London, June 1994
Annie was down the cop shop first thing Thursday morning, pushing her way through the sorry remnants of the night before: the drinkers, the prossies, the dazed druggies. When she got to the counter, she asked for Hunter.
‘He’s not in,’ said the sergeant behind the desk, swatting away a drunken man’s hand from his pen and pad. Wafts of unwashed flesh, vomit and hard liquor were coming off the man in great crashing waves.
‘Will he be in soon then?’ Annie was trying to hold her breath and talk at the same time.
The sergeant shrugged. A woman passed by Annie. She was plain as a pikestaff, with scraped-back honey-brown hair, no make-up, a mouth as thin and hard as a steel clamp. She wore a cheap-looking navy suit made for comfort, not elegance. The sergeant lifted the flap in the counter for the woman and she was just about to go through it when Annie stopped her with a hand on her arm.
‘DS Duggan?’ she said. It was Hunter’s sidekick, Annie knew it. She remembered her from when it had all blown up with Rufus Delaney.
‘Something I can help you with?’ asked DS Duggan, drawing to one side, well away from the stinking drunk. The desk sergeant sighed and dropped the flap.
‘I’m looking for DCI Hunter.’
‘He’s out.’
‘I know. But you’ll do,’ said Annie.
‘In what way?’
‘In the way that you can tell me how it’s going with the investigation into the death of my friend.’
Sandra Duggan’s thin lips drew into a straight line. ‘You’re talking about a police investigation, Mrs Carter. We don’t discuss such things with members of the general public, I’m afraid. If we have questions to ask you, we’ll be in touch.’
‘No.’ Annie was shaking her head. ‘You see, I have questions for you. I want to know if you’ve got anyone for this yet. Any suspects. Anything.’
Duggan stared steadily at Annie. ‘I think we just covered that,’ she said, and went to turn away, toward the desk.
‘Whoa.’ Annie caught her arm again.
‘Take your hand off me,’ said Duggan.
Annie did. Her hand lingered on the fabric. First impressions had been right. Those threads were cheap and nasty.
‘Look. Any information would be welcome,’ said Annie, lowering her voice so that none of the other people in the front office could hear her. ‘It would be received confidentially, of course. No questions asked and nothing ever said about it. And there would be payment.’
The thin mouth opened in a soundless O of surprise. Then a small laugh escaped Duggan as she stared at Annie.
‘Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?’ she asked.
Annie stared back, hard-eyed. ‘Perish the thought,’ she said.
‘Only if you are, I have to say that’s a very serious matter.’
Annie nodded slowly. ‘Understood,’ she said. Well, it had been worth a try.
‘If there’s nothing else . . . ?’
‘No. Nothing at all.’
Annie walked out of the cop shop and into a dazzling sunny morning. For the moment, she was at a loss. Jackie – hopefully – was on the case, doing what she wanted. Hunter was off doing something, she didn’t know what. Maybe things were moving, but it didn’t feel like it. She wished he’d get his finger out of his arse and do something positive about finding Dolly’s killer, before she went shrieking mad with frustration.
And it was then, right then, that she saw a familiar and very welcome sight. A face she knew. A friend.