Steve got a firmer hold on both back legs. He took a grunting breath, and yanked hard, like Charles Atlas pulling on a Bullworker. There was an audible
crunch
as the dog’s spine snapped like a twig. There was a whimper. Then the dog stopped moving. Stopped snarling. Just hung there, in Steve’s hands. Steve tossed the dead animal into the canal.
The girls stood there, open-mouthed. Rizzo, too, was frozen in shock.
Then he stepped forward, eyes wild. ‘You’ve killed my fucking
dog
,’ he howled.
Steve straightened. Took a breath. Grabbed Rizzo by the arms, turned him like a rag doll, slammed him face-first into the bridge wall.
‘Jesus!’ screamed Rizzo as Steve yanked both arms up behind his back to his shoulders.
‘You know what, cunt? You’re starting to get on my nerves,’ said Steve in Rizzo’s ear. ‘Now. Listen up. This is Mrs Carter, and you are going to answer her questions, you got that? Nod yes, you stupid little bastard.’
Rizzo nodded.
Panting, Steve glanced at Annie. ‘Ask him,’ he said.
Annie straightened up, pushing herself away from the wall. Got a calming breath down her.
Shit,
her heart was hammering away like a bass drum. The dog’s dead body was floating off down the dark waters of the canal. Derek was standing back, watching.
He caused that
, she thought.
She looked around. Jackie was still standing there, quaking with fear, but Mira was gone. But now was not the time for recriminations. Now was the time to ask her questions. She stepped forward, and talked to Rizzo Delacourt while Steve held him tight.
Steve dropped her off at the club an hour later, and was about to drive off with Derek when Annie shook her head.
‘Hold on Steve, wait out here will you? I want a word with Derek.’
Derek trailed after her into the club. The watcher
in the car was there; he nodded an acknowledgement as she went in.
‘Jesus, could you believe the way Steve handled that dog?’ Derek was marvelling loudly as they went into the office and she shut the door behind them. ‘Broke his back with his bare hands. That’ll teach that sorry little runt to give out with the mouth the way he does.’
Annie went around the desk, sat down, unbuttoning her jacket.
It had been a wasted evening. Rizzo had been able to tell them nothing helpful about his sister’s death—except how scarily similar it had been to Teresa’s and Aretha’s.
‘Take a seat,’ she said, nodding to the chair on the other side of the desk.
Derek sat down, looking at her expectantly.
‘You let me down tonight,’ said Annie.
His head went back a little, his expression surprised. ‘What do you mean, let you down?’
‘We could have got the information without it turning into a ruck.’
‘So it turned into a ruck. So what? Little bastard deserved all he got.’
‘This ain’t the first time you’ve screwed up. If you’d kept quiet tonight, everything would have been sweet.’
Derek looked at her. Then he shrugged. ‘Sorry,’ he said offhandedly.
‘You’ve done this before. Blundered in and made things harder. Messed up. Made mistakes.’
Derek’s expression was sullen now.
Annie took a breath. She was fuming with this idiot. What she was saying was the absolute truth: he’d fucked up, big time. Not only in minor things, swaggering about the place provoking people when there was no need for it; she’d checked with Jackie Tulliver, she knew it was Derek who’d ploughed in and upset Aretha’s Aunt Louella by being too pushy with her.
He’d also created that scene last night, resulting in Mira running away—and Annie doubted that she’d see her again, not after that. She and Mira had once been close—but something about Mira always seemed to repel rather than attract real intimacy. Still, they’d been friends. They had worked together, and got on well at Annie’s West End parlour, and she was sad to think that the once gloriously beautiful Mira had sunk so low. She’d been shocked at the state of her.
There were other things too, though—
huge
things. She remembered Max saying that Derek had been with Eddie, Max’s brother, on the night he’d died, and he’d gone off and left him alone. If he’d stayed, if he’d done his fucking job and taken better care of Eddie, then there was every chance that Eddie would be alive right now instead of lying cold in his grave.
Max had been loyal to Derek, even in the face of that extreme provocation. She knew he’d despised Derek after that, but he had not kicked him off the payroll. But then—she wasn’t Max. ‘You’re off the firm, Derek. You’re out of it.’
