‘Me bleedin’ back end’s fucked!’ yelled Gloria, as she heaved out a case.
Julia winced as Gloria made some financial deal with the old man on his tractor to tow the car to the nearest garage. She was so loud and brassy that she was almost comicaclass="underline" her fake-fur leopard coat slung round her shoulders, her too-tight, puce, wrap-around shirt. ‘Er, Ester, you got a few quid I can bung ’im?’
Julia saw Ester purse her lips and join Gloria at the tractor.
‘Is she ’ere yet, then?’ screeched Gloria.
Ester paid ten quid to the tractor driver and directed him to the nearest garage that would be able to repair the Mini.
Gloria banged into the hallway. ‘Cor blimey, this is the old doss-house, is it? Hey, Kathleen, how are you doin’, kid?’ Kathleen said she was doing fine, then Gloria pointed at Connie. ‘I know you, do I?’
Connie shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, I’m Connie.’
‘You one of Ester’s tarts, then, are you?’
Connie’s jaw dropped. ‘No, I am not.’
Gloria seemed unaware of how furious Connie was. She turned to Julia. ‘I didn’t know you was on this caper, Doc.’
‘I didn’t know you were,’ said Julia sarcastically.
‘You sure you got Dolly comin’? I mean, I come a hell of a long way to get here, you know. This is all on the level, isn’t it? She is coming, isn’t she?’ Julia had to turn away because she wanted to laugh out loud.
Ester clenched her fists: Gloria had only been there two minutes and she was under her skin like a rash. ‘She’ll be here, Gloria. Just get some old gear on and start helping us, we’ve got a lot to do.’
‘Right, you tell me what you want done, sweet face. I’m ready, I’m willin’ and nobody ever said Gloria Radford wasn’t able.’
Ester looked at her watch. She thought she should have received a call from Dolly by now but she said nothing, just hoped to God she had played her cards right, that Dolly would, as she had anticipated, arrive. She had laid out a lot of cash already and if wily old Dolly Rawlins copped out, she was in trouble. Like the women she had chosen, Ester was in deep financial trouble. They were all desperate but Ester more than any of them.
Dolly was out. She had walked out a free woman two hours ago. The fear crept up unexpectedly. Suddenly she felt alone. She stood on the pavement, as her heart began to beat rapidly and her mouth went bone dry. She was out — and there was no one to meet her, no one to wrap their arms around her, no place to go. She saw the white Rolls Corniche; it was hard to miss, parked outside the prison gates. She stepped back, afraid for a moment, when a uniformed chauffeur stepped out and looked towards her.
‘Excuse me, are you Mrs Rawlins, Mrs Dolly Rawlins?’
Dolly frowned, gave a small nod, and he smiled warmly, walking towards her. ‘Your car, Mrs Rawlins.’
‘I never ordered it.’
He touched her elbow gently. ‘Well, my docket says you did, Mrs Rawlins, so, where would you like to go?’
Nonplussed, she allowed herself to be manoeuvred to the Rolls. He opened the door with a flourish. ‘Anywhere you want. It’s hired for the entire day, Mrs Rawlins.’
‘Who by?’ she asked suspiciously.
‘You, and it’s paid for, so why not? Get in, Mrs Rawlins.’ Dolly looked at the prison, then back to the car in which there was a small bouquet of roses, a bottle of champagne, and an invitation. ‘I don’t understand, who did this?’
The chauffeur eased her in and shut the door. Dolly opened the invitation.
Dear Dolly,
Some of your friends have arranged a ‘SHE’S OUT’ party. Take a drive around London and then call us. Here’s to your successful future, and hoping you will join us for a slap up dinner and a knees-up,
Dolly read and reread the invitation. She knew Ester Freeman but she’d not been that friendly with her.
‘Where would you like to go, Mrs Rawlins?’
She leaned back, still nonplussed. ‘Oh, just drive around, will you? See the sights.’
‘Right you are.’
She saw the portable phone positioned by his seat. She leaned forward and picked up the phone.
‘Call any place you want, Mrs Rawlins.’
She turned the phone over in her hand, never having seen one before, and then she smiled softly. ‘My husband would have loved one of these,’ she whispered.
Chapter 2
James ‘Jimmy’ Donaldson was a small, sandy-haired man. He looked younger than his fifty-five years because he was so compact and his hair was thick with a deep widow’s peak at the temple. He was exceedingly nervous, having been brought from a woodwork class to be confronted by DCI Craigh and DS Mike Withey. The prison officers left the three men alone, which seemed to unnerve Donaldson even more, and his eyes darted back and forth from one man to the other.
Craigh asked quietly if he knew a woman called Dorothy Rawlins. Donaldson shook his head, then shifted his buttocks on the chair to sit on his hands, as if afraid they would give him away because they were shaking.
‘You sure about that, Jimmy?’
He nodded, blinking rapidly, as Craigh, still speaking softly, asked him about the diamonds.
‘I don’t know anything about them,’ he stuttered.
‘She’s out today, Jimmy. Dolly Rawlins is out.’ Craigh began to wander around the small, cold room, suggesting that if Donaldson could assist them, then perhaps they could make things much easier for him, maybe even get the authorities to move him to a nice, cushy open prison.
Two hours later, Donaldson was taken from Brixton Prison to their local nick. It was done fast and Craigh made sure that it was put out that Donaldson required a small operation, just in case the word spread they had got him, so that when and if they sent him back he wouldn’t be subjected to threats for grassing. All he had admitted so far was that he might know about the diamonds but he refused to say anything more unless he was taken out of the jail.
On the journey he brightened up at the prospect of being moved, even going home to visit his wife. Craigh had laughed. ‘Don’t get too excited, Jimmy, because we’ll need to know more — a lot more. You’re doing time for fencing hot gear right now and we’ve not got much sway with the prison authorities. All we do is catch ’em, the rest is not down to us unless you have some very good information.’
It was almost six thirty by the time Donaldson was taken into the station, and he was given some dinner before they really began to pressure him. He admitted that he knew Dolly Rawlins but he had known her husband better, and had held the stones for her as a favour. When asked if Rawlins instigated the diamond raid, he swore he didn’t know and he was certain that Mrs Rawlins couldn’t have done it because she was a woman. He knew she had killed her husband but word was he’d been fooling around with a young bit of fluff who’d had a kid by him. At the time of the shooting, there were many rumours around as to what had happened, but the truth had always been shrouded by mystery — and fear, because Harry Rawlins was a formidable and exceptionally dangerous man, nicknamed the ‘Octopus’ because he seemed to have so many arms in so many different businesses. No one was ever sure how much power he had but a lot of men known to have crossed him had disappeared.
Harry Rawlins had instigated a raid on an armoured truck: the plan had been to ram it inside the Strand underpass but the raid had gone disastrously wrong. The explosives used by his team had blown their own truck to smithereens; four men inside had died, their charred bodies unrecognizable. Dolly Rawlins had been given a watch, a gold Rolex from the blackened wrist of one of the dead men. She had buried his remains, the funeral an ornate affair, with wreaths from every main criminal in England. In many instances they were sent not out of sympathy, but relief.