Bella shook her head, smiling. ‘I’ll have a word with her later.’
Linda appeared with suitcase number four. ‘That’s it!’
Shirley looked at Bella. ‘Just waiting for the cab, then I’m off.’
At that moment the taxi appeared through the wrought-iron gates and came to a halt with a spray of gravel.
Linda was already shouting at the top of her voice: ‘Four suitcases, amigo, to the airport, pronto!’
Shirley turned to her. ‘There’s no need to shout, Linda.’
The driver got out of the cab and started piling the suitcases into the boot. At the same time the chauffeur got out of the Roller and opened the rear passenger door for Bella.
She turned to Shirley with a grin before getting in. ‘This is the life, eh, kiddo? This is the life.’ The chauffeur shut the door, and the electric windows slowly glided down. ‘Look after yourself, hon. See you back in London.’
The chauffeur slowly turned the Roller round and drove off, as Bella gave a last wave to Linda, which she pointedly ignored.
Shirley started checking that all the suitcases had been packed into the taxi, then suddenly remembered and shouted after the Roller as it disappeared through the gates, ‘Thanks for the present!’
Linda gave her a bemused look. ‘What present?’
‘Oh, Bella gave me ever such a nice little thing. A farewell gift.’
Linda looked miffed: one, because she hadn’t thought of it herself, and two, because nobody ever told her anything. She started to get into the taxi but Shirley put a hand on her arm. ‘Oh, come on, Linda, there’s no need for you to come with me.’
Linda turned. ‘I’m just comin’ as far as the airport, OK? Come on, get in.’ She flicked the driver on the back of the neck as Shirley settled in next to her. ‘OK, amigo, move it, pronto!’
Both girls slammed into the back of the seat as the taxi whipped round in a U-turn and sped down the drive.
Harry Rawlins looked round Jimmy Glazier’s small, untidy flat. It was crazy — it was as if they’d moved a tower block from Paddington smack into the center of Rio. The building was certainly just as noisy, as the sound of stereos and transistors blaring, couples arguing and screaming kids drifted up from outside and through the shutters. The kitchen was separated from the dining room by stripped plastic curtains, from behind which he could see a woman furtively watching them.
‘Maria!’ Jimmy yelled. ‘Come out and meet my friend!’
Maria stepped through the curtains. She was heavily pregnant and there was something very sensual about her, with her long, dark hair in one big braid down her back. She nodded to Harry, looked at Jimmy, then turned and went back into the kitchen.
Jimmy was sweating freely, and Rawlins could smell the reek of it filling the little room.
‘Hey, don’t pay any attention to her,’ he said, popping open two cans of beer. ‘She’s a bit broody. She’s expecting another kid. It’s this heat. With no air-conditioning in here, it boils you up, yer know what I mean? Boils you up, Harry. Siddown!’
Harry pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat. ‘What time do the banks open, Jimmy?’
Jimmy looked at his watch. ‘It’s siesta now, so give it about an hour. The bank’s in the square.’
He pulled his chair closer and Harry was overpowered by the sickly sweet smell of Jimmy’s body odor.
‘Harry... I’ve got a little number lined up in England. It’s a doddle, honest!’
Harry couldn’t help but smile. How many times had Jimmy Glazier been put away because of his sure-fire doddles?
He patted him on the shoulder. ‘Look, Jimmy, I’m over here to collect cash, and that’s it. I’m out of the business now, OK?’
Jimmy nodded. ‘Anything you say, Harry.’ He guzzled down his beer and flipped open another one.
Harry stood up. ‘I’m a bit whacked, Jimmy. Mind if I put my head down?’
Jimmy was on his feet. ‘Anything you say, Harry. All you gotta do is ask. My place is your place, you know what I mean? You been good to me, Harry. This is my chance to repay you.’ He continued to prattle on as he led Harry toward an even smaller room off the lounge. This was a child’s bedroom, with a tiny cot bed and toys littering the floor. The shutters were closed, but the air was still hot. Jimmy kicked the toys out of the way and pulled back the grimy sheets.
‘’Ere you go, ’Arry. I’ll give you a shout in a couple of hours, OK?’
Harry nodded. ‘Thanks, Jimmy.’
Jimmy hovered by the door for a few moments, still beaming, before going back to the lounge. After a moment, Harry heard the sound of yet another beer can being ripped open, and the low murmuring of Jimmy and Maria, speaking in Portuguese. Obviously Maria didn’t want Harry to stay, but by now he was too tired to even think about it. He lay on the bed, the clammy heat stifling him, and then he fell asleep.
Dolly looked at the sheet of instructions Mr. Jarrow’s over-polite Frenchified assistant had just handed her. She was supposed to bring night clothes and dark glasses. The operation was to be in two weeks, the only time Mr. Jarrow had available. He was obviously a very, very busy man.
Dolly looked up at the assistant. ‘Are the glasses compulsory?’
‘No, Mrs. Rawlins, just a suggestion. If you could be here at 3:30 on the day of the operation just to have a final check, we’ll take you over to the clinic.’
Dolly smiled. She felt as if she was actually bursting with happiness, like a child who’s just been told she’s won a prize. She picked up her handbag, gave the assistant a brief nod, and walked out into the street. The sun was shining and she felt good; things were going just as she’d planned.
She walked across to the meter — it was always a good sign when you got a meter immediately, particularly in Harley Street — and got into her hired green Ford Fiesta.
Now, she thought, for stage two.
She’d found his name in the Yellow Pages. She soon discovered that most private detectives were connected to one large firm, so she’d kept on ringing numbers until she found one who seemed to work on his own. That was the kind of man she wanted. His name was Victor Morgan — Victor Morgan of the Victor Morgan Private Investigation Bureau.
Victor Morgan had had his offices in Kensington for about four years, in a sprawling old building off the Cromwell Road. That afternoon he was studying his newest acquisition, a word processor that had set him back five and a half grand. But he thought it was going to be worth it. In a few months he would have a filing system of floppy disks that would fit into one drawer. Yes, things were looking up.
He was busily checking over the computer’s manual when he heard footsteps outside the door. He looked at his watch — Mrs. Marsh was smack on time.
The door handle rattled and he yelled out, ‘Push... push, Mrs. Marsh!’
Dolly, from outside, turned the handle one more time, gave it an almighty shove and hurtled into the office.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ she said, patting herself down. ‘Something wrong with your door?’
He smiled. ‘Gotta get it fixed one day. It’s a tricky lock, but it’s all right when you get the hang of it. Do sit down.’
He shut the door behind her, and Dolly took stock of the man she’d chosen. He was big, well over six foot, and stocky with it. Not particularly good-looking, but there was a kind of warmth to him that didn’t fit with the conventional image of a private investigator.
His bulk filled the chair as he sat back down at his desk and leaned forward. ‘Well, Mrs. Marsh, what can I do for you?’
Dolly placed her handbag on the desk. ‘I would like you to watch... er...’ She broke off.
Here we go again, thought Victor: the hesitant wives too embarrassed to admit they wanted you to follow their husbands.