Widows

Dolly accidently knocked a brush off the table and bent over to pick it up. ‘Flying off in a day or so,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I just thought I’d decorate the lockers with some nursery rhyme posters before I go...’ Dolly noticed the fifth, smaller bag on the floor. It was open and the stacks of bank notes could be seen on the top of it. ‘Oh, God...’ she muttered, slightly louder than she’d intended.

‘Can I help you with anything?’ Sister Teresa asked.

Dolly flipped the bag shut and stood up. ‘I’ve just got this last poster to stick up, and then we’re done.’ Once Dolly had finished, Sister Teresa helped her stick the final poster in place and they both stood back to admire Dolly’s handiwork.

‘They are fabulous, Mrs. Rawlins. It’s so kind of you — they’ll definitely help the children learn their nursery rhymes,’ said Sister Teresa.

Dolly smiled to herself. Perfect, she thought. Not one keyhole or join could be seen in the top row. It didn’t look as if there were any lockers there.

The classroom filled with laughing, chattering children. One child, a particularly lovely little girl called Isabelle, wrapped herself round Dolly’s leg, as she always did. Isabelle never said much but her unconditional affection now reminded Dolly a little of Wolf. She’d miss these children — and the unquestioning generosity of the nuns themselves.

Dolly spent the afternoon doing ABCs with Isabelle and the other children, reveling in this particular classroom session: it would be her last one ever. She had loved her time working at the convent — it was so pure, uncomplicated and enjoyable. All the children wanted from Dolly was her time, and this was something she willingly gave. She’d certainly miss the simple certainty of convent life.

At four thirty, Dolly left the convent and headed straight for the nearest travel agent. There, she booked a first-class ticket to Rio leaving the following morning. When asked if she’d like a return ticket, Dolly said that she wasn’t sure how long she’d be staying so she would make any return arrangements from Rio. Then Dolly drove a mile down the road to another travel agent, where she pretended to be Mrs. Shirley Miller and booked an economy class ticket for Rio on the same flight.

Resnick had been at home all day, sitting down one minute, getting up the next, pacing round the living room and chain smoking as he waited impatiently for the call from DCI Saunders. The living room ashtray was full, but he still forced his cigarette butt into it before lighting another.

He looked at his watch. It was now 6 p.m. and he could smell the liver and bacon Kathleen was cooking for dinner. The phone rang once and he snatched it up, but it was just Kathleen’s bridge partner, Margaret.

‘Sorry, Margaret,’ Resnick said quickly. ‘Kathleen’s not in. And I’m going to have to cut you short as I’m waiting for a very important phone call.’

Kathleen appeared behind Resnick and took the phone from him. He gave her a disapproving look, which she ignored.

‘Don’t talk for long,’ he said.

Kathleen pushed him toward the kitchen. ‘Go and occupy yourself, George. Keep an eye on the dinner for me. Go on. Scoot.’

Kathleen finished her phone call five minutes later and returned to the kitchen, where George was picking out bits of bacon with a fork from the liver and gravy and eating them. Kathleen smacked the back of his hand and pursed her lips.

‘Stop picking. And don’t lie to my friends just because you’re waiting on an imaginary phone call.’ As she stirred the dinner, she could see that her words had upset him, but she believed in telling the truth. ‘You’ve retired, George. Go and play golf or paint the hallway like you said you were going to.’

Resnick’s face looked like an abandoned bloodhound.

‘Oh, you are stubborn!’ Kathleen continued. ‘Call them if you want to.’

‘It’s my case. They’ll call me.’

‘It’s not your case, George. Not anymore.’ Kathleen drained the potatoes and got the masher from the drawer. Resnick snatched it from her and started to take his frustration out on the pan of potatoes, smashing them into oblivion. Kathleen watched him. She’d never liked her husband being a policeman. He wasn’t the sort who could leave his work at the station; he brought it home with him, all knotted up in his stomach, and he was awful to live with at times. But, she thought, George out of the police force was far worse than George in the police force. She hated seeing him so angry but she couldn’t be bothered to placate him anymore.

As Resnick continued to massacre the potatoes, he shouted at Kathleen. ‘I told them! I told them these robberies were all connected. All masterminded by the same bloke. Bloody Rawlins! I warned them not to underestimate him. You can never underestimate Harry Rawlins.’