Derek’s features rearranged themselves into shocked outrage.
‘You
what?
’ he said.
‘You’ve had chances, and tonight you blew the last one.’
‘I’ve been a part of this firm since I was a fucking
boy
,’ protested Derek.
‘You’re still a fucking boy, Derek. That’s the problem.’ Annie stood up. ‘Goodnight, Derek.’
He was still sitting there. ‘You can’t do this,’ he said hotly. ‘I worked for
Max.
’
Annie felt the fire of anger ignite. He’d nearly got her mauled by that fucking hound tonight; he’d slipped up in so many ways, too many to count. He was a damned liability.
‘Max ain’t here,’ she reminded him. ‘I am. The decision’s mine, and it’s made. So fuck off out of it.’
Derek stood up, flinging the chair aside with a furious gesture.
‘You’ll regret this,’ he said, his eyes spitting rage at her.
‘I doubt that,’ said Annie.
And he went off down the stairs, slamming out of the front doors.
Sighing, Annie followed him and locked the main door for the night. She paused, went down the stairs into the main body of the club. Flicked on the lights. The underlit dance floor was in place now, and the three little podiums around it where the go-go dancers would strut their stuff were finished too, the strobes set out above them.
Around the edges of the dance floor there were now a few cosy banquettes, little recessed and sunken bays in which the punters could relax, drink, smoke, listen to the music, watch the girls. Some of the banquettes and chairs were still to come. Annie had picked out a classy chocolate brown; she was looking forward to viewing the full effect.
She could almost see how it would be now, when it was open. Heaving with punters eager to spend their money. Not the Palermo Lounge, Max’s favourite club any more. She pushed another switch, and the red neon above the refitted bar flickered into life. The sign said ‘
Annie’s
’.
It was her club now. Hers alone. Oh, she knew the boys didn’t rate her. She wasn’t Max. She was a
skirt
, and men like Steve and Gary, men who were used to pissing highest up the wall and swaggering about the place like tin gods, they might tolerate her but that was all. But still—she had
this.
She had achieved
this.
Suddenly, there was a noise. Annie stiffened.
Again.
A sort of shuffling movement, coming from the direction of the bar. Her heart started thumping fast.
‘Hello?’ she called out.
Silence.
It was just the old building making the noises it always made in summer. Just the popping and cracking of the beams—sometimes the old place creaked like a ship at sea. It had freaked her out when she’d first moved in, but now she was used to it.
Yeah, but it don’t
shuffle, she thought.
She remembered her mother, Connie, telling her tales of spirits. Newly dead, they came back sometimes and crashed about the place, not meaning to scare, but trying to communicate and not sure how to do it.
Communicate what?
shot into her brain.
Shit! Was she really entertaining the notion that this was
Aretha
down here, Aretha’s unquiet spirit, trying to tell her something about her death, trying to tell her who’d killed her?
She moved forward cautiously between the banquettes, peering ahead, the red neon lighting her way. Looked at the rows of optics, the mirrored backing behind them.
Saw herself in there, white-faced, worried. Seriously spooked. Everything was still, silent. Then something shot out from the far end of the bar.
Annie fell back, nearly overbalancing against the
edge of one of the brown banquettes. And saw that the ‘unquiet spirit’ was in fact a cat. A black cat that had got in here during the day while the builders were in and out, doors open, a fucking
cat
had just given her the fright of her life. And now the damned thing was rubbing up against her leg, purring, arching its back.
She’d seen this particular cat around here before, begging titbits and milk off the builders; it was a regular visitor.
‘You little bastard,’ said Annie, and a laugh exploded out of her.
She scooped the intruder up in her arms, smoothed its silken fur and took it to the door, put the cat outside, then shut and locked the door.
Still half laughing to herself, she stood and looked at the neon over the bar again. ‘
Annie’s
’. She stared at it for a while. Then she turned everything off, and went back up the stairs to her flat, locking the door behind her.
Next morning at nine the builders were back, and at ten an immaculately dressed DI Hunter was knocking at the door. One of the builders directed him up the stairs. He went up and found the office door open with Annie sitting inside working on some figures. She looked up, surprised to see him there. Bloody good job she’d given the police case notes back to Lane. If she’d had them out on the desk, that would have taken a bit of explaining away.
