Stay Dead

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Maybe you should.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Why? She died of old age, I suppose? People do die, Jackie. It’s sad, but it’s part of life. Unavoidable.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it. What’s next, that’s what I came to say. Not to talk about things I’d rather not discuss, OK?’

  Annie drew a breath. After today, and seeing Max again, she felt tired out, literally wrung dry. She longed to get some more painkillers down her then fall into bed and sleep. If Jackie didn’t want to talk about what was bugging him, fair enough. She didn’t have the energy to push it. Instead, she would move things forward on what happened to Dolly.

  ‘Dolly’s brother and sister.’ Annie picked up her bag, pulled out a scrap of paper with Sarah’s address on it. ‘This is her sister Sarah’s address and her married name. I don’t know Nigel’s address. I want you to find out everything you can about both of them. Talk to them, if you can – although I think you’ll find they don’t say much. Tell them you were a friend of Dolly’s and you’re in bits. Work their emotions if they’ve got any, which I doubt. Don’t mention you’re doing this for me, OK?’

  Jackie’s thin shoulders slumped and he glanced at Annie. ‘You know what? I did like Dolly. She was straight as a die. A nice person.’

  ‘Dolly was the best.’ Annie was silent for a moment, fighting down that horrible black wall of grief again. ‘That’s your first job, then. All right? There’s another brother, Sandy, he’s in a home. I’ll find out where and see if there’s any chance of getting any sense out of him. And there’s another brother, Dick – don’t know anything about him yet. Except that he’s living abroad. The father had an accident years ago on the railways, he was a shunter. So maybe the Delaneys didn’t carry out Dolly’s wishes. Anything you can find out about that would be good. What are the narks saying to the Bill?’

  ‘Nothin’. Precisely fuck-all.’

  ‘Keep pushing on that.’

  ‘Jesus! What am I supposed to do in my spare time then?’

  ‘You got anything on Redmond Delaney yet?’ she said.

  ‘Still lookin’.’

  ‘Well, hurry the fuck up, will you? I want him found. The rest of the Delaney mob are toast, but I know for a fact that he’s still walking. Don’t approach him. Just find him. And go easy. I want to talk to him in person.’

  ‘That whole family’s poison.’

  ‘They’re all dead, Jackie. All except Redmond. How hard can it be?’

  ‘All right, all right! I’m on it. What the hell do you want to talk to him for?’

  ‘Dolly wanted her old dad hit, remember? Ellie told me that Dolly approached the Delaney mob to do the job for her. So my thinking is, was that “accident” really an accident? Who knows? As Redmond’s the only one left, I’m hoping he does.’

  Annie reached for her purse, thumbing out a few twenties. She handed them to him. ‘I don’t want this going on drink, you got me? I want everything about Dolly’s family you can find. They’re Catholics – check the parish records, dig up anything and everything. This should be enough to get you started.’

  Jackie nodded and took the money, folded it and stuffed it into his jeans pocket. He turned away from her and went to the door. Then he paused.

  ‘You sure about this Delaney thing? You open a wasps’ nest, you’re gonna get stung, you know.’

  ‘Do it,’ she said.

  Jackie nodded again, his hand on the doorknob.

  ‘Something else?’ asked Annie when he hesitated.

  ‘She was crossing the road,’ he said and when he glanced up she saw tears in his bloodshot eyes. ‘My old mum. Too slow, see? Arthritis in the hips. Far too slow. Boy racer comes through, takes her out. Bounced fifty feet, smack on to the pavement. Dead the minute she hit the ground.’

  While Annie sat there with her mouth open, wondering what to say, Jackie slipped out through the door, and was gone.

  79

  Next morning, Tony was there with the Jag. She answered his knock, and he looked like he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, but here, talking to her.

  ‘Morning, Tone,’ she said.

  He grunted. As always, he was immaculately dressed in a sharp navy-blue suit, white shirt and dark tie. Bald as a coot, ugly as sin and tanned to a turn, eighteen stones of muscle sporting twinkling gold crucifixes in each big cauliflower ear. He smelled good – some sandalwood-based aftershave. Once her staunchest supporter, he was looking at her now like he wanted to spit in her face.

