Читать книгу Scarlet Women - Jessie Keane - Страница 14

Kath, Annie’s cousin, was up in the flat with her three-year-old son, Jimmy Junior, her baby Mo—and Layla. Layla saw Annie coming up the stairs and threw herself at her mother’s legs. She clung on like a small, dark-haired limpet.

Annie scooped Layla up into her arms and smiled into her daughter’s face, although she felt annoyed with Kath because the door had been open, the stairs were a danger, the workmen had been down there with masonry and shit flying in all directions; the kids could get hurt here.

‘You 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 making a fortune off their firm. They had legitimate sponsorship arrangements going with many businesses—debt collection agencies were a favourite—and these businesses set up deals from which the twins got a cut of the profit in return for use of the Kray name. She was doing something very similar with her own firm now, using Max’s and Jonjo’s considerable clout in the business world to make a legitimate living in security.

‘Aretha—the girl who died—was a friend of mine,’ she told him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

‘It was a horrible thing that happened to her. And her husband Chris is a friend too. He’s in the frame for this. I don’t like people doing bad things to my friends. And I don’t believe Chris would harm Aretha. So I need to find out anything I can about what happened that night, so that I can do something about it, okay?’

Ray nodded.

‘So,’ said Annie. ‘You saw her leave, but you didn’t see her arrive?’

He looked down, nodded again.

‘So, when she left. She left alone?’

‘Yes, she was alone.’

‘Did she seem all right?’

He shrugged. ‘She seemed fine. Happy. It was tipping down with rain and I said she ought to take a taxi, and she said she wasn’t made of money.’

Annie’s heart clenched with pain. If Aretha had taken that taxi straight home, and not walked the short distance to the corner around which Chris was parked up, waiting for her, then she would probably be alive right now.

‘Has she come here before?’

‘No, she was a new one here.’

Annie looked at him. ‘Room two hundred and six. Mr Smith. I’m assuming that’s not his real name.’

Again the shrug. ‘Lots of men sign in anonymously and pay cash when they check out. Wouldn’t you, if you were going to use a brass? He might be a man of some importance—probably is; this is a classy place, the prices we charge, I’m telling you. He might have a reputation to consider. He might be married. He wouldn’t want to draw attention to himself.’

‘Did you see this “Mr Smith”?’

Ray shook his head.

‘Did anyone?’

‘The police asked that too. But we see hundreds of people in a day here. No one remembers him.’

Anonymous and invisible.

‘He checked in and the time was recorded, yes? So someone spoke to him then, face to face,’ Annie persisted. ‘Who? Claire? Pippa? The other one, Gareth?’

‘I’ll find out,’ said Ray.

Annie sat back, waiting.

‘You want me to do it now?’ asked Ray.

Annie gave him the look. ‘You got anything else pressing?’

Ray got up and left the lounge. Through the half-open door Annie saw him in a huddle with Pippa at the reception desk. Watched him come back into the lounge, sit down again.

‘Yeah, that would have been Gareth,’ he said. ‘Mr Smith checked in at eight thirty-three in the morning three days ago. He booked in—with Gareth—for the one day and overnight, but no one saw him leave the next morning.’

‘Hold on,’ Annie told him. ‘No one saw him leave? He paid his bill, yes? Spoke to whoever was on reception? But no one saw him?’

‘No one remembers seeing him. As I say, we—’

‘—see hundreds of people in a day. What about the doorman?’

Ray shook his head. ‘People come in and out all day. Whoever’s on the door don’t know their names and barely even notices their faces unless they give a good tip, and you don’t get too many of those. And if this guy wanted to remain incognito, he wouldn’t be doing that, for sure.’

Annie stood up. ‘Gareth Fuller, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s here when?’

‘Actually he’s not,’ said Ray. ‘He left yesterday.’

‘Left?’

‘Manager fired him. Bit of a slacker.’

‘His address then?’

Ray went to get Gareth’s address.

Annie looked around the lounge and wondered what had really been going down between Redmond Delaney and Constantine that they had to meet here. Constantine slipped the Carters three grand a month to keep troublesome elements out of his clubs up West, save him the bother of importing his own muscle from across the pond. Maybe Redmond was undercutting the Carters, and Constantine’s true intention was to work out a better deal with him, or start a lucrative bidding war between the two rival gangs.

Damn, she had thought he was on her side. It hurt to discover that he might not be. And now this. She had to help Chris. She couldn’t just let him take the rap: she knew he was innocent. She wandered back out into reception.

Trouble, every way she looked. Nothing new there, though. She was used to digging deep, standing alone. If truth be told, she was getting tired of it, but it was what she usually had to do.

Ray came over and handed her a piece of paper with Gareth Fuller’s address on it. She thanked him and slipped him a fiver.

‘If anything else occurs to you, anything at all, you call me, okay?’ she told him.

‘Sure,’ he said, and smiled.

He wouldn’t call. She knew it. But she was more interested right now in Gareth Fuller, who had checked Mr Smith in, and checked him out—and who probably wouldn’t even remember what he looked like.