Frinton had had it. ‘All right, you’ve seen enough. Now get the fuck out of it.’
Fuller stood to one side as a pair of medics approached.
‘Don’t worry, Frinton,’ he said with a sour smile. ‘He’s all yours.’
Dozing in the TV room, Resnick almost fell out of his wheelchair when he heard the newsflash. He’d missed half of it, and it was over before he got the facts straight. He felt trapped, helpless, with no one to scream at. As if on cue, the nurse opened the door, carrying a beaker of tepid tea. Vic Morgan followed in behind her.
‘You can have ten minutes, but, really, that’s all.’ The nurse wheeled out one of the sleeping wheelchair patients.
Morgan sat down. ‘Don’t know where to begin — all hell’s been let loose.’
Resnick pointed to the TV. ‘What the hell ’ave you been soddin’ doin’? I told you, what did I tell you—’
Morgan held up a hand. ‘Let me give you what I know, all right?’
Resnick’s face was bursting with fury. He swore that Morgan didn’t know anything, hadn’t from the beginning — that’s why he was out of the force. He was wet, more occupied with getting his leg over with that bitch Dolly Rawlins.
Morgan let him have his tirade, then quietly began to tell him what he had gathered so far from his contacts about the raid on Amanda’s nightclub, the bottom line being that they were still looking for Micky Tesco and Harry Rawlins. Also missing was £8 million pounds’ worth of gems.
Resnick looked at him with barely concealed contempt. ‘You bloody idiot.’
Morgan sighed. ‘Wait. There’s something else. The only reason the police were able to prevent the raid from succeeding was because they got a tip-off — one hell of a tip-off, as it happened, giving all the names, the details of the getaway, the lot. And the tipster had been a woman; a woman who seemed desperate to have the raiders caught, but one in particular — the one name she repeated over and over again: Harry Rawlins.’
Resnick was quieted. He thought for a moment, then looked at Morgan. ‘But was he on the raid? And where are the jewels?’
Dolly finished cleaning her flat, then started on the packing. That done, she took out a packet of envelopes. She remembered the way Vic had laughed at her, always paying his account in cash placed neatly inside an envelope with his name printed on it. Had she bought a job lot, he asked? But she didn’t have time to think about him, not now. She began placing the jewels, neatly wrapped in tissue, into the stack of envelopes, and then Sellotaped them all into a toiletry bag, securing them with yet more tape.
Reynolds and Fuller sat in a quiet corner of the cafe, going over everything they knew. The conclusion was obvious: if they could find Dolly Rawlins, then they would have her husband.
The night nurse almost hit the roof when they arrived, but Fuller was insistent, saying it was a police matter.
‘That’s what they all say,’ she muttered to herself, leading Fuller and Reynolds to the TV room.
Fuller was surprised to see Resnick and Vic Morgan sitting and chatting together at almost ten o’clock at night. He was even more taken aback by Resnick’s shrunken body and wasted features.
‘Evening, gents.’ Fuller brought out a bottle of malt whisky from under his coat, along with a packet of plastic cups.
‘Don’t mind if I do, Alex.’
Resnick took in Fuller’s appearance as he poured a generous measure into three cups. He was unshaven and wearing a tracksuit under his coat. Gone was the cockiness: he looked as if he had had the stuffing knocked out of him. Resnick also noted that for a so-called non-drinker, Fuller knocked back his scotch remarkably quickly.
Resnick felt the whisky hit him hard, making him flush. He held out his cup for a refill with his left hand, his right hand curled in his lap. He felt better than he had felt for weeks. He liked them coming to him; it made him feel needed, made him believe he would be back with the lads as soon as he got himself fixed up.
‘Shirley Miller, Terry Miller’s widow, was shot in the raid — died almost instantly. The last word she uttered was “Dolly.”’
Resnick glanced at Morgan, who looked stunned.
‘They got Tesco,’ Fuller added. ‘Hell of a mess. Found him shot dead in his car park.’
Fuller poured another round of drinks. They sipped in silence, then Fuller placed his cup carefully on the table.
‘Rawlins is still on the loose. I’ve tried to track down his wife, but it looks like wherever he is, she is too. I need anything you’ve got, and I swear if you have anything that can help me, help me in any way at all, I’ll see you clear to getting a slice of that reward.’
Morgan stayed silent, his head bowed, looking into his drink. Resnick looked at him. Now was his chance. He couldn’t do it on his own. He was a fool to keep shtum.
‘You’d better cough up, Vic.’ He looked at Fuller. ‘He knows where she is.’
Morgan picked up his jacket, the one Dolly had given him, and walked to the door. As he opened it, his voice was heavy with emotion.
‘I’ll take you to her.’ Then he walked out.
Fuller couldn’t keep the look of surprise off his face. Reynolds just grinned, as if Christmas had come early. Fuller patted Resnick’s shoulder.
‘Thanks, George. I won’t forget this — that’s a promise.’
Resnick knew Morgan was hurting. ‘Take care of him. He’s a great soft bastard, but he’s a good man.’
Fuller nodded, then followed Morgan out, with Reynolds at his heels.
Resnick drained his cup and reached for the bottle. Shame to let good whisky go to waste. He leaned forward, stretching, then felt a terrible pain in his bad arm and fell forward, crashing into the table, before sliding, helpless, to the floor. He lay there, unable to move, watching the bottle rolling slowly across the floor.
He knew in that moment that he was never going to be back with the lads. He wasn’t going anywhere. This was his life now — what was left of it. And it was all Rawlins’ fault. He was to blame for everything.
‘You bastard, Rawlins!’ he cried in agony. ‘You filthy bastard!’
It was now 11:15, and Audrey was sitting in the kitchen. She wouldn’t take her coat off, and she wouldn’t drink the tea they’d made her. In one afternoon she had lost her daughter, the father of her unborn son, and even her Greg had been picked up. She stared ahead, gently rocking the pram backward and forward.
‘You’re sure you don’t want a doctor?’
Audrey shook her head.
It was unnerving the way she kept on slowly rocking the pram, backward and forward.
Suddenly Audrey turned and smiled, a sweet, innocent smile.
‘I’m going to have a boy. I know it’s a boy ’cos of my age, you see, and he’s all right. They said he’s all right.’
The door opened and the WPC stood up. Her heart went out to Audrey, but there was nothing more she could do.
Greg was led into the kitchen by a uniformed officer. At least they’d let her son out on bail so she had someone to look after her. He looked sheepish, still in shock about Shirley, the arrest, all of it. He hadn’t been able to take it all in, and seeing his mother sitting there, her hands gripping an empty pram, made him want to run to her and cry like a baby himself. Like he’d done when he was told his dad had run off. Like he’d done whenever he’d needed her.
But now he knew she needed him.
‘Ray not with you?’
He shook his head. Ray wouldn’t be coming home for a long time. But he couldn’t tell her that; he couldn’t find the words to tell her anything. He walked to her side and sat down. He laid his hand on top of Audrey’s, let it rock with the motion of the pram. He could feel the tears trickle down his cheeks, but still he could say nothing. He looked to the WPC for help and she mimed a hug. Greg had to ease Audrey’s hands from the pram bar, then he put them round his neck. He could feel Audrey’s belly with her unborn baby pressing against his stomach. He stopped crying, feeling more of a man than he had ever felt before. Gently, he wrapped his arms round his mother, rocking her as if she was a baby, and at long last Audrey began to weep, deep, heartbreaking sobs, her head buried in her young son’s neck.