Stay Dead

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Can I come?’ asked Annie, following.

  Hunter stopped in his tracks. ‘For what?’

  ‘I might be able to see if something’s wrong. You never know,’ said Annie.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘I could help you,’ she said.

  Hunter turned and looked at her.

  ‘I have contacts. Lots of them,’ said Annie.

  ‘I know that. I know what type of contacts too, Mrs Carter. Keep out of this.’

  Annie stared at him. ‘Anything I find out, I’ll share with you. That’s a promise.’

  He paused, gazing at her hard-set face, drenched in tears or rain, or both. He really couldn’t tell. In that moment, he thought she was beautiful, formidable. He’d always thought it, and it annoyed him. Annie Carter had been many things in her life – a Mafia queen, a gangster’s moll, a madam in a Mayfair whorehouse. When he looked into her eyes he saw a steely determination and a strength that was alien to most women. She was a bad lot. Not the type of woman that any self-respecting, straight, top-class copper should go thinking thoughts like that about. But she was right: maybe she could help.

  He stared at her for another moment. Then he said: ‘You don’t touch anything. Not a damned thing. You understand me?’

  Annie nodded.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said Hunter, and led the way inside.

  24

  Inside, the club was dark; it was a place built for the night, not the day; there were no windows. It only came alive in the evenings, but for now it was spookily still, empty. The atmosphere was chilly.

  Annie reached out to the wall on the right of the closed door, switched on a bank of lights. All at once the big room sprang into focus: acres of brown carpet, faux tiger-skin chairs and deep chocolate-brown banquettes tucked away in quiet, private recesses. And everywhere, there was gold. On the walls, the ceiling. Great gilded angels were spreading their wings; golden poles were set into tiny podiums, gold-framed paintings adorned the walls.

  ‘What did I just say?’ asked Hunter.

  ‘Dunno. I wasn’t listening,’ said Annie, and walked over to the bar and found another switch. The blue neons flickered and flared into life.

  ‘I said don’t touch.’

  Annie was looking around her. Over to the right were the private dancing rooms behind gold beaded curtains. And to the left? The stairs up to Dolly’s flat. Her eyes went there, and stayed.

  ‘You’re sure you want to do this?’ said Hunter, watching her face.

  Her eyes met his. ‘There’s nothing there, right? She’s gone.’

  Hunter nodded and turned to lead the way. He unclipped the rope at the bottom of the stairs and started up. Annie followed, not wanting to. All right, she wasn’t going to see Dolly there, but this was where she’d died. If spirits did linger, then surely Dolly was up in the flat now, waiting for them, waiting for her. Waiting for someone to find her killer, take revenge, let her rest.

  Hunter stopped at the top of the stairs and pushed open the flat door, which was covered in grey dust where the technicians had collected fingerprints. He stepped inside. This room was brighter than downstairs, with an outside window; but the light filtering in through the closed curtains was drab. Hunter flicked on the overhead light and everything came to life. Pink everywhere, Dolly’s favourite colour. Cushions and doilies and stuff, this was very much a woman’s room. And . . .

  ‘Fuck,’ said Annie faintly, her eyes fixed on the rug in front of the gas fire. The off-white sheepskin was soiled with a dinner-plate-sized splodge of blood. Dolly’s blood. There were streaks of blood on the wallpaper beside the hearth, on the mirror over it, and on the fireplace itself. There were little numbered pointers that had been placed here and there by the crime scene boys.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. I’m fine,’ said Annie, drawing in a shuddering breath. Now, at last, she could believe it. Dolly really was dead. Here was where it had happened, where some creep had snatched her life away. Grief and anger warred inside Annie. Anger won, just. It took an effort of will to hold her voice steady, not to shout or cry. ‘You got any idea who did this? Why they did it?’

  ‘Well, it wasn’t robbery,’ said Hunter. ‘The safe in the office hasn’t been opened, and all Thursday’s takings were still in there, untouched. The keys were in her handbag. So was her cash, and credit cards. Nothing taken out of the bag at all, so far as we can see.’

