Shirley’s mouth quivered as she tried to hold back the tears.
Bella got up, just wanting to get out, to get away from her. ‘Don’t smudge your make-up,’ she said with a brittle smile. ‘If you’ve got an appointment, you’d better keep it!’
‘Oh, Bella,’ Shirley whispered, reaching for her hand, and Bella clasped it tight.
‘I’m sorry,’ Bella said. ‘Look, you go ahead, do what you have to do. I’ll wait here for Dolly.’
Bella watched as Shirley walked down the path. She turned at the gate and gave a little wave. Bella didn’t wave back. The anger had gone, but she still couldn’t quite believe that Shirley had something so important to do that she could walk out of the house now, with Linda dead and Dolly who knows where, and everything in pieces.
She wished Dolly would come. Dolly would know what to do. Dolly always knew what to do.
Dolly woke with a splitting headache, as if someone had clamped a band round her head and was pulling it tight. She opened her eyes and everything was hazy. For a moment she didn’t know where she was. The furniture was heavy, Victorian, masculine. There was a big dressing table, and Dolly saw her handbag on top of it. Then she saw the chair, with her torn stockings, her skirt and blouse, all neatly laid out, with her mud-spattered shoes on the floor underneath. She looked at the pillow next to her, the half-full brandy glass on the bedside table and felt a momentary panic.
There was a tap on the door and Dolly reached for the sheet to cover herself. Vic Morgan walked in with a smile, carrying a cup of coffee.
‘How are you feeling?’
Dolly just wrapped the sheet tighter round her.
He put the coffee down and picked up the brandy glass. ‘Do you feel like something to eat?’
Dolly was still desperately trying to remember what had happened the night before. It was all a blank. How did she get here? And, more importantly, what had she told this man? How much did he know?
Morgan carried the glass to the door and took the dressing gown that was hanging there off the hook.
‘Would you like this? If you want a bath or something, it’s first on the left.’
Dolly managed to say, ‘Thank you,’ then added, ‘Do you have an aspirin?’
He opened a small drawer in the dressing table, took out a bottle of aspirin and handed it to Dolly. ‘Your gun’s in there as well, by the way,’ he said casually.
As she took the bottle, she felt the sheet slipping away from her breasts, and Morgan could sense her discomfort. ‘I slept on the sofa,’ he said gently. ‘You got yourself undressed, I just laid them out.’ He turned to leave.
Dolly could feel herself flushing with embarrassment. ‘Thank you, Mr. Morgan.’
‘That’s all right... Mrs. Rawlins.’
A bolt of lightning hit Dolly. Did he just call her ‘Mrs. Rawlins’? Then he knew.
‘Er... what time is it, Mr. Morgan?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice relaxed and casual.
He turned to her with a smile. ‘Almost 9:30, Mrs. Rawlins.’
Detective Inspector Alex Fuller also had a headache that morning. He was washing his hands in the cloakroom, wondering why he’d had so many lately. Probably something to do with his sinuses. He took out a nose spray and gave himself a squirt, hoping that would help matters. He wiped his nose and then washed his hands again. He examined his clean, short-cut nails and dried his hands, before looking at his watch. Perfect. Just time to nip up to the canteen for a cup of coffee before sifting through all those reports.
Detective Constable John Reynolds was assigned to Fuller. At that moment, Reynolds was sitting behind his desk in the annex, carefully typing Fuller’s diary reports and silently cursing his boss. Fuller was a stickler for accuracy, and everything had to be by the book, while on a personal level he could be stiff and unfriendly. But at least, Reynolds thought to himself, as Detective Inspector Eric Frinton banged through the double doors, Fuller was a professional.
Frinton was carrying a coffee and eating a bacon sandwich as he strolled over to Reynolds’ desk and perched himself on the corner.
‘Got you going, has he? Bit of a slave-driver, our Detective Inspector.’
Reynolds stopped typing with a frown. ‘Something I can do for you?’
Frinton took a slurp of his coffee, almost spilling it over Reynolds’ neatly typed papers. ‘Your guv’nor about? Might have somethin’ of interest for him.’ He took a big bite of his bacon sandwich and began chewing noisily.
‘Like what?’ Reynolds asked, pushing his typewriter to one side.
Frinton swallowed his mouthful and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. ‘Your guv’nor was working on the Rawlins caper, wasn’t he? With Resnick? You gotta fag?’
Reynolds shook his head. ‘I don’t smoke.’
DI Fuller appeared through the swing doors, carrying a coffee cup in a saucer. He gave Frinton a cool nod.
Frinton pushed himself off the desk. ‘I was just telling Mabel Privet, here, I might have something that’ll interest you.’ He shrugged. ‘On the other hand, it might not. Christ, I’m gasping for a fag,’ he added hopefully.
Fuller looked at him with distaste. ‘Come on, out with it, Frinton. I’ve got work to do.’
Frinton coughed. ‘Yeah, right. We had a stiff on Hampstead Heath last night, a girl — Linda Pirelli.’
For a moment Fuller looked blank. ‘Pirelli?’
‘Yeah, Joe Pirelli’s old lady. He got fried on that underpass raid, remember?’
‘And she’s dead?’ Fuller was now very alert.
Frinton grinned. ‘Yeah, as a doornail. Could be suspicious. My lads are looking into it.’
‘Suspicious how?’ Fuller asked.
‘Well, the body was twenty yards from a car, in a ditch. Hit and run, by the look of it.’
‘Another vehicle?’
‘Well, I don’t suppose she ran over herself.’
Fuller looked thoughtful. ‘How come you’re involved?’
‘Couple of my boys were just drivin’ past — seems the Pirelli girl had a smash at the top of the road, they followed her down and found her in the ditch.’
Fuller looked bemused. ‘So what the hell happened?’
Frinton shrugged. ‘Look, you want any details, come over to my place. I’m on the way home now, but my lads’ll give you anything you want. But just remember you owe me, right?’
Fuller nodded. ‘Right.’
Frinton gave him a wink, took another bite of his sandwich and lurched away, spilling coffee as he went.
Fuller turned to Reynolds. ‘Let’s get a car organized and go over to his office. Nothing else on, is there?’
Reynolds shook his head. ‘Very quiet at the moment, guv.’
‘Right, and while you’re at it, get out that file on... Tell you what, go and see if you can pick up all of Resnick’s old files on Harry Rawlins, all right?’
Fuller picked up his cup and took a sip of his coffee, deep in thought. He didn’t seem to notice that it had gone cold.
Dolly sat at Vic Morgan’s elegant dining table and thought what an extraordinary jumble the whole place was, with antique furniture rubbing up against modern lamps, typewriters and other gadgets. It had the uncared-for feel of a bachelor pad, but somewhere along the line it could have been his mother’s. She looked at the photograph of a woman and a young boy on the mantelshelf.
Morgan stood at the door. ‘They’ve got her in the morgue. I’m sorry.’
Dolly knew Linda was dead, but hearing him say it was still a shock, somehow.
‘D’you want some more coffee?’
Dolly shook her head. ‘She pushed me out of the way. It should have been me.’
Morgan poured himself another cup. Dolly was ripping up a piece of tissue paper, pulling it apart, piece by piece.
‘They’re doing an autopsy this morning.’