  Without a word he turned away from the door and led the way down to the car. He opened the back door, and she got in. Then he closed the door behind her, and slid behind the wheel.

  ‘Where to?’ he asked.

  So that’s the way it’s going to be, she thought.

  She told him the address, and without a word he edged the car out into the flow of traffic and drove her there.

  ‘Wait for me,’ she said when they arrived. Without waiting for a reply – she didn’t think she was going to get one anyway – she got out and went up the front path to the Foster household.

  It was a neat little terrace, one of a row of identical houses, and the whiteness of the curtains and the pristine condition of the front step, the rampant health of the plants in the hanging baskets on either side of the door, all screamed that this was the home of someone who was careful to make a good impression on the outside world. Annie lifted the highly polished brass dolphin door-knocker and banged it, hard, twice. She waited. Half-hoped that Sarah Foster née Farrell would be out. Drains and radiators, she thought. Some people drained you – like Sarah and her charmless, repressive brother Nigel – and others radiated warmth, like Dolly.

  But all too soon the door opened and there was Sarah, wearing a tobacco-brown knitted woollen skirt that had never been in fashion and never would be, a thin lambswool cardigan in a washed-out shade of lavender and a lemon-coloured blouse. She stared at Annie with a fixed and immobile expression.

  ‘Oh – it’s you,’ said Sarah, sounding neither pleased nor put out by it.

  ‘Can I come in?’ asked Annie.

  ‘What for?’

  The woman had no social skills. No charm. No chutzpah. But this was Dolly’s sister and somewhere inside she must have a grain, a tiny seed, that resembled Dolly.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you. About Dolly,’ she said.

  ‘It’s not very convenient. I’ve had the police round asking questions, and people . . . ’

  Jackie Tulliver would probably be one of those people, Annie guessed. Christ knows what this buttoned-up little article would make of him.

  ‘And if you don’t mind I would rather not discuss the subject any more.’ The thin voice, the repressive mouth, everything served to irritate Annie, but she ignored that, fought against it. She had to keep her tongue under control here, or she’d never even get to first base.

  ‘This is your sister we’re talking about,’ she reminded Sarah.

  ‘I know that.’ Two dull red spots appeared high up on the pallid cheeks.

  ‘Then spare me a few minutes, because I would like to know what was going on with her, what happened, how she came to be killed like she was.’

  For a moment Annie thought Sarah was going to slam the door in her face. But that would show a bit of passion, a bit of feeling, and she didn’t think Sarah had it in her. Instead, she opened the door a little wider, then her hand apathetically dropped to her side. Without a word she turned and walked off along the hallway. Taking this for an invitation, Annie followed. She closed the front door behind her, and followed Sarah into a tiny pin-neat box of a kitchen.

  ‘You’d better sit down then,’ said Sarah gracelessly, seating herself at a tiny, old but clean grey-laminate kitchen table.

  Annie sat down. It was dark in the kitchen, not much daylight seeping in through the north-facing window. The place felt chilly and smelled faintly musty, although outside it was supposed to be summer.

  ‘Th
ank you for this,’ said Annie. The woman wasn’t about to offer her any refreshments, and she was starting to read this bloodless little creature now; she couldn’t expect any warmth from her, not even a tiny bit.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘Say what you’ve got to say,’ she said.

  ‘Had you seen Dolly recently?’ said Annie quickly, in case Sarah changed her mind and asked her to go.

  ‘No. We didn’t keep in touch.’

  ‘How about Nigel? Your brother?’

  The thin mouth got even thinner. ‘Nigel wouldn’t lower himself. He knew what Dolly was.’

  ‘So your dad died in an accident on the railway,’ said Annie.

  Sarah went pale but said nothing.

  ‘The driver of the engine that hit him, was he named?’

  ‘No. I don’t think so.’

  ‘But did your family know who he was?’

  ‘I know nothing about any of this,’ said Sarah.

  ‘What about Dick, or Sandy?’

  ‘Dick’s abroad. New Zealand. I told you. And Sandy’s an invalid.’

