Scarlet Women. Jessie Keane
nothing to do with any of that.’
‘Well, think it over.’ Annie stood up. ‘Funerals are expensive. I know you can’t earn much…’
‘Whatever I earn, I earn by honest toil,’ said Louella sharply. ‘I’ll manage. Thank you.’
Annie nodded. The vicar had gone into the vestry; the organist was gone too. The church was empty, but for Annie and Aunt Louella. Their voices echoed when they spoke.
‘My door’s always open,’ said Annie. ‘If you should change your mind…’
‘I won’t.’ Louella’s face was closed off and truculent as she stood up too. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Carter.’
Annie sighed. She looked up at the altar, and then above to the glorious stained-glass windows. She stared at them and wondered where God had been when Aretha was fighting to stay alive.
Tony drove her up West to the hotel where Aretha had met her last client. She was sure she was wasting her time, but if there was anything, anything, she could turn up by poking around, then she knew she had to try.
‘You want me to come in with you, Boss?’ asked Tony as they pulled up outside.
‘No, Tone. I won’t be long,’ she said, and jumped out of the back and trotted up the steps to the plush hotel. The doorman, resplendent in purple with gold braiding, tipped his hat to her.
‘Good morning, Madam,’ he said.
She nodded and pushed through the swing doors. She looked around as she crossed to the reception desk. It was some place. There was a lot of pink marble, a fountain in the centre of the lobby, big, cream, velvet-covered buttoned chairs and reading lights on console tables. She could see a guest lounge through an open set of double doors to one side, two lifts on the other, beside a huge, gold-painted sweeping staircase.
At the reception desk, a purple-suited and smiling blonde whose name-badge said ‘Claire’ asked if she could help.
‘I hope you can,’ said Annie. ‘Two nights ago a friend of mine died not far from here. This was the last place she was seen alive. With a guest of yours.’
The smile vanished.
‘I’m not sure I can help you with that,’ she said.
‘I’m not sure you can either,’ said Annie. ‘That’s why I need to speak to the concierge who was on duty that night.’
The phone started ringing. The girl turned to it with obvious relief. ‘If you’ll excuse me…?’ she said.
‘Sure,’ said Annie, and waited while the girl took a booking for the following weekend.
Claire replaced the receiver and turned back to Annie.
‘As I said, I’m not sure we can help…’
And then the phone rang again, and Claire gave Annie an ‘oh, sorry’ smile as she picked it up. She took another booking. Annie waited.
‘So sorry about that,’ said Claire, and then the phone rang again. She picked up. Then her professional smile died on her lips as Annie snatched the phone from her hand and replaced it on the base, cutting the call dead. Annie leaned over and pulled the phone jack out of its socket. Claire’s mouth dropped open. Annie gave her a tight smile.
‘The fact is,’ Annie said, pausing to glance at the girl’s badge, ‘Claire. The fact is that my friend is dead and I’m upset, so bear with me here and don’t even think about plugging that phone back in unless you want to be wearing it as a necklace, you got me? I need to speak to your concierge, preferably this year and not next. Preferably within the next five minutes. Preferably now. So call him up or have someone fetch him or whatever it is you have to do, and stop it with the fucking phone, please, because this is very, very important, do you understand?’
Claire nodded slowly. She’d gone pale.
‘That’s good,’ Annie congratulated her. ‘That’s very good, I can see we have an understanding here, Claire. Now, what’s his name, this concierge who would have been on duty two nights ago, at gone midnight?’
Claire fiddled about with some papers on the big curving desk. She found a list, and checked down it. She looked up at Annie.
‘That would be Ray Thompson,’ she said. ‘He’s on twelve to eight all this week. He’s not here right now.’
‘He’ll be here at twelve tonight?’ asked Annie.
Claire nodded, swallowing, her eyes wary.
‘Then I’ll be back to see him then. If he don’t come in for any reason, you call me, okay? I don’t want a wasted journey—that would upset me, do you understand what I’m saying?’ Annie took a notepad and pencil out of her pocket and jotted down her name and the Palermo’s number. She handed it to Claire. ‘My name’s Annie Carter, I’ve put it down right here so that you know. Reach me on this number, okay?’
Claire nodded.
‘I’ll be back at twelve if I don’t hear from you first. Oh, and can you tell me who was in room two-oh-six two nights ago?’
‘I shouldn’t…’ Claire started.
Then she looked at Annie’s face. She gulped and flicked back a page or two in the guest book, scanned down it. ‘A Mr Smith.’
Not exactly original, thought Annie.
Dolly had told her that a woman had made the initial booking and that there was no contact number because Rosie—being Rosie—had taken the call, and hadn’t asked for one. Aretha had to meet a man named Mr Smith in room 206 at nine, that was all.
‘Were you on duty that night?’ asked Annie.
Claire shook her head.
‘Write down the name of whoever was on duty,’ said Annie.
Claire wrote down a name and handed the headed compliment slip to Annie.
‘Thanks for that,’ said Annie, pocketing it. ‘And is this person going to be back on duty tonight?’
Claire nodded. ‘I think so.’
‘That’s good, I’ll see him too. Have you heard anything about what happened?’ she asked. ‘Anything that might interest, for instance, the police…maybe help them with their inquiries?’
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ said Claire, shaking her head nervously. ‘I just saw the police out there when I came in next morning, and people were talking about it. They said it was the third murder in as many months. I’m just really glad I don’t do nights.’
‘Okay. If I don’t hear from you first, I’ll be back at twelve to see Ray and the receptionist.’
Claire nodded. ‘That’s Gareth…Gareth Fuller,’ she said.
‘Gareth Fuller. Thanks Claire.’
Annie turned away from the desk and started to walk back across the reception area to the door. It spooked her, that feeling that she was walking in Aretha’s footsteps, tracing the path the dead woman had taken on her last night on earth.
For a heart-stopping moment she felt she could almost see Aretha up ahead, swinging through the doors into the night, her feather boa trailing behind her, the smell of that horrible hairy Afghan coat she always wore clinging to the air, mixed with the attar of rose scent she favoured, dreads bouncing as she went, flashing a broad grin back at Annie.
Bye girlfriend, catch ya later.
And then the vision was gone, and it was daylight, and Aretha was dead.