Widows

Fuller’s weekend had been spent at the Yard, showing Boxer Davis’s landlady, Fat Fran, hundreds and hundreds of mug shots. She said she’d do her best to help him, but Fuller wondered if she was just stringing him along for the free food and all the hot and cold drinks she kept asking for. Sometimes she’d point at a face and say, ‘I think, but I’m not sure, but it could be him... let me have another cup of tea and some biscuits while I think about it.’ Fuller would then run a computer check on the individual she’d selected, only to discover they were serving time in prison, or that they were dead. But Fuller had to keep going with her because she was their only lead now. Each time she mentioned a lag by name, it got his hopes up, but most of them turned out to be ex-lovers and one even turned out to be her husband. Bloody hell, Fuller thought to himself sourly, she’s had a lot of fellas for a woman of her size and odor. As for the man who attacked her, Fran finally admitted that she simply couldn’t remember what he looked like.

Andrews had spent the morning with forensics. He’d asked them to check out a stolen vehicle found abandoned in a side street off Shaftesbury Avenue. The car had blood on the undercarriage, which came from the same blood group as Boxer’s. There was damage to both the rear and front bumpers, and a headlight was broken: similar glass had been found in the alleyway where Boxer was discovered. It hadn’t taken the forensic team long to confirm that the fibers snagged on the broken headlight matched the suit that Boxer had been wearing, and they were also able to match the glass left at the scene with the stolen car. A positive result, but it lead nowhere: the car had no suspect fingerprints in it, and the leather glove marks suggested Boxer’s killer had a criminal record and didn’t want to be caught. It was yet another dead end.

Fuller hammered each key down as he made his methodical notes, wishing it was Resnick’s head. There had been a big jewelry raid in Mayfair the night before and the whole station was buzzing about it. By rights, Fuller should have been assigned to it, but he was stuck on the Rawlins case. So, instead of tracking down proper criminals — ones who were actually alive — he’d spent his time waiting on Fat Fran and getting nothing in return. He was sick and tired of being Resnick’s whipping boy — and the other CID officers was pissing him off, too. They knew how much Fuller hated Resnick, and kept joking about how inseparable the two of them were, and how Fuller was putting on weight and starting to smell like an ashtray as he slowly morphed into his boss. Smarting with resentment, Fuller finished typing and angrily yanked his report from the typewriter, tearing it down the middle in his haste. He looked up at the ceiling, calmed himself and started again.

When Andrews came in, he too was angry. The chief had hauled him over the coals for requesting forensic priority on the stolen car used in the hit and run on Boxer Davis over the Mayfair job. Andrews had had to stand there like a wet lettuce while he took the bollocking that should have been given to Resnick. Now he paced up and down the room, watching Fuller hit the typewriter keys with such force it was moving across the desk.

‘’Ere Fuller, how’s your mate Resnick?’ Detective Sergeant Hawkes popped his head round the door with a big grin on his face.

‘Fuck off,’ said Fuller.

‘With pleasure,’ said Hawkes. ‘I’m off the case, and so’s Richmond, and we’re on the Mayfair job. No more wasting time doing surveillance on the Rawlins woman for us.’

‘How come you got moved and I didn’t?’ Fuller was seething.

‘I think the DCI’s keeping all rejects in the one team so as not to infect the rest of the station,’ Hawkes mocked.

Fuller was livid. He thought of asking the chief if he could get on the Mayfair job, but then he figured the chief would have already asked if he’d wanted him. God, what if Resnick’s incompetence really was rubbing off on him? He glared at Hawkes.

‘Resnick know about this?’ Fuller asked.

‘No idea. I’ve not seen him and I don’t care. It’s the DCI’s decision,’ Hawkes said cheerfully, shutting the door and leaving Fuller to stew in his own juices.

Five minutes later, Alice walked in. She was about to be transferred to Criminal Records and was relieved in a way: the stress levels would be much lower.

‘You’re moving back to your office today,’ she reminded Fuller and Andrews. ‘The decorators have done a lovely job. It’s all nice and fresh with brand-new equipment.’ Her voice was a cross between a kindly mum and a strict headmistress.

Fuller had already had most of his desk and files packed and moved. Andrews had slipped out to the canteen before he could be commandeered into moving any office equipment.

‘DCI Resnick in yet?’ Fuller asked Alice, as he carefully pulled his report from the typewriter and picked up the last bits of paperwork from his desk.