Scarlet Women (12 page)

She heard the lift approaching, watched the numbers change above the door until it came to this floor, her floor, her and Gareth’s. She stood there, panting, retching, eyes fixed open wide with awful, gut-wrenching fear.

She knew he was here, somewhere, waiting to get her. She knew he was going to spring out, grab her throat and clamp that horrible thing over her nose and mouth, shake the life out of her, telling her that nobody walked out on him, nobody.

The lift doors opened. It was empty of all but the strong, biting smell of old urine.

She got in and pressed the button with shaking fingers. The doors started to close.

Then a hand reached in between them, and they slid open again.

She screamed.

‘Shit, you gave me a turn!’ An old lady stepped into the lift, holding her hand to her chest.

The old woman looked with disgust at the girl cowering there in the corner, yet another bloody junkie, skinny and dirty, and, for God’s sake, the stink in here, her legs were wet—she’d wet herself, the dirty mare. The woman’s jaw was set in disapproval. She turned and stepped back out of the lift.

The doors closed again. The lift went down.

Mira knew he’d be waiting for her at the bottom, that she couldn’t get away from him, that he was too clever and she was too weak.

But Redmond wasn’t there. Unsteadily she crossed the lobby and went outside. No one jumped on her, no one grabbed her by the throat and squeezed until she died.

She started to walk across the car park, crying, moaning, nearly prostrate with terror. Any moment one of the car doors was going to open and he would be inside, waiting for her, waiting to murder her.

But he wasn’t.

Mira got across the car park. She could still hear Dinky barking up there in the flat, very faintly. She broke into a shambling run, and didn’t look back, not once.

She didn’t dare.

Mira’s money ran out, so finally she slept rough on the streets and turned a few tricks. Her looks were all but gone, she knew it, but some men weren’t too bothered. Stick a paper bag over your head, it was all the same to them. You were a cunt, to be used. And some of them gave her drugs. She tried to get a job in one of the clubs, but they all turned her down. She went in the one called the Alley Cat—anything to get some money in to buy the stuff she needed—but the trannie manager looked at her as if he’d stepped in shit.

‘Fuck off out of it,’ he spat, and she was shown the door.

Out on the pavement, shivering, needing a fix so badly, she stood there looking into the window of the little tattoo parlour next door. She pushed open the door and went in. There was a freaky-looking bull of a man standing behind the counter there, adding up figures on a piece of paper. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans, and every inch of his bulging-muscled body that she could see was covered in tattoos. She wondered if she was really seeing this man, or was she just having a bad trip? He was a walking billboard for his trade. He looked scary, but she had seen scarier. Truly scary was her gently smiling, handsome, twisted lover. With him she had seen into the very heart of blackness; she knew that in kissing him she had kissed true evil.

‘I need help,’ she said, her voice cracking with strain. Tears slipped down her sunken face. ‘Please help me.’

And, much to her surprise, he did.

Mad Mick knew the rules as good as any fucker. The rule was, you played by the light. You put your money in the meter, and the light over the table was on. Twenty minutes of snooker, and the light was off. If you weren’t finished then, if you had say a pink or a blue or a black still to pot, tough tit. You stood aside and let the next players on to the table.

That was the rule.
Everyone
knew the rule.

But there was Rizzo Delacourt, playing up to the crowd, drinking beer and saying it was like gnats, saying the boys around here couldn’t play fucking snooker even though one of the same boys had just soundly beaten him on the table. Getting aggressive, getting drunk. Calling for a whisky chaser as he set up the balls again in the wooden triangular frame, poncing around in his big-collared shirt and flared trousers—talk about a
dedicated follower of fashion, what was he, a fucking nancy?

All this, despite the fact the light was out, despite the rule. Despite the fact that Mad Mick was waiting for a table to come free, and this table technically
was
free, the light was off, wasn’t it?

Mad Mick put this theory forward for Rizzo to think about.

Rizzo Delacourt stuck some more coins in the meter and looked at Mick. ‘Well, now the effing light’s
on
,’ he said. ‘See that? On.’

Mad Mick had a reputation to consider. He was built like an outside craphouse and all his mates were watching. He reached out, removed the triangle and scattered the balls to the four corners of the table.

‘It was
off
,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s the rules, see? When the light goes out, you make way for the next people who want to play. It’s only
polite,
I’d say.’

There was a deep hush in the snooker hall as everyone listened in, ready for Mad Mick to start the slaughter in his usual fashion.

