Widows

While they waited for the ambulance, Resnick and Fuller had looked round Boxer’s squalid bedsit. The single bed was upturned and every item of furniture in the room had been smashed. The contents of his suitcase were strewn all over the filthy carpet, but there were a couple of pairs of balled up socks still inside: Boxer had been packing to go somewhere. Stray banknotes were scattered about the room. It was unusual for Boxer to have money and Resnick thought of the rumors he’d heard from Green Teeth. If he was right about Boxer being flush, could he possibly also have been right about Harry Rawlins being alive?

When the ambulance arrived, Resnick had been given the news that Boxer was alive but critical. Ignoring Fuller’s bored expression, he ordered him to drive straight to the hospital.

Resnick had rushed straight to the ICU, where the attending doctor told him that Boxer Davis was defying all medical expectations. They now knew that it wasn’t a beating, but a hit and run. Boxer had suffered horrific internal injuries and broken virtually every bone in his body. He wasn’t expected to live — and, if he did, he’d never walk again.

‘Listen, doc, this wasn’t an ordinary hit and run,’ Resnick had said. ‘Both you and I know he was hit more than once before they ran. It’s important that I speak to him.’

The doctor shrugged. ‘You’ll be lucky.’

‘Well, I gotta get lucky at some point... it might as well be tonight,’ Resnick growled.

Hours passed, but the Intensive Care Unit corridor remained empty. Although he knew Boxer wouldn’t wake up, Resnick couldn’t bring himself to leave. As long as Boxer Davis breathed, he would stay. Boxer was the key to it all, Resnick was sure of that. Questions swirled round his head. Why was Boxer leaving town? Was he scared? Was someone else scared and paying him to leave? Who did Boxer willingly leave his flat with the night before? One thing was clear: the man who had beaten up Fran didn’t know that someone had already tried to kill Boxer, so it couldn’t have been the same person who had left the flat with Boxer and led him straight into the trap. There were two men. Two men, both after Boxer for some reason. Why?

Resnick again thought back to his conversation with Green Teeth. He’d insisted that Boxer was flashing the cash and parading round in Harry Rawlins’s cast-offs. He’d also implied the ledgers were being talked about as though they might be up for grabs to the highest bidder. Resnick screwed up his eyes in frustration. He felt he was so close to knowing everything, but, once again, he was about to lose the one person who could break this case wide open. First, Len Gulliver had died before he could spill the beans, and now Boxer Davis looked as if he was about to do the same. Surely it was not possible that Rawlins was alive? Even the thought made Resnick’s blood boil. Nevertheless, he had to get this vital information out of poor Boxer’s bastard mangled brain before the doctors decided to turn him off and clear the bed for someone else.

One packet of cigarettes and eight cups of coffee later, Resnick was still slouched in his chair with his hat over his eyes. It was 5 a.m. when he was woken by the doctor gently shaking his shoulder. He didn’t have to say anything. The look on his face said Boxer was dead.

Resnick walked away, a small squat figure, head bowed, shoulders down, leaving behind him a mound of squashed coffee cups and dog ends and a faint lingering odor of BO. The doctor watched him go. It was a wonder the man was still on his feet, the number of hours he’d sat there without eating, and the amount of nicotine and caffeine he’d consumed. He hoped Resnick was off home for a nice bath and some much needed sleep, but he thought it unlikely.

Back at the station, slumped in his office and contemplating his woes, Resnick ate half a stale pork pie before tossing the rest in the bin. He opened a fresh packet of cigarettes, lit up and flipped open the surveillance reports. He was annoyed that they hadn’t been filed since yesterday; he’d tear a strip off his team when they arrived for work tomorrow. Resnick wasn’t going to let any messy paperwork let him down. His team was under instructions to scour the streets for information on the hit and run, which meant no weekend leave for anyone. He knew this wouldn’t go down well, but he was including himself in the extra legwork, so he didn’t give a shit. If he didn’t give the Super something soon, he’d be taken off the case, and that would mean no more chances at promotion. His case needed to be beyond reproach — especially as he’d missed his review with Saunders.