Scarlet Women

‘Why me?’ whined Rosie.

‘Because you’re a nice girl, Rosie. And you can see that Mira needs your help.’

‘Oh fuck,’ complained Rosie, and went past a grinning Sharlene to stand in front of Mira. ‘Jesus—she stinks.’

‘The bath will sort that out,’ said Annie, and Rosie ushered the shambling Mira out of the kitchen and into the hall and up the stairs. Sharlene stood there leaning against the worktop, smirking. Dolly gave Annie an angry glare.

‘I hope you know what you’re bloody doing,’ she said. ‘Me, I don’t think you do.’

‘I’m helping a friend in need,’ said Annie, following the two girls out into the hall. ‘And for God’s sake, Doll, I’d have thought you’d do the same. Seems I was wrong. Oh yeah—keep Ross away from her. And tell the girls not to throw her name around, okay? Call her—oh, I don’t know—Susan or some fucking thing, but not Mira. And look— after she’s had a bath, you’d better make sure there’s a lock on her bedroom door. She tends to wander off.’

‘Fuck you, Annie Carter,’ said Dolly with feeling.

And now it was Friday, and they were burying Aretha. Leaving Rosie ambling cheerfully around the kitchen, boogying along to the radio, Sharlene in with a punter and Mira locked in her room upstairs, Dolly joined Annie in the Jag and Tony drove them to the church.

‘Christ, she was married in this church,’ said Dolly grimly.

‘I’m sorry I missed that,’ said Annie.

‘It was a great day. Aretha was so happy. And Chris too. And now look. Fucking disaster. But what a day that was. I’ll never forget it. Ellie got drunk, poor cow. Couldn’t believe she had to give up on Chris. You know how she’s always been about him. And the vicar came back to the house for the reception after he’d done the ceremony, had a bit of a skinful.’

‘What, the vicar?’

Dolly nodded.

‘Skinny chap, little grey beard, looks like butter wouldn’t melt?’

‘That’s the one. Fell down and couldn’t get up. Got a bit abusive, truth be told. Had to help him home.’

‘In what way abusive?’ asked Annie.

‘Oh, the old fool was staggering about upstairs looking for the loo and got into the Punishment Room by mistake, saw all the gear in there and saw the light. Came downstairs shouting the odds about dens of iniquity and fallen women, then keeled over like a sack of spuds, right in the hall.’

‘How’s Mira doing?’ asked Annie after a pause.

‘Fucking wonderful,’ sniffed Dolly. ‘After we deloused her and scrubbed her hair and generally cleaned her up and burned all those filthy disgusting clothes she had on—Rosie gave her some of hers to wear, they’re about the same size, even though Mira’s about a foot taller than Rosie. There’s no meat on her bones at all. And thank God you said about the lock on the door. She’s been hollering to be let out, and throwing up, and frankly I think she’s seeing stuff, hallucinating, that’s what she’s doing.’

Annie sat there, feeling chastened. Christ, and she had inflicted Mira on Dolly without a second thought. She looked at Dolly. ‘I’m sorry, Doll.’

‘What the hell’s she been on?’

‘I could tell she was on something, but I don’t know what. I bet that’s why she got tucked up with Rizzo Delacourt, he could feed her habit in exchange for her doing a bit on the game. Everyone a winner, right?’

‘A couple more months out there on the streets and she’d be finished,’ said Dolly. She looked out of the window, thoughtfully. ‘How does that happen to a classy girl like Mira used to be? She was bloody gorgeous. Top- of-the-line tart. All the lords and stuff wanted a piece of her. And now…this.’ She let out a heartfelt sigh. ‘I’ve told Rosie and Sharlene to keep her under lock and key. Think she’s so spaced out that she’d take off again at a moment’s notice. And then she’d be fucked.’

‘Thanks, Doll. You been careful about Ross?’

‘Fucking sure. He thinks she’s Susan, a druggie mate of Shar’s.’

‘You done good, Doll.’

‘Well, I’m not happy about it. But if I was that far into the gutter I’d hope someone would try to hoist me out of it, too.’

It was a beautiful day. A peach of a day. And that seemed wrong, on such a sad occasion. There was a fair turnout, and Louella was there, crying copious tears for her baby girl. Annie remembered her promise to Dolly, that she would apologize to Aretha’s aunt for her behaviour in the funeral parlour, and cringed inwardly at the very idea. Not that it would do much good. An explanation might be better.

People were wandering into the church as the hour approached, but Annie and Dolly lingered outside. Annie saw a familiar face among the crowds. He was keeping a watchful vigil on the mourners, his expression pinched as if in disapproval.

Looks like the bloody Grim Reaper, she thought, looking at his dark hair and eyes, his neat black suit, crisp white shirt and black tie.

Annie went over. ‘DI Hunter,’ she greeted him civilly.

‘Mrs Carter,’ he said in return.

‘Checking out the villains?’ asked Annie.

He looked at her, straight-faced. ‘Something like that.’

‘Nobody here very villainous.’

‘Who knows? Murderers sometimes feel an overwhelming urge to revisit their crimes.’

Annie looked at him. ‘Yeah, but you’ve got your murderer, ain’t you? Chris is already banged up for this. Unless you’ve charged the wrong man.’

‘We try always to keep an open mind, Mrs Carter, even if the evidence is pretty conclusive.’ He gave her a tight smile. ‘We’ve got our hands full, to say the least. Not only this nastiness, but also plenty more.’

‘Like what?’ snorted Annie.

‘Oh, like drunks and fights and road accidents and domestics and all sorts of other things, Mrs Carter, including three dead escorts, prostitutes, call them what you will…but at least we’ve got the man who did it.’

Annie was watching the hearse bearing Aretha’s coffin as it turned into the church driveway.

‘Yeah,’ she said to Hunter, ‘but you’re still here, ain’t you? Still looking.’ Her eyes were hard on his face for a moment. ‘So you’re not one hundred per cent sure. Not yet.’ Then she straightened with a forced, brittle smile. ‘Here’s the hearse. Party time,’ she said, and went into the church.

It was the same old shit. The pop-eyed little organist launched into the ‘Dead March’ from Handel’s Saul. The vicar gave a lovely service, the choir—minus Louella—lifted the roof and brought a tear to many an eye. All through it Annie stood up or sat mouthing words; everything was muted by a huge sense of loss. Maybe it was easier for people like Louella—although not much, she suspected—because as Christians they had a firm belief that Aretha had gone to a better place. Annie wasn’t sure about that. All she could see was the coffin, draped with multicoloured flowers; all she could think was: Why did this have to happen to Aretha?

She wanted to know why. It burned her like a branding iron, this need to know. And even more, she wanted to know who? What sort of bastard could do this? Did he feel sorry, once the deed was done? Did he actually enjoy that feeling of taking a life? Did it make him feel powerful?

She thought of Bobby Jo. A man dressed as a woman. Who had incidentally been shafting Teresa, who had also incidentally been the proud possessor of a flame tattoo until someone had decided it would be a good idea to kill her.

The flame was a marker, wasn’t that what Mira had told her? Once they were marked, they were marked for death. A sort of ritual. A sick sort of ritual.

She thought of Gareth from the hotel, hanging dead in his shabby flat, his dog barking endlessly in distress…

And then it was over. The coffin was carried back down the aisle by the pallbearers, Louella following behind in floods of tears, being supported by another stout black lady. Her eyes met Annie’s as she passed by, and she visibly flinched. Annie looked away. Christ knew what Louella thought of her. It wasn’t a very comfortable