Fuller looked up. ‘Have they got him?’
Reynolds shook his head. ‘Two men escaped on a motorbike with £8 million in gems.’
Fuller was on his feet. Maybe it wasn’t too late to get in on the act.
At first Bella had tried to persuade Dolly to come with her. ‘If Shirley spills the beans, you’re better off out of it, too.’
Dolly had shaken her head. ‘She’ll need a lawyer if they’ve got her. She’ll need money. I’m staying.’
Dolly could have added that she had more faith in Shirley than Bella did, but there was no point getting into that.
‘You go, Bella. At least one of us will be safe. Take the twenty-five grand. I’ll get more to you as soon as I can.’
Now here they were at Victoria. Bella got out of the car, gave Dolly a wan smile, then walked into the station. From there she would catch a train to Gatwick, and then... Dolly didn’t know where she was going to go; the important thing was she was gone.
Dolly heaved a sigh of relief as she got back into the car. As she started the engine, she saw the jewel pouch, sticking out from under the passenger seat. She tucked it away and drove off.
Kevin White had finally broken. It had taken a lot longer than Frinton had anticipated, but now he finally had two more names: Brian Fisk and Micky Tesco. Harry Rawlins was still missing, but he’d have to wait. Kevin White had told him who had shot the girl. The first thing was to get a warrant for the arrest of Micky Tesco on a murder charge.
Frinton was feeling buoyant, even when he spotted DI Fuller lurking.
‘Sorry.’ Frinton smiled. ‘I’m a bit busy right now. Perhaps you could talk to a junior officer?’
‘Of course,’ Fuller replied stiffly.
It was a slap in the face, but Fuller took it, desperate for so much as a crumb. Frinton almost felt sorry for him, but he knew if things had been the other way round, Fuller wouldn’t have given him the time of day. This was Frinton’s baby now, and he didn’t want anyone else getting in on the act. It was still Sunday; come Monday he’d have the Chief all over it, with the possibility of the Yard taking over. He knew he had to move fast. He could almost see the headlines: Detective Inspector Frinton single-handedly nets the biggest team of villains since the Great Train Robbery...
He just needed to pick up Tesco and hit him with a murder charge. Then it would only be a matter of time before they picked up Rawlins, the elusive dead man, himself.
Vic Morgan sat by Resnick’s bedside, beginning to wish he hadn’t come. He’d thought, on first seeing the pathetic scarecrow in the bed, that Resnick wouldn’t have the strength to talk to him. What little hair Resnick had left after the chemotherapy stuck to his skull in pathetic wisps. His face was gaunt, and his pajamas seemed four or five sizes too big. To put it simply, he looked as if he was dying.
But now here he was, fighting to push himself up in the bed, his face almost puce with anger, as he jabbed a bony finger at Morgan’s chest.
‘So she bought you a bleedin’ jacket, and you think she’s God’s gift? I’m telling you, she’s been with him all along, you stupid son of a bitch. I told you, warned you to keep your eye on ’er. Any chance we had of that reward money’s gone out of the bloody window now.’
Moans of ‘shut up’ came from some of the other beds in the ward.
Morgan sighed, still desperately hanging on to the small thread of hope that Dolly wasn’t involved.
The night nurse appeared beside the bed.
‘You’re really going to have to go, I’m afraid. If Matron finds out you were here, I’ll more than likely get the sack.’
Morgan nodded. ‘I’ll come back soon,’ he assured Resnick. ‘As soon as I have anything.’
He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d turned up feeling quite pleased with himself, but now he was leaving with his tail between his legs.
‘You stick to her like I told you to,’ Resnick added. ‘Don’t for a minute think she’s straight. She’s as bent as my crippled hand.’
Morgan stood to go.
‘And take your soddin’ roses with you. They give me hay fever.’
As Reynolds drove them to Tesco’s place, Fuller tried to piece it together. Micky Tesco had last been seen at Arnie Fisher’s club with Shirley Miller. And Rawlins had been there, too. Then, when Shirley was shot, she apparently called out ‘Dolly.’
Fuller sat back and closed his eyes. Dolly was Harry Rawlins’ wife. Could she have been working with Rawlins all along? Fuller remembered Dolly’s face when she asked for the watch, the gold watch that had identified her husband. If she had been acting then, she was National Theatre material. Had she also been acting when they told her her husband was dead? He shook his head, seeing her face again, the eyes wide, staring, her body taut. She had been unable to speak. If Dolly Rawlins was in cahoots with her husband, then by God they were one hell of a team.
Audrey had wheeled her new pram and carrycot combined into the tower block. She pressed the button for the lift. Nothing happened. She waited, then tried the second one. The graffiti was hacked into the chrome: ‘FUCK off cunts.’
Audrey muttered that they all were, then pushed the pram toward the stairs, hauling it up awkwardly, knowing she had three floors to go and wishing she had waited for Ray. She managed the pram up the first flight, and was wheeling it round to begin the next flight when a female police officer appeared.
Audrey was glad of the assistance. The WPC called for her male colleague, and together they carried the pram up to Audrey’s flat.
‘It’s the first time I’ve needed you lot.’ Audrey caught the look between the two and felt a moment of panic. ‘You’re not coming to see me, are you?’
They helped her wheel her pram into the hallway, then both stood by the door.
‘It’s Greg, isn’t it? What’s he done this time? I’ve told ’im and told ’im. He’s not been thieving again, ’as he?’
The WPC followed Audrey into the kitchen. Audrey was wheeling the pram through to put it out on the fire escape.
‘You’d better sit down, love. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you.’
Audrey looked at her, her hands tightening on the handle of the pram. The male officer pulled out a chair and Audrey sat, still holding on to the pram.
‘Is it Greg? An accident...? Has there been an accident?’
‘No, it’s not Greg. It’s your daughter, Shirley.’
Fuller pulled up at the block of flats, behind the patrol car stationed outside. An officer was standing on duty outside the entrance to the underground car park and walked over. Fuller showed his badge and the officer stepped aside.
Blue and white tape had been hung round the Jaguar, and DI Frinton was in the middle of politely but firmly explaining to a tenant that no he could not remove his car, and that, yes, he needed to leave the car park now.
Frinton turned to see Fuller’s car heading down the ramp. ‘What’s he bloody doing here?’ he muttered.
Fuller got out of the car and walked toward the Jag. Face down on the concrete, with one leg still in the car, was a body.
Frinton stormed over. ‘What do you think you’re doing? This is a crime scene.’
Fuller looked at the sprawled body, then back to Frinton. ‘I can see that.’
‘My crime scene,’ Frinton added.
Fuller ignored him. ‘Who is it?’
An ambulance came down the ramp and stopped behind Fuller’s car.
Fuller looked up. ‘Bit late for that, isn’t it?’ He stepped over the red tape and bent over the body. One arm was bent upward, partially obscuring the face, but Fuller knew it was Tesco. It was the hair, even matted with dried blood — that blond hair.