open the bubbly and start dancing on the frigging tables, that was for sure.
There was a different girl on reception when Annie got back to the Vista Hotel just after midnight. ‘Pippa’, the girl’s badge announced. Pippa had a mountain of dark hair on her tiny bird-like head, pale clear skin and blue laughing eyes; her purple fitted jacket and skirt suited her colouring. The place looked deserted, apart from this little bright beacon sitting behind the reception desk.
‘I need to speak to Ray Thompson, your concierge,’ said Annie, surprised to see this dainty little thing here and not Gareth Fuller, as expected. ‘Did Claire tell you about me? I’m Annie Carter.’
Pippa did a flickering downward sweep of the eyelashes. Annie guessed that this wowed the male punters. She waited, expecting that Claire would not have told her colleague about this. Expecting in fact that she was going to meet with more obstruction, more hassle, more of the ‘oh I couldn’t do that’ routine.
Should have brought Tony in with me, she thought. Tony’s appearance tended to galvanize people in a helpful direction. But Annie didn’t want to come over all heavy here. She just wanted to know what had happened two nights ago; she didn’t want to go busting heads if charm and negotiation could do the business just as well.
‘That’s Ray over there,’ said Pippa helpfully, surprising her.
Annie turned. A man in a purple uniform with flashy gold epaulettes had just stepped out of the lift. He walked with authority, shooting his cuffs as he came. He looked at Annie, half smiled, nodded to Pippa.
‘Can I help?’ he said.
He was a short man in his early fifties, full of bouncy East End confidence. He had dark curly hair turning grey, an elfish face etched with laughter lines, and he took in everything about Annie at a glance. She could see him briskly categorizing her. Expensive-looking female punter in a black silk suit. She could see pound signs flicking up in his sharp, acquisitive eyes.
‘Can you spare a few minutes? I’m Annie Carter. Did Claire tell you I’d be coming?’ said Annie.
‘Yes, she did. Of course,’ he said in his Cockney twang.
‘Can we talk in the lounge, get some privacy?’ Annie continued, aware that Pippa was sitting behind the desk, looking bored as tits, with her ears flapping like Dumbo’s.
He nodded and led the way in. The lounge was spacious and decked out in soothing greens, pinks and golds. No fire in the grate—too late in the day and too warm for that anyway; instead there was a display of tasteful dried flowers. Lots of big couches. Lots of table lamps casting a cosy glow, side tables stacked with newspapers. It was a proper little home from home for the weary guest.
Ray politely motioned that she should sit on one of the big couches, and he sat down opposite her, at a discreet distance.
Annie got straight to the point. ‘You were on duty the night Aretha Brown was murdered,’ she said.
This seemed to jolt him, but he must have been expecting it. There was a sudden wariness in his eyes. He looked down at the carpet, then up at her again. Nodded.
‘She was here, visiting a friend,’ said Annie carefully.
He nodded again, but he half smiled and his eyes said: A friend? Is that what prossies are calling their clients now?
‘Did you see her arrive?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Yes. I did. Look, I went through all this with the police. What’s your interest here? You a reporter?’
‘Do I look like a reporter?’
Ray gave her a quick once-over. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘You’re an East Ender, Ray. Which part?’
‘Bethnal Green.’
‘Then you’ll know my husband’s friends and business acquaintances, the twins.’ Annie watched as Ray’s expression froze. ‘You know the twins, Ray?’
Everyone from that area knew the twins. Reggie and Ronnie. The Krays.
Ray swallowed nervously and Annie could see that he’d made an important connection.
‘You’re Max Carter’s wife,’ said Ray.
Widow, thought Annie, but she let it go.
Ray looked at her. ‘The Krays are a spent force now,’ he said. ‘They’ve been banged up for over a year for doing Jack the Hat and Cornell.’
‘You think so?’ Annie asked him.
Annie knew different. Even behind bars the Krays were making a fortune off their firm. They had legitimate sponsorship arrangements going with many businesses—debt collection agencies were a favourite—and these businesses set up deals from which the twins got a cut of the profit in return for use of the Kray name. She was doing something very similar with her own firm now, using Max’s and Jonjo’s considerable clout in the business world to make a legitimate living in security.
‘Aretha—the girl who died—was a friend of mine,’ she told him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘It was a horrible thing that happened to her. And her husband Chris is a friend too. He’s in the frame for this. I don’t like people doing bad things to my friends. And I don’t believe Chris would harm Aretha. So I need to find out anything I can about what happened that night, so that I can do something about it, okay?’
Ray nodded.
‘So,’ said Annie. ‘You saw her leave, but you didn’t see her arrive?’
He looked down, nodded again.
‘So, when she left. She left alone?’
‘Yes, she was alone.’
‘Did she seem all right?’
He shrugged. ‘She seemed fine. Happy. It was tipping down with rain and I said she ought to take a taxi, and she said she wasn’t made of money.’
Annie’s heart clenched with pain. If Aretha had taken that taxi straight home, and not walked the short distance to the corner around which Chris was parked up, waiting for her, then she would probably be alive right now.
‘Has she come here before?’
‘No, she was a new one here.’
Annie looked at him. ‘Room two hundred and six. Mr Smith. I’m assuming that’s not his real name.’
Again the shrug. ‘Lots of men sign in anonymously and pay cash when they check out. Wouldn’t you, if you were going to use a brass? He might be a man of some importance—probably is; this is a classy place, the prices we charge, I’m telling you. He might have a reputation to consider. He might be married. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself.’
‘Did