  ‘In what way?’ Annie half-expected Sarah to tell her to mind her own business.

  But Sarah said: ‘He was never strong. Had some strokes. He’s not much better than a vegetable.’

  ‘I’m sorry. What home’s he in?’

  ‘I don’t want you bothering him.’

  ‘I won’t bother him. Can you give me the name of the home?’

  For a minute it looked as if Sarah was going to say no. Then she said: ‘Sunnybrook. It’s up Watford way.’ She gave Annie the name of the road. ‘But I don’t want you upsetting him. He’s not right. Don’t tell him about Dolly. He’s got troubles enough, without that.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Annie. ‘Nigel said Dolly left home at thirteen. Did she not tell you she was going? She was the oldest, that right? And then there was Nigel, then you? Then Dick and Sandy?’

  ‘That’s right. Dolly didn’t tell anyone she was going. She was wild, Dolly. Bad to the bone, Dad always said. After she left us.’

  ‘He didn’t like her?’ It took a real effort on Annie’s part not to say that he had a damned nerve saying anything about Dolly, when he was such a low-life arsehole.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘For a while she was his favourite. Then she went, and I was.’

  The prim mouth lifted at the corners. This was a little victory to the woman, Annie could see that.

  ‘So you don’t know who the driver was, when your dad had the shunting accident? That must have been awful for the driver, that responsibility. Killing someone like that. You sure you don’t know his name?’

  ‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘I told you. I don’t.’

  ‘Didn’t you like Dolly?’ asked Annie.

  ‘She was all right. Until she went to the bad.’ The lips tightened again, assuming an irritating Puritanical look. ‘We’re a good Catholic family, always have been. For her to do things like that, disgusting things . . . well, we could never forgive anything like that. Excuse me a moment,’ said Sarah, and stood up and left the room.

  Annie heard her go up the stairs, heard the landing boards creak, heard a door shut. She sat there and waited, looking around at this plain little kitchen and thinking how well it suited the woman who lived here. Sarah was married – so where was the husband? There were no photos on display. Maybe in the sitting room . . . ?

  There was movement upstairs and then Sarah came back down and into the kitchen again. She sat down and stared at Annie.

  ‘How did Nigel find out what Dolly did for a living?’ asked Annie.

  Sarah looked blank.

  ‘If you never kept in touch, how did he find out?’

  ‘Oh! Nigel found out through an acquaintance. I won’t call him a friend. This man went to places like that, disgusting places, and he said he’d seen Dolly there.’

  ‘Did Nigel tell your dad that?’

  ‘Dad was already gone when Nigel found out about her.’

  But this was your sister, thought Annie.

  She thought of her own sister, Ruthie, who had forgiven her everything, anything, even when she had been beyond all hope of redemption. Ruthie even now would welcome her with open arms, but Annie had no plans to contact her. Better to keep her distance, keep Ruthie safe.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a key turning in the lock at the front door. It opened and closed, and then thin repressive little Nigel came into the kitchen. Sarah looked at the floor. Nigel stared straight at Annie.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked in his reedy voice.

  ‘I’m here to see Sarah,’ said Annie. ‘Just for a chat. And to offer my condolences.’

  ‘You say you’re Dolly’s friend? What were you, another one of those tarts she liked to mix with? I don’t like you coming here. You’ve just come to fish about in things that don’t concern you.’

  ‘Dolly’s death concerns me,’ Annie replied. ‘I heard your dad was a bit of a bastard, that right? Mistreated Dolly?’

  Nigel looked like his head was going to explode and blow clean off his narrow sloping shoulders. His face went brick-red and his whole body tensed.

  ‘Get out!’ he shouted.

  Annie stood up, dwarfing Nigel by a foot.

  ‘Good of you both to turn up for the funeral though,’ she said. ‘Even if she was a tart.’

  Nigel puffed himself up like a toad. ‘We went to the funeral out of respect for the dead, but I’m telling you right now – a woman like that? She was no sister of mine.’

  80

  Tony drove her back to Holland Park. It wasn’t a pleasant trip. In years past the silence between them had been companionable, but today it was charged with stifled aggression. Yet she supposed she was safe with Tony; Max had told him to behave, and he would. She hoped.

