by Jessie Keane
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.
‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, both shocked and excited.
‘Well, pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid-gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the place.’
Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he glimpsed a man tied face-down to Aretha’s bed. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked buttocks were striped with pink lines.
‘Nice arse,’ said Darren.
‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back into her room. ‘Keep it down, OK?’
‘Come on, girls,’ said Ellie with an encouraging smile at Dolly and Annie. ‘Shake hands and make up, all right?’
Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.
‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ Dolly promised, and she went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
48
As Dolly saw it, there was nothing else she could do. Forget Her Royal Highness Annie Bailey coming in here queening it over all the mere mortals, that was nothing. It soured Dolly’s mood, but her mood was sour anyway, after what she’d been through and what she’d seen.
Dad and Sarah, walking down the street.
And – oh God – the expression on Sarah’s face. That haunted Dolly. Made her wake in the night, moaning in terror for her little sis. Sometimes, she succeeded in blanking it from her mind, but it always crept in, always came back and tormented her.
Supposing what happened to me happens to little Sar?
The baby came into her brain again, the dead baby with Dad’s face.
No. She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t let Sarah go through the same horror. She wouldn’t.
So one morning when Celia was alone in the kitchen, having her ‘elevenses’, Dolly went in there, closed the door behind her and said to Celia: ‘I have to talk to you.’
Celia was making tea, squinting past the thin spiral of smoke coming up from her posh ciggie holder. ‘All right, Doll. You want a cuppa?’
Dolly shook her head and sat down at the table. She’d barely kept down her breakfast; she couldn’t face tea, not right now.
‘What’s up then?’ Celia asked with a brisk smile, coming to the table with her cup and saucer and sitting down.
Dolly took a breath. She didn’t know how to start.
Celia looked at Dolly’s face. ‘In your own time, lovey,’ she said more gently. ‘What is it then?’
Still, Dolly could barely form the words. She felt like they would choke her.
‘What is it, you want to come off the game?’ Celia sipped her tea. ‘That don’t matter, Doll. Don’t you fret. You can dust around, get the bloody Hoover out, it ain’t the end of the world. You’re one of the family now, we won’t turn you out.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Dolly, but she was touched.
‘Then what? Come on, I won’t bite.’
‘Celia . . . when we first met, when I was out on the streets . . .’
‘Yeah. Go on then.’
‘I was on the streets because I couldn’t stay at home any longer.’
‘Right.’
Dolly bit her lip, looked down at the table. She felt a hot wash of shame sweep over her; whenever she thought of being back there, she felt again the humiliation of it, the embarrassment, the awful guilt.
‘Take your time,’ said Celia, watching Dolly’s face with concern. ‘Whatever you got to say, you won’t shock me, Doll. And I won’t judge. You must know that by now.’
‘It started when I was nine, nearly ten,’ said Dolly, her mouth dry while she could feel sweat breaking out on her brow.
‘What did?’
Dolly took a big breath and began to speak. As she spoke, Celia’s forgotten fag burned down to nothing in its ivory holder, the ash dropping unheeded on to the table. Dolly spoke for almost a quarter of an hour, and when she was finished she looked like someone had whipped all the life out of her.
‘Holy Christ,’ said Celia when silence fell at last. ‘You poor little cow. I always wondered what had gone on with you, Doll, but I didn’t think of that. The rotten bastard.’
‘There’s worse,’ said Dolly.
‘What the fuck could be worse?’
‘He’s doing it to my little sis now. To Sarah.’
‘How do you know that, Doll? You been back there?’
‘I stood down the street . . .’ Dolly hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘I saw him, how he was with her. And I saw her face. I know it’s happening, Celia. And it’s got to stop.’
Celia noticed her fag had gone out. She scooped the ash up, put it in her Capstan ashtray, shook out another cigarette from the packet, stuck it in the ivory holder and lit it. ‘Fucking hell, Doll, what a shocker.’
‘Celia.’ Dolly’s chest was tight with tension; she felt she was going to be sick, having to tell all this; it was like living it all over again. ‘We got to get the Delaneys involved with this.’
‘Yeah.’ Celia nodded. ‘Sure we can do that. They can give the old cunt a shot across the bows, make sure it don’t happen any more.’
Dolly’s face was hard all of a sudden. ‘No. That’s not good enough. Not nearly good enough.’
‘Doll . . .’
‘He has to die,’ said Dolly.
49
It happened when the railway workers were taking a carriage needing repairs into one of the far sidings. Arthur Biggs was at the controls of the big steam engine, backing it up, his mate the fireman on the footplate with him. Further back, the senior guard, the signalman, the porter and a pointsman were chatting to the shunter, Sam Farrell, who was directing operations in his usual Big-I-Am manner, sending hand signals up to the driver, saying all was well.
Sam was relaxed and in charge. He loved being in charge, and he was blankly astonished when the senior guard, one of his oldest work pals, grabbed his arm and kicked him behind the knee, taking his legs from under him.
‘What the fuck you doin’, boy?’ he demanded, falling on to the track, grazing his hands and knees.
