‘Mum?’ shouted the woman who’d come to the door. ‘These people are asking about the Biggs, you remember them?’
The old lady cocked her head and stared at her daughter. ‘Biggs?’ she said in a cracked voice.
‘You remember, don’t you? The old man hung hisself, there was an accident on the railways. He was a train driver.’
‘Course I remember Biggs,’ said the old lady.
‘Take a seat,’ said the daughter, who was pushing seventy. The old girl in the bed had to be ninety-five if she was a day, but she was sharp.
Annie and Tony sat down.
‘These people are friends of the family, they want to find out where they’ve moved to,’ said the daughter, shouting.
‘Bad do, that was,’ said the old lady. ‘Broke the wife’s heart when he did that to hisself. She passed on not long after he did it. His married daughter found him, you know. Let herself in with her key one morning and there he was. Hanging from the sodding hall stairs. She had to go and wake her mother up, tell her.’
‘God, that’s awful,’ said Annie.
‘This your fancy man?’ asked the old lady, smiling toothlessly at Annie, at Tony.
‘Mum!’ said the daughter. ‘That’s not your business.’
‘No, this is my friend,’ said Annie. ‘Do you have an address for the married daughter? Any contact details?’ she asked, thinking that the old lady would say no.
‘Of course I have,’ said the old woman scornfully. ‘I get a hundred and twenty cards every Christmas. My daughter Susan and me keep in touch with all our old pals, and Clarry Biggs is on her list. Or Clarry Jameson, as she is now. Clarissa, posh name that, always called her Clarry. Susan and her went to school together.’
‘Can we have her address then? Please?’
119
Clarry Jameson, married daughter of Arthur Biggs, lived in Wimbledon near the Common. Her house was a detached Edwardian with deep bay windows. The house looked tired, the paintwork was neglected, the eaves rotting in places, but the front garden was well kept. It was colourfully planted with marigolds and red begonias around a lovingly striped square of emerald-green lawn. There was an unflashy Ford motor in the driveway and an air of peaceful suburban gentility lay over the small cul-de-sac.
The front door was wide open. Tony knocked at the door, and a thin, weary-looking man with a long solemn face and sand-coloured hair peppered with grey came up the hallway from the kitchen and stared at them both standing there.
‘Hello,’ said Annie. ‘We’re looking for Clarry Jameson.’
The man’s features seemed to stiffen. ‘What for?’ he asked.
‘We’d like to speak to her,’ said Annie.
He heaved a sigh. ‘You’re not reporters, are you?’
‘No,’ said Annie. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Oh, we’ve had people round here before, trying to dig up the past. Asking about my father-in-law and the rail accident. That happened years ago. But you know what? It never seems to go away. I’m just making some tea. You might as well come in.’
Inside, the place was a mess. Unwashed cups and dishes were stacked on the draining board, and the dust was thick on every surface. The carpet was stained and didn’t look like a Hoover had ever troubled it.
‘I don’t do a lot of housework,’ said the man, sticking the kettle on to boil. ‘I’m out in the garden, mostly.’
They sat down in the dirty kitchen and Annie said: ‘Clarry – your wife? – she’s not here?’
‘Clarry? We agreed to separate a long time ago. Her nerves were bad, you see. After it happened. Couldn’t stand all that wailing and weeping. Christ, comes a point you just got to try to move on.’
Another dead end.
Annie sighed. ‘So where does she live then?’
‘Live?’ The man looked sad all of a sudden. ‘She don’t live, Clarry. She never got over finding her dad like that. Turned her head, shot her nerves to pieces.’
‘What happened?’ Annie was getting a bad feeling about this.
‘She took two hundred paracetamols. After we’d agreed to go our separate ways. She saved ’em up and just whopped ’em down in one go. I found her dead upstairs on the bed when I came home from work. Terrible shock, it were. And she had the letter in her hand.’
‘What letter?’
‘The confession. The one her dad left when he topped himself. Saying it was him, he murdered a shunter called Sam Farrell. He said how sorry he was. All old news now, ain’t it. None of it matters a toss any more.’
‘Did it say anything else?’ asked Annie.
‘It did. It said as how one of the big gang bosses of the time – not the Krays, but one of those types – got wind of Sam Farrell doing something to his daughter and gave the order for it to be carried out.’
‘Mr Jameson, can we see this letter?’ asked Annie.
‘Nah. Burned it. Long time ago. Old stuff, see? You got to let it go. Let the past stay dead.’
Annie was silent for a while, thinking. Then she said: ‘Do you have children, Mr Jameson?’
‘Just a boy. Peter.’
‘Does he live at home?’
‘Nah, moved out. He works in a club up West called the Palermo. Lap-dancing or some such thing. He runs the bar, done well for himself.’
Annie felt her whole body turn to stone as he spoke those words.
There was no Peter Jameson working the bar at the club – but there was a Peter Jones, and he had found Dolly dead.
‘Did he ever see that letter, Mr Jameson?’ she asked.
‘Peter? Sure he did. We both did.’
‘Do you see him much these days?’ asked Annie, feeling her throat go dry as dust, feeling the aftershock of discovery still jolting through her.
‘Hardly ever,’ said Mr Jameson.
120
‘What do you mean, he’s gone?’ asked Annie when they went from Wimbledon over to the Palermo.
She was in the main body of the club and it was all business as usuaclass="underline" the dancers were getting ready, the DJ was pumping out ‘Venus’ by Bananarama from the decks, the bar staff were polishing glasses and bringing up cases of drinks and snacks from the cellars, but there was no sign of Peter Jones.
And now the acting bar manager, a very efficient dark-haired woman who was wearing thick black false eyelashes and who was also acting as overall manager now that Dolly was dead and Caroline was off the scene, was telling her that Peter Jones had not shown up for work for a week. They had hired a replacement to start next week; she’d sorted it.
‘Is he still at the same address?’ asked Annie.
‘Yes, he is. We phoned, but no answer.’
‘And what’s your name?’
‘Vanda Pope.’
‘Right. Thanks, Vanda. And just double-check for me, will you? There’s no Peter Jameson works here?’
Vanda went off upstairs and came back within five minutes. ‘No, there’s no Peter Jameson works here, sorry.’
And they were off, Tony at the wheel, over to the tiny back-alley flat in Camden accessed by metal walkways.
They went up to the door, with purple paint peeling off it in strips, and Tone put his boot to it. It juddered open and they walked in. The flat was neat, clean, and completely empty. No clothes in the wardrobes, no personal belongings. Peter Jones had cleared out.
Annie walked around the flat. She kicked the sofa. Walked away. Went back, and kicked it again.
‘That whinging little bastard,’ she said, her voice cold with hatred. ‘He must have changed his surname by deed poll to cover his tracks. He killed her for revenge,’ she said flatly. ‘He planned it. Got a job on the bar in the Palermo so he was close enough to do it. Got hold of a gun from somewhere, and he fucking shot her.’