Scarlet Women. Jessie Keane
on the door again.
‘That lock don’t look up to much,’ said Annie. There was a pause. The dog barked on, yap, yap, yap. ‘A good kick could probably sort that door out,’ she suggested helpfully.
‘That’s breaking and entering, Mrs Carter,’ he said, giving her the look again.
‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘I understand your reservations, you being an officer of the law and all that stuff. But if you were to walk along to the end there, busy yourself in some way, my colleague there,’ she nodded to Tony, ‘could have it open in no time. And then we could move this along, because no one is going to answer this damned door. And that dog’s doing my head in.’
DI Hunter gave her an appraising stare. Looked at Tony, standing there all polite and besuited, big as a barn door with his bald head polished to the colour of oak from the summer sun, the gold crucifixes glittering in his ears. Looking as if he could demolish the building, never mind the door.
‘Don’t think I approve of this, because I don’t,’ said Hunter.
Annie nodded. Hunter walked off. Tony approached.
‘Open it, will you, Tone?’ she asked.
Tony pulled back and gave the door a kick just below the lock. It bounced open and the dog’s volume shot up by a few decibels. A Yorkshire terrier appeared in the doorway, yapping frantically but wagging his little stump of a tail. Tony observed the animal with disfavour.
‘God, I hate dogs.’
‘You a cat person, Tone?’ asked Annie. She could see DI Hunter coming back now, not hurrying.
‘Can’t stand them either. You know if you drop down dead, they’ll eat you? How’s that for loyalty? Shows their true nature.’
‘Thanks, Tone,’ said Annie, and Tony went back along the landing to stand at the top of the stairs again.
‘Hiya,’ she said to the dog, whose tail went into overdrive.
She nudged the door further open with her foot, and wrinkled her nose as a waft of something unpleasant hit her from inside the flat. DI Hunter was back. There was a brief tussle over who should go through the door first, so they pushed into the flat’s lounge together, the dog backing up on its haunches and still doing that irritating high-pitched yap-yap-yap business.
The smell of shit was suddenly overwhelmingly strong. Urine was slowly dripping on to a faded, threadbare carpet in the centre of the room. Above it, there was a young man hanging from the light fitting, flex twisted tight around his neck, dead eyes bulging, his tongue lolling swollen and black from his mouth.
Annie was sitting with her head in her hands at Dolly’s kitchen table. She still felt as though she was going to throw up. It was nearly lunchtime of the same day, the day on which she and Hunter had discovered that Gareth wouldn’t be providing any evidence this side of eternity.
Dolly was busy ferrying covered plates of sausage rolls, tuna vol-au-vents and sandwiches through from the kitchen to the front parlour, in readiness for the rush. This only ever used to happen on Fridays—party day—but now it was something she tended to do most days of the week. Along with the bar, it kept the punters happy and kept them coming back for more. Plus, it added a bit to the takings. Everyone was a winner. All except Annie, who took one look at the tuna vol-au-vents and had to take a hasty trip to the loo.
Mungo Jerry was belting out ‘In the Summertime’ from the little trannie over the sink. Dolly was hurrying about the place, absorbed in her various tasks. Annie sat down again, flinching at the smell of warm sausage rolls. She envied Dolly that facility, to be content in your own four walls and to shut out the chaos. She had seen Dolly perform this act of denial before; it seemed to come naturally to her.
Lucky cow, thought Annie, wishing she could do the same.
Annie knew that this capacity for turning a blind eye to trouble came from Dolly having been kicked out of the family home in disgrace and left to suffer alone through a really bad backstreet abortion. Under circumstances like that, you’d have to build stout barricades in your brain to stop yourself from going mad, and this was obviously exactly what Dolly had done.
Ellie was mopping the floor and giving Dolly dirty looks because she’d just done that bit, for Chrissakes, and here was Dolly trotting around on her clean floor like a ruddy racehorse.
‘Someone certainly got out of bed the wrong side this morning,’ observed Dolly as Ellie irritably redid her work on the floor.
Annie looked up at Ellie. Ellie had been at Dolly’s place a long time, since before it had been Dolly’s place at all. She’d been there when it had been Annie’s, and there before that, when Aunt Celia had been running the show. It was no secret among them that the knocking-shop paid protection to the Delaneys, because the Delaneys ran Limehouse. It was no secret either that Ellie was the Delaney insider, which had caused them all a problem or two over the years, but Ellie had come to know which side she was batting for.
Annie knew Ellie was loyal to the house now before all else. She’d been on the game for years, the chubby-chasers had loved her ample curves, but she had not long since started displaying all the worrying signs of someone who couldn’t hack fucking for a living after all. Scrubbing herself, trying to get the scent of sex off her. So now she cleaned houses. She cleaned here, and she cleaned at Kath’s place. Made a really good job of it too. Liked to see a place all spick and span.
‘Jesus, you look just about ready to hurl,’ said Dolly to Annie as she passed by. She stopped and stared at Ellie too. ‘And you. What a face on you. You miserable mares.’
‘Doll, I have hurled,’ said Annie. ‘And if you’d seen what I’ve seen this morning, so would you.’
Rosie, one of Dolly’s new working girls, wandered into the kitchen in a transparent powder-blue peignoir and fluffy slippers. She was a small, pretty blonde with dynamite curves and a relaxed attitude. Yawning, she filled the kettle and switched it on, jigging sleepily away to the beat. She sent Annie a vague smile.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake,’ said Ellie loudly, slapping the mop back into the bucket. Rosie stifled another smile.
Annie could understand Ellie’s bad mood. Ellie had carried a torch for Chris for years. To see him banged up and about to be sent down for a long stretch was upsetting her badly. And now Annie had to tell her even more bad news.
‘They’ve charged him,’ she told her bluntly.
‘Oh no.’ Ellie looked devastated.
‘Sorry, Ellie, I really am.’
Dolly came hurrying down the hall and into the kitchen to butter more bread on the worktop.
‘Rosie, for fuck’s sake will you get tidied up?’ said Dolly.
‘I am tidied up,’ protested Rosie. ‘All I want’s a cup of tea, for God’s sake.’
‘Well take it up to your room; we’re up to our arses down here. Poor Ellie’s trying to get the floor done. Stop winding her up.’
Grumbling good-naturedly, Rosie made her mug of tea and departed.
Dolly paused. Her face clouded as she looked at Annie. ‘Did I hear you right? They’ve charged him?’
Annie nodded and glanced at Ellie, seeing the pain on her plump, pretty face. She’d scraped her long dark hair back into a ponytail and she was wearing a pale blue overall that gave the effect of an overstuffed sausage. She looked hot, irritable, and above all, worried. But then she would be. She’d always adored Chris.
‘Oh no, it looks bloody marvellous,’ said Annie tiredly, ticking off facts on her fingers. ‘His wife’s