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.
I can’t, she thought. Not right now. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
And once again she stepped into the road and followed Jackie Tulliver, the useless drunk – and also the only hope she had.
Night was closing in on them as they went to the address of one of Jackie’s ‘contacts’. The rain was swooshing down and the wipers were working overtime in the taxi. On the way, they passed the Palermo and Annie stared out at it. Earlier in the day, she’d passed it and the police tapes had been up, an officer had been there standing guard on the door. Now . . .
‘Stop! Stop the damned car, will you?’ she said.
‘What the . . . ?’ asked Jackie, who’d been half-dozing, almost ready to sleep off his latest boozing session. Now he snapped awake and stared at her as the cab driver pulled in to the kerb.
Annie slapped payment into the driver’s hand and was out of the car like a long dog. She ran over to the Palermo and stood there, staring.
The police tapes were gone. There was no officer on the door. Instead, there was a white van parked outside and men were bringing out boxes of stuff. Annie saw clothes she recognized, a pink fluffy cushion perched on top of one of the bulging boxes. It fell to the pavement, soaking up wet dirt and grime. Someone bent, snatched it back up, stuffed it back in the box.
‘Holy shit,’ said Annie under her breath, and hurried inside.