‘You don’t shut your fucking mouth,’ the runty little Rizzo said softly, ‘my bruv Pete’s gonna use your cunting head as a ball, you got me?’

Drunk people. They either wanted to fight you or fuck you, and sometimes both. And
what
bruv? Mick looked to where Rizzo’s eyes were indicating.

There was a large figure lurking back there in the gloom, cloaked in the half-darkness that surrounded the brightly lit table. Now, the figure stepped forward. A gasp went up.

‘Shit,’ said one of Mick’s mates, a fag dropping from his half-open mouth to the floor.

Mad Mick stared.

The man standing there holding the cue like a weapon was not just tattooed, he was
covered
in tattoos,
blanketed
in the fucking things. There were swirls of blue and red all over his face and neck and his thick, beefy arms.

They all thought,
Ugly great bastard.
Little piggy blue eyes and a massive shaven head; tattoos all over
that
too; he looked downright fucking fierce. Confident that he now had Mick’s attention, the tattooed freak gave him a bone-chilling smile. His tongue flicked out, and there was a further collective gasp from the watchers. His tongue was
forked
, like a snake’s.

Mad Mick did something he had never done before. He stepped away from a fight. The runty little man called Rizzo played another frame, and then another. And no one disturbed him, light or no light.

Later that night, Mick left the club. He was pleasantly drunk, because drunk was good when you’d been humiliated in front of your friends. Yeah,
that was it, he’d been
humiliated.
He thought about that and suppressed rage ate at him.

He cracked his knuckles as he walked across the club car park, the fog descending. Jesus, this fucking weather, and it was supposed to be summer. It was hot, and it was damp. And misty as a bastard; out on the road he could just see cars crawling through it like ghosts, drivers suddenly nervous.

‘Hey mate, you got a light?’

The voice startled him. He heard a girlish squeak emit from his own mouth. Then he turned and it was
him
, the freak from the snooker hall, leering and tattooed, standing there still holding the damned snooker cue, but no cigarette, because Mick realized suddenly that what he was doing—and Mick thought,
oho clever bastard are we?
—was making a little play on words.

He didn’t want a
light.
What he wanted to do was remind Mick about the
light
over the table. Mick was still smarting from that disagreement. And now here the weirdo was, taunting him with it.

‘You know, you ought to learn to shut your fucking mouth,’ said Mick, his blood singing with the urge to knock this fucker into the middle of next week, fury and booze overcoming all his earlier trepidation.

‘Make me,’ said the tattooed man, and Mick didn’t need any more in the way of an invitation.

He charged at the freak but he’d had several
pints too many and he missed his target. The tattooed man jumped lithely aside, and as Mick passed he whacked him hard across the back of the neck with the cue.

Mick let out a wheezing gasp as the pain lanced through him, stinging, biting. He fell to his knees, but he was tough: he whipped around, ready to sweep the freak’s legs from underneath him, but he was fast. He’d already come in close behind Mick and now he had the cue over Mick’s windpipe and he was pulling back, arching Mick’s whole body like a bow.

Mick gurgled, spots weaving in front of his eyes as the blood was cut off to his brain. He felt himself falling into blackness as the freak pressed harder, harder…and then the man let go.

Oh thank Christ,
thought Mick.

A huge waft of breath blew out from Mick as he slumped forward on to the tarmac. Fuck, he’d thought he was dead then. Relief flooded him. The freak kicked him hard in the midriff and again there was pain, mighty pain, but at least he was fucking
alive
, and Mick had been sure he was dead.

Mick keeled over on to his side, rolling into a ball to stop the bastard doing even more damage to his innards. He’d done some already. Something was rasping in there, something was broken. Mick closed his eyes. All right, he’d done his bit, now the cunt would leave him, he would go.

With his eyes closed, Mick didn’t see the freak put the cue to his ear. Mick felt the movement there, then his eyes opened. He tried to move, opened his mouth to scream. The freak rammed the cue down, puncturing Mick’s eardrum and then his brain like meat on a skewer. Mick’s legs went into wild convulsions. Froth bubbled at his lips. His eyes rolled up in his head. Then, suddenly, he was still.

The freak pulled out the cue and stared down at his fallen adversary. Mick had thought he was dead. Now, he was.

‘Hey! Pete Delacourt, ain’t it?’ shouted a voice from the mist-shrouded shrubbery.

