Lynda La Plante
Widows
Prologue
On a cold November morning a raid organised by Harry Rawlins went disastrously wrong.
The raiders at a given marker in the Strand Underpass were to hold up a security wagon. A bread truck would act as a block, and ramming vehicle, in front. As soon as the security wagon halted, three men following in a Ford Escort van would hold up the traffic behind at gun point. One man would, by using explosives, blow the side of the security wagon. Each man would fill the other’s haversack with money bags, running the last ten yards to the exit of the underpass to waiting getaway cars. The last man to leave the scene of the hold-up would wait until all three men had cleared the underpass. He would then drive off, meeting them in a pre-arranged hide-out.
The guards in the security wagon were completely unaware that they were sandwiched between raiders.
The police car giving chase to two young boys in a stolen car was also unaware that a raid was in progress. It was coincidence that the police, with siren wailing, followed the stolen ‘joy-ride’ car into the Strand Underpass.
The guards in the security wagon heard the police siren. The driver of the Ford Escort van turned for a split second to look behind him towards the noise of the siren. In that split second the security wagon slammed on its brakes. One of the raiders tried to warn their driver, but it was too late, the Ford Escort van careered into the back of the security wagon.
The explosives jerked out of the raider’s hand towards the driver’s seat.
The front of the van exploded like a time bomb.
A car following the raiders tried to brake but hit the
back of the van, locking the raiders’ exit doors.
The three men were trapped within their own vehicle. No one could reach them, no one could help them. The flames and smoke made it impossible for anyone attempting to wrench open the driver’s door. Then the petrol tank burst and seemed to blow what remained of the van apart.
The three men, trapped, were human torches, burning alive, and watched by horrified onlookers.
In the terrible confusion, no one noticed the masked man run from the bread truck. He watched for only a second, turned and ran back to the truck, then drove out of the underpass.
Eventually the screams of the dying men were silent.
The underpass was closed for the rest of the day as fire engines, police cars, and ambulances came and went. Later that night a tow truck removed what was left of the raiders’ van.
All three bodies had been taken to the morgue, but it was two days before they were officially identified as:
HARRY RAWLINS
His body had taken the full impact of the explosion. The upper part of his body was literally blown to pieces. The skull fragmented. Both legs charred down to the bone. However, still attached to a burnt and mutilated left forearm was a gold wristwatch. The inscription read ‘To Harry My Love’, the date was a blurred 1962.
JOE PIRELLI
Was identified by his dental records held at Scotland Yard.
TERRY MILLER
Identified by a thumb and forefinger print on his left hand. The only part of his body not burnt.
All three men were known criminals.
All three men had been married, these women were now widows.
Chapter 1
Dolly Rawlins stood in her kitchen ironing the shirt collar and cuffs she had carefully starched, just the way Harry always liked them. Beside her, the laundry basket was piled with ironed sheets and pillowcases. Wolf, the little white poodle Harry had brought home after Dolly had given birth to their stillborn baby boy and their hopes of a family were dashed, sat at her feet, his head drooping. Always alert, every time Dolly moved he padded after her.
Dolly had been washing, ironing and dusting since she had returned from the police station. It was now after 1 p.m. Sometimes she would stop and just stare into space, but then she would feel the pain building up, and she’d begin working again; anything, anything to stop that pain inside her. The police wouldn’t let her see Harry’s body as it was too badly injured, and part of her refused to accept what she had been told. They were lying to her, she was certain. Any moment Harry would walk back into the house.
Linda Pirelli had stood frozen to the spot in the cold mortuary, her long dark hair framing her ashen face. She wished she had someone with her, she wished for a lot of things but, right now, she wished that this was a bad dream and any second she’d wake up.
‘Dental records suggest this is your husband, Mrs. Pirelli, but, as we didn’t find all the teeth, we’d like you to take a look as well,’ the mortician said. ‘One side of his face is not too badly burned, so if you remain standing where you are, you’ll be fine. Ready?’ Before Linda had chance to answer, he’d pulled the white sheet back.
Linda gasped, held her hand to her mouth and froze. She felt something warm trickling down the inside of her leg.
‘Toilet, I need the toilet...’ she started to mumble softly.
‘Is this your husband, Joseph Pirelli?’ the escorting policewoman asked.
‘Yes, yes, it is. Now please get me out of here,’ Linda pleaded.
The policewoman gripped Linda’s arm, and gently guided her from the mortuary to the toilets in the corridor.
Audrey, Shirley Miller’s mother, was worn out and fed up. She glanced down with distaste at her old shapeless woolen dress, her bare legs and her ankle boots. Catching a glimpse of herself in the kitchen window, Audrey saw the gray roots were showing in her dyed orange hair; she needed a tint to feel human again. As she stared at her haggard reflection, she could hear her daughter sobbing her heart out upstairs.
Shirley lay on her bed, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping. Every time she wiped her eyes she started crying again, repeating his name over and over.
‘Terry... Terry... Terry...’ Shirley screeched, clutching a framed photo of her husband to her chest.
Audrey bustled in carrying some hot milk and buttered toast on a tray, but Shirley couldn’t touch it so Audrey polished it off instead. As she ate, she looked at the small silver-framed photograph of Terry clenched in Shirley’s hand.
Sitting back on the edge of the bed, Audrey considered her beautiful daughter, the pride of her life. Shirley was a stunning young woman, with a curvaceous figure and long natural-blonde curly hair reaching to below her shoulders. She had the sweetest, most trusting temperament and had only ever gone against Audrey’s wishes once, and that was to marry Terry Miller. She’ll get over him, Audrey thought to herself. In time she’ll be herself again. But for now it was best just to let her cry.
2 p.m., Dolly dragged herself and the ironing up the stairs of her immaculate suburban home. Wolf followed sleepily behind. Wolf’s normal sleeping spot in the living room was on the thick Persian rug in front of the ornate fireplace. The mantelpiece displayed a lifetime of photographs of Dolly and Harry: their wedding at Chelsea Registry Office, with Dolly in a Chanel suit, carrying a small bouquet of white roses, their honeymoon in Paris, and then from every anniversary, Christmas and charity ball after that. In the winter, the open log fire warmed Wolf’s little body and in the summer he enjoyed the cool air circling the room from the open sash windows. When Harry was away on business, however, Wolf always curled up next to Dolly on the sofa — plush red velvet with gold tassels.
Dolly opened the bedroom door. Inside, the bedside lamp gave a soft warm glow across the spotless room, the matching draped curtains, bedspread and scatter cushions were all neat and tidy; nothing was out of place. After putting the ironing away, Dolly dug her hand into her apron pocket and lit her hundredth cigarette of the day. As she gulped in the smoke she felt her heart heave heavily inside her.