Scarlet Women (15 page)

Now she had to face the fact that life could be shockingly short. People you love could be cut away from you in an instant, never to be seen again. So you had to live as full a life as you could, grab it
with both hands and shake it by the throat, because yours could go just as quickly, just as unexpectedly. She knew that now.

‘Anything I can do?’ asked Constantine.

‘Think you just did it,’ said Annie.

‘Right. Staying the night?’

‘That was the plan,’ said Annie.

‘I didn’t know there was a plan.’

‘Well there was. There is. It’s all up here.’ She tapped her forehead.

Constantine sat back and shook his head. ‘Mrs Carter, you’re a very forceful woman. And you know what? I sort of like it. Sometimes.’

‘Only sometimes?’ Annie was smiling, teasing.

But still he was looking at her in that same way. Watchful, yes, that was it. Almost mistrustful. Shuttered.

There was a pause. Constantine’s eyes slipped away from hers.

‘What?’ she asked, still teasing, but now there was a twinge of concern in her guts, and she thought,
What happened? What did I do that was so terrible? Did he hate me taking the lead?

His eyes came back, stared straight into hers. Something was wrong.

‘Come on, Constantine, what is it?’ asked Annie, anxious now.

‘You don’t even know you did it, do you?’ he asked, still shaking his head slightly.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, confused.

Suddenly she felt foolish, embarrassed, sitting here semi-naked with this man fully clothed beside her, this man who seconds ago had been a passionate lover but was now a cold, withdrawn stranger. She stood up, started searching around for her discarded clothes.

‘Look, I’ll go. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea anyway.’

‘Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this is all too soon for you.’

That hurt. She looked at him, and the hurt showed plainly in her eyes.

‘You really don’t even know you did it, do you?’ he marvelled.

‘Did
what?
’ Annie demanded. What the hell was he talking about?

‘You called me Max,’ he said.

Outside the house, hidden in the shadows, Charlie Foster drew back. Thinking about what he’d just seen: the glimpse of Annie Carter stripped down to her undies, gorgeous, nearly eating Constantine Barolli’s face off before he pulled the blind down. Then, all Charlie could see was their outlines moving through the blind, obviously fucking each other senseless. Felt quite turned on himself, watching that.

What a woman. What a
bitch.
He promised himself that he was going to catch up with Annie Carter very soon.

There was no point in staying after that. Annie got dressed and asked if she could call a cab.

‘Sure,’ said Constantine, very cool.

As soon as was decently possible, in as dignified a manner as was feasible after being made to look like such a fool, such a complete fruitcake, she left. Constantine didn’t ask if she was still coming to lunch tomorrow, and she didn’t ask if she was still invited.

No point.

Jesus, she’d called him Max.

She sat in the back of the cab feeling choked, humiliated, bewildered, adrift.
I’m a train wreck
, she thought, and put her head in her hands. But then she thought of the boys—
Max
’s boys, who was she kidding? They weren’t hers at all, Constantine was dead right about that—and thought that it was all for the best. She’d killed it, once and for all. And that was a good thing. She kept telling herself that, all the way home.

First thing next morning she phoned Ruthie and spoke to Layla, who told her about the kittens and seemed happy. Warm, caring Ruthie was more of a natural mother than she ever was, she knew that. Okay, she didn’t
like
it, but it was a fact. Then she left the builders to it and called over at Dolly’s in Limehouse.

‘Cuppa, Mrs Carter?’ asked Rosie, sauntering around the kitchen while Dolly badgered her to smarten herself up, which Rosie cheerfully ignored.

‘No thanks, Rosie. Got a busy day ahead. How’s tricks?’ Annie liked the girl. A real daydreamer, that was Rosie, padding around in bare feet and smiling nonstop.

‘Ticking over,’ said Rosie with a lazy grin.

‘Yeah, not ticking very bloody
fast
though,’ said Dolly, bustling through. ‘Go up and get dressed, for the love of God, Rosie. And tell Sharlene I want
her to get down the shops—preferably before this Christmas, if she can spare the bloody time.’

Rosie strolled off upstairs.

‘Jesus, that girl,’ said Dolly with a reluctant smile.

