Widows

Chapter 12

Forensics were able to tell DI Resnick that the rear bumper of the bread van had been modified with a heavy metal bar strong enough to ram backward into the security wagon, and that there were still traces of the security wagon’s body paint on it. This was definitely the bread van used in the botched robbery.

There had been five days of intensive police work at Sunshine Bread, during which every man and woman in the company had their prints taken and compared to those found in the bread van. It was a long, tedious procedure, but Resnick was determined.

So far, no prints taken had revealed anyone with a criminal record, and all the prints in the van belonged to company employees. But someone had to have given Rawlins the keys to the site and to the van. Someone was crooked. During the week of the robbery, the fleet manager had been told that this van was in the workshop being repaired, so Resnick started with the two mechanics. Both denied any involvement, of course, and neither claimed to recognize the photos of Harry Rawlins, Terry Miller or Joe Pirelli. One of them, Resnick insisted, had to be a liar.

‘You can see it in their eyes, Fuller, and in their body language. He’ll not be a criminal mastermind, he’ll be a hard-up, scared little man who was slipped a couple hundred and will have been shitting himself since the robbery went tits up.’

‘Seems to me,’ Fuller argued, exhausted by Resnick’s ‘gut instinct,’ ‘that all he’s got to do is keep his mouth shut, seeing as Rawlins and his gang are all dead and there’s no one left to drop him in it.’

‘There’s the fourth man, Fuller. The fourth man can drop everyone in it because he’s got the ledgers. No, it’s one of the mechanics and I’m going to find out which one.’

Donald Franks sat in front of Resnick, twisting the oily rag in his hands. He was certainly nervous about something. Resnick had left Franks to sweat for what he judged to be the optimum length of time and was just about to start his questioning when the phone rang.

‘What?’ Resnick shouted down the receiver, then his face quickly softened and his voice lowered. ‘All right Alice, thank you. Yes, I’ll be back by four. I will. Alice, I will.’ Resnick hung up. ‘Keep a close eye on the time, Fuller,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve got to get back to the station by four.’

Within minutes of starting the interview with Franks, Resnick discovered that he wasn’t nervous about being Rawlins’s inside man, but about slacking off work. He and the other mechanic would clock in together and then one of them would bugger off down the pub for the day. ‘Please don’t tell anyone, sir.’ Franks whimpered. ‘The jobs always get done. There’s just not enough work for two of us and we can’t afford to lose our jobs as well, you see.’

‘As well?’ Resnick’s eyes narrowed as he sensed an important lead coming his way.

‘There used to be three of us, sir. Len was sacked three months back. Me and Bob’re hanging on by the skin of our teeth. Please don’t tell anyone.’

‘Shut up,’ Resnick ordered. ‘I don’t give two hoots about you and Bob scamming your boss, but if you don’t tell me all about your mate Len, I’ll make damn sure your boss finds out everything.’

Franks told Resnick that Len Gulliver had been suspected of theft. Franks didn’t believe it for a second; he thought it must just be the quickest way to get rid of someone. On further questioning, Resnick discovered that each mechanic had his own set of yard keys cut in order to sneak off to the pub whenever work was light. So, if no one knew Gulliver had yard keys in the first place, it stood to reason that he could still have them now, meaning he could easily be the man who helped Rawlins steal the bread van. Resnick gave the orders to find and arrest Len Gulliver. For the first time in weeks, he actually thought they were getting somewhere. In fact, he was almost pleasant and put a tenner on Len Gulliver knowing the identity of the fourth man.

At Gulliver’s house, his wife said he wasn’t with her anymore, but her reluctance to let them in made Resnick think she was lying. She went on and on about the bread company treating her Len like a dog, worse than a dog in fact.

‘Fifteen years he worked for them and — just like that, finished, out. They made up some rubbish about him stealing, but you don’t slip someone two hundred quid to go quietly if you really think they been stealing from you, do you? Well, do you?’

Suspecting Len Gulliver had done a runner, and that she would protect him, Resnick thought it was pointless even asking where her husband was. He was about to leave when he decided to show Mrs. Gulliver the suspects’ photographs. Resnick was amazed when she said she recognized Joe Pirelli.

‘Yes, he’s been here,’ she said innocently. ‘He had some business with my husband. And this one—’ she pointed to the photo of Rawlins — ‘waited outside for him. I could see him from the kitchen window in a dark gray Mercedes-Benz.’

Resnick felt his insides churn. It looked like Mrs. Gulliver genuinely knew nothing about her husband’s criminal activities. He couldn’t wait to get his hands on Len Gulliver.

‘And where is your husband now?’ he asked.

Mrs. Gulliver started to cry and pointed to the dining room.

Surprised, Resnick walked over and pushed the dining room door open.

