Stay Dead - [32]

‘Jackie, we got things to do,’ she said, calmer now.

‘What…?’ He was looking at the empty whisky glass, wishing it full again. She could see it.

‘Yeah, we got some work. Remember that? Come on. Follow me.’

Annie stood up, gathered up her case and bags, then walked out into the street. Jackie followed behind her. And at that point, the fresh air hit Jackie Tulliver like a roundhouse punch, his eyes turned up in his head and he slumped straight into the gutter and lay there, out cold.

‘Fuck,’ said Annie loudly. She stayed there for a moment, staring down at him; then she let out a sigh, hefted her bags and suitcase, and hailed another cab. She didn’t bother trying to wake Jackie up; it was a waste of time.

As usual, she was on her bloody own.

31

As soon as she’d checked into her hotel, she got a call put through to the villa in Barbados, praying that Max had returned home and had got her message. But the cleaner answered and told her Mr Carter was still away.

Yeah, but where? With who? Doing what?

‘Thanks,’ said Annie. She replaced the phone on the cradle and fell back on the bed.

The skies outside her window were dark and pouring with rain, so she reached out and switched on the bedside light.

Loneliness settled over her like a black cloud. She had got used to being with Max, living with him, loving him. Their relationship had always been stormy, but she had never doubted his love.

Now, she did. And she felt abandoned.

Where the hell had he gone? Why hadn’t he told her?

It made her uneasy and sad, this enforced separation. And alone, truly alone, with no one standing firm beside her. Not Chris, not Ellie, not even Steve. Tone? Who knew. She’d find out soon, but she had a horrible feeling that the news wasn’t going to be good on that front either. Jackie Tulliver had turned out to be a dead loss. And now, on top of all that, there was this terrible business with Dolly.

She buried her face into the pillow and let out one deep, heartfelt sob. She didn’t cry. She never cried, but this pain was so great, her heart seemed to seize up in her chest, stopping her breath, making her squeeze her eyes tight shut like a child who can only pray the monsters will go away.

This monster wouldn’t.

Dolly was dead.

Annie had few friends, but those she did have were precious to her. Like Ellie – who seemed to have turned her back on her. And Dolly, the feistiest, the best of them all, was gone.

Into Annie’s mind came images of her old pal; Dolly laughing, moving briskly about behind the bar of the Palermo, snapping orders at the bar staff one moment then roaring with laughter with them the next. She remembered how delighted Dolly had been when she’d left Tony the driver and the Jag for Dolly’s own personal use around town. Dolly, who according to Annie’s Aunt Celia had struggled so much in her youth, who’d had it really hard, was now queening it around the place, a woman of means, a woman in charge.

There were more images parading through Annie’s brain now. Dolly getting rat-arsed at their habitual meetings at the Ritz, her tongue running away with her even more than usual. But that was Dolly, wasn’t it. All attitude, that was Doll. She’d suffered in her life and her stance had become: don’t fuck with me, or you’ll be sorry. She was loud, coarse and impulsive; Annie was the exact reverse. Maybe that was why, after their initial skirmishes, they’d got on well and stayed friends ever since.

Christ, how could that happen to Dolly? Annie wondered, thinking of some scumbag walking into the Palermo, up the stairs, into Dolly’s little flat, her treasured pink-toned haven, and shooting her dead.

I’ve got to do something, she thought, and then, exhausted, still fully dressed, she fell asleep.

The phone woke her, breaking into a dream about Dolly and Celia. She opened her eyes, which felt gritty. It was bright, morning. No, it wasn’t. The light was on, glaring. She was… she didn’t know where the fuck she was. She sat up. There was a small brass carriage clock on the bedside table, it said one-fifteen in the morning, and- Oh God, now she remembered, she was in London, everything had gone tits-up, and Dolly was dead.

Her heart sank again as that realization hit her. But the phone kept ringing. She reached out, pushed the hair off her face and snatched it up.

‘Yeah?’ she snapped.

‘Mrs Carter, there is someone in reception. I’m so sorry to disturb you at this hour, but he insists it’s urgent.’ There was a hushed conversation, then the receptionist came back on. ‘It’s a Mr Tulliver.’

Annie let out a quivering sigh. ‘Send him up,’ she said.

Jackie Tulliver was in a foul mood when he got to Annie’s door.

‘Where’d you go?’ he demanded, bustling past her into the suite.

‘You know where I went. I went here.’ Annie looked at him. He might be a godawful mess but there were still a few brain cells rattling around in that thick skull of his because here he was; he’d found her. ‘And you tracked me down.’

‘No big bloody trick. Holland Park’s all closed up, I remembered that. You weren’t at the Ritz. You’ve stayed here before, you’re a creature of habit, right? So you had to be here.’