Widows

Chapter 39

The police had parked cars at either end of the Dolly’s street, blocking any access in or out. The local man was hugging his dog tight as he repeated his story once again for DCI Saunders. He had come across the badly injured man in the car; he was passing in and out of consciousness but had managed to mumble that he was a police officer. ‘Is he dead?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ said Saunders quickly. He had no time to talk. ‘Go with the uniformed officers now, please, and they’ll take a full statement.’ He ushered the man toward the nearest police car.

Glancing along the dark road, Saunders could just make out DS Fuller kneeling by Resnick’s car door. Saunders looked away almost in shame. He’d seen the mess Resnick was in and, even now, through all of the pain, Resnick had said just one word: ‘Rawlins.’ Saunders was certain of it. Of course, he could have been delirious, hallucinating or even brain damaged... so Saunders decided to get proof before repeating anything.

As the DCI plucked up the courage to head back toward Resnick, he grabbed a uniformed officer. ‘I need to make sure that DI Resnick’s safely out the way before we move into the Rawlins house. Get on the radio and chase that bloody ambulance up. Tell them no bells and horns. Silent approach.’

Resnick was slouched in the driver’s seat, blood streaming down his face from numerous deep gashes in his skin. His breath was coming in terrible guttural gasps.

Saunders leaned into the car. ‘Ambulance is on its way, George, you hear me? It’s on its way, so hang in there.’

Resnick’s chest made a rasping sound as he heaved for breath, but he nodded just slightly. Saunders shook his head, stepped back and whispered to Fuller.

‘What on earth was he doing out here alone playing super cop?’

Fuller had no answer he cared to share. No answer he needed to share. They both knew exactly why Resnick was on his own — because that’s the corner they’d forced him into.

Resnick’s chest rasped as he tried to speak, followed by a gurgling of the blood in his mouth and a cough that sent blood spattering across the windscreen. Saunders winced.

‘You need to clear his airway, Fuller. See if he’s got any false teeth. Don’t let him choke to death, for God’s sake. Not in the street. Stay with him and if he says anything, write it down. Someone’s going to swing for this, and it’s not going to be me.’

‘Of course... sir,’ Fuller replied. The pause before the ‘sir’ was exactly the same distain Fuller had once shown for Resnick. As Saunders walked away, Fuller shook his head in disgust. Saunders was the sycophantic, arse-covering bastard Resnick had always said he was.

Fuller knelt back down and looked at the pitiful, broken figure of Resnick. He had hated this man for so long, but he wasn’t looking at an enemy right now: he was looking at a victim. A brutalized victim who deserved respect and care. He got some clean, sterile gauze from a first aid box and leaned into the car.

Resnick’s eyes opened slightly and he looked at Fuller through the crimson haze of blood.

‘Sir,’ Fuller started. ‘I’m gonna clean your mouth to help you breathe more easily. You got false teeth?’

Resnick managed a slight nod, so Fuller slipped his finger into his mouth and felt around. Suddenly, a couple of real teeth that had been knocked loose during the assault fell out onto Resnick’s lap. Fuller eased the plastic bridge out. It was a plate with two side teeth on it.

‘I’ll put everything in your pocket. The fake ones will be waiting for you when you’re ready; the real ones you can put under your pillow for the tooth fairy.’ Fuller smiled and he swore that the old man’s eyes creased slightly. It could have been a smile; it could have been a flinch of pain.

Taking his coat off and gently draping it over Resnick’s shoulders and chest, Fuller said kindly, ‘Don’t want you getting cold, do we? I’m so sorry, George,’ he went on. ‘You’re a fucker of a man to work for, but this isn’t right in anyone’s book. And I’m sorry. I’ll get him for you. Whoever did this — I’ll get him.’

Resnick’s breath rattled; the blood dripped from his mouth and nose as he tried to turn his head toward Fuller. He gasped and lifted his broken hand, the fingers black and blue, the blood seeping down inside his coat sleeve. He pointed to his left breast and tried to speak, but Fuller couldn’t understand what he was trying to say. Resnick managed to lift his hand a little further, to his left breast, and patted it twice.

‘Is it your heart? Are you having a heart attack?’ Fuller asked.

Resnick pulled Fuller’s jacket down from his shoulders and pointed with his finger to inside his coat. Then, from sheer exhaustion, his head slumped to one side and he passed out.

Fuller searched Resnick’s inside coat pocket and took out a crumpled sheet of paper. As he started to read it, he saw the ambulance crew running toward him with a stretcher. Fuller moved out of their way, pocketing the paper at the same time. At the other end of the street, Saunders gave the thumbs up for everyone to move toward the Rawlins house.

Harry stood behind Bill as, shovel in hand, he dug down into the soft earth beneath the willow tree. None of them had noticed the bamboo cross which had fallen flat on the soil and was now covered by Bill’s clumsy digging. Before too long, Bill hit a white lace table cloth. ‘Trust a bird to neatly wrap a million in cash before she buries it!’ He laughed and tore at the cloth, desperately trying to get to the contents.