  Annie nodded. It would feel better if money had been the motivation. The fact that it wasn’t made it more personal. Or maybe this was just some random nutter at work. Then she had a horrible thought.

  ‘She wasn’t . . . ?’ she started, and then found she couldn’t say it.

  But Hunter understood. ‘No evidence of sexual assault. It was quick, Mrs Carter. Almost instantaneous. We’ve fingerprinted all the staff and Ellie and Chris Brown, and if you would come down to the station later we’ll take yours too.’

  ‘I haven’t been here recently,’ Annie pointed out. ‘And my dabs are on your files, anyway.’

  Hunter gave her a long look. He knew her history; she’d been busted for running that disorderly house in Mayfair. ‘I’d like to take them again, even so.’

  ‘You’re looking at the nearest and dearest, right?’ said Annie. ‘Close friends, close family. You look to them first to find killers.’

  ‘Sadly, we do.’

  Annie stared at him steadily. ‘You’ve already checked whether I’ve been back here in the past few months. Checked with the airlines?’

  ‘Yes. I have. And you have, haven’t you? Brief stops in London, then on to the States or up to Scotland. What were you doing up there, Mrs Carter?’

  Annie shrugged. ‘Just playing tourist. I like it up there,’ she said, hoping he’d drop it, hoping he hadn’t delved too deeply into any of it.

  He was moving around the room, looking at the rug, the door. He bent down and stared closely at the blood on the hearth. Then he looked up at her. ‘You’re sure you know nothing about her relatives?’

  ‘Nothing at all,’ said Annie, stifling a wave of guilty irritation. Of course he’d had to check. What else did she expect? And she’d fronted it out, anyway. It was OK.

  ‘Any lovers at all? However far back in the past? Anyone?’

  Annie shook her head. ‘You know her background, don’t you?’

  ‘Refresh my memory,’ he said, standing up.

  ‘I first knew Dolly when she worked at Aunt Celia’s. They called it a massage parlour, but that’s just a fancy name for it. It was a whorehouse near the docks in Limehouse. In those days, Dolly was aggressive, rough around the edges. Then time moved on and she softened a bit . . .’

  Annie was thinking back to those times, thinking of the friends she’d made in that most unlikely of places, thinking of Darren, and Aretha, Ellie and Dolly. Back then, she and Dolly had been at each other’s throats. They had been enemies first, friends later.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ said Hunter, watching her face curiously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just thinking that those were good times.’ Now the smile was gone and she just looked sad.

  ‘In a Limehouse knocking shop.’ His tone was cynical.

  ‘Believe it or not, they were. The best.’

  ‘Paying protection to the Delaney mob, I believe.’ Hunter eyed her sharply. ‘What about them? Is there any connection now?’

  Annie bit her lip. Not too long ago, she’d had trouble with the Delaneys – and at that point, she’d thought they were done for. And most of them were. Tory, Kieron, Orla . . . Once, the Delaney gang had been powerful and frightening. They were now part of the past. But . . . she knew that the scariest Delaney of all was still alive.

  Redmond.

  She felt a shudder go straight through her at that thought. A big Irish Catholic family, the Delaneys had struck terror into the streets at one time. All gone now, history – except Redmond. And the thought of him could still frighten her
. She’d seen him in the flesh a few years ago. Hadn’t thought it was possible. She’d been off her head at the time, and had half-believed that she’d dreamed his being there . . . but afterwards she had known. Afterwards, she found proof of it. Redmond wasn’t dead. He was alive.

  ‘There’s no connection that I can think of,’ she said. And she hoped, prayed, that was true.

  25

  Annie was ticking things off her mental checklist. She had checked in with Ellie; she had forced herself to visit the scene of Dolly’s appalling murder at the Palermo; she had called in at the cop shop and let them take her prints again; and now she was on her way to the Blue Parrot. She wasn’t looking forward to it, but it was something that had been chewing at the edges of her brain, gnawing at it the way a rat would chew on a piece of rancid meat.

  Calls from Gary.

  The calls from Gary were what seemed to have brought about the change in Max. Assuming the calls were indeed from Gary, as Max claimed, and not from some grasping little tart intent on stealing him away from her. So, if Gary was calling Max – why so frequently? With Max out of reach, the only way to find out was to speak to Gary.

