of his officers give him the heads up?

Resnick suddenly felt terribly lonely. His marriage was stale and empty. His wife hardly even spoke to him, never mind had sex with him — not that he’d want her to. For months, he’d been using the box room to sleep in because of coming in so late and going out so early — or at least that was the excuse. In truth, the idea of lying next to a woman who disliked him was too much to deal with; he hid in the box room because it was easier.

As he walked slowly to his office door, the exhaustion finally hit him. Glancing at the faces of the three dead men one last time, he headed to the local cafe for a solitary breakfast.

Chapter 17

The motorbike’s wheels tore up the sandy gravel path, leaving deep tracks as the rider spun and slid, enjoying the thrill of being able to let loose and really test what this machine could do. As the bike came to a skidding halt, it sent a tidal wave of sand and pebbles spraying up against the cliff face.

The beach below was beautiful. Miles and miles of nothing much — just what the doctor ordered. Bella took her helmet off and sat on Oil Head’s bike, admiring the view. Oil Head had recently been put away for six months for dealing drugs and he’d asked Bella to run his bike out every now and then so it didn’t lie idle. He’d meant her just to start the engine every three or four weeks but — what the hell! It was a fabulous bike and because he was behind on the payments, Bella knew it’d be repossessed before he got out of prison. She might as well get the most from it before the repo men turned up, flexing their muscles.

Cruising down clear early morning roads in her black leather motorcycle gear, Bella had opened the throttle and bent low over the handle bars... even though she had been riding motorbikes for years, this was the first time she had hit a hundred miles an hour solo. She had felt exhilarated, speeding through the country lanes like a TT racer.