‘Good morning, Detective Inspector,’ said Annie cordially.
DI Hunter didn’t look in a friendly mood; then again he never did. His mouth was set in a thin line. His dark eyes were frosty. She was about to have her arse chewed, she could see it coming.
‘Mrs Carter.’
‘Have a seat.’
He stared at the seat as if he might have to get it deep-cleaned first. He sat down. Looked at her. ‘We’ve had a complaint. A Mrs Vera Delacourt has said that her son was assaulted last night.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘By one of your…associates,’ he said.
Annie’s face was blank.
‘She claims that he was badly beaten and that his dog was killed. But even as she was lodging the complaint, her son was denying anything had happened. His face was bruised, scratched. I asked him where the dog was. We’ve had a few complaints from neighbours about the dog’s barking. He said it had run off. Said his mum was imagining things.’
‘Really.’
‘Yes. Really.’ His eyes held hers steadily.
Bloody Derek,
thought Annie. She hadn’t got rid of him a moment too soon.
‘I don’t know anything about that,’ she said. ‘But I’ll certainly look into it.’
He sat back in the chair. He wasn’t done yet.
‘I don’t like the way you people do business, Mrs Carter,’ he said.
‘Us people?’ Annie looked at him.
‘Intimidation. Taking the law upon yourselves.’
‘I’ll have a word about it,’ said Annie.
‘Only, I’m wondering what your connection is to this son of hers, this Mr Robert Delacourt.’
Rizzo,
thought Annie. Trust a loser like that to give himself a snazzy name.
‘I have no connection with her son,’ said Annie.
‘I’m only asking because Robert Delacourt had a sister, Valerie Delacourt, a known prostitute who died a couple of months ago—killed, we believe, by Christopher Brown, who has been charged with her murder and with the murder of Teresa Walker, and with that of his wife, Aretha Brown—a close friend of yours, as her husband still is. So there is a connection.’
‘Not a very strong one,’ said Annie.
‘I just want to say this once, Mrs Carter—don’t interfere in the law’s business. Be very careful.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’ve checked you out. You have associated with known prostitutes. You were charged with running a disorderly house and selling liquor without a licence.’
‘And cleared.’
‘You weren’t cleared. Your sentence was suspended, that’s all.’
Annie’s eyes held his. ‘Do you think it’s possible the law has made a mistake in this matter?’
‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘I don’t.’
‘Well, I do.’
He stood up. ‘Remember what I said, Mrs Carter. Please. Or we may fall out, and neither of us wants that, I’m sure.’
Annie stood up too.
‘It’s the very last thing I’d want,’ she said. ‘Did you find out what happened to Gareth?’
‘What?’
‘Gareth. The boy we found dead in the block of flats?’
‘It appears to be suicide, but the post-mortem will tell us more. And Mrs Carter,
whatever
it was, it does not concern you. I hope we understand each other.’
‘We do.’
He nodded and went off down the stairs. Annie phoned Tony, went down to make sure the builders were hard at it, and was out the door, her face set in grim lines, to catch up on business before doing something she really, really didn’t want to have to do.
By four o’clock that same day, Annie and Dolly were at the funeral director’s, looking at catalogues of floral arrangements and a variety of coffins. You could have mahogany—expensive—or pine—cheap. You could have elaborate brass handles, or plain ones. Sumptuous silk or cheap cotton linings, in pink or blue or cream or white. You could spend out whatever the fuck you liked. Push the boat out. Blow the whole family fortune.
But really it’s all bollocks
, Annie thought.
None of it was going to bring anybody back or make the pain of loss any better.
Aunt Louella arrived, still dressed in sober black. And then came the part they were all dreading. The funeral director’s assistant ushered them into another room, the Chapel of Rest. And there, lying in an open coffin, was Aretha.
Annie felt her throat close, felt clammy sweat break out over her entire body.
Jesus, don’t let me faint!
she thought.
She breathed deeply and held on to Louella. Annie couldn’t tell who was holding who up. Dolly moved forward first—she had balls, that girl. Looked down at the corpse in the coffin.