The tattooed man’s head whipped round. He saw a cluster of men there, spot-lit like pale wraiths beneath the yellow sodium glare of the streetlight.

‘We want a word, Pete,’ said another.

The men moved. Came closer. Pete saw that one of them was Charlie Foster, the Delaney mob’s main man. His brother Rizzo had already warned him that Charlie was looking for him, that Redmond Delaney was chewing the carpet over something, some bit of skirt or other, and that wasn’t good news—in fact it might be
bad.

Pete turned, still clutching the cue, and ran.

It was two o’clock on Sunday morning when the phone started to ring right beside Annie’s bed. She shot up, startled, disorientated, with her heart in her mouth.

‘
Shit
,’ she said, and fumbled for the light.

She knocked over the small table lamp, righted it. Pressed the switch. Light flooded the room and still the damned thing was ringing; it would wake Layla soon.
Oh—but Layla was at Ruthie’s.
She felt the pain anew. Shoved it aside. She snatched up the phone.

‘Yeah?’ she asked. ‘Who is it?’

There was silence except for someone breathing.

This is all I need. Heavy breathers at two o’clock in the sodding morning.

‘Hello?’ she said loudly.

‘It’s me. Dolly. Can you come over?’

Dolly?

Annie looked at the phone and frowned. ‘Doll, it’s two o’clock.’

‘Come over. I think we got trouble.’

Annie dragged a hand through her hair. ‘I was asleep.’

‘Come. I wouldn’t ask…but just
come,
will you?’

‘Fuck
me,
Doll.’

‘For God’s sake
come.
’

And then Dolly put the phone down.

‘Oh for…’ Annie said, and slapped the phone back on the cradle. What the hell could have happened? Whatever, it sounded serious; she had to go.

She got out of bed, still feeling groggy, and pulled on yesterday’s clothes. She phoned for a taxi—no need to bother Tony, not at this late hour.
This had better be damned good, Doll,
she thought as the taxi tore through the abandoned streets toward Limehouse.

It was anything but good. She could see that the moment Dolly opened the door to her. Dolly was in her dressing gown; without make-up her face looked naked, vulnerable—and white with strain.

She ushered Annie in and led her through to the kitchen.

Sharlene was sitting there at the table. Under the harsh glare of the light, Dolly looked awful,
worse than in the hall. No slap on, a couple of curlers in the front of her hair, denuded of her armour of neat suit and faultless make-up; she looked like a different person altogether. Not Dolly, bold as brass and twice as mouthy, but a scared and shrunken woman.

Sharlene didn’t look any better. Her dark hair threw her stark white face into sharp relief.

‘What’s going on, Doll?’ asked Annie, sitting down at the kitchen table.

‘You want a brandy?’

‘Not for me.’ Dolly knew she hated the stuff; what was she offering it to her for?

Because something’s got her shit-scared and she’s not thinking straight
, thought Annie.

Dolly topped up her own glass, and Sharlene’s, and slumped down in a chair. Annie watched Dolly, feeling more fearful by the second.

‘What’s happened?’ she asked her.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ said Sharlene.

‘I know it wasn’t,’ Dolly told her.

‘
What
wasn’t?’ demanded Annie.

‘The booking. The escort booking,’ said Sharlene, tears starting in her eyes.

‘What escort booking?’ asked Annie. ‘Wait a minute. When I was here on Friday you were saying to Sharlene and Rosie that there’d be no more escort bookings, and they were arguing over one that had come in…’ her voice tailed off.

‘Yeah,’ said Dolly, looking haggard.

‘Oh fuck. Are you telling me Rosie took it? That Rosie’s gone out to meet this client?’

‘She’s such a dopey mare. I
told
her it was no go.’

Annie felt herself getting more screwed up about all this by the second.

‘But Doll—this could be dangerous. Serious.’

‘Nah.’ Dolly was shaking her head, forcing her mouth into a tight, positive little smile. ‘Nah, it’s okay. She’ll be fine. Because look, here’s the point: they’ve got Chris. They’ve
got
their man, so Rosie’ll be fine.’

‘Doll…’ started Annie.

‘She’ll be
fine
,’ snapped Dolly suddenly, banging the tabletop with the brandy glass. Liquid slopped over the brim.

Sharlene and Annie exchanged a look. Dolly was saying it, but she didn’t believe it.

‘Then why’d you want me to come over?’ asked Annie after a beat.

‘I…I just…oh shit, I don’t know. She’ll be all right. Won’t she?’ Dolly’s eyes were wild with anxiety.

