Scarlet Women

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.

Chapter 23

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