  She couldn’t even be sure of Max, not now. He’d believed what he’d been told about her, and he seemed to believe it still. At any moment he could turn on her, and if he did, she was finished. She’d suspected he was having an affair, but she’d been miles off. In fact he’d been tracking Gina Barolli down, and Gina had broken the Mafia code, betrayed her brother. Why? Annie wondered, and then she thought of Constantine as he was these days, and thought that she might know the answer to that.

  Tony pulled up outside the house, got out of the driving seat, opened her door. Looked the other way while she got out.

  ‘Tone?’ Annie said when he was about to get back behind the wheel without even saying goodbye.

  He paused. Cocked an eyebrow, waited.

  ‘Our tame coppers – you said you were going to talk to them. Anything? I got Jackie on it too, by the way. And he’s turned up nothing.’

  He shook his head. ‘Nah. They ain’t heard a thing.’

  ‘Right. Tone . . . ?’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘None of it’s true. I’ve told Max and now I’m telling you. None of it.’

  His expression didn’t change. He didn’t believe her.

  Annie let out a sigh. ‘Come tomorrow at one, OK?’

  Tony nodded, got back behind the wheel, and drove away.

  Annie deliberately didn’t set the alarm that night. If he was going to come, if they were ever to get past this, then bring it on: she’d risk his rage, she’d take that chance. But Max didn’t show.

  To cheer herself up she spent the next day indulging in some retail therapy. It was Saturday and she could have used some company after this grim week. She could have met up with Ellie, if only Ellie hadn’t decided that she was too dangerous to talk to. So she kicked her heels up and down Bond Street and then went home alone with a silent Tony at the wheel and sat in solitary confinement into the evening before deliberately not setting the alarm again and then going to bed.

  He won’t come, she thought miserably. He’s done with me. All right, so he’s keeping me safe – for now – for old times’ sake, but he won’t come again. He’s had enough.

  And then, at about one in the morning, she woke up, switched on t
he bedside light, and he was there.

  ‘You didn’t set the alarm again,’ said Max, rising from the chair in the corner of the room and coming over to the bed.

  ‘Didn’t I?’ asked Annie, pushing the hair out of her eyes and yawning.

  ‘Careless.’

  ‘Yeah. Wasn’t it.’

  ‘So get the fuck on with it. Go on with what you were saying,’ he said.

  Annie frowned. ‘What was I saying?’

  ‘Don’t play dumb. You were going to tell me, Scheherazade, about your first visit to that shit Constantine.’

  ‘Oh. That.’

  ‘Yeah, that.’ He sat down on the side of the king-sized bed and stared at her, sitting there all rumpled from sleep with her hair all over the place and the thousand-thread-count sheets pulled up to her chin. ‘So come on. Let’s see how good a storyteller you really are. What happened then?’

  ‘Max, I’m tired.’

  ‘Tough. Tell me what happened next, and by Christ you’d better make it good.’

  81

  Annie drew in a breath. It made her rib ache like a bastard, and she pulled the sheet higher – no way did she want him glimpsing the strapping and the bruises around her middle and thinking she was going for the sympathy vote, playing the poor-little-wounded-wifey card.

  ‘All right. I’ll tell you. Alberto took me up to the Scottish Highlands that first time. It was January 1989. Five years ago. He chartered a private flight out of the heliport. Sometimes we flew straight to the castle . . .’

  ‘A castle,’ said Max. ‘That bastard never did stint himself, did he.’

  Annie went on as if he hadn’t spoken. ‘Sometimes I stayed in a house outside Edinburgh. We had to be careful. We were always watching, making sure no one joined up the dots.’

  Max’s eyes were intent on her face. ‘Yeah, me included, right? What was it like, this castle?’

  ‘The locals called it the Mouth of Hades. It’s an actual castle. It’s got a big tower – battlements, don’t they call them? Yeah, battlements. There’s a courtyard in the centre, and a helipad. Big steep stone sides to the place. On one side, there’s nothing beneath it but sea. Two hundred feet down, a sheer drop to the water. It looks grim.’