  Tony was nowhere to be found, Chris was still out and about on some sort of business, so Annie took a cab over there. It was late afternoon, and still raining. The sky was a grey upturned bowl darkening steadily into night, the traffic was thick, swooshing through the streets, headlights cutting through the gloom, wipers running at top speed.

  Fucking England, she thought.

  As the cab wove its way through the traffic, she thought of Layla and Alberto, her daughter and her stepson, cruising the Caribbean; they might be fugitives but they were in love and free as birds. She couldn’t help envying them; it broke her heart to think that she and Max had been like that once – obsessed with each other, always wanting to be together. Now . . . Annie’s throat clenched with misery . . . now, he couldn’t seem to wait to get away from her. And he didn’t even do her the courtesy of being upfront about it. He just went.

  When they got to the Blue Parrot she paid the driver and hurried inside. The bar staff were getting ready for the evening’s trade: polishing glasses and bringing up crates of mixers from the cellars. Like the Palermo Lounge and the Shalimar, the décor in here was dark chocolate and gold, angels and cherubs, faux tiger skin on the chairs and some of the banquettes. In fact, all three clubs looked damned near identical.

  But there’s a difference, she thought as she stood there in the big room that constituted the main body of the club. At the Shalimar, Ellie’s motherly presence gave the place a warm ambience. And at the Palermo, Dolly had imbued her territory with a brassy sweetness. Here, there was only Gary and a coven of ever-changing girlfriends to run the place. The atmosphere was not cosy, not welcoming. Strictly business.

  ‘Shit, not you,’ said a male voice from behind her.

  Annie turned around and there he was: Gary Tooley. Over six and a half feet tall, and so skinny it was as if he’d been stretched on a rack. His eyes were devoid of any humanity; she’d always thought that and clearly nothing had changed.

  Gary Tooley looked like what he was: a vicious thug. His straight straw-blond hair had been restyled since she’d last seen him; he now wore it swept straight back, giving him an even more hawkish air. He was wearing a dark designer suit, a white silk shirt open at the neck. Working for Max had given him a good lifestyle; he’d come from the East End gutters, but today he looked rich and she knew that would please him, because Gary loved money – it was his god, the only thing that mattered to him.

  ‘Hi, Gary,’ she said, and then her eyes went to the minuscule blonde at his side. Big calculating blue eyes rimmed with black lashes, a sneer on a face plastered with too much fake tan and make-up, and a too-short pink leather dress showing off a taut little body.

  ‘And who’s this?’ asked Annie.

  ‘I’m Caroline,’ said the blonde. ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘This is my girlfriend,’ said Gary to Annie. Then to Caroline he said: ‘This is the boss’s wife, hun.’

  The woman linked both arms possessively through one of Gary’s. ‘Gary and me, we’re together.’

  Looks like a match made in heaven, thought Annie: a horrible cow and a soulless, sadistic bastard. Ignoring the blonde, she addressed Gary: ‘You heard about Dolly?’

  ‘Yeah. Big friend of yours.’

  ‘She was. Yes.’ He didn’t say sorry for your loss, what a nice woman she’d been, nothing; but then, Annie hadn’t expected that. Not from him. She diverted her gaze, glancing around the place in case he should see any weakness in her eyes at the mention of Dolly. You didn’t show vulnerability in front of people like Gary, they’d eat you whole. She knew that.

  The club was starting to come to life: lights flicking on over the bar, doormen arriving, giggles and chatter from girls heading to the dressing room to get ready for the evening. There was a female cleaner working late, moving in and out of the chainmail curtains over to the right of the room, pushing a vacuum cleaner. There was a smell of lavender polish in the air.

  ‘So how’s business?’ she asked, looking back at Gary.

  ‘Good,’ he said, and his eyes were wary.

  ‘A private word?’

  ‘About what?’

  Annie looked pointedly at Caroline, clinging on to him like ivy on a wall.

  Gary stared at Annie for a moment, unblinking. Then he patted Caroline on the backside and said: ‘See you at six thirty, babe. OK?’

