Rawlins put his hand out for the scrap of paper. ‘This place is a doss-house. I need groceries, booze, soap — there’s a list on the table there. I also need a motor. You got one lined up for me?’
Tesco replied sullenly, ‘Yeah, picking one up tomorrow.’
‘What time?’
‘’Bout ten.’
‘Right, see what you can get now, and bring the rest tomorrow.’
Tesco took that as his cue to get up and leave. He made sure Harry could see he was in no hurry. As he got to the door, he said, ‘I’ll be right back then, Harry.’
Harry was already dialing a number. He didn’t look up. ‘Mister Rawlins to you, son.’
Tesco thought he was joking and laughed. But when Harry turned to look at him, he knew he was serious. Tesco nodded and walked out.
Bella had rented her little one-room flat to Carla, a black girl she’d once worked with in a show. They’d become good friends, but Carla wasn’t exactly pleased to see her when Bella arrived. She’d expected to have the flat for at least three months, and now she was going to have to find somewhere else.
‘Sorry, darling,’ Bella said, ‘but that’s just the way life goes.’ Once she saw what a mess the flat was in, however, she eased up a bit. Carla would need some time to clean up. ‘Tell you what, I’ll book into a hotel tonight, but tomorrow... sorry.’
Carla walked Bella to the door and put her arms round her. ‘That’s OK. Things didn’t work out, eh?’
For a moment Bella looked as though she was going to cry. Then she just shrugged. ‘No, no, they didn’t. See you tomorrow then, kid. I’m sorry about this.’
Carla shut the door, leaning on it for a moment. Ohhh, shit. Now what am I gonna do? she thought. She went and picked up an old suitcase and started throwing her clothes into it.
Harry liked the fact that Gordon Murphy didn’t question his miraculous reappearance. Harry was alive, and that’s all that seemed to matter. Murphy was a big man, six foot two, and well-built but still slim-looking. He wore tinted, rimless glasses, which gave him a slightly chilling look. He had brought Harry a bottle of vodka, wrapped in tissue paper.
As he handed it over, he said, ‘I remembered your tipple, Harry. Vodka, that’s right, isn’t it?’
Harry smiled, slapping him on the back. He put the bottle on the coffee table, while Murphy went into the kitchen and found some glasses. Harry poured two large measures, and the two men clinked glasses and took a good belt.
‘Good to see you, Harry.’
Harry patted his arm. ‘I don’t want anyone to know I’m around, yeah?’
‘Sure, Harry.’
Harry knew his secret was safe with Murphy. He refilled their glasses and they both had another drink. Murphy put his glass down.
‘So, you need me to do something for you, Harry?’
‘Yeah, Gordon, I do.’ Harry proceeded to tell Murphy as much as he needed to.
Murphy listened in silence, then said, ‘If these girls know where Dolly is, then I’ll find her.’
Harry smiled. ‘I knew I could rely on you, Gordon.’ He looked embarrassed for a moment. ‘Look, I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment, but I’ll see you all right in a couple of days.’
Murphy looked into Rawlins’ face, very serious, and said, ‘Have this one on me — for old times’ sake, Harry.’
‘Cheers, Gordon.’
Gordon stood up, and Harry helped him into his coat, noticing how carefully he did up each button before he walked to the door.
‘How’s your mother?’ Harry asked.
Murphy sighed. ‘Not too good. Housebound now, but she’s still a game old bird.’
‘I’ll bet she is.’ Harry smiled.
At the door, Murphy said, ‘I’ll find her for you, Harry, you just leave it with me.’
Harry nodded. He knew that if anybody in London could find his wife, Gordon Murphy would — and no one would ever know about it.
Linda couldn’t get warm. She switched on the electric fire in the lounge, then the one in the bedroom, and she put on the electric blanket before getting into bed, but she still couldn’t get warm. She felt cold and lost, the flat so full of memories of Joe. She got out of bed and went down to the kitchen. The fridge contained half a bottle of rotten, stinking milk. She shut the fridge door and walked out of the basement and up the steps, wearing her dressing gown and fluffy slippers. She pressed the buzzer on the main door for old Mrs. Johnson upstairs. The old lady took her time, and Linda had to ring again. Eventually a feeble little voice asked who it was.
Linda put her mouth close to the intercom. ‘It’s Linda, from downstairs. Can I borrow some milk?’
The buzzer went and Linda slipped into the house, just as Gordon Murphy appeared. He took a quick look at the house, then headed down the basement steps. He rang the bell and waited, pressed again and waited some more. He peered through the window, rang the bell again, then flipped open the letterbox. He stood back and looked the door over — not too hard to break in, he reckoned.
He’d just check the other girl first.
Linda was opening the main door of the house just as Murphy came back up the basement steps. She stepped back sharply, pulling the door almost closed and watching him through the crack. When he was out of sight she scurried down the stairs and in through her own door, her hands shaking so much she could hardly open it. She wanted to call somebody, anybody, but she couldn’t think of anyone, so she made sure the front door was locked and got into bed. She could see her reflection in the mirror. Her face was white, her eye still bruised, and the line from nose to cheek brought back an overpowering memory of how close she had come to being killed.
She lay back on the pillow and the tears came. After a long time, she cried herself to sleep.
Carla had almost finished packing. She had called up all her friends to see if anyone would let her crash the next couple of weeks, but it was always the same — no room at the inn. Everybody knew Carla; she was always looking for a place to stay. Her transistor radio was playing Diana Ross, and Carla hummed along. The doorbell rang.
She yelled, ‘It’s open!’
There was no answer.
‘It’s open!’
She thought maybe it was Bella coming to check up on her. She began folding a dress before placing it in the suitcase.
The door slowly opened, and Gordon Murphy stood there. His voice was very quiet.
‘Just unpacking? Have a good trip, did you?’
Carla almost jumped out of her skin. ‘Who the hell are you?’
Murphy stepped into the flat. ‘I just want to ask you a few questions, darlin’. Tell me what I want to know and you won’t get hurt.’
She just stared at him, terror in her eyes.
‘Where’s Dolly Rawlins?’
‘I... er... who?’ she stammered.
‘Come on, don’t mess me about — Dolly Rawlins,’ he repeated, moving closer.
Carla started backing away. ‘I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.’
Murphy removed his tinted, rimless glasses, putting them very carefully into his jacket pocket.
‘I don’t wanna hurt you, Bella, but I’m not gonna ask you again. Where’s Dolly?’
Carla wanted to tell him that she wasn’t Bella, that she’d never heard of Dolly Rawlins, but she was so scared she couldn’t speak. Murphy picked up a pillow and moved toward her, while Diana Ross kept on singing in the background.
Murphy was a pro. That was one of the things Harry liked about him. Carla didn’t even have time to cry out.
Audrey was sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown. She felt the way she looked, pale and drawn, and the last thing she wanted to do was have an argument with Shirley, who was standing there with a paper carrier bag full of pornographic videos. Shirley dumped them noisily onto the table.