Wincing with the pain in his leg – Jesus, that kick had been hard – Sam knelt there and looked around. None of the others were shouting a protest, they weren’t saying to the guard, ‘Hey, what’s up with you?’ They were just watching, and their faces were grim. What the hell was going on?
Sam scrabbled back to his feet, ready to come out swinging at the senior guard. And then he saw that the engine, belching steam and chugging hard like the deafening breath of an ancient monster, hadn’t slowed down.
‘What the f—’ Sam started.
He knew – everyone knew – that once the driver couldn’t see the shunter’s hand signals, that was the safety feature, that was when Arthur was supposed to shut her off, slap on the brakes. But Arthur hadn’t done that. The engine was still backing up; it was coming straight for Sam.
He screamed as he saw clearly what was about to happen. And then the engine’s massive weight smashed into him, flattening his chest and stomach, shattering his ribcage, whipping the air out of Sam in an instant, sending blood spurting out of his mouth in a torrent. His scream was cut short as his heart was squeezed to nothing and stopped beating.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said the senior guard, going pale as Sam’s blood spattered thickly down on to the tracks.
Arthur slammed on the brake and then him and the fireman came running back. They stopped short as they saw Sam Farrell pinned there, his head tipped forward on to his caved-in, blood-soaked chest. A ghastly odour was rising from Sam, the open-drain odour of a burst stomach and mangled intestines. The driver turned away from the sight, gagging at the smell, and heaved up his breakfast on to the platform.
The senior guard looked at the fireman. Then he glanced around at the other men there.
‘We’re all straig
ht on what we say?’ said the guard. ‘He slipped, and by the time he got back up it was too late, the engine crushed him. It was an accident. All right?’
The fireman spat on the ground. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ he said.
The train driver couldn’t speak. He staggered away and sat down on the hard concrete. He couldn’t believe they’d done it, but they had.
They’d killed Sam Farrell.
50
When she came into the kitchen at teatime, the first thing that struck Sarah was that Nigel was crying. Sarah had never seen Nigel cry before. It alarmed her. And even more alarming, a pair of policemen were sitting at the kitchen table with Mum, who was looking blank-faced as always. Dick wasn’t racing around like he usually did. Sandy sat and stared at the kitchen table.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, but Mum only looked up, then back down again, saying nothing.
One of the two Old Bill said: ‘There’s been a very bad accident, your mum’s upset.’
Sarah looked at Edie. Mum didn’t look upset. She just looked the same as always: disinterested.
Nigel burst out through his tears: ‘Dad’s dead, Sar! He’s bloody dead.’
Sarah pulled up a chair as her legs were about to go. She fell into it, stunned, and looked at the policemen.
‘There was an accident,’ said the one who had spoken before. ‘On the railway. An engine crushed him. I’m so sorry.’
‘Was it . . . quick?’ asked Mum.
All the kids turned and looked at her. Mum hardly ever uttered a word these days; this was unusual.
‘Very quick, you can put your mind at rest on that.’
‘He didn’t suffer?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
Now Edie started crying too. ‘Ah God, poor Sam,’ she gasped.
Sarah sat there at the table and looked at Nigel snuffling into his handkerchief and Mum wailing away, and thought, Why can’t I cry?
She really ought to. It was expected. Even Dick and little Sandy were looking on the verge of tears. She thought of Dad, dead, and still the tears refused to come and she was irritated at herself for not caring as she should.
Didn’t she care at all that her dad was dead?
Deep in her heart she knew she didn’t.
The only thing she felt was relief.
Redmond Delaney phoned Celia Bailey later that same day.
‘It’s done,’ he said.
‘Good God.’
‘A terrible accident.’
‘Right.’
‘Tell your girl there.’
‘I will. And . . . thank you, Mr Delaney.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said.
51
London, 1994
Jackie’s ‘contact’ turned out to be no bloody good – just one of his drinking buddies looking to tap up Jackie’s new source of income for a fiver or two. Feeling she was being milked like some prize heifer, Annie left Jackie there in disgust and got a taxi back to the hotel.
When the taxi pulled up, she paid the driver. The red-liveried doorman opened the cab door for her, asked if she’d had a good day. She hadn’t. She’d had the day from hell – they were all days from hell right now – but she smiled and told him yes, and thanked him and went into the cosy reception, resplendent with bowls of red carnations, and into the lift and up to her room. She was barely through the door when the phone rang.
‘Mrs Carter? I’m sorry to disturb you but there is a police detective in reception asking for you, a DCI Hunter.’
‘Send him up,’ said Annie, shrugging off her coat and plugging in the kettle.
A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Hunter stood there, looking more sober-faced than ever. Annie stood aside and he came into the room. She closed the door.
‘What is it?’ she asked hopefully. ‘You heard something about Dolly?’
‘No, Mrs Carter, I’ve heard something about you.’
‘Tea?’ asked Annie.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, go on then. What is it?’ Annie gazed at him curiously.
‘DS Duggan says you tried to bribe her to get information.’
Annie stared at him straight-faced. ‘Really? She’s mistaken.’
‘Oh. Is she.’