‘You’re nicked, Len!’ he roared, then stopped, aghast. There was a coffin on the table.

‘The cancer got him in the throat,’ Mrs. Gulliver explained from behind him. She was in floods of tears. ‘Thankfully it was over quickly and he didn’t suffer long.’

They were back where they started. Once outside, Fuller couldn’t stop himself. ‘You’re nicked, Len.’ Fuller mocked. ‘Gotta be a classic that... absolute classic.’

As they got into their car, Andrews told Resnick that Alice had been on the radio twice. Once to say an informant called Green Teeth had rung for him, and the second call was to say that DCI Saunders wanted to know where he was.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ Resnick shouted at Fuller. ‘I told you to get me back to the station by four!’

‘Is it something important?’ Fuller asked as he started the engine, knowing full well that Resnick had arranged the meeting, not just to review the case, but to discuss his chances for promotion. Like the rest of the squad, Fuller suspected Resnick’s promotional chances were, as ever, pretty low. They’d be even lower now that he’d missed his appointment. Fuller looked in the rearview mirror and winked at Andrews.

Resnick ordered Fuller to drive to the Rawlins house so he could to speak to the officers on surveillance there. Fuller drove slowly past Dolly’s house, which was in darkness with the curtains drawn. He pulled up near the unmarked surveillance car and Resnick got out. Hawkes nearly bolted through the roof when Resnick banged his window. They had nothing to report, no movement, nothing... apart from a furniture truck that had arrived at the Rawlins property and taken out a baby’s cot and bedding along with other various nursery items. The truck had been stopped and searched up the road by a uniform patrol car, but nothing incriminating had been found.

‘Take me back to the station,’ Resnick ordered. ‘Let’s hope Green Teeth has got something more productive for me than you bunch of wasters.’

Arnie Fisher was inches away from Tony’s face, talking calmly and slowly. Tony knew it was best just to listen.

‘It was a simple job. You pick up twenty grand’s worth of booze for twelve grand, and bring it back here. No rough stuff. No shagging the wife of the bloke you’re doing a deal with. What’s in your head, son?’ Arnie demanded, poking Tony in the temple. ‘What makes you do stupid things all the time?’

Tony wasn’t fazed. ‘She was a pretty little blonde with big tits who made no complaints about me touching her up.’ A grin slowly spread across Tony’s face. ‘Her pig-ugly husband complained though! You should have seen the fat northern prick drop. One sucker punch and he was down.’

‘Then what?’ Arnie asked.

Tony shrugged. ‘Well, yes, I did hit the Jag on the way out of the car park, but the good news is that I hit it on that prick’s Beemer. Carlos will fix the Jag, no problem. Look, Arnie,’ he continued, excitement getting the better of him, ‘I had the Old Bill on my tail, sirens blaring, blue lights flashing, the whole works — and I managed to lose them. No one was hurt, the booze van got back to London OK, and I got my end away — what’s there to worry about?’

‘The fact that the Manchester guys probably won’t do business with us again,’ said Arnie, beginning to lose his temper. ‘And that is a worry — they’re bloody good customers!’

Tony lounged back in the leather swivel chair. ‘Screw the Manchester wankers! You shouldn’t be worrying about small-time northern business, darlin’, you should be worrying about big-time Rawlins business right here on your doorstep.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Arnie barked back. ‘Why did you think I sent you to Manchester? I don’t need you going off the rails here, Tony. I need calm. I need tactics and brains.’

Tony leaned forward, suddenly serious. ‘If the law get hold of them ledgers, Arnie, you an’ me go down for a fifteen stretch or more. We done three big fence jobs with that son of a bitch Rawlins and you can bet he listed every single penny we laundered.’

‘You don’t need to remind me!’ snapped Arnie.

‘Look — softly-softly’s not working,’ said Tony, getting to his feet. ‘I’ll take over from Boxer. I’ll get them widows to tell us what we want.’

Arnie remained uncharacteristically silent.

‘What’s wrong?’ asked Tony.

‘Boxer did get one thing out of Dolly,’ Arnie said. ‘She told him Harry Rawlins is still alive.’

Tony’s mouth gaped for a second, then he laughed. ‘For Christ sake, that’s got to be a fuckin’ joke! She identified and buried him, so don’t give me that bullshit.’

Arnie was looking edgy. He sat back down behind his desk and took his glasses off. ‘We don’t know it’s bullshit.’

Tony sighed. ‘It is bullshit, bruv. You know it is. Leave it to me. I’ll sort it. Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll get hold of Boxer and Dolly Rawlins and get the truth out of ’em.’

‘Don’t do nothin’ too crazy,’ said Arnie. He polished his glasses nervously. ‘We got a good business going, you and me. Speak to Boxer, speak to Dolly, ask a few questions. You don’t rough anyone up and you don’t go near the other two. We haven’t heard a peep out of Pirelli or that other one, so you leave them alone.’

