They locked eyes. He had nice eyes, she thought. Dark as bitter chocolate. They could even be warm, if he ever unbuttoned himself enough to relax and smile.

‘What about Gareth?’ she asked.

‘What the f…what about him?’

‘You said the post mortem was on Friday.’

Hunter gave a sigh. ‘You’re a very annoying woman, Mrs Carter.’

‘Yeah, it’s a bitch,’ said Annie. ‘I’m annoying and you’re uptight, what can you do?’

He ignored that. ‘The findings were inconclusive. Consistent with asphyxia, but—’

‘But? But what?’ demanded Annie.

‘There was evidence of a lot of drugs in his system. It seems that with that level of toxicity, it’s unlikely the victim would have the energy or the inclination to hang himself. Open the door, possibly. But hang himself? Almost certainly, no.’

Annie’s attention sharpened. ‘So you think I could be right—you think someone hanged him?’

‘It’s possible.’ Hunter looked at her. ‘Have you heard of autoerotic asphyxia, Mrs Carter?’

‘Oh come on,’ she gave a half-smile. ‘You know my history. Of course I’ve heard of it. You think Gareth was into that?’

‘We don’t know yet. And whether he was or not is actually no concern of yours.’

‘This was my husband’s manor,’ said Annie.

‘I don’t believe in “manors”, Mrs Carter, you know what I’m saying?’

‘Now it’s mine,’ said Annie, ignoring what he’d said.

He was back at the finger-wagging again. ‘Keep your nose out,’ said DI Hunter.

Annie looked at the finger, thinking that if he wagged it in her face just one more time, she was going to bite the fucker, hard. But she kept a lid on it. After all, she needed his cooperation. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Can I see Chris Brown? Is that possible?’

‘No,’ said Hunter. ‘It isn’t.’

‘He needs a friend to talk to. I’m his friend. Let me talk to him.’

Hunter looked at her as if she was some interesting alien species. ‘Despite all that he’s done?’

‘If I thought he’d done it, I wouldn’t be asking.’

‘Obstinacy isn’t a virtue, Mrs Carter,’ said Hunter.

‘Persistence is,’ said Annie.

He paused. Looked at her. His hand dropped to his side. She had the distinct impression that he was almost stifling a smile. ‘I’ll see if there’s anything I can do.’

Annie nodded, satisfied. She went to the Jag and got in.

He watched her being driven away. Her manor, for God’s sake. He approached the malodorous DS Lane, who was leaning there smirking against the car. He hated Lane. He was sure that the creep had been passing info to Annie Carter. He had a cop’s nose for who he could trust and who he couldn’t. Lane was bent. He just knew it. And Annie Carter? Who the hell knew what went on in that woman’s brain?

It was her day for getting grief. Grief off Louella and the woman at the Chapel of Rest, then grief off Hunter, and now even more grief, from a thunderous Dolly this time, when she joined her in Limehouse for lunch.

‘Something up, Doll?’ she asked, since they were alone.

‘You want to know what’s up?’ Dolly crashed the teacup down into the saucer. ‘I’ll tell you what’s up. I’ve had Aretha’s Aunt Louella on the phone bending my ear over you. Saying how you should be ashamed of yourself, you are a monster, a pervert, possibly a lezzer, no probably a lezzer, shouting down my ear, she was for about half an hour, and all because of what you’ve been up to.’

‘Ah,’ said Annie.

‘You might well say “ah”. When she told me, for fuck’s sake, Annie Carter, when she told me that, I didn’t blame her.’

‘Doll—’

‘I don’t believe you. I really don’t. I cannot believe that you’d do a thing like this, fiddling with a fucking corpse.’

‘Doll, look—’

‘Shut up, I’m not done. You’ve really put the tin lid on it this time. You’re off on some bloody wild-goose chase again looking for something you’ll never find, looking to pin this whole horrible business on someone other than Chris—well, let me tell you, Annie, you won’t. Because—face it—Chris did it. He did Aretha, and he did the other two as well. He’s guilty as sin and they’ve got him for it and he’s going to go down for a long, long stretch and that’s good because he did it. Now.’ Dolly stood up, placed both hands flat on the table and glared down at Annie. ‘Aretha’s funeral’s on Thursday, and you’d better be there and you’d better apologize to Louella for all this upheaval. God knows if she’ll ever forgive you, but it’s the decent thing to do and so you’re going to do it. Got that?’

Annie pursed her lips and looked up at Dolly.

Trust Dolly to tell it exactly how it was. And maybe she was right. Maybe she was right and Annie was wrong. But while they were flinging mud about, what about Dolly? What about her weird behaviour when Rosie went walkabout? She’d been shitting bricks, and Annie hadn’t asked her to explain that yet, because if Dolly thought that Chris had killed them girls, then why was she so worried for Rosie? It didn’t add up.

‘Look,’ said Annie. ‘I had a good reason for acting like I did. Mira told me something…’

‘That junkie?’ snorted Dolly.

‘Yeah, that one.’ Annie’s voice hardened. ‘Doll, you’re just going to have to trust me on this. I had reason, okay? But listen. I’ll be at the damned funeral. And I will apologize.’

Dolly let out a breath. ‘Good.’

‘Now I’ve got to go,’ said Annie.

‘I had to say something,’ said Dolly.

‘I know, Doll.’ Annie slipped on her jacket and went down the hall, past a boot-faced Ross in his seat by the front door. ‘Where are the girls?’ she asked him, pausing there. ‘It’s quiet.’

‘Sharlene’s got a client in. Rosie’s out,’ said Ross reluctantly. He hated her, she knew that. She was a Carter, he was a Delaney boy. They couldn’t get past that.

Annie went on outside, closed the door behind her. She knew one thing for sure. She had to pursue this thing with Aretha, whatever else might get in the way. She had to try. And the first thing on her to-do list was finding Mira again.

Tony dropped her back to the club. As he pulled away, a florist drew in and threw open the back doors of his van. Annie stepped inside the club.

‘Mrs Carter?’

She stopped. ‘Yeah?’

‘Flowers for you. Where do you want these?’ asked the man, hurrying up behind her.

Annie felt suddenly apprehensive. Dead flowers, she thought. It’ll be dead flowers like the last time, some sick gift from some sick bastard. She shuddered.

But the man was bustling forward and there was the familiar crackle of cellophane—but this time there was a huge bunch of fifty living, breathtakingly beautiful blood-red roses in his arms. She relaxed and started to smile.

Constantine, she thought, her pulse picking up speed.

‘Is there a card?’ she asked.

The florist nodded, handed it to her. She pulled the card out of the tiny red envelope and read it. Words this time, not numbers. No codes, no pizzino. This was plain speaking, straight from the heart. It said: Just say you need me. Any time, day or night. I’ll be there. C.

‘Bring them upstairs,’ she said, pocketing the card.

When the florist was gone, she put the roses in the sink to keep them fresh and stood there looking at them.

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