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.