Widows

Chapter 25

Resnick and Andrews had been waiting outside Fat Fran’s house in an unmarked car since nine o’clock. It was now 10:15, and although the heater was on it was still cold. The car was full of cigarette smoke, Andrews was red in the face and could hardly breathe; no sooner had he opened the window to let some fresh air in than Resnick barked at him to close it again. Andrews hated working alone with Resnick. At least when Fuller was there, he had some support. Alone, he was open to all kinds of abuse from Resnick if the mood took him. The station was in some chaos after the Mayfair heist and the botched raid on Carlos’s garage and the chase that had led to his death. With so many officers writing up notes, processing evidence and doing door-to-door, someone from Resnick’s team had to stay desk-bound and help with all the extra paperwork. Andrews imagined Fuller sitting with his feet up in a warm, smoke-free office, sipping on a cup of tea.

‘Sir!’ Andrews pointed out of the car window. Fat Fran was heaving her bulk down the road. Every ten yards, she paused to put her shopping down and get her breath back before waddling on again at a snail’s pace. As she got nearer, they could both hear the chinking of the bottles in her carrier bags.

‘Stone the crows,’ Resnick said. Fran’s heaving bosom almost fell out of her blouse as she bent to pull her sagging tights back up into position round her crotch. ‘Close your eyes, Andrews. That’s no sight for an innocent like you.’

Andrews spoke without thinking. ‘I have seen breasts before, sir.’

‘Not like them you haven’t.’ Resnick opened the car door, flicking his cigarette butt into the road before heading after Fat Fran.

They followed her as she turned into the scruffy overgrown path, the already open gate hanging by one rusty hinge. Leaning against the front door, she took out her key.

‘Oi!’ Fran jerked her head round at Resnick’s voice, loud behind her. ‘We need another word with you, Fran.’

The stench in Fat Fran’s flat was overpowering: cats, stale beer, food and body odor. The living room was dusty and dark; the heavy moth-eaten curtains looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years. Resnick helped her off with her coat, while Andrews picked up the bottles of booze from the floor and put them by the door to the adjoining dining area.

‘Sit yourself down, love. How are you feeling?’ said Resnick. He didn’t give a damn how Fran was feeling, but he did want her to co-operate. He folded her coat neatly, placed it on the back of a dining chair, then sat on a pouf in front of the low easy-chair she was now slumped in.

Fran still had bruising over her right eye, although it was now a yellowy-purple color rather than the deep blue and black of a few days ago. Plasters covered the cuts, which made her face look even worse than before, and one side of her head had been shaved at the hospital so they could stitch the wound.

Andrews glanced at his watch. Whenever Resnick did his ‘good cop’ routine, the attending officer always timed it. Whoever witnessed him last more than sixty seconds would win a tenner off the others.

‘Now then, love, isn’t it about time you told us who did this to you so we can lock ’em up and keep you nice and safe?’ Resnick asked gently.

Fran smiled and patted Resnick’s hand. ‘You’re a lovely man,’ she said. Her cold and clammy sausage fingers tickled the back of his hand and he desperately wanted to pull away. ‘I wish I could tell you, my love,’ she went on, ‘but I just can’t remember. I ain’t lying to you. I’ve had a bump to the head. I can’t picture the fella at all. I think I blocked it, you know. Trauma does that, the doctor said so. It blocks things you don’t want to remember.’

‘Your little trauma doesn’t do that, Fran, money does. Where d’ya get the money for all that booze?’

Andrews stopped timing Resnick. Fifteen seconds!

‘I do run a business, you know. I can earn money!’ Fran insisted.

‘What you going to do if he comes back, eh? Pour him a whisky?’

‘He won’t come back!’ Fran howled in fear. ‘Why would he?’

Resnick had Fran on the back foot. ‘Well, you did come to the station of your own free will, my dear... and we’re here now, ain’t we? What if he’s watching you?’ The fear in Fran’s eyes grew as Resnick continued. ‘He doesn’t seem the tolerant type, and if he thinks you’re telling us stuff, he might just visit you again. But tell us who he is, and we’ll take him off the streets and put him behind bars. Then you can sit in your lovely little flat and get pissed, safe in the knowledge that he’s not going to be knocking on your door anytime soon.’

By the time Resnick had finished, Fran was blubbing awful, childlike sobs, her belly bouncing up and down as she squeezed the air from her lungs in short, sharp bursts. Andrews felt so sorry for her that he took out his handkerchief and handed it to her. As she loudly blew her nose, Resnick stood up sharply, knocking the pouf over.

‘Take her in for obstructing the police,’ Resnick instructed Andrews. ‘Come on, love, get to your feet. I’ve had enough of you lying to me.’

Fran wailed and held her hand out to Andrews who, without thinking, took hold of it. ‘Ooh, don’t take me in! I’ve told you everything I know. I can’t remember no more, honest I can’t.’

Andrews pulled his hand away from hers and tried to get her to her feet. It was like trying to lift a dead weight.

‘Please don’t take me in,’ she wailed. ‘I wish Boxer was here — he’d look after me. Where’s Boxer? I want Boxer!’

‘Boxer’s dead,’ Resnick spat. ‘Killed by whoever it was who beat you nearly half to death. If you care for Boxer, you’ll tell me who did this to you!’

