Widows

Chapter 22

Dolly checked the address Linda had given her. She was parked in a street of squalid, run-down houses. She spotted a kid gliding down the pavement on a skateboard and, lowering the window, yelled at him to come over.

‘D’you know who lives at number thirty-nine?’ she asked.

The kid looked over to the house then back to Dolly. He shook his head.

‘Don’t have a clue, missus. Why you askin’?’

Dolly got out of her Merc, ‘I’m visiting an old friend.’

‘Then you should know more about them than me, shouldn’t ya?’ the kid replied with a cheeky grin on his face.

Dolly looked around. The Merc was a big prize in a street like this. ‘Look after my motor and I’ll give you three quid,’ she said to the kid.

The boy’s eyes lit up. ‘I’ll do it for a fiver,’ he said.

Dolly smiled. She liked this kid. They shook hands and Dolly headed toward Jimmy Nunn’s place.

The house had been split into four flats and the front door was on the latch. It was even worse on the inside than she imagined: the hallway full of flyers, black plastic rubbish bags, broken milk bottles, free newspapers and used takeaway cartons. The hall light switch didn’t work and she saw there was no bulb in the dangling light socket. Using her lighter to help her see her way, she moved on up the stairs. By the time she’d reached the second landing, the smell wasn’t so bad. She stopped, held her lighter near the door and saw the number four. As she knocked a baby began to howl. She waited, knocked again and the baby howled louder.

‘Who is it?’

Dolly knocked again.

The door inched open and a young woman peered through the gap. ‘I ain’t interested in buying nothing.’

She started to close the door, but Dolly was faster.

‘Mind if I have a chat, love? That’s all I want,’ Dolly asked, pushing past her into a small, cheaply furnished room. She lit a cigarette. The young girl’s perfume was cloying. ‘I’m looking for Jimmy Nunn. Is he in?’

The girl said nothing; she clearly had no clue who Dolly was.

‘I’m Mrs. Harry Rawlins,’ said Dolly, blowing smoke through tight lips. ‘Your husband worked for mine. And your name is...?’

‘Trudie,’ said the girl reluctantly. The name of Harry Rawlins had certainly meant something to her. ‘I ain’t seen Jimmy in months. Said he had some business, walked out and I ain’t seen him since.’

Dolly was taking in every inch of the room: the baby clothes on the heater, the untidy, shoddy furniture, but most of all, Trudie. The girl was beautiful in a cheap, tarty way: good figure, sexy, lovely blonde hair, heavy pouting mouth and big, innocent, wide eyes. She’d be easy to get information from, thought Dolly. All she had to do was be nice. She offered Trudie one of her cigarettes, but she shook her head.

‘I don’t smoke,’ she said.

So the overflowing ashtray on the armchair next to Trudie had been filled by someone else. The sex bomb might not smoke, Dolly thought to herself, but someone else here does... As Trudie stood with her baby in her arms, Dolly stood with Wolf in hers. Putting Wolf down, Dolly sat carefully on Trudie’s scraggy sofa and lit herself another cigarette. Wolf jumped up on the armchair, sniffing and scrabbling about down the side of the seat cushion. In his frenzy, he knocked the ashtray onto the floor.

‘Get down!’ Dolly scolded and he did as he was told, sitting by her feet, wagging his tail. She made no effort to pick up the ashtray or the scattered dog ends. It wouldn’t have made any real difference to the state of the room. She got the photograph out of her handbag. ‘Is this Jimmy?’

Trudie looked at the photo of Jimmy and Terry standing together and nodded. ‘He owes you money, does he?’

Dolly stood up, brushing down her skirt, and handed Trudie a phone number on a piece of paper. ‘If he should put in an appearance, tell him I’d like to talk to him. He can get me on this number. It’s Mrs. Rawlins,’ she repeated.

‘I got your name,’ Trudie said.

What a naive and stupid girl, thought Dolly. Especially to get herself lumbered with a kid. A constantly whining kid. The smell of Trudie’s cheap heavy perfume hit her again. Perhaps that was what was making the baby cry? He was actually a sweet little thing, about six months old. Dolly patted his cheek lightly and Trudie, looking nervous, took a step back. As Dolly opened her handbag and took out five crisp ten-pound notes, Wolf jumped back up onto the armchair and started digging at the cushion again. Dolly ignored him.

‘This is for the kid,’ she told Trudie, handing her the fifty quid. ‘And when Jimmy makes contact with me, you’ll get a lot more.’

Trudie looked at Wolf digging at her armchair.

‘Wolf!’ Dolly shouted. ‘Get down!’ She scooped him up in her arms. As she did so she noticed something glinting, stuck in the crevice between the cushion seat and arm of the chair. ‘I am sorry...’ she said, pretending to ruffle the cushion. With her back to Trudie, she pulled out a gold Dunhill lighter, exactly like the one she’d bought all those years ago for—

Trudie’s voice seemed to come from somewhere a long way away. ‘If that’s your motor down there, Mrs. Rawlins, you’d better go and see to it.’

Dolly quickly dropped the lighter back down the side of the cushion. She desperately wanted to turn it over and see if the initials ‘HR’ were engraved on the back. But Trudie’s voice came again...

‘There’s loads of kids round it. It looks like you lost a wing mirror already.’

But Dolly had already gone. She didn’t look back for fear of what she might see.

Trudie watched from the window as Dolly ran across the road and clipped the ear of one of the kids standing by her car. Trudie grinned. ‘Tough old bird, ain’t she?’ she said. The kitchen door opened a crack. ‘You’ll never guess what, love — she gave me fifty quid for our kid.’