Scarlet Women

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.