The funeral director’s assistant withdrew discreetly to one side of the room, close enough to help if anyone got too distressed, far enough away to allow the mourners some privacy.
‘Don’t she look peaceful?’ said Dolly in wonder.
It was the right thing to say.
Louella moved forward too. Because Annie was holding on to the woman’s arm, she was forced to move with her, and as Aunt Louella looked at the empty vessel that had been her beloved niece, Annie also forced herself to look.
Aretha did look peaceful. Her dark skin was glowing with an almost healthy sheen, all the scratches and bloodstains skilfully washed away, covered over. Her hair was neatly drawn back, exposing the strong,
beautiful bones of her face. There was a trace of lipstick on her full lips, mascara on her lashes. She was wearing a white gown that was gathered high on the neck with a ruff like a choirboy’s.
To hide the marks
, thought Annie, and suddenly she felt sick.
This wasn’t Aretha. Aretha was gone.
She could feel Louella shaking, sobbing. Couldn’t look at the woman, because then she might break down as well, and she never cried. She was always the tough one, the one who stood strong. On the other side of Louella, Dolly fished out a wad of tissues and handed them to the grief-stricken woman, putting a warm arm around her shuddering shoulders.
Annie took one long, last look at the remnants of her good friend, and left the room. She waited for them outside on the pavement.
Tony sat in the car, watching her with a trace of anxiety.
You all right, Boss?
he mouthed.
Annie nodded and walked away, taking deep breaths, trying to steady herself.
But something wrenched at her guts, some spasm of grief and rage, making her wonder if she was going to throw up right here on the pavement. She paced about, clutching her arms around herself, feeling chilled, even though it was a clear bright day.
Aretha was gone. Other friends too,
and
her husband. She had lost so much.
And now, for the first time, it truly crashed in upon her. The intensity, the brutality, the sheer relentlessness of the losses she had suffered. She couldn’t lose anyone else. Couldn’t bear it. She pulled a hand through her hair, drew in a shaky breath, tried to get a grip.
At last Dolly and Louella came out. Annie approached them.
‘All right?’ she asked stupidly. She looked at Louella, who had aged ten years in the last half an hour. Looked at Dolly. Ditto.
‘We’ll give you a lift home,’ she said to Louella.
The woman shook her head, straightened her spine. ‘No. That’s all right. Thank you.’
And with that she slowly walked away.
Dolly and Annie looked at each other.
‘Fuck it, that was bloody horrible,’ said Dolly.
Annie stepped forward and hugged Dolly tight, surprising her.
‘You all right?’ asked Dolly, when Annie released her.
‘Fine.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing, Doll. Really. Just you’re a bloody diamond, that’s all.’
‘Oh.’ Dolly was staring at her curiously. ‘You sure you’re all right?’
Annie wasn’t sure at all, but she nodded. Tony opened the back door of the car, and they both
piled in ready to drop Dolly home. Then, at Annie’s request, Tony drove around while she sat in the back, silent, thinking about life and death, turning it all over in her mind. Tony was watching her in the rear-view mirror, thinking that
something was really wrong with the boss.
Finally she told him to take her on over to Constantine’s. Once parked up, she told Tony to go home; she wouldn’t need him again tonight, she’d phone when she did.
She saw Tony give her an odd look as she turned away and walked up the steps of the Holland Park mansion. A few seconds later she heard him drive away as she knocked on the big navy-blue painted double doors.
The usual man, huge and muscle-bound, opened it. ‘Mrs Carter,’ he said politely.
‘Is he in?’
‘Yes, he’s in.’ And he held the door wide.
He led the way across the silent marble hall and knocked on the study door.
Annie heard the familiar voice call from inside.
‘Mrs Carter for you, Boss,’ said the man, opening the door.
Constantine was sitting behind the desk. The banker’s light was casting its usual cosy glow. He was sorting through papers but now he looked up, blue eyes bright in his tanned, healthy face. She stared at him. Mafia. Dangerous. Maybe
untrustworthy, who knew? But he was sexy as hell. And so
alive.
‘It’s Monday,’ he said.
