Stay Dead - [29]

He shrugged again, remained silent.

‘Do you know what’s going on?’ Annie asked. This was Steve. He’d been her ally for years. Surely he hadn’t turned against her now? Why would he?

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t.’

He’s lying.

Still, he was talking. That was something.

‘Steve… is there anything you can tell me about what went on with Dolly? I mean, who would do that to her?’

‘Christ, how would I know?’ Steve looked exasperated. ‘I was as shocked as anyone. Thing like that happening, who wouldn’t be?’

‘Have you talked to Max recently?’

‘No. I think Gary does, more than me. The clubs get more problems – mouthy gits out on a Saturday night getting tanked up on champers, you know the sort of thing. I pretty much run the security side of things myself now.’ He looked at her. ‘Max trusts me to do that.’

Meaning what?

There was some barbed point being made here, and she was afraid that she knew what it was. Steve wasn’t talking to her as Steve always had. Before, there had been respect; now there was a veiled something going on.

Disapproval?

Mistrust?

‘You’ve done well for yourself out of the firm,’ said Annie, standing up and strolling around the office. Plush carpet. Expensive buttoned leather chairs. A big mahogany desk.

‘Meaning?’ asked Steve.

Annie turned and looked at him coolly. ‘Oh, I don’t know. We’re all speaking in fucking riddles these days. You keep in pretty close touch with Gary still, do you?’

‘Gary?’ Steve shrugged. ‘Not much. As I said – he runs the club, I run security.’

Annie thought. ‘What about Jackie Tulliver? Where’s he got to these days?’

‘Jackie?’ Steve let out a humph of disgust. ‘Jackie’s a pisshead. Don’t see him, not now. He’s probably already drunk his stupid self into the grave.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Listen. I’m sorry as hell about your friend, but it’s nothing to do with me. I know sod-all.’

Annie leaned in over the desk and stared straight into his eyes.

‘I think you’re holding back on something,’ she said. Her eyes narrowed. ‘And if I find out that you are, you’d better fucking well watch out.’

‘You do?’ Steve stared up at her, and his eyes were distinctly unfriendly. ‘Prove it,’ he said, and picked up the phone, dismissing her like she was nothing.

28

When Annie got back to the Shalimar, the place was in uproar. Chris was out on the pavement, twitchily smoking and pacing around. A Samsonite suitcase and a couple of bags were on the pavement beside him, and one of the bags was split open. They were her bags, she realized. And that was her suitcase.

‘What’s up?’ asked Annie, paying off the taxi and approaching.

She glanced from Chris to the bags. They were Louis Vuitton, and one of them was wrecked, spilling a couple of lightweight dresses out on to the wet dirt. She bent, tucked the items back in, gathered up the bags. She had known Chris was unhappy having her here for some reason, and it was clear he was chucking her out of the club, but he didn’t have to go and break her damned bag.

‘What’s up?’ Chris turned to her with a snarl on his lips and his eyes spitting venom. ‘You’re up. You, coming back here. For fuck’s sake, I told her, I warned her, but did she listen?’

Annie stepped back, shocked by this onslaught. This was Chris. He’d always liked her. Now, he was staring at her as if he’d like to kick her straight up the crotch.

‘What are you doing, breaking up my bloody bags?’

He looked down at them. ‘I didn’t do it.’ He flicked his head up and let out an angry snort of smoke. ‘They chucked them out the top window. Go and have a fucking look, you cow,’ he said, and turned his back on her.

Annie flinched in surprise. Aggression from Chris was shocking. He was one of hers, one of her oldest and best allies. Now he was looking at her like he hated her guts. She went into the club, taking her bags and case – which was still intact – with her. She held her breath and looked around – but everything was OK. In fact, it all looked neater than neat in here. Chairs cleaned, carpets immaculate, bar lit up ready for trade. Not a soul about down here, though. No bar staff, no hostesses, no DJ warming up his decks, nothing.

Which was odd.

When she’d left the club, everything had been running like clockwork, getting ready for another busy evening. Now, the place looked dead. But she could hear noises coming from upstairs, angry voices, shouts, cries.

Annie went across the empty club space and turned left. A girl in tears hustled past her, shouting something over her shoulder. Annie left the case and bags at the bottom of the stairs and trudged on up, getting a bad feeling about this. When she got to the top she saw Ellie standing in the hallway, arms wrapped around herself, turning this way and that, her eyes frantic. They settled on Annie, and then Ellie let out an angry breath like a bull about to charge and vanished through the door to the right, the one that led into the kitchen.

Letting out a sigh, Annie followed, and it was then that she saw, and understood. All Ellie’s glassware, her precious crystals, were in bits on the floor. The dresser with all the crystals on it had been tipped over. The kitchen table was a pile of splinters, the chairs were matchwood. Food had been scooped out of the cupboards and now sauce and ketchup decorated the formerly pristine walls. Ellie, the neat freak, stood in the middle of it, tears pouring down her face.