Dolly had only been to the bank once before, with Harry. This time she had a nervous tickle in the back of her throat as the straight-laced young clerk took her details. She was so nervous, she nearly signed her real surname by mistake.
‘This way, Mrs. Smith,’ the clerk said. Dolly detected the heavy, knowing emphasis on the surname. Reaching the lift, he handed her a key and pressed the button for the basement.
When the lift doors opened, she was met by a security guard who guided her through a series of four heavy doors, each of which he locked behind them, before they got to the vault. The final door had a barred gate on the inside, which had to be unlocked separately. As the outer door was opened and the security guard searched for the key to open the internal barred gate, Dolly thought of the prison life which Harry had always so adeptly avoided. He’d been so clever and they’d been so lucky to have the life they did. For a split second, grief rose from the pit of her stomach and stopped somewhere in her throat. She felt sick. Hurry up, she thought to herself. I need to sit down.
Ushering her into the vault, the security guard showed her the bell on the desk, which would summon him when she was ready to leave. Dolly waited for him to leave the vault before she pulled out the key Eddie had given her. She slipped it into the numbered safety deposit box on the wall, and turned it. Inside was a heavy strong box.
Ten minutes later, the contents of the box were strewn on the table in front of her. She’d not had time to count the vast bundles of bank notes, although they must have totaled tens of thousands of pounds, and she left the .38 revolver concealed under the cash, untouched. It was Harry’s leather-bound ledgers that fascinated her.
The ledgers were bound in heavy brown leather like ones she’d seen in a Dickens play on TV. Each page was neatly handwritten, dated and labeled, with entries going back for almost the whole of their twenty years of married life. As she flicked through the pages she realized some of the names recorded were of people she knew to be dead, but it was the most recent ledger that stunned and amazed her. Page after page was filled with copious lists of names and the monies paid out to them, as well as monies stashed here, there and everywhere. The back of the ledger was filled with pasted and neatly aligned newspaper cuttings, resembling something like a film star’s scrapbook of reviews. But these cuttings were detailed articles on various armed robberies Harry had obviously committed and, next to the articles, were names that Dolly suspected referred to those who had been involved in each robbery. No wonder the Fishers wanted these ledgers! They could put all the competition away for a very long time and acquire a very tidy sum of stashed cash from Harry’s old jobs.
Dolly shivered slightly. She hadn’t realized that Harry had organized and committed so much heavy crime. Looking at the dates, she realized that most of the robberies had taken place after her third miscarriage; then there was a lull before they picked up again after her baby boy was stillborn. This hurt her deeply, but she also understood. The untouched nursery had been a sanctuary for Dolly, who suffered bouts of depression, but Harry had never once set foot inside the beautiful, cornflower-blue room. She knew he had distracted himself from the traumas of their personal life by throwing himself into his work; but she’d thought he was away at antiques auctions. He hadn’t exactly lied, but he had allowed her to misunderstand exactly what ‘work’ he was throwing himself into.
Dolly continued to flick through the last ledger — and stopped, shattered. There, in Harry’s neat, immaculate handwriting, were the detailed plans for the raid in which he died. Dolly saw the number of guns required, the vehicles to be used and the names and contact numbers for Joe Pirelli, Terry Miller and the security firm insider. The names Pirelli and Miller both rang a bell with Dolly. They’d been at some event or other with their respective wives — respective widows now. For a second Dolly wondered what the two women were doing right now, allowing herself a smile. Well, they won’t be doing what I’m doing, she thought to herself.
The meticulously detailed plans, drawings and directions for the robbery read like the script for a play. She couldn’t quite believe that a man so reluctant to pick up his dirty clothes from the bedroom floor could be so organized when it came to robbing an armed security wagon... but then, there was nothing life or death about laundry. Suddenly she remembered Harry’s blackened wristwatch. Feeling sickened, she slowly shut the book. Within seconds, she’d opened it again, now turning the pages rapidly to see what Harry had planned for their future, desperate to find out all the secrets she could about the man she loved.
‘My God,’ she whispered to Harry as she read his words, ‘you even worked out crimes as far ahead as ’86!’ As the scope of his plans sank in, Dolly looked at her watch. An hour had gone by since she’d left the hairdressers and she knew she had to go.
In the taxi on the way back to Myra’s, Dolly made copious notes in her small black Gucci diary of what she had read in the ledger about the failed robbery. She used her own shorthand, just in case the coppers watching her ever fancied a random stop and search.
Dolly snuck back into Myra’s the way she had gone out. From inside the salon, she spotted one of the detectives approaching the front door. Thinking quickly, she pulled off her coat, grabbed a magazine and sat down under the hairdryer just as the officer entered the salon. Dolly smiled sweetly at him then, as he walked out looking embarrassed, got out the diary to read over what she’d written.
Chapter 5
Arnie Fisher was in a fury, the sort of fury that used to get him shut in a cupboard as a little boy. His hard blue eyes flickered with anger, and spittle foamed at the side of his thin lips as he paced around his enormous desk. He wore a pale gray suit, immaculate, handmade gray shoes and a silk blue-gray tie, which was now loose around his neck. He pulled out one of the desk drawers and threw it across the room.
Arnie had just had his Soho office on Berwick Street redecorated; the velvet wallpaper and plush carpet were now a matching snooker-table green. He’d also ordered new furniture: two heavy brown leather sofas, a brown mahogany bookcase and a matching cabriole-legged coffee table. The log-effect gas fire was half in, half out of its hole, waiting to be connected to the gas supply. A chandelier, yet to be fitted, balanced precariously on the edge of the coffee table, and stacked on the floor next to it was a collection of sporting prints waiting to be hung on the green walls. In his efforts to be tasteful, Arnie had created a hideous, gloomy room. He’d even had an en suite bathroom fitted with a dark green bath, green wash basin and gold taps. The bidet he’d wanted had had to be abandoned because there wasn’t enough room. Arnie was moving up in the world: new office, new patch — once he’d got his hands on the Rawlins’ ledgers, there’d be no stopping him.
The en suite toilet flushed and his brother Tony came out, doing up his fly and rearranging his balls. He never washed his hands.
‘Who did you get to do this?’ Arnie asked, pointing to his desk.
‘Do what?’
Arnie slapped his hand down on the desk. ‘I said I wanted it French polished! It’s a bleedin’ antique. Some ham-fisted git’s only gone and bloody varnished it!’
Spittle shot out of his mouth and he dabbed it with a crumpled silk handkerchief. He repeatedly banged his hand on the desk, venting his fury. Then, he removed a pen from his pocket and, gripping it like a knife, scratched a deep mark across the surface.