  Caroline gave Annie one last look and moved off toward the door. Then Gary said, ‘Gimme a moment,’ to Annie and followed Caroline’s wiggling leather-wrapped arse over to where the doormen were standing. He saw Caroline out the door with a peck on the cheek, then spoke to the men there. One of them handed him a newspaper. After a couple of minutes, he headed back to Annie. ‘Come on up to the office,’ he said, and turned to lead the way.

  26

  Once inside the office, Gary went around the desk and sat down. He gestured for Annie to sit, too. She did. They could hear the DJ firing up his decks now, could hear Queen thrumming up through the floor, Freddie Mercury’s superb voice singing ‘A Kind of Magic’.

  ‘So what’s on your mind?’ he asked her, throwing the paper on to the desk.

  Annie glanced at the front page. O. J. Simpson had been charged with the murder of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Lyle Goldman outside the Simpson home. And a hacker had been charged for wire and computer fraud. It all seemed removed from reality, about a million miles away.

  Gary looked pissed off to see her. His loyalty was to Max; they’d been part of the same gang since school. For as long as she could remember, Gary had despised her. Gary screwed women but hated and mistrusted all of them – and he viewed any deep involvement with them as foolish. Annie wondered if Caroline knew that yet. Well, she’d find out. Gary had always seen Annie in particular as a female bloodsucker, a vampire who would draw the life out of Max, weakening and sapping him. Well, fuck Gary.

  ‘You’ve been phoning Max a lot lately,’ she said, by way of openers.

  ‘Have I?’ He leaned back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head, very casual, and stared at her with that pale blue unblinking gaze.

  ‘Yes, you have. And I’d like to know, about what.’

  Now he was smiling, a flash of teeth that was more like a snarl than anything else. ‘You better ask Max, not me.’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Annie.

  ‘Why’s that then?’

  ‘Because Max has gone somewhere. Left with no explanation.’ Annie leaned forward in her chair, her eyes holding his to emphasize her point. ‘He’s just gone. Said he had stuff to do, and took off. I don’t know where to or for what reason, but what I do know is that he’s had a lot of calls from you lately. And so the question remains – what’s he been talking to you about?’

  Gary straightened and shrugged. ‘This and that,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah? Can you be more s
pecific?’

  ‘Private stuff. You know. Man to man.’

  Annie nodded slowly. ‘Private? Well, we’re married, Max and me, so I think you should make an exception.’ Her eyes were hard dark green pebbles as they held his. ‘So tell me what the fuck is going on, Gary, will you?’

  ‘Hey.’ The smile dropped from his face. He sat up straight and leaned both hands on the desk and stared into her eyes. ‘Don’t come in here flinging your weight about. I run this place for Max, not you.’

  ‘You run it for both of us, Gary. I told you. We’re married. Joined at the hip.’

  ‘Yeah, like fuck! He’s gone and you don’t even know where.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Know where? Only, what with all those phone calls, I’ve got a feeling that if anyone knows, it’s you.’

  Gary shrugged but his eyes were steely as they stared into hers. ‘If you want to keep Max sweet then you ought to start bloody behaving yourself.’

  Annie’s jaw dropped and a skitter of fear shivered up her spine. ‘What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means this conversation’s over,’ he said, and stood up. ‘I don’t have to take any of your shit.’

  She started shaking her head. ‘No. No! You tell me what you mean, Gary. You can’t just say a thing like that and think I’m going to leave it there.’

  Gary came around the desk. To Annie’s shock, he grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ he hissed into her face from inches away. ‘I told you, this conversation’s done. I got nothing to say to you. Now get.’ And he shoved her toward the door.

  Annie stared at him. Fuck it, he knows, she thought. ‘You’re going to be sorry you did that,’ she said flatly.

  ‘Yeah? We’ll see about that. Now get the fuck out of here.’

  Annie left him there and went back down the stairs. She stepped outside the club. It was still raining. Traffic flowed past and she saw the yellow light of a taxi and stuck her hand out. It pulled in to the kerb. ‘Shalimar club,’ she told the driver, stepping into the back.