Widows

He burped, tasted the stale pork pie in his mouth and dragged heavily on his cigarette. Tapping the desk with a pencil, he acknowledged that the only tangible witness he now had to work on was Boxer’s landlady, Fran. But she was so scared he doubted she would ever tell or even describe who had been responsible for assaulting her. He had to get tougher with her. Boxer was dead; this was now a murder inquiry. Being frightened wasn’t a good enough excuse. He’d get her down the Yard as soon as she was released from hospital and make her go over every mug shot of every known associate of the Fishers or of Harry Rawlins until she came up with the man who beat her up and scarred her face for life.

Opening a bottle of Scotch, Resnick poured a large measure into a dirty coffee mug on his desk and almost swigged a bit of green mold floating in it. He winced as he tried to pick it out, mulling the details of the case over again and again. He kept returning to the identity of the fourth man, the man who had walked safely away from the armed robbery and the exploding Ford Escort van. Eventually, he gave up chasing the mold round his Scotch, picked up another slightly cleaner mug and poured another measure. As he drank he got up and stared at the row of photographs stuck up along his office wall: all known associates of Harry Rawlins.

‘One of you is my fourth man,’ he mumbled to himself. ‘Was that why Boxer was silenced, because he knew who you were?’ Dear God, it couldn’t possibly be Harry Rawlins!

Resnick was confused by the cash strewn all over Boxer’s bedsit. Boxer had been telling people that he was back on Harry Rawlins’s payroll, which would explain why he had money, but why did the thug who turned his place over and half-killed Fran just leave the cash lying around? He can’t have been interested in the money; he was after something very specific. Did he think Boxer had the ledgers?

Another interesting detail Resnick had noted was that whoever had taken Boxer out on the night he was murdered had washed and wiped clean one chipped mug; the one he had used, no doubt. It had been the only clean thing in the whole place. So, this mystery person was someone with whom Boxer was happy to have a drink and go out on the town. ‘Careful bastards,’ Resnick whispered to himself, ‘are careful for a reason.’ He moved along the wall to the mug shots of the three dead robbers and stared at the image of Harry Rawlins, the most careful bastard he’d ever known. ‘Was it you, Rawlins?’

Resnick doubted Rawlins was Boxer’s mystery drinking companion, or the frenzied attacker of Fat Fran or the hit and run driver. If he really was alive, he wouldn’t be out in the open like that. But he might pay someone else to be... Boxer’s killing bore all the hallmarks of a professional, and Rawlins knew plenty of them.

Picking up three darts from his desk, Resnick took aim with one and threw it at the wall. It bounced off and he had to jump out the way as it flew back toward him. He picked it up again and threw it harder. This time it stuck with a thud in the wall just above Terry Miller’s photo. He smiled, poured another drink and swigged it back in one go.

In early for work, Fuller saw the light on in Resnick’s office. With no one else around, this was his opportunity to vent his frustration at all weekend leave being canceled. He’d already arranged to go out with his wife and he was damned if he was going to miss out just because Resnick was trying to save his already ruined career. As Fuller marched to Resnick’s office, he tried to control his breathing; he would start by asking Resnick nicely to keep the weekend clear for him.

Fuller knocked and at Resnick’s barked ‘Enter!’ stepped into the untidy office. Resnick was sitting staring at the three photos on the wall aiming another dart. He threw it across Fuller’s path instead.

‘Unless you’ve got something positive to say, don’t bother opening your mouth,’ growled Resnick.

‘It’s about the weekend leave, sir. I’ve actually got plans.’

Resnick flapped a hand at Fuller. ‘Don’t we all, Fuller.’

‘I’ve done forty-eight hours on the trot!’ Fuller was tired of being treated like a dogsbody.

‘We’ve all been working hard,’ said Resnick, ‘but we’re close to the payoff.’

‘Are we really?’ Fuller said sarcastically. This was a dead-in-the-water case.