‘Shirley,’ said Tony. ‘Her name’s Shirley.’ He was almost drooling. ‘Lovely little piece.’

‘That’s her,’ said Arnie. ‘And there’ll be none of that, Tony, you hear me?’

The door opened and Carlos walked in. Tony was on him like a shot.

‘You knock, you ponce... understand me? Knock before you just walk in.’

‘I come to get the Jag for fixing... again. You should drive more carefully, Tony.’

As Tony strode toward Carlos, Arnie bellowed: ‘Cool it!’ Tony stopped in his tracks, a few feet away from Carlos, who stared back, confident that Arnie would protect him. But one click of Arnie’s fingers in the direction of the sofa and Carlos was put in his place.

Arnie moved to Tony. ‘Be careful,’ Arnie said quietly. ‘There’s a lot at stake.’

‘Listen, petal,’ said his brother, ‘believe you me, Harry Rawlins is dead. We got nothin’ to worry about where he’s concerned. The only thing we got on our backs are the ledgers, an’ if I’d had my way we’d have had ’em by now. First, I’m paying that cousin Eddie Rawlins a visit, next I’ll talk to the Rawlins widow and then I’ll bring that idiot Boxer back here and we can all compare notes over a nice pot of tea.’

Tony gave a cynical kissing pout to Carlos and stomped out of the room.

Carlos looked at Arnie. ‘Trouble?’ he asked, opening a bottle of champagne.

‘Nothing for you to worry about, darlin’.’ Arnie moved to stand behind Carlos, from where he could stroke his pert butt cheeks. Arnie was a little shorter than Carlos and had to raise his chin slightly in order to rest it on Carlos’s broad, muscular shoulder. ‘Just got a few things to tie up,’ Arnie continued. ‘That Rawlins, Miller and Pirelli fiasco left a few loose ends.’

Carlos recognized the name Pirelli, but said nothing as he continued to pour the champagne. Arnie, wanting to lighten the atmosphere and change the subject, nodded for Carlos to open the large, tissue-wrapped box on the sofa. Inside was a neatly folded white silk suit. Carlos held it up, smiling.

‘I love it,’ he said, with a beaming white smile. ‘Pirelli...’ he added, casually, ‘I heard that name someplace before?’

Arnie fussed and fiddled, putting the jacket on Carlos. ‘Yeah, he was a tough son of a bitch. His wife works the cash till at an arcade in Soho — real slag. But Joe, he was heavy duty.’ He stepped back from Carlos, admiring the fit of the suit jacket.

Carlos thought of the photograph face down by the side of Linda’s bed. ‘I really like this suit, Arnie,’ was all he said.

Eddie Rawlins was sitting in his dirty, dank office with his feet up on the desk. It was an old shack stuck in the middle of a junkyard in Camberwell. In some areas the cars were piled three or four high. Eddie spent most of his days sitting in his office staring at them, daydreaming of the sky-blue Roller he’d buy when he made enough money. Harry had promised years ago that he would purchase an expensive top-of-the-range car crusher, which would make the business more productive. That had never happened.

Eddie was on the blower to a mate with a little betting shop near Epsom; he had been given a tip for the three fifteen at Haydock, and he placed a five-pound each way bet. Although he was the careful sort when it came to gambling, Eddie would spend a hundred quid on some tart who’d have him over a ‘sure thing.’ Most women he met, he reflected, as he flipped through the papers to mark a couple of other good runners, turned out to be as useless as the horses he backed.

As he chatted on the phone, Eddie heard a car draw up outside. When he saw who it was, he froze and his stomach turned over. He took his feet off the desk, put the phone down and, trying to act nonchalantly, opened the desk drawer and took out a bottle of Scotch.

‘All right Tony? Just in time for an afternoon nip. You’ll join me, won’t you?’ Eddie bustled over to the filing cabinet to get glasses, and took a quick glance through the dust-covered window at the horrible green Ford Granada parked outside. At least Tony Fisher had come alone.

A stream of drivel flowed from Eddie’s mouth. ‘Business is slow here,’ he babbled. ‘Nobody doin’ much in the breaker’s trade right now. How’s things with you, Tony? Nice club you and your brother run, a very nice place.’ Eddie started pouring Tony a drink.

‘What you know about your cousin Harry’s ledgers then, Eddie?’ asked Tony pleasantly.

Eddie’s aim went off and he missed the glass completely. Tony Fisher was very good at his line of work; in fact, he was in many ways everything Eddie aspired to be. A hard man with bulging muscles, but well turned out in fancy clothes and well-manicured, even down to the little diamond stud in his ear. Tony sat down opposite Eddie and crossed his legs, revealing polished Gucci shoes as he brushed down his thigh with his hand. It was Arnie who had taught Tony how to look classy, although he didn’t approve of the diamond earring. Tony thought it made him look sexy; he was to some women, but to others his shifty eyes let him down.

