They’d killed Sam Farrell.
50
When she came into the kitchen at teatime, the first thing that struck Sarah was that Nigel was crying. Sarah had never seen Nigel cry before. It alarmed her. And even more alarming, a pair of policemen were sitting at the kitchen table with Mum, who was looking blank-faced as always. Dick wasn’t racing around like he usually did. Sandy sat and stared at the kitchen table.
‘What’s happening?’ she asked, but Mum only looked up, then back down again, saying nothing.
One of the two Old Bill said: ‘There’s been a very bad accident, your mum’s upset.’
Sarah looked at Edie. Mum didn’t look upset. She just looked the same as always: disinterested.
Nigel burst out through his tears: ‘Dad’s dead, Sar! He’s bloody dead.’
Sarah pulled up a chair as her legs were about to go. She fell into it, stunned, and looked at the policemen.
‘There was an accident,’ said the one who had spoken before. ‘On the railway. An engine crushed him. I’m so sorry.’
‘Was it… quick?’ asked Mum.
All the kids turned and looked at her. Mum hardly ever uttered a word these days; this was unusual.
‘Very quick, you can put your mind at rest on that.’
‘He didn’t suffer?’
‘No. He didn’t.’
Now Edie started crying too. ‘Ah God, poor Sam,’ she gasped.
Sarah sat there at the table and looked at Nigel snuffling into his handkerchief and Mum wailing away, and thought, Why can’t I cry?
She really ought to. It was expected. Even Dick and little Sandy were looking on the verge of tears. She thought of Dad, dead, and still the tears refused to come and she was irritated at herself for not caring as she should.
Didn’t she care at all that her dad was dead?
Deep in her heart she knew she didn’t.
The only thing she felt was relief.
Redmond Delaney phoned Celia Bailey later that same day.
‘It’s done,’ he said.
‘Good God.’
‘A terrible accident.’
‘Right.’
‘Tell your girl there.’
‘I will. And… thank you, Mr Delaney.’
‘It’s a pleasure,’ he said.
51
London, 1994
Jackie’s ‘contact’ turned out to be no bloody good – just one of his drinking buddies looking to tap up Jackie’s new source of income for a fiver or two. Feeling she was being milked like some prize heifer, Annie left Jackie there in disgust and got a taxi back to the hotel.
When the taxi pulled up, she paid the driver. The red-liveried doorman opened the cab door for her, asked if she’d had a good day. She hadn’t. She’d had the day from hell – they were all days from hell right now – but she smiled and told him yes, and thanked him and went into the cosy reception, resplendent with bowls of red carnations, and into the lift and up to her room. She was barely through the door when the phone rang.
‘Mrs Carter? I’m sorry to disturb you but there is a police detective in reception asking for you, a DCI Hunter.’
‘Send him up,’ said Annie, shrugging off her coat and plugging in the kettle.
A minute later, there was a knock at the door. Hunter stood there, looking more sober-faced than ever. Annie stood aside and he came into the room. She closed the door.
‘What is it?’ she asked hopefully. ‘You heard something about Dolly?’
‘No, Mrs Carter, I’ve heard something about you.’
‘Tea?’ asked Annie.
‘No, thank you.’
‘Well, go on then. What is it?’ Annie gazed at him curiously.
‘DS Duggan says you tried to bribe her to get information.’
Annie stared at him straight-faced. ‘Really? She’s mistaken.’
‘Oh. Is she.’
‘I spoke to her, yes. Told her I was keen to help in whatever way I could. But bribery? She must have misunderstood me.’
‘You think so?’
‘Yeah. I do.’
Hunter watched her closely. ‘You know what? I think she understood your meaning perfectly well. I think you offered her money, and she refused.’
Annie shrugged. ‘Nah. As I say, she must have misunderstood.’
Hunter stepped forward so that he was almost nose to nose with Annie.
‘Understand this, Mrs Carter,’ he said quietly. ‘If I hear one more report of you trying to coerce a police officer in that way, you’ll be inside a cell quicker than you can say knife. Is that understood.’
‘Yeah, fine.’ Annie nodded. ‘Any news then? On the case?’
‘Nothing yet.’
‘Do you want to know if I have any news, on the case?’
‘Mrs Carter. If you don’t share any information you might have with me, then you are impeding an investigation and that is a very serious offence.’
‘I know that. And I told you I’d share. Of course I will.’
Hunter eyed her sceptically. The woman was deep, unknowable. Utterly mysterious. Married to a man who’d evaded the law over many years, linked to the American Mafia.
He didn’t like these Scottish visits of hers, they made his detective’s nose twitch with interest. He’d looked into them, curious, but they’d led nowhere. When she went up there, she always departed from London Heliport, sited by the Thames and opposite Chelsea Harbour, and was usually taken to a private residence outside Edinburgh. From there? He had no idea. Yet.
‘Tell me what you know,’ he said, and started walking around the room, twitching the huge moss-green tasselled drapes at the floor-to-ceiling window aside to stare out at a sodden Kensington Park. In the foreground, trees whipped about in the wind. The rain sheeted down, fogging the view of the palace over on the far side of the park.
‘Her father got her pregnant way back, years ago,’ said Annie. ‘There. Is that new information for you?’
Hunter turned his head and looked back at her. His mouth was pursed with distaste.
‘Are you sure about that?’ he asked.
‘Certain.’
‘Christ, that’s horrible.’
‘It’s the truth. And…’ She hesitated, but telling the Bill couldn’t hurt Dolly now. ‘She had someone organize a hit on her old man.’
Hunter sent her a sharp glance. ‘Who?’
Annie shrugged and said nothing. She wasn’t about to finger Redmond Delaney to the cops, not now, not ever. She wasn’t a grass and she wasn’t a fool, either.
Hunter let the curtain drop. He came back across the room to where she stood. ‘Tell me all about Dolly Farrell,’ he said.
Annie had to swallow hard to get the words out. ‘There’s not much to tell. Dolly was a tart. She worked in a whorehouse. That was after her father did that to her when she was a young girl. After that happened in her own home, where she was supposed to be safe, I imagine anything else was pretty easy.’ Annie sat down on a bulky pink Chesterfield sofa. Dolly would have loved it, this sofa. She felt sick, talking about Dolly this way, knowing how Dolly would have hated anyone knowing about the past she’d tried so hard to bury.
‘Later in life, she worked for my husband, and for me, managing clubs. She was good at it. Got on well with the staff, was tough enough to deal with any problems. She’d seen it all, done it all. Nothing fazed her, nothing shocked her. Not surprisingly. I suppose the lines get sort of blurred, when you’ve had an experience like that.’