back into a ponytail and she was wearing a pale blue overall that gave the effect of an overstuffed sausage. She looked hot, irritable, and above all, worried. But then she would be. She’d always adored Chris.
‘Oh no, it looks bloody marvellous,’ said Annie tiredly, ticking off facts on her fingers. ‘His wife’s dead. And if that ain’t bad enough, his blood’s on her body and on the murder weapon. Our only possible lead’s her last client, who nobody knows a damned thing about except that he’s calling himself “Smith”, and the only person who might have actually noticed this Smith bloke has decided to top himself. Or at least, that’s the story.’
‘What do you mean, that’s the story? It was suicide.’
‘It looked like suicide. There was a chair kicked over, and the flex was tied up just right…poor bastard. The cop in charge told me that he’d heard things in the hotel about the boy. That he was a loser. Always stoned out of his head on pot. Couldn’t hold down a job for ten minutes before he started screwing up.’
‘Well then,’ said Dolly.
‘Yeah, but ain’t that bloody convenient? We’re all after this “Smith” person like longdogs—and there’s no saying he’s the one who did this to Aretha anyway. In fact anyone could have rushed up behind her in the street and done this; any sly bastard with a length of wire in his—or her—pocket.’
‘Fuck me, you think a woman could have done this?’ demanded Dolly. She was looking at Annie in exasperation. ‘You’re crazy.’
‘Who the hell knows? But still, we’re after Smith,’ she went on. ‘It’s all we’ve got. And our only link to him or her has just killed himself.’
‘Wait up,’ Dolly objected. ‘How’d this person who killed him—supposing that’s what happened—get into the flat?’
Annie shrugged. ‘Easy. Knock on the door, he opens it, they barge in, shut the door behind them, exit through the same door, no problems at all. No need to break in.’
‘What about the doormen at the hotel?’ asked Dolly.
Annie shook her head. ‘I had Jackie Tulliver talk to the doormen. They’ve got no recollection of the man, none at all.’
Jackie was an ugly, cigar-smoking little goblin who had been with the Carter firm forever. If Jackie said there was nothing, then there was nothing. End of.
‘So that’s that then,’ said Dolly firmly. ‘Now, will you just let it go, for the love of God? Chris did the deed. It’s bloody sad, but he did. I suppose she goaded him about how little he earned, she went back on the game, they argued—and he just snapped. So just let it go.’
There was a loud silence from Annie and Ellie.
‘Oh come on,’ protested Dolly.
They both ignored her.
‘What will you do now?’ asked Ellie, sitting down at the table across from Annie.
‘No idea.’ Annie stared at the table. Her brief Jerry Peters had phoned her early this morning saying that it looked very bad for Chris.
‘I fear for your friend, Annie,’ he had said gravely. ‘I really do.’
So do I, thought Annie.
‘This must have hit Aretha’s Aunt Louella like a sack of shit,’ said Ellie. She looked at Annie. ‘I hope the firm’s going to take care of her.’
Dolly looked up. ‘That’s the first sensible thing either of you has said.’
‘Yeah, but she don’t want our help, Doll,’ said Annie.
‘Look, make her take it. She can’t afford funerals and such: she’s poor but she’s proud. She’d probably like to accept an offer of help but it’s beneath her dignity.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Annie with a sigh, standing up.
‘So what now?’ asked Dolly. ‘You seen that Barolli bloke yet?’
Oh yeah, thought Annie. And instead of calling me, he’s been calling Redmond Delaney. The bastard.
‘No,’ she said. She really didn’t want to get started on all that.
‘Well, you ought to catch up with him. Have some fun, forget all this business.’ Dolly looked at her sharply. ‘You know what I’ve got to look forward to this afternoon? An assortment of fat naked arses and the frigging washing-up. Oh, and I’ve got to find a replacement dominatrix now that we’ve lost poor bloody Aretha. The silver fox, eh? Damn, that sure beats doing the dishes. Oh, and I forgot to say, your cousin Kath phoned. She was moaning about when were you coming over to get Layla, you said just overnight and she’s been there all morning. Kath says she don’t mind, but she’s got her hands full with her own two and you did promise Layla after breakfast at the latest, and Kath said where the fuck were you, in that charming way she has.’
Annie sighed again. Damn, it was true. She couldn’t keep dumping Layla on Kath like this while she addressed all sorts of business crap. She was going to have to sort out something more permanent, more settled, for Kath’s sake and for Layla’s. Within a few months she was going to have to think about schooling for Layla, too. But for now, she was going to sort out something else. Something she had already put off for too long.
The Holland Park mansion was just the same—it was a large and imposing William and Mary house with beautiful proportions, standing full square in an elegantly shaded plot. Lollipop bay trees adorned either side of the vast pillared doorway. It was the very picture of prosperous English gentility, probably owned by a banker who was something big in the City—which just went to show how far you could rely on appearances.
The mansion was in fact owned by the don of an Italian-American mob ‘famiglia’, greatly to be feared, who loaned money at ridiculous rates then had people apply baseball bats to clients who were slow to pay. Who practised the ancient arts of loan-sharking and extortion. Who ran all-night poker games for high stakes. Who paid off bent cops—just like the Carters did, Annie reminded herself.
Annie walked up the steps with the strangest feeling that someone was watching her. She paused midway, looked around. She’d sent Tony home; said she’d get a cab back to the club. She looked up and down the quiet, sedate street. There was a brief flare from a doorway about a hundred yards up the road, as someone lit a cigarette.
Hey, is that all it takes to spook you now? she wondered. Someone standing in a doorway taking a smoke?
Exasperated with herself, Annie went on up the steps. She was getting jumpy and she didn’t even know why—except maybe she did. Her friend had been killed. Another friend had been arrested. And then the horror in the flat today. Trouble, every way she looked, and it was putting her on edge.
And now she was remembering the last time she’d come here, distraught, almost senseless with grief and worry, her daughter missing, her husband gone, money to find and nowhere to find it. This time was different, but still she felt her stomach churn with nerves.
She knocked at the glossy navy-blue painted door. The door opened. A large mound of muscle stood there, looking at her expectantly.
Annie