Tony Fisher never met anyone eye to eye; instead, he made a point of looking at people’s foreheads when he spoke. Now he cast a slow gaze around the filthy squalid hut, knowing full well the effect he was having on Eddie. Inflicting fear always made Tony feel good.

‘You know old Boxer Davis, don’t you?’ Tony asked, as though it was the most natural question in the world.

‘Yeah,’ Eddie stuttered, ‘he works for you. Bit of a charity case. I haven’t seen him since the funeral.’

‘Well, he’s been shooting his mouth off about your cousin. Telling the world that Harry Rawlins is alive and kicking. We both know that can’t be true, don’t we?’

‘Alive?’ Eddie seemed astonished. ‘Harry’s not alive, Tony — I mean, I’m family; he’d tell me before Boxer bloody Davis.’

Tony smiled a reassuring smile and Eddie visibly relaxed a little. Tony took out his handkerchief and leaned across the table, arm stretched toward his glass of whiskey. In a flash, his hand diverted from the glass and he grabbed Eddie by the hair, pulled him over the table and stuffed the handkerchief into his mouth. Hauling Eddie off the table, Tony slammed him against the wall and butted him in the face. It was over in a matter of seconds. A dazed and semiconscious Eddie slid down the wall onto his backside. Tony squatted down, removed the handkerchief and gently wiped the blood from Eddie’s busted nose. Leaning his head close, he whispered menacingly, ‘Now, tell me what you know about Harry Rawlins’s ledgers.’

From behind the tears, Eddie pleaded with Tony. ‘I don’t know anything about ledgers, Tony, I swear to God I don’t.’

‘But you’re family,’ Tony mocked. ‘He’d tell you before Boxer bloody Davis and if Boxer bloody Davis knows, then it stands to reason you know.’

‘I don’t! On my life, I don’t. Harry never told me anything. I was just bigging myself up Tony, you know how it is. Harry had it all and I had... well, this shithole. Me and Harry weren’t close; he didn’t even like me. He told me nothing, I swear.’

Tony raised his hand to scratch his own forehead and Eddie flinched so hard he almost fell off the floor.

‘Please don’t hit me again!’ Eddie screamed.

‘Be quiet, you Jessie.’ As Tony ramped up the menace, Eddie kept his hands high, protecting his face, nodding or shaking his head in response.

‘Harry had it all, did he?’ demanded Tony. ‘Well, now I’ve got it all, understand? Me and my brother. And whether Harry’s alive or dead makes no fucking difference to us, cos he’s nothing anymore. Which clearly makes you less than nothing. Agreed?’ Tony put his hand gently on the side of Eddie’s face. ‘So, you keep your ear to the ground...’ Tony slammed Eddie’s face hard into the fiberboard flooring ‘...and you let me know if you hear anything from Boxer Davis or if you hear anything about Harry’s ledgers.’ Tony tapped his hand hard on Eddie’s cheek a couple of times and got up.

Eddie daren’t move. He lay on the filthy floor, crying silently, eyes screwed tight shut, waiting for a boot in the face. He only opened his eyes when he heard Tony’s car start up and drive away. He scrambled to his feet, holding his aching head and his smashed nose, and looked out of the window to make absolutely certain that Tony had gone. Then he picked up the phone.

In a small hovel of a flat in Portobello Road, the phone was answered by Bill Grant. Bill listened as Eddie, in a trembling, high-pitched voice, poured out everything that had just happened. Eventually, Bill couldn’t take any more.

‘Shut your stupid mouth, Eddie. What did you tell him?’ Bill demanded.

‘I told him nothing. It’s all coming from Boxer Davis.’ Eddie said.

‘And where’s he?’

Eddie paused and closed his eyes because he knew for sure that he was about to put Boxer in harm’s way. Bill Grant was worse than Tony. Bill Grant was a truly hard bastard who killed people for a living in whatever way you wanted — slow, fast, he didn’t care. His real skill was that he was way more subtle than Tony, which is why hardly anyone knew he was back. Bill wasn’t showy; he knew how to lay low and keep under the radar. He didn’t look like much, but by God he was trouble; he had nothing and no one so he had nothing to lose — and that made him one of the most dangerous men Eddie had ever come across. Bill had just got out after a twelve stretch, but he was right back in the thick of things. Eddie opened his eyes as Bill repeated his question.

‘Where’s Boxer Davis?’

As he hung his head in shame, Eddie told himself that the state of Boxer’s face was nowhere near as important as the state of his own.