38
A bulky man was getting out of a sleek black Jag and crossing the road to go into a newsagent’s a few doors down. The bald gleaming head, bronzed from some foreign holiday, the twinkling set of gold crucifixes, one in each huge cauliflower ear, the immaculate suit pulling tight over eighteen stones’ worth of solid muscle. Annie was a woman spotting a life raft in a stormy sea.
‘Tony! Tone!’ she yelled out, smiling suddenly because she had never seen a prettier sight than this big ugly bastard.
It was Tony – first Max’s driver, then hers, then Dolly’s. He’d been her greatest supporter through many a battle. He turned his head and she waved madly. People were looking, staring, and Tony stared too. He paused mid-stride and then she saw the change come over him. His face hardened. And then – to her shock – he turned back, away from her, and kept walking.
‘What the fuck…?’ she said angrily. She wasn’t about to let this go.
Annie ran after him and followed him into the newsagent’s. Inside the tiny shop a tired-looking man in a flat cap was dispensing the day’s news to his punters. When Annie caught up with Tony, she grabbed his arm.
‘Tone? Didn’t you see me?’
But she knew he had. Of course he had. He had seen her, and chosen not to. It gave her the creeps. All right, she hadn’t expected flags and banners from Gary, but Chris? Ellie? Steve? And now even Tone, who had been the one to phone her, the one who had told her all this was going down?
They know, they all know, and Max, where’s Max right now, who’s he with, what’s he doing, and oh God, does he know too… ?
She took a deep breath, tried to calm herself, but she had a real case of the jitters. The way he was looking at her – Tone, her old mate, who’d stood in her corner on more than one tricky occasion, who’d always backed her to the hilt.
‘Mrs C,’ he said, with a cool nod of the head. At the same time, he was rootling in his pocket for change, looking at the headlines about Labour winning sixty-two seats in the election and still looking for a party leader after John Smith’s untimely death. In the running for leader was Margaret Beckett, John Prescott and someone called Tony Blair. Tony kept his focus on the news, showing her no interest.
‘Tone, what’s going on?’
Tony was silent.
‘Come on, say something, even if it’s only bollocks!’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said, his eyes avoiding hers. He paid at the till, tucked the paper under his arm, left the shop. Annie trailed behind him. She was having to half-run to keep up with his long stride. He was walking back to the Jag. Finally she grabbed his arm again. Tony halted. Looked at her. Seemed to look straight through her.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Annie echoed, half-laughing although it wasn’t funny, not in the least. ‘Is that all you’ve got? For fuck’s sake! Dolly has been shot, and you act like you don’t care.’
‘That’s not true,’ said Tone. ‘Of course I bloody care.’
‘Good! Then will you please stop walking away from me?’
‘I got nothing to say to you.’
‘Are you kidding me?’ Annie raised her fists to her head and was actually wrenching at her hair with her hands, she was so exasperated. ‘Dolly is dead, Tone. And you were her driver, her minder, you were supposed to look out for her, and what the fuck were you doing? Were you off somewhere having a wank? Because it’s pretty clear you weren’t doing your job!’
That did get a reaction. Tony’s brows drew together and he looked thunderous.
‘Look,’ he said sharply. ‘I drove her last Thursday afternoon, up West. She wanted to go shopping, that’s what she always did on a Thursday afternoon if she wasn’t meeting Ellie Brown at the Ritz. I dropped her back at the Palermo at about four, and she went into the club and I went home. When I went to check in with her Friday lunchtime, she was bloody dead. More than that I can’t tell you. I wish to God it hadn’t happened, and if I find whoever did it before Old Bill does then they’re up to their mangy arses in trouble and there won’t be no nice civilized trial or a cosy cell to lie in, they’ll be fucking gone, you got me?’
Annie was silent; their eyes were locked. Tony swallowed hard, then looked away.
‘I liked Dolly,’ he said. ‘You know that. To think of some scummy bastard doing that, it makes me sick to my stomach.’
‘And that’s all you know?’ asked Annie quietly.
‘It’s all I know.’
‘I need help, Tone. I want to find out who did this and I want to deal with it in our way. You’re right – no cosy cells, no trial. Only justice. Our sort of justice. Will you help me do that?’
Say yes, she thought. He would say yes, he had to say yes.
‘No,’ said Tony, and turned away from her.
Annie caught his arm again. Tony paused, looked back at her face. Annie released him, her shoulders sagging. ‘Do you know what happened to Jackie?’ she asked.
‘What?’ He looked at her blankly.
‘Jackie Tulliver. He used to be sharp as a razor, now he’s drowning himself in the bottle day and night. What happened?’
Tony shrugged. ‘His mum died,’ he said. Then he turned his back on her and walked over to the Jag. He didn’t look back; not once.
Yeah, he knows, she thought. They all do.
39
Annie stood there staring after him. Something bad was happening here, something terrible. She longed for Max, for a friendly face, for things to be as they used to be, when she was treated with respect, when all the boys knew that she was Mrs Carter, and you had to tread softly around her, or else. Now, she was nothing but shit on their shoes, and she didn’t like that feeling at all.
‘There you are,’ said Jackie, wandering up to her, a fat cigar clamped between his yellow teeth. Annie almost groaned. This was all she had to work with. This wreck. He was staggering a little, and his hands were shaking. He was unshaven, unwashed. As usual.
‘Yeah,’ sighed Annie. So his mum had passed on. Was that really an excuse for this? ‘Here I am.’
‘I’ve talked to our people in the Bill, they don’t know nothing. Not yet, anyway.’
‘Right.’
Jackie coughed. Looked at her.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘A little dosh up front would be good,’ he said, his eyes straying to the off-licence over the road. ‘Got a couple of contacts you might want to speak to. Might be worth your while.’
Ah, what the hell.
Annie handed over a tenner and off he went, weaving through the traffic, people honking their horns at him but Jackie taking no notice, intent as a bloodhound on the trail. She followed him slowly, her mind on Dolly, on Tony, on the whole flaming awful mess this was turning out to be, and as she did so a cyclist came past her, skidding to a halt, almost hitting her.
‘Christ!’ she yelped. ‘Watch what you’re doing, will you?’
And then he stuffed a piece of paper into her hand, and sped away.
Annie stood there, looking at the piece of paper.
Ah shit. No, no, no. Not now. Please, not now.
She stepped back on to the pavement and unfurled it. Numbers. Not many. She stood there and slowly she deciphered the code. It said: Come at once.
Annie screwed the note up, the pizzino, and flung it to the ground where it was quickly trampled underfoot.