‘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 usual: 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.’
‘Looks that way,’ said Tony.
‘Pete’s grandfather died because of what Dolly set in motion against her father. Pete’s mother died too, because she found her dad dead and couldn’t get it out of her mind. It was one big fucking tragedy all round, Tone, and his family was ruined by it.’
‘Yeah,’ said Tony.
Annie paced around the room. ‘That little fucker sat there with us and cried like a girl. He wasn’t sad for Dolly, he was scared for himself. Well, he bloody should be. I want him found. I want him dealt with.’ She stopped pacing and looked at Tony full in the face. ‘I want it like you said, Tone. No cells, no cosy TV, no nothing.’
‘We’ll see to it,’ said Tony, walking over to the door. He looked down. On the cobbles below, behind the Jag, another black car had just pulled up and DCI Hunter was getting out of it with his new DS in tow. Annie joined him, looked down.
‘They’re on it,’ said Tony.
‘Yeah. Looks like.’
‘You going to tell them what we know?’ said Tone.
Annie thought. ‘Why not? They might find him.’
‘I’m hoping we find him first.’
‘I’m hoping we do, too, Tone.’
Tony held the shattered door open for her. ‘Breaking and entering,’ he said sadly. ‘Old Bill’s not going to like that.’
‘We found it that way. We didn’t break. Or enter. We just stood here in the smashed doorway and looked inside, right?’
‘Good plan,’ said Tony, and smiled. ‘After you, Mrs C.’
Annie went out of the flat feeling like a weight was gone from her shoulders. They knew Dolly’s killer now. All they had to do was finish him.
On the way back down to street level, they met Hunter and his new handsome young sidekick coming up.
‘Is he up there? Peter Jones?’ asked Hunter.
‘Nope. And I suppose you know—’ started Annie.
‘That he’s really Peter Jameson? Yes, Mrs Carter, we do. Son of Clarissa Jameson, née Biggs, the grandson of Arthur Biggs who ran a steam engine into Sam Farrell, Dolly Farrell’s father, and killed him.’
‘You might find the lock’s gone on the door,’ said Annie as she carried on down, Tony following.
‘Oh, big surprise,’ said Hunter, but he was almost smiling as he climbed on up the stairs.