Annie thought again of how panicked Dolly had been when she thought Rosie’d taken that escort job. Panicked beyond all reason, it seemed.

‘You okay now?’ Dolly was asking her. ‘You seemed a bit shook up yesterday.’

‘It was bloody horrible, seeing Aretha laid out.’

‘I know, I know.’ Dolly patted her arm. ‘Poor old Louella. Ten times worse for her. What you up to, then?’

‘Just work,’ said Annie, ‘what else?’

‘Ain’t it the truth,’ agreed Dolly.

An hour later she was in church again. Not her natural surroundings by any means. There was no choir today either, lifting the roof off. But the organist/choirmaster was there, playing
Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring.
He glanced back at her as she came in, big pop-eyes with bags underneath, balding, wet-lipped. Funny little chap.
Not
pretty, that was for sure.

She went up the aisle and settled herself into a pew. It was cool in here, after the heat outside. Christ on his cross up there on the stained-glass window, light filtering through, spilling jewelled splashes of
yellow, red and blue on to the stone floor in front of the altar.

In actual fact, she didn’t know what she was doing here today. Knew only that she felt lost and lonely and afraid. She was losing her grip on things. Couldn’t believe what a screw-up she had become. Calling Constantine by Max’s name. But she reminded herself that it was just as well. If the boys suspected that Max’s widow was screwing the American mob boss, where would that leave her? How would they take it? Badly, she felt sure. Retribution could follow. What form it would take, she had no idea. But it wouldn’t be pleasant.

But then, we’re over,
she thought.
So that’s that problem solved…right?

She thought about Dolly. Maybe Aretha’s death had shaken her up more than any of them had realized, but Annie had the strong feeling that something wasn’t right there, that there was something more to it, something deeper. Rosie’s little trip out on Saturday had rattled the Limehouse madam badly too—and what the fuck was
that
all about?

‘Can I help?’ said a voice nearby.

Annie looked up. The vicar was standing there in his long black cassock and white dog collar. He was a thin, narrow-shouldered man, probably in his forties. His grey hair was receding and he had a neatly trimmed beard that was also grey.
His face was tanned, his eyes grey, quick-moving and kind.

‘I doubt it,’ she said with a half-smile.

He smiled back. ‘Well, if you want to talk…’

‘No,’ said Annie.

The vicar watched her for another beat or two, then turned and started to walk up towards the high altar.

‘Um…vicar?’ Annie called after him.

He stopped, turned. Waited expectantly.

‘Did you know Aretha Brown?’

‘Aretha Brown.’ His face was blank.

‘I don’t know if she ever worshipped here, but you must have conducted her wedding ceremony. And her Aunt Louella sings in the choir.’

The vicar nodded once. ‘I know Louella. A great lady. When was the wedding?’

‘A couple of years ago,’ said Annie. She hadn’t been here for Aretha and Chris’s wedding. She wished now that she had. On that one triumphant, happy day, when Aretha had been vital and alive; when Chris must have been so very happy.

‘I’d have to check my records. It’s likely I took the ceremony, although I have a lay preacher who stands in for me when I’m away. I do a lot for various charities, it keeps me pretty busy. I’m away quite often.’

‘Aretha’s dead,’ said Annie.

The vicar paused. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Is that why you came here today? To feel closer to her?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Do you worship here? I don’t think I recognize your face.’

‘No. I don’t.’

They fell silent. The music was beautiful, winding its way like a balm around Annie’s pain, soothing it.

Such an ugly little man,
she thought.
And he plays like an angel.

‘If it would help you, we could pray together…?’ suggested the vicar.

Annie’s eyes shifted, settled on his face. ‘No,’ she said. ‘But thank you.’

He nodded and moved on, walking up to the altar, crossing himself before it. He knelt to pray. Annie stood up and went down the aisle to the main door. She opened it and stepped out into sunlight, and walked straight into the dark-haired, dark-eyed and immaculately suited DI Hunter.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

‘I’ve no idea. How about you?’ She looked up at the church’s imposing façade, then back at his face. ‘You come to your senses and released Chris yet?’

DI Hunter almost smiled at that. ‘Hardly. We’re taking the car apart, looking for links to the Delacourt and Walker murders.’

