Sleep wouldn’t come. She lay there, staring at the empty bed beside her, going over what had happened that night: the lock-up, Harry, the plans. Then she turned and whispered to the empty bed: ‘We’ll get him this time, Linda. This time we will.’
Dolly was exhausted. All she wanted was sleep, but like Bella, everything that had happened was churning over in her mind. Her feet were like lead as she turned the bend in the stairs up to her flat and saw Vic Morgan.
Her face fell. This was all she needed.
She opened her bag, not meeting his eyes, and searched for the keys. Morgan was holding a bunch of wilting flowers. He gave her a grin.
‘I’d just about given up on you.’
Dolly dropped the keys and he bent down to pick them up, glancing at her filthy shoes. It hadn’t been raining, and he wondered where she’d been. He fitted the key into the lock and opened the door.
‘Please leave me alone, Mr. Morgan. I’m very tired.’
Morgan tried to hand her the flowers but she wouldn’t take them. She just stood there, holding the door, frowning.
‘I wondered if we could have dinner one evening... or lunch? OK, cup of tea then? I’m not fussy.’
‘Oh, just take your flowers and get out, will you?’ she snapped angrily, turning to close the door.
He put his foot inside, not too forcefully, but she couldn’t shut the door.
‘D’you want me to start screaming the place down?’
Morgan knew she meant it. Her expression was cold and hard. She was hardly recognizable as the woman who had spent the night at his place. He slowly removed his foot and looked down at the flowers still in his hand.
‘Blimey, these look about as wilted as I am. I’ll get some fresh ones next time.’ He made no move to go.
‘All right, I’ll meet you for lunch,’ Dolly said, just wanting him to go away. ‘Next Saturday.’ It was far enough off that she didn’t have to think about it.
He grinned. ‘OK, good. Saturday. Lunch it is.’
The door slammed shut.
‘I’ll just leave these on the mat... if you want them,’ he called through the door. He laid the flowers down gently and started down the stairs. Halfway he stopped, hearing her door open. He crept back up to see Dolly reach down and pick up the flowers. She held them close to her, almost burying her face in the wilting heads, then she shut the door.
As Morgan turned back down the stairs, he could hear her sobbing.
The rain was pelting down and Fuller was in one of his moods as the patrol car turned through the gates of Regent’s Park. He’d had yet another silent breakfast, and now he had indigestion. He popped a tablet out of the packet in his pocket and put it in his mouth.
They were cruising slowly down the lane toward the cricket pavilion. ‘How close do you want, guv’nor?’ the driver asked.
Fuller tapped the driver’s shoulder. ‘Here will do.’ He turned to Reynolds. ‘You see him?’
Reynolds leaned forward and they both scanned the park, squinting to see through the rain.
‘There he is, sir.’
Sonny Chizzel was standing under a large golfing umbrella, facing the boating pond, throwing soggy bread to the ducks.
Fuller watched for a few moments, then hitched up his collar and got out. ‘Shit.’ He’d forgotten his umbrella. He began to walk briskly toward the boat house.
Reynolds leaned back, watching. ‘Right old mood he’s in this morning, isn’t ’e? Trouble at home, I reckon.’
The driver turned round, holding out a packet of cigarettes. Reynolds shook his head.
‘You’re probably right. He does his nut if he smells smoke in the car — starts spraying deodorizer all over the place.’ The driver put the cigarettes back in his pocket without lighting up.
They could see Fuller talking to the man with the umbrella, but both men were still facing away from them, toward the water. Fuller was gesticulating animatedly, shaking his head. Reynolds laughed as a goose went up behind Fuller and started nipping at his trousers. Fuller turned and shooed the bird away, then continued his discussion. Eventually the man with the umbrella moved off, and Fuller, with shoulders hunched, walked to a nearby bin and started rummaging through the refuse before he found what looked like an old Mother’s Pride wrapper. He jogged back to the patrol car and yanked open the door.
As Fuller dried himself off with his handkerchief, Reynolds opened the bag and found a slip of paper inside.
‘This is it?’ It was just a list of numbers.
‘I bloody well hope so. Should be serial numbers.’
Reynolds nodded. ‘Who was it?’
‘The Jewish Chronicle himself, Sonny Chizzel. Says a bloke wants to launder some cash, and it might tally with the missing dough from the underpass raid. He’s very cagey. We got something on him?’
Reynolds nodded and looked down the list of scrawled numbers. It should be easy enough to check them with the security firm.
Fuller prodded the driver’s shoulder. ‘Let’s get bloody going. I’m soaked to the skin.’ He took the list of serial numbers from Reynolds. ‘Sixty thousand quid. Reckon he’s been tapped, and he thinks he’ll make more from the reward. If these numbers are notes from the underpass raid, we’ll haul the little prick in.’
‘Did you offer him a deal?’ Reynolds asked.
‘Look, I could have offered him the Crown jewels — doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gonna come across. And definitely not with a bastard who won’t even let me under his brolly.’ Fuller blew his nose loudly. ‘First thing we do back at the office, we take another look at all those files Resnick hoarded and see if Mr. Chizzel’s in there somewhere...’
As they drove on toward the station, a radio message came though confirming that Sonny’s tail was in position.
Fuller rubbed his hands. ‘Good. I told them to make it obvious. Let him know we mean business.’
Bella opened up the door. She’d had a rotten night’s sleep, only finally getting into a nice dream just before the doorbell had woken her up, and there was Dolly, fresh as a daisy, giving her a ticking off for keeping her waiting for the whole world to see. Bella picked up the milk from the doorstep, peeled off the gold top and drank.
‘Don’t do that, it’s a filthy habit.’
Inside the kitchen, Dolly put her shopping bag on the table, then picked it up again and went to the sink for a wet cloth to wipe the table down.
‘Where’s Shirley?’
Bella, still drinking from the milk bottle, took the note that had been stuck to the fridge and handed it to her. Dolly read: ‘...dance class... modeling class.’ She ripped it up and dropped the pieces in the bin. ‘What did she say — about last night?’
Bella dropped a slice of bread in the toaster and pressed the switch down. ‘I haven’t had a chance to tell her. She was dead to the world when I came in. And by the look on her face I’d say she got her rocks off well and good.’
Dolly made a sour face.
‘You get out of bed on the wrong side, huh?’
Dolly turned on her. ‘I came back here to work out how we’re going to exchange the money, now that we’ve found the book, but Shirley’s not even bloody here — she’s off dancing or modeling or Christ knows what, while we’re sat here twiddling our thumbs.’
Bella’s toast began to burn, and she fished it out of the toaster with a fork, then opened the fridge for butter.
‘Well, as soon as Sleepin’ Beauty gets back, we’ll sort it.’
Dolly sat down. ‘D’you have to treat everything as a joke?’
Bella slammed the butter dish down and let fly. ‘A joke? Do I think it’s a joke Linda’s dead? Do I think it’s a joke that I’ve lost the only decent thing I ever had in my life back in Rio? No, Dolly, I don’t think it’s a fucking joke.’ She glared at her and went back to furiously buttering her toast.