As Bill got closer, Eddie suddenly realized what was buried in the cloth and backed away. ‘Oh, fuck!’ Bill shouted as he broke through the cloth and the stench hit him smack in the face. He leapt to his feet, hands covered in soil and crap.

Harry picked Wolf’s body up by the scruff of his neck and held him up toward Eddie, fury filling his eyes. ‘Look what you made her do! You made her bury her baby! AGAIN!’ Harry thrust Wolf toward Eddie’s face, wiping dog shit across his cheek. Eddie backed off, heaving and vomiting into the shrubbery.

Suddenly, they heard the sound of the front door being struck with a sledgehammer. ‘POLICE — OPEN UP!’ Bill raced toward the kitchen to try and fight his way to the BMW. Eddie froze and then hurtled after Bill.

Harry didn’t panic. He moved quickly to the far corner of the garden and inched his way behind the blackberry bushes. He scratched his body with every step, the trailing thorns cutting into every part of exposed skin, but he remained silent. He stood by the seven-foot wall and looked up, raised his hands, lowered his weight and jumped. As his palms gripped the shards of glass he’d cemented into the top of the wall years ago, the pain ripped through his body. He wanted to scream but he hung there with his forehead against the bricks and his eyes screwed tight shut.

Behind him, Eddie suddenly reappeared, running down the garden. Harry knew the police would be right behind, so he pulled himself upward, grimacing through the pain. Eddie saw Harry as he reached the top of the wall. ‘Harry!’ he screamed. ‘Harry, help me!’ Eddie, looking up his cousin, didn’t see Wolf’s body on the ground. He tripped over the little dog, fell into the mud and the police were on him.

From the top of the wall, as Harry silently maneuvered round as much of the glass as he could, he glanced down at Eddie, barely visible under three uniformed officers. He looked at Wolf’s body and smirked to himself. Revenge is sweet, Wolfie boy... Harry disappeared over the wall and into the darkness of the alleyway behind.

Outside in the street, Bill had slipped his knuckleduster on and was fighting for his life. He had too much to lose: there was no way he was going to roll over and just let himself be caught. He kicked and punched for all he was worth, keeping two officers easily at bay. Even when they were joined by two more policemen, Bill stood his ground. Eventually one of them got in a lucky hit to the side of Bill’s head, dazing him for long enough to allow the others to take control. The next moment, Bill was on the ground, curled up into a ball with his arms above his head, as four truncheons rained down on his head and body.

As officers walked the bleeding, battered and still swearing Bill Grant toward the police van, handcuffed and struggling, Fuller watched from just outside the back of the ambulance where Resnick, wrapped in blankets, was being looked after by paramedics. Fuller hadn’t been part of the arrest team; he’d chosen to stay with Resnick. If he did say anything, Fuller wanted to make sure that his words were recorded properly. He wasn’t going to let Saunders twist anything or blame Resnick for anything that wasn’t his fault: there’d be enough about this mess of a case that was Resnick’s fault...

As the officers passed Fuller, one of them handed him Bill Grant’s knuckleduster. The congealed blood and hair had been smudged by the inside of Bill’s pocket, but was still visible. Fuller looked at the fit, young, fighting man restrained by four police; and at the fat, wheezing old man in the ambulance. He was suddenly filled with an uncontrollable combination of fury and guilt. Every other day of his life, he’d hated the idea of sitting in a smoke-filled car with Resnick, but tonight — tonight he wished he’d been right by his side. Resnick didn’t deserve this beating. No one deserved this beating.

Before he knew it, he’d slipped the knuckle duster onto his right hand, strode across to Grant and punched him hard in the kidneys. He managed to land one more blow before being pulled away.

As Fuller climbed into the back of the ambulance with Resnick, he saw Eddie being marched toward a police car. He was blubbering and squealing. ‘I’ve got a right to be here! It’s me cousin’s place! I’m keeping an eye on it for him. I ain’t done nothing wrong.’

In the ambulance, Resnick’s head lolled toward Fuller as he sat down beside him. The dark blood was now congealing round his mouth and nose. His eyes, like a wounded animal’s, stared at Fuller.

‘I gave him something to remember you by,’ said Fuller. ‘The one who did this. He won’t forget you in a hurry.’

But Resnick didn’t seem to care. As he tried to speak again, more blood spluttered from his mouth. The paramedic put an oxygen mask over it and he closed his eyes.

Harry Rawlins crouched low behind the thick privet hedge of his rear neighbor’s garden. He had ripped out the pockets of his trousers and put them on his shredded hands, which he had squeezed into fists to stem the flow of blood. He could still feel tiny shards of glass buried deep in his palms. From his hiding place, he watched as the ambulance left, followed by the police van and, one by one, all the police cars and bystanders, until the street was clear. Even then he waited another half an hour just in case the police returned. Eventually, when he was satisfied the coast was clear, he moved out onto the street and looked around: it was as if the circus had left town. Taking Eddie’s scarf from his coat pocket, he wrapped it round his neck and pulled it up over his mouth and nose. He then put his hands in his coat pocket and casually walked off down the road.