‘I know,’ said Annie faintly, moving closer.
‘Monday, not Tuesday,’ he emphasized. ‘Tuesday for lunch we said, didn’t we say that?’
‘We did. Yes.’
Annie was standing in front of the big desk now with its tooled-leather top. Expensive, like him. A Mont Blanc pen was lying among the papers; here was a thug with class. Like Max, and yet nothing like Max at all. Max had been the roughest of diamonds. Constantine was smooth as silk. He wore an aura of immense power like a cloak. Scared the shit out of most people he came into contact with. Hell, he scared the shit out of
her.
He kicked back his chair and looked at her. ‘Problem?’ he said.
Annie shrugged off her jacket. Breathing hard, she reached back, unzipped her dress, let it fall to the floor. Saw the surprise in his eyes as she stood there in her bra and panties, suspender belt and stockings. She walked around the desk, leaned against it, looked him straight in the eye.
‘Don’t talk. Just fuck me,’ she said. ‘Now.’
Constantine stood up. She suddenly felt small and vulnerable, semi-naked and shivering as if with fever, while he was fully clothed and tall and strong. His eyes holding hers, he put his hands on her
waist and lifted her up so that she was properly on the desk.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, an exact echo of Dolly outside the funeral parlour.
It was mid-evening; dusk was beginning to close in. For an instant Constantine stepped away from her, pulled down the blind at the window behind the desk. The room was suddenly cosier, more intimate. He came back to her. Gave her a questioning look.
‘There’s nothing wrong,’ said Annie, linking her arms around his neck as he nudged her legs apart and came in close.
He bent his head and kissed her. Annie kissed him back, her tongue teasing. Then he drew back.
‘Liar,’ he said.
‘Fuck me,’ she repeated, and pulled his head back down to hers, absorbing his strength, inhaling the Acqua di Parma cologne he wore, feeling his heat, the sudden hard answering urgency of his desire.
Constantine unclasped her bra and pulled it off, releasing her breasts into his hands. Annie gasped at the touch of his thumbs stroking over her nipples, urging them into hardness. She reached down, pulling off her pants.
‘Why the rush?’ murmured Constantine against her mouth.
‘Just do it,’ she moaned, her hands trembling
as they unbuckled him, unzipped him, moved inside, found him gratifyingly hard, fully erect. Pulling his cock out, touching its moist tip to her clitoris, massaging herself, fully absorbed in her own pleasure, in beating back this awful dead chill she had felt stealing over her today.
Heat flooded her as he swore and pushed her back on to the papers, scattering them, slipping fully inside her and using no finesse this time, no hesitation, no questions. Filled, replete, Annie lay back and let him have her, relishing every hot stroke, clutching at his hips, muttering
yes, yes, do it
until Constantine grew huge and harder, almost hurtful; and then he came and it was over, it was done, but he kept her there, working her clitoris with his fingers until she came too, the pleasure crashing over her, making her jerk and writhe and scream out his name.
Finally they were still, panting, coming back to themselves.
Constantine leaned over her, still lodged inside her. His face was still and watchful as he stared down at her.
‘Wow,’ he said.
‘Mm,’ said Annie.
Constantine withdrew, zipped himself back up, buckled his belt. Pulled her up so that she was sitting on the desk again. Annie felt warm, relaxed. Better.
Much
better.
Constantine sat down in the chair again, looked up at her that same way again. Shadowed. Watchful. Cool, all of a sudden.
‘Now are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’ Annie shrugged. ‘I just felt…down.’
And now Annie could see it clearly. Aretha’s death had brought to the surface things that she had been busy suppressing for months. She had never really dealt with her feelings over the deaths of her friends or Max, and Aretha’s horrible passing had brought it all sharply into focus.
Before this had happened, she had been wrapped up in day-to-day concerns, totally absorbed in the business of just
surviving
—worrying over Layla and all that Layla had been through. Worrying about the boys and winning them over—wondering if that would ever happen, and doubting it every day. Worrying about the expansion of the security business, worrying about the club, worrying about legitimately making a success of the firm, bringing in money to keep her daughter and herself clothed and fed…but all that had been
before
Aretha had been brutally murdered.