‘I spoke to her, yes. Told her I was keen to help in whatever way I could. But bribery? She must have misunderstood me.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yeah. I do.’
Hunter watched her closely. ‘You know what? I think she understood your meaning perfectly well. I think you offered her money, and she refused.’
Annie shrugged. ‘Nah. As I say, she must have misunderstood.’
Hunter stepped forward so that he was almost nose to nose with Annie.
‘Understand this, Mrs Carter,’ he said quietly. ‘If I hear one more report of you trying to coerce a police officer in that way, you’ll be inside a cell quicker than you can say knife. Is that understood.’
‘Yeah, fine.’ Annie nodded. ‘Any news then? On the case?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Do you want to know if I have any news, on the case?’
‘Mrs Carter. If you don’t share any information you might have with me, then you are impeding an investigation and that is a very serious offence.’
‘I know that. And I told you I’d share. Of course I will.’
Hunter eyed her sceptically. The woman was deep, unknowable. Utterly mysterious. Married to a man who’d evaded the law over many years, linked to the American Mafia.
He didn’t like these Scottish visits of hers, they made his detective’s nose twitch with interest. He’d looked into them, curious, but they’d led nowhere. When she went up there, she always departed from London Heliport, sited by the Thames and opposite Chelsea Harbour, and was usually taken to a private residence outside Edinburgh. From there? He had no idea. Yet.
‘Tell me what you know,’ he said, and started walking around the room, twitching the huge moss-green tasselled drapes at the floor-to-ceiling window aside to stare out at a sodden Kensington Park. In the foreground, trees whipped about in the wind. The rain sheeted down, fogging the view of the palace over on the far side of the park.
‘Her father got her pregnant way back, years ago,’ said Annie. ‘There. Is that new information for you?’
Hunter turned his head and looked back at her. His mouth was pursed with distaste.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked.
‘Certain.’
‘Christ, that’s horrible.’
‘It’s the truth. And . . .’ She hesitated, but telling the Bill couldn’t hurt Dolly now. ‘She had someone organize a hit on her old man.’
Hunter sent her a sharp glance. ‘Who?’
Annie shrugged and said nothing. She wasn’t about to finger Redmond Delaney to the cops, not now, not ever. She wasn’t a grass and she wasn’t a fool, either.
Hunter let the curtain drop. He came back across the room to where she stood. ‘Tell me all about Dolly Farrell,’ he said.
Annie had to swallow hard to get the words out. ‘There’s not much to tell. Dolly was a tart. She worked in a whorehouse. That was after her father did that to her when she was a young girl. After that happened in her own home, where she was supposed to be safe, I imagine anything else was pretty easy.’ Annie sat down on a bulky pink Chesterfield sofa. Dolly would have loved it, this sofa. She felt sick, talking about Dolly this way, knowing how Dolly would have hated anyone knowing about the past she’d tried so hard to bury.
‘Later in life, she worked for my husband, and for me, managing clubs. She was good at it. Got on well with the staff, was tough enough to deal with any problems. She’d seen it all, done it all. Nothing fazed her, nothing shocked her. Not surprisingly. I suppose the lines get sort of blurred, when you’ve had an experience like that.’
‘So . . .’ Hunter was watching Annie’s face ‘. . . despite her early setbacks, she was a woman to reckon with.’
‘Dolly was strong. She had to be, to survive. Stronger than anyone I ever knew.’
‘And she got on well with the staff.’
‘Have you heard different? I certainly haven’t. The one thing I do know? Everyone who worked for her loved Dolly.’
‘That’s what I’ve been hearing too.’
Annie ran an agitated hand through her hair. ‘I just thought . . . well, I had this thing stuck in my head and I thought that this awful thing happening to her . . . getting shot, being killed . . . I just thought that it could be coming from anywhere, couldn’t it? A punter she upset, a supplier, a member of staff, who knows?’
‘I keep coming back to the idea of a lover,’ said Hunter.
‘Dolly didn’t have lovers. She didn’t rate men at all, and God knows that is no surprise. She had no kids, no family that she wanted to know of, no nothing. Her friends were her family. Me, and Ellie.’ Annie swallowed hard. ‘That’s all she had. And I suppose she must have been lonely sometimes, but that never occurred to me when she was alive. Poor cow.’ Annie shuddered and looked at Hunter. ‘Or maybe it could be coming from somewhere in her past. She had a horrible past.’
His eyes held hers. ‘Leave it to the police, Mrs Carter.’
‘Of course,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll do that.’
52
‘You said there was more,’ Redmond growled down the phone at Gary Tooley.
Days had passed since their meeting. He was beyond impatient now.
‘There is. I know there is. But the old bint, you don’t know when – or if – she’s going to call again. She’s crazy, unpredictable. I have to wait.’
‘I paid you five grand,’ said Redmond.
‘Yeah, and I gave you the stuff you wanted for that.’
‘It’s not enough.’
‘Tough.’
‘What use is that information to me? Barolli’s dead. This mad sister of his? Let the old bitch suffer and die at her own pace. Do I care?’
‘I don’t know what you want from me. I’ve told you—’
‘I want more. You said there would be more, and I want it.’