Widows

Fran gripped Resnick’s forearm. ‘He came to the hospital,’ she whispered. ‘God help me, he came to the hospital and said he’d kill me if I tell you.’

I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell me, thought Resnick. What he actually said was, ‘I’ll protect you.’

‘He was tall with dark hair. Piercing eyes that was cold as ice. He weren’t no thug, Mr. Resnick, he was a gent. A cold, callous, bastard gent!’

Resnick caught his breath. He pulled an A4 picture from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to Fran. ‘This man?’

Fran pushed the picture away so her eyes could focus properly on it and, when she did, Andrews saw that it was the image of Harry Rawlins from Resnick’s office wall, complete with dart hole in the forehead. Resnick was sweating, his face beetroot red.

‘That ain’t him,’ Fran said.

‘Look at it properly. Look at it!’ Resnick shouted, waving the image of Harry Rawlins in Fran’s face. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. This is him! Harry Rawlins is the man that beat you senseless. Tell me, tell me — I know it was him!’

Just as Andrews was working up the courage to step in, his radio crackled.

‘Get out! How can she concentrate?’ bellowed Resnick. Andrews reluctantly left.

When Andrews came back from answering the radio call, Resnick was still shaking the photo of Harry Rawlins in Fran’s face and shouting the same question over and over.

‘Was it him? Was it him?’

Andrews toyed with the idea of radioing Fuller and getting him to come and talk the old man down, but then he’d be the station joke for not being able to cope with a raving lunatic pensioner. Anyone could see that Fran’s description of her attacker was a fit for Rawlins, but it was also similar to half of London, so why Resnick seemed convinced that a dead man had come back to life and beaten the shit out of Fat Fran, he wasn’t at all sure. Andrews put his hand on Resnick’s shoulder.

‘Sir, there’s been an important development just radioed through—’

‘Shut up, Andrews!’ Resnick growled, shaking Andrews’s hand away. ‘Fran’s just about to confirm that she was assaulted by Harry Rawlins, aren’t you, Fran?’

Fran looked up at Resnick, her face terrified at the possible repercussions of what she was about to reveal. ‘No, Mr. Resnick. It wasn’t Harry Rawlins. It was... it was Tony Fisher.’

As they drove back to the Yard in silence, Andrews stole sidelong glances at Resnick, wondering if he should report his strange behavior to the DCI. Resnick looked drained and beaten, like he’d given up altogether. He didn’t even smoke and he always smoked in the car. As they turned the final corner toward the station, Andrews braved talking.

‘The call, sir. It was from Fuller. The kid killed by the Post Office van this morning was Carlos Moreno. He’s the Fisher brothers’ wheel man.’

Resnick didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard anything Andrews had said. He just stared out of the window.

Chapter 26

Fuller was pleased with his morning’s work — he’d got so much done without Resnick breathing down his neck. He grinned as he contemplated what sort of morning Andrews might have had. He bet it had been horrible.

Fuller had a full report prepared for Resnick detailing every piece of incriminating evidence found in Carlos’s car yard. It looked as if they could, at long last, pin something on the Fisher brothers. One of the cars recovered was a brown Jag with frontal damage and false plates in the boot. A subsequent check on the false plates revealed a brown Jag had recently been involved in a job in Manchester, chased and lost by police. Fuller had the vehicle checked for prints and was beaming when he was told both the Fisher brothers and Carlos’s prints were found inside and outside the car, but the false plates were clean. This was real police work; this wasn’t chasing ghosts and Fuller felt good. The Fishers were alive and well and about to be arrested.

Fuller had already spoken with DCI Saunders and told him about the death of Carlos and the good news about the Fishers’ prints being on the Jag. He was still agitating to be moved to the Mayfair robbery team, and hoped this would help his chances. Saunders had congratulated Fuller on a great morning of hard work, but moved on, once again, to the subject of bloody George Resnick.

‘Where’s your boss?’ Saunders had asked. ‘Chasing wild geese again, is he?’

‘Couldn’t say, sir,’ said Fuller.

‘As soon as they’re back,’ Saunders ordered, ignoring him, ‘I want to see Resnick and Andrews, separately, in my office. Do not let that man leave without seeing me.’

Fuller had returned to the main office with a smug smile on his face. He knew where Resnick was and he knew that Resnick had been bullying Fat Fran into saying that she’d been assaulted by a dead man, because Andrews had told him over the radio. Fuller hoped that Andrews had the balls to drop Resnick right in it.