Annie thought of Chris’s old two-tone Zephyr.
He loved that car, wouldn’t trade it in for the world. And now the Bill was pulling it to bits. That car was part of who Chris was, part of his history, part of the time when he had been young and invincible. She felt a sharp stab of sorrow. They’d be taking his house apart too, she knew that. Trashing his memories, trashing the life he had built there with Aretha.

Poor bastard. Somehow, she had to get him out of this.

‘If you’ve got it all taped, why are you here looking for answers, like me?’ she asked Hunter. ‘Aretha’s aunt sings in the church choir, you know.’

‘Yes. I do know that.’

‘Only I think all you’ve got against Chris is—what do they call it?—circumstantial evidence.’

Hunter shook his head.
Arrogant prick
, thought Annie. Standing there, looking all neat and tidy when her friend was stuck in a cell. Looking down his aquiline nose at her. Not a clue, of course, that she had his DS firmly in her pocket. Not a fucking
notion
that she had told Jackie Tulliver she needed more info on Aretha’s murder, and on Gareth Fuller’s too, and to get in touch with Lane about both cases. Lane was bleating about it all like a fucking baby, getting edgy, saying he’d only just got away with it the first time. Jackie had told him to stop whining and get the fuck on with it, or else.

‘Circumstantial? I don’t think so, Mrs Carter. Motive—he was upset that his wife had recently gone back on the game. Money was an issue between them. Means—he was ferrying her around late at night to meet her “clients”. He said that word with such crushing disdain that Annie wanted to hit him. ‘He had both means and motive. You know what I think?’

‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’

‘Does the truth hurt, Mrs Carter?’

‘I haven’t heard any of that yet.’

‘Oh but you have. You just won’t accept it. I think they argued that night. She went off to see the client and he’d had enough, he just snapped. He met her afterwards, as he usually did, but this time he put an end to her lucrative little career in a rather final manner.’

‘He wasn’t married to the other two. Why do them?’

‘We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out. The MO was the same. Perhaps his impulse to kill his wife was a copycat of the other two, maybe he didn’t do them, maybe he knew the person that
did
and just thought, what a neat idea. We’re still looking into that. But he does have a dodgy past. Working as a doorman in a “massage parlour” is hardly indicative of sterling character.’

‘That don’t make him a murderer,’ said Annie. ‘What about the boy, Gareth? The boy on reception?’

‘We still believe he hanged himself.’

‘Or was he hanged?’ Annie looked at him sharply. ‘And if he was, you couldn’t pin
that
on Chris. He was banged up at the time. In your cells. Question is, was Gareth hoisted up there and physically
hanged
by someone else?’

‘Nothing points to that. But, as I told you, the postmortem on Friday will tell us more.’

‘But he signed in this “Smith” that Aretha was visiting that night. And he signed him out, too. Perhaps Smith got worried; thought Gareth could identify him. Perhaps he decided to eliminate the risk. Followed him home. Hanged him.’

‘You’re clutching at straws,’ said Hunter.

‘No,
you
are,’ said Annie hotly. ‘Chris Brown ain’t a killer.’

He said nothing. He turned and walked away from her, into the church.

Feeling cold despite the heat of the day, Annie went down the steps and got into the car.

‘Where to, Boss?’

Annie’s anger was eating into her. That bastard Hunter was going to get Chris sent down, she just knew it. She
had
to stop that happening somehow.

‘Just drive around, Tone. I need to think.’

The grinding of the saw was usually the thing that sent him heading for the chair by the sink. DI Paul Hunter sat down there now, not wishing to suffer the indignity of actually
collapsing
on to it. There were advantages to doing this while Dr Penyard and his assistant worked on the corpse on the table. You couldn’t get a clear view of the proceedings, for a start. Which was a good thing. And, even better, you couldn’t smell much, either. He
liked
the chair by the sink.

Over the years he’d attended his fair share of postmortems, and nothing had yet hardened him to the procedure. He’d started off this one just as he did all the others—standing by the table. But that hadn’t been the wisest thing. Because hangings were never pretty, and Gareth Fuller’s was downright appalling.

