Scarlet Women. Jessie Keane
didn’t have to come over, I’d have come to you,’ she said to Kath, who was cuddling her grizzling baby against her vast bosom.
‘Ah, they were getting bored and Layla kept asking for you and I needed some stuff from the shop, so I thought, why not?’ said Kath.
‘How’s she been?’ asked Annie.
Kath shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘A pain in the arse,’ she said, but her grin said otherwise.
Annie kissed Layla’s silky dark hair—so like her own—and inhaled the sweet scent of her daughter.
‘You been a good girl for your Auntie Kath?’ she asked Layla.
‘Yeah!’ said Layla.
‘Is that the truth?’
‘Yeah!’
‘What about you, little Jim?’ asked Annie of Kath’s little boy, who was at the table, his sandy head bent over his paper and crayons. ‘Been good?’
Jimmy gave her a tired smile and rubbed his eyes.
‘He’s ready for his nap,’ said Kath. ‘They’re all getting overtired.’
‘Can Layla stay with you tonight, Kath? I’ve got to go out late on business.’
‘Sure,’ said Kath with a sigh.
She didn’t ask what business. After years of being married to Jimmy Bond, who had once been Max Carter’s number one man, she knew better. But Jimmy Bond was history now, and Kath didn’t seem sorry. In fact, there was a new spring in her step. Jimmy had knocked seven kinds of shit out of her, and she didn’t have to put up with that any more. She was still a train wreck, though; still messy, still untidy.
Annie noticed that Layla had started to cling on tighter to her. She drew back and smiled into the little girl’s eyes—eyes that were the same colour as her own: a dark, dense green. ‘I’ll collect you after breakfast tomorrow, okay? That’s a promise.’
‘You promise, Mummy?’
‘On my life,’ said Annie, hating the anxiety in Layla’s eyes. ‘Uncle Tony’s going to drive you over to Auntie Kath’s with her right now, okay?’
This seemed to reassure Layla, and she nodded and allowed herself to be ushered out the door along with little Jim, baby Mo and a mountain of childcare products and colouring books, plus her overnight pyjamas and Bluey, her new fluffy toy bunny.
At last they were gone. Annie sat in the flat and turned on the TV to catch the news. The Manson trial was still going on in the States, the army had used rubber bullets for the first time in Belfast, and a plane had crashed in Peru, killing all ninetynine people on board. Her attention sharpened as the guy started saying that another escort girl had been found dead, this time in London’s West End, and that the girl’s husband was now helping police with their enquires into this and two earlier killings.
So they still hadn’t formally charged Chris yet. Maybe Jerry Peters had convinced them of Chris’s innocence, and maybe not. They might not have charged him, but neither had they released him. It was too soon to open the bubbly and start dancing on the frigging tables, that was for sure.
There was a different girl on reception when Annie got back to the Vista Hotel just after midnight. ‘Pippa’, the girl’s badge announced. Pippa had a mountain of dark hair on her tiny bird-like head, pale clear skin and blue laughing eyes; her purple fitted jacket and skirt suited her colouring. The place looked deserted, apart from this little bright beacon sitting behind the reception desk.
‘I need to speak to Ray Thompson, your concierge,’ said Annie, surprised to see this dainty little thing here and not Gareth Fuller, as expected. ‘Did Claire tell you about me? I’m Annie Carter.’
Pippa did a flickering downward sweep of the eyelashes. Annie guessed that this wowed the male punters. She waited, expecting that Claire would not have told her colleague about this. Expecting in fact that she was going to meet with more obstruction, more hassle, more of the ‘oh I couldn’t do that’ routine.
Should have brought Tony in with me, she thought. Tony’s appearance tended to galvanize people in a helpful direction. But Annie didn’t want to come over all heavy here. She just wanted to know what had happened two nights ago; she didn’t want to go busting heads if charm and negotiation could do the business just as well.
‘That’s Ray over there,’ said Pippa helpfully, surprising her.
Annie turned. A man in a purple uniform with flashy gold epaulettes had just stepped out of the lift. He walked with authority, shooting his cuffs as he came. He looked at Annie, half smiled, nodded to Pippa.
‘Can I help?’ he said.
He was a short man in his early fifties, full of bouncy East End confidence. He had dark curly hair turning grey, an elfish face etched with laughter lines, and he took in everything about Annie at a glance. She could see him briskly categorizing her. Expensive-looking female punter in a black silk suit. She could see pound signs flicking up in his sharp, acquisitive eyes.
‘Can you spare a few minutes? I’m Annie Carter. Did Claire tell you I’d be coming?’ said Annie.
‘Yes, she did. Of course,’ he said in his Cockney twang.
‘Can we talk in the lounge, get some privacy?’ Annie continued, aware that Pippa was sitting behind the desk, looking bored as tits, with her ears flapping like Dumbo’s.
He nodded and led the way in. The lounge was spacious and decked out in soothing greens, pinks and golds. No fire in the grate—too late in the day and too warm for that anyway; instead there was a display of tasteful dried flowers. Lots of big couches. Lots of table lamps casting a cosy glow, side tables stacked with newspapers. It was a proper little home from home for the weary guest.
Ray politely motioned that she should sit on one of the big couches, and he sat down opposite her, at a discreet distance.
Annie got straight to the point. ‘You were on duty the night Aretha Brown was murdered,’ she said.
This seemed to jolt him, but he must have been expecting it. There was a sudden wariness in his eyes. He looked down at the carpet, then up at her again. Nodded.
‘She was here, visiting a friend,’ said Annie carefully.
He nodded again, but he half smiled and his eyes said: A friend? Is that what prossies are calling their clients now?
‘Did you see her arrive?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Did you see her leave?’
‘Yes. I did. Look, I went through all this with the police. What’s your interest here? You a reporter?’
‘Do I look like a reporter?’
Ray gave her a quick once-over. ‘No, you don’t.’
‘You’re an East Ender, Ray. Which part?’
‘Bethnal Green.’
‘Then you’ll know my husband’s friends and business acquaintances, the twins.’ Annie watched as Ray’s expression froze. ‘You know the twins, Ray?’
Everyone from that area knew the twins. Reggie and Ronnie. The Krays.
Ray swallowed nervously and Annie could see that he’d made an important connection.
‘You’re Max Carter’s wife,’ said Ray.
Widow, thought Annie, but she let it go.
Ray looked at her. ‘The Krays are a spent force now,’ he said. ‘They’ve been banged up for over a year for doing Jack the Hat and Cornell.’
‘You think so?’ Annie asked him.
Annie knew different. Even behind bars the Krays were