Fran’s wailing went up an octave. Andrews backed off to save his ear drums. Resnick had the decency to pause and let the woman grieve for a moment. Once she’d wailed long enough, he crouched back down in front of her.

‘Now you listen to me, Fran.’ Resnick said firmly. ‘If you’ve been paid to keep your mouth shut, me and you are going to fall out big time.’

‘I ain’t—’

‘Shut up and listen, because I’m running out of patience with you! I know you’ve been hurt, but others have been hurt worse.’ Resnick leapt up, grabbed one of the shopping bags of booze, held it up and leaned in close. ‘Who gave you the money for all this? I know you don’t earn enough renting rooms in this fleapit. Who? Come on Fran, who?’ As Resnick waved the heavy bag in the air, one of the handles snapped, sending the bottles crashing to the floor. Brown frothy beer flowed across the carpet. Fran lurched forward with another howl.

‘Aargh, me beer! Me beer!’ Fran buried her face in her hands and wept again.

Resnick was now very red in the face, frustrated at not being able to break Fran. ‘You tell me who attacked you and who gave you the hush money—’

‘I don’t know! I don’t know! I told you a thousand times. This nice man come and asked to see Boxer and I showed him upstairs. The other one come later... the one that hit me. I didn’t know either of them. I swear I didn’t. I can’t remember nothing else.’

‘Try!’ Resnick barked.

‘I was so tired. I said to this woman—’

Resnick interrupted. ‘What woman?’

‘The one that rang. I said, “He’s gone out,” I said.’

‘Just a minute!’ Resnick focused in on this new detail. ‘A woman phoned for Boxer?’

‘Yes, I just told you.’

Andrews watched as Resnick’s tone changed again. ‘When, Fran?’ he was willing her onward. ‘When did she call?’

‘She called twice. First time she spoke to Boxer.’ Fran put her head in her hands again. She was flagging, getting tired and confused.

‘And the second time?’ Resnick paused for Fran to think, then gently prompted her. ‘Listen, love, this is really important. What were you doing when she called the second time?’

‘Watching telly.’

‘What was on?’

Fran looked up at Resnick. ‘Coronation Street.’

‘Good girl. So, the woman called during Coronation Street. What did she say?’

‘She said she’d been cut off the first time. But, well, now Boxer was out with the first man, the nice man, so she just hung up on me. Oh, God, Boxer!’ Fran whispered almost to herself. ‘I ain’t never gonna see my Boxer again.’

‘Help me find who killed him, Fran,’ urged Resnick. ‘If you ever felt anything for Boxer, help me!’

Fran gripped Resnick’s forearm. ‘He came to the hospital,’ she whispered. ‘God help me, he came to the hospital and said he’d kill me if I tell you.’

I’ll fucking kill you if you don’t tell me, thought Resnick. What he actually said was, ‘I’ll protect you.’

‘He was tall with dark hair. Piercing eyes that was cold as ice. He weren’t no thug, Mr. Resnick, he was a gent. A cold, callous, bastard gent!’

Resnick caught his breath. He pulled an A4 picture from his inside jacket pocket and showed it to Fran. ‘This man?’

Fran pushed the picture away so her eyes could focus properly on it and, when she did, Andrews saw that it was the image of Harry Rawlins from Resnick’s office wall, complete with dart hole in the forehead. Resnick was sweating, his face beetroot red.

‘That ain’t him,’ Fran said.

‘Look at it properly. Look at it!’ Resnick shouted, waving the image of Harry Rawlins in Fran’s face. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. This is him! Harry Rawlins is the man that beat you senseless. Tell me, tell me — I know it was him!’

Just as Andrews was working up the courage to step in, his radio crackled.

‘Get out! How can she concentrate?’ bellowed Resnick. Andrews reluctantly left.

When Andrews came back from answering the radio call, Resnick was still shaking the photo of Harry Rawlins in Fran’s face and shouting the same question over and over.

‘Was it him? Was it him?’

Andrews toyed with the idea of radioing Fuller and getting him to come and talk the old man down, but then he’d be the station joke for not being able to cope with a raving lunatic pensioner. Anyone could see that Fran’s description of her attacker was a fit for Rawlins, but it was also similar to half of London, so why Resnick seemed convinced that a dead man had come back to life and beaten the shit out of Fat Fran, he wasn’t at all sure. Andrews put his hand on Resnick’s shoulder.

‘Sir, there’s been an important development just radioed through—’

‘Shut up, Andrews!’ Resnick growled, shaking Andrews’s hand away. ‘Fran’s just about to confirm that she was assaulted by Harry Rawlins, aren’t you, Fran?’

Fran looked up at Resnick, her face terrified at the possible repercussions of what she was about to reveal. ‘No, Mr. Resnick. It wasn’t Harry Rawlins. It was... it was Tony Fisher.’

As they drove back to the Yard in silence, Andrews stole sidelong glances at Resnick, wondering if he should report his strange behavior to the DCI. Resnick looked drained and beaten, like he’d given up altogether. He didn’t even smoke and he always smoked in the car. As they turned the final corner toward the station, Andrews braved talking.

‘The call, sir. It was from Fuller. The kid killed by the Post Office van this morning was Carlos Moreno. He’s the Fisher brothers’ wheel man.’

Resnick didn’t acknowledge that he’d heard anything Andrews had said. He just stared out of the window.