Scarlet Women

choking, trying to breathe.

‘Fuck that,’ said Annie, watching Cyrus Regan with disgust.

The vicar gave her a pained look. So did Hunter. At last the two bobbies arrived on the scene, gasping for breath as they burst out of the door at the top of the stairs.

‘Holy shit, I wouldn’t want to do that again in a hurry,’ said one. He looked down at Cyrus. ‘Thought he was a goner,’ he said to the assembled company.

Hunter looked at Annie, standing gasping against the wall.

‘You okay?’ he asked.

She nodded.

He turned to the two uniforms. ‘Get him down the station. For questioning.’

Chapter 43

‘He’s talking,’ said the voice of DI Hunter when Annie picked up the phone three hours later.

She was in her robe, having soaked in the bath to recover from the trauma of going against her better judgement and actually rescuing a sick little parasite like Cyrus Regan instead of letting him top himself.

She’d have been perfectly happy to let him go. But there Hunter had been, hanging on like a dog with an oversized stick. And really, he had a point. They had suspicions, they had form, but what they didn’t have until Cyrus talked to the police was a confession, and until they had that, the police had no real case against him and he couldn’t be locked up where he couldn’t hurt any more women.

Annie sat up on the couch, all attentive.

‘And saying what?’ she asked.

‘Saying that he murdered Valerie Delacourt and Teresa Walker.’

Oh thank Christ.

‘Uniformed division’s been checking out his flat. They’ve already found a garrotte, and that’s gone off to the lab boys. Also some pretty sick photos of girls with flame tattoos high up on their inner thighs.’

‘Another garrotte,’ she said, having a horrible sinking feeling about where this was going. ‘You’ve already got the one that was used on Aretha.’

‘He claims to know nothing about the murder of Aretha Brown. I believe him.’

‘No,’ said Annie.

‘Nothing links Regan to your friend’s murder. I’m sorry.’

‘No,’ said Annie again, shaking her head. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear.

‘Look. There were personal items and blood traces from the two girls at his flat and in his car. Nothing on Aretha Brown, though. But in Chris Brown’s car—’

‘Both you and I know that Aretha must be all over that car. Fuck me, she was in it often enough,’ objected Annie hotly.

‘On the night of her murder, he called the police from a phone box in a very agitated state,’ said Hunter patiently. ‘When uniformed got there, they found Aretha Brown’s body still on the pavement where he’d apparently “found” it, and parked nearby was the Zephyr. They found Chris Brown sitting in the car, the garrotte on the front seat beside him with his wife’s bloodstains—and his—on it. He’s tied in tight to this killing, Mrs Carter, whether you like it or not. Cyrus Regan isn’t.’

‘You’re saying it was a copycat? That Chris saw the stuff in the papers about the first two girls, and thought that would be a good way to polish off the wife he loved? Are you serious?’

‘Crimes of passion happen, Mrs Carter. More often than you’d believe.’

‘Wait up. That don’t explain the tattoos. Aretha had a flame tattoo just like the other two.’

‘She was a working girl, Mrs Carter. It’s entirely possible that she met Cyrus Regan, if not in the soup kitchen then probably at the church where her aunt sang in the choir. She was actually married at that church, wasn’t she? Maybe she met up with the choirmaster to arrange the music for the ceremony. Do you agree that’s possible?’

‘Okay, it’s possible,’ allowed Annie grudgingly.

‘He paid these girls to have the tattoo done; isn’t it possible he paid Aretha Brown and she had it done too?’

Annie was silent. Yeah, it was possible. The twisted little shit. But probable? She didn’t know. She wasn’t happy about any of this.

‘We’re thinking now that this was a premeditated act of violence by a man who’d been pushed too far by his wife. Yes, a copy of the first two. He did this, thinking that when we nailed the killer of the two street workers, we would see this new case in the same light, and pin it on whoever their killer was,’ said Hunter.

Annie sat back with a sigh. Her relief at Hunter finally catching up with Cyrus had been shortlived. They were still trying to fit Chris up with this. It was all wrong. To plan a copycat killing would take a level of deviousness she was sure Chris did not possess. But at least she knew who had killed the boy, Gareth, and that it hadn’t been suicide; she knew who and she even knew why.

It creased her that she couldn’t tell Hunter about it. She couldn’t turn grass, not even if she was just itching to do so.

‘Look—thanks for your help today,’ said Hunter, surprising her.

‘I wanted to let him fall,’ said Annie.

‘I know. But then, Mrs Carter, no confession.’

‘I know. That’s why I held on. Been divorced long?’

There was a silence. ‘I’m guessing DS Lane told you about that.’

‘Just heard it somewhere. As you do.’

‘How about you? Been widowed a long time?’

He knew the answer to that. He had to. ‘Not too long,’ she said.

‘I haven’t been divorced long either. It’s tough.’

‘Yeah, but you’re tough too. You’ll cope.’ Better than Chris was going to cope, having lost his wife and still about to be banged up for something he didn’t do.

‘I have to go,’ said Hunter.

‘Chris didn’t do it,’ said Annie.

‘Prove it,’ he said, and put the phone down.

That was what she intended to do. She dialled the number of the Limehouse knocking-shop with dread and determination in her heart. Spoke to Dolly, then hung up. She was going to rattle a few cages and see what emerged. Then she went and got dressed, and was brushing out her hair when someone started banging at the main door of the club.

She went down the stairs and paused at the door. ‘Who is it?’ she called out.

‘Gentleman to see you, Boss,’ said the voice of the boy who was on duty outside. Not Barney. This was the day-boy.

Annie opened the door. There was a small, portly man standing there. He had a goatee beard, calm grey eyes and the gloss of extreme wealth. Everything about him shouted expensive—his clothes, his smooth skin, his demeanour. Her heavy, standing behind him, made him look like a highly polished gnome.

‘Hello my dear,’ he said, smiling slightly. ‘Do you remember me?’

Annie did. She smiled right back.

‘Of course I do.’ She stepped back and let him in. And wondered what the hell was going on for Sir William Farquharson to come knocking on her door.