‘What happened, Sharlene?’ Annie asked. She wasn’t going to get any sense out of Dolly, that was for sure.

Sharlene shrugged. Her gesture was casual, but her face was creased with concern.

‘Look,’ said Annie angrily, ‘whatever’s gone on here, you’d better tell me now.’

Sharlene shrugged again, but this time she started speaking. ‘We were arguing the toss over who’d take the booking. Just arsing about really. She put the piece of paper with the details on her dressing table, sort of taunting me with it. We were just mucking about. Then I went in to Rosie’s room tonight, and she’d sneaked off out. I checked the book in the kitchen drawer, but she didn’t write the details in the book like you’re supposed to—she didn’t even take a number. She just had it on that scrap of paper, and when I looked in her room about nine she’d gone out and that piece of paper was gone too. So I reckoned she’d taken the booking, just to get one over on me for a laugh.’

Sharlene paused, her usually sharp and sassy face looking faintly sick.

‘Silly little bint. I waited a bit. I hoped that maybe she’d just gone down the pub and would roll back home after eleven, but she didn’t. When it got to one o’clock, I woke up Dolly.’ Sharlene looked at Annie. ‘She’ll be okay though, won’t she?’

Annie tried to think. ‘Do either of you know
anything
about this booking?’

They both shook their heads. Dolly knocked back a bit more brandy.

‘Not the location, nothing?’

Again the head-shaking. And more brandy for Dolly.

If she’s so certain Chris did it, what’s she so worried about?
wondered Annie, watching her friend’s pallid face. There was a sheen of sweat on Dolly’s brow and her hands, as she fumbled about with the brandy glass, were shaking.

Fact was, they had no idea where Rosie was or who she was meeting up with.

Fact
was,
Annie knew in her heart that Chris couldn’t have done these vile things. There was still a killer out there, trawling the streets for more victims. But London was a big place. And lightning didn’t strike twice, right?

Wrong
, she thought.
It’s struck three times so far.

She felt pretty sick herself now. She thought of Rosie with her lazy, charming ways and her tumble of pale blonde hair. She was a likable girl, harmless. If anything should happen to her—well, it just didn’t bear thinking about.

‘You called the Delaneys, Doll?’ she asked.

Dolly shook her head. ‘I panicked, I…I just thought of you.’

‘I can get the word out, get people looking for her,’ said Annie.
Although I really shouldn’t go stepping on Redmond Delaney’s toes
, she thought.

‘Yeah, can you do that?’ asked Dolly, suddenly hopeful.

‘Sure. I’ll do it right now.’

Annie left the two other women sitting at the kitchen table and went through to the hall. She picked up the telephone and dialled Tony’s number. It rang for some time, then finally Tony picked up.

‘H’lo,’ he muttered.

‘It’s me, Tone.’

‘What’s up, Boss?’

‘We’ve got a problem, Tone. One of Dolly’s girls has gone on an escort job, it’s getting late, we’re worried.’

‘Where’s she gone?’

‘No idea. But she should have been back over an hour ago.’

They were both silent for a moment, both thinking the same thing:
No, it couldn’t happen again. Could it?

‘Can you get the boys to check out some of the clubs, the hotels…’ Her voice trailed off. It was an impossible job, and they both knew it.

‘Sure, Boss,’ said Tony.

Annie paused. Thought again. ‘And maybe…maybe ring round the hospitals,’ she added as there was a thump against the front door.

She looked at it, heart in her mouth. Heard a key being inserted into the lock. Saw it swing inwards. Rosie stood there, looking at her in surprise. A shriek went up from the kitchen and Dolly and Sharlene came rushing through to the hall and grabbed Rosie.

‘What the
hell
?’ laughed Rosie. ‘What’s going on?’

Annie started breathing again. ‘You still there, Tone?’

‘Yeah, Boss.’

‘Cancel that. She’s here. She’s okay.’

‘No sweat, Boss.’

She put the phone down.

‘Where the fuck have you
been
?’ Dolly was demanding.

‘I met up with a pal down the pub and we went clubbing…what the hell’s wrong with everyone?’ Rosie was saying in bewilderment.

Sharlene, Rosie and Dolly bustled into the kitchen, chattering and laughing. Annie stood there in the hall and felt limp with relief. She looked at Dolly, who had gone from extraordinary fear to hysterical happiness in a single bound. Dolly glanced up and their eyes met.

Dolly looked away first.