Once the corpse had been an averagely good-looking young man. Now, in death, all pretence
of that was gone. His face was drained to blood-less white. The tongue, which still protruded from between the chapped bluish lips, was dry, scaly black. And the open eyelids revealed the worst horror.

‘That’s scleral haemorrhage,’ said the gowned, goggled, gloved and chubby Dr Penyard cheerfully when Hunter had commented upon it. ‘Turns the whites of the eyes red.’

It was a hideous sight. The whole
body
was a hideous sight, and a pitiful one. The marks on the neck were brutal, horrible. The boy had puncture marks on his arms: he’d injected drugs. The lower legs looked bruised and were scattered with tiny red haemorrhages.

‘Tardieu spots,’ said Dr Penyard, as he briskly finished up on the thoraco-abdominal incision. ‘Consistent with hanging.’

Penyard put the saw aside and lifted off the ribs and breastbone to expose the pleural cavity.

Enough
, thought Hunter. He didn’t know why he put himself through this.

Dedication, maybe. Insatiable curiosity…and, okay, he admitted it, just a little doubt. Just a little
worm
of doubt that gnawed away at him, made him think:
Could she be right?

He couldn’t shake the image of Annie Carter’s face from his brain. A gangster’s moll, by all accounts. Tough as nails and twice as nasty, with
a murky past. But stunning, he had to admit that. And with such intense conviction in her dark green eyes, such
certainty
that Chris Brown was innocent, such determination to prove that Gareth Fuller had not killed himself, but had been murdered to cover a killer’s tracks. Her passionate beliefs made him ask himself the question again:
could
she be right?

That
was why he was here, even though he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere, else. To gain certainty. To
know.

Now Penyard and his assistant were removing the heart and lungs, impersonal as butchers working on the carcass of a cow. They went on to remove the intestines, the brain. Hunter detached himself from what was going on here. Thought of other things. Like how he had to get this job done. Like his suspicions about DS Lane, too. The man was basically unlikable, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was that he was untrustworthy. Hunter felt that strongly.

‘Hey Paul?’

Hunter looked up. Penyard was beckoning him over.

Groaning inside, Hunter stood up and walked over to the table.

‘Found something?’ he asked, keeping his eyes away from the gaping cavity in the corpse’s chest and the big skin flap on the head, where the skull
was exposed. At least it covered up those bloody, staring eyes.

Penyard was looking at the neck.

‘The flex left a deep bruise,’ he pointed out. ‘Extensive capillary damage. Broke the hyoid cartilage.’

‘Meaning?’

‘The flex wasn’t placed around the neck after death.’

‘So?’

Penyard shrugged. ‘Could be suicide, but could be murder too. There’s no sign of struggle though.’

‘What if he was drugged?’ asked Hunter.

Gareth had a clear reputation as a drug user. What if his killer had come across him in a drugged state?

He could imagine that. The knock on the door. Gareth, half out of it on dope, opening it, letting his killer in. Too weak and spaced out by the drugs to fight, or even to protest. Hoisted up on the light fitting, killed.

Easy.

And all because he checked in Smith, and checked him out, on the night Aretha Brown was killed?
wondered Hunter.
All because he might have been able to identify him?

Hunter thought about that. Something about the Aretha Brown case was looking subtly different to the first two. Something was niggling at him.

‘You tested for drugs yet?’ he persisted.

‘Not yet. We will.’

‘Okay,’ said Hunter, and left the autopsy suite with a huge sense of relief, but also a profound feeling of frustration. He wanted to
know.
That was his driving force, his reason to be a cop, a detective. He needed to
know.
It was what had wrecked his six-year marriage, his dedication to the job. He’d got home one night and there was a note on the table,
Goodbye.
Simple as that. It was his own fault, and he knew it. He loved the job too much. And maybe…yeah, maybe he’d loved his wife too little.

When he got back to his desk, Collating were on the phone and they weren’t happy. DS Lane had been found down there taking out a couple of files.

‘So?’ he asked.

‘Well, not so much “taking” them out as
sneaking
them out without permission, you know the procedure. He was heading for the photocopier room with them,’ said the agitated voice on the other end of the phone.

‘Which files?’

‘The Aretha Brown murder. And the Gareth Fuller case too.’

Annie fucking Carter
, he thought.