Jessie Keane: Scarlet Women

‘It’s okay, Doll,’ she said, standing up, ‘I’ll come with you. Wait up while I phone Kath and let her know I’ll be delayed.’

Five minutes later they were in the back of the cop car being driven to the police station, both sitting silent and shocked, wondering what the hell was kicking off here, hoping against hope that the young black female was anyone, anyone at all, but not—please God—Aretha Brown.

When they reached the station they were led into the bowels of the place, into an antisepticscented room.

‘Oh fuck,’ said Dolly.

There was a body laid out under a sheet.

Annie grabbed Dolly’s hand and held it tight.

An attendant pulled the sheet back while the same two coppers hovered in the background. Annie stepped forward, but Dolly seemed rooted to the ground. But she was close enough to see who was there. Together they looked down on the dead face of their good friend Aretha.

‘Oh no. Oh shit,’ whimpered Dolly, putting a hand to her mouth.

Annie was silent, staring, her guts churning with shock and grief.

Aretha’s face was not her own any more: it was a mask of death, wet and greyish, all the life gone. The eyes were closed, the mouth half open. There was redness along the jaw and around the neck there was a thin, bloody line.

‘Do you positively identify this woman as Aretha Brown?’ asked the older PC.

Dolly nodded, unable to speak, tears starting in her eyes.

‘Yeah,’ said Annie shakily. ‘That’s her. That’s Aretha.’

When they were being led back through the station to the front desk they came across Chris—huge, bald, heavily muscled Chris: Aretha’s husband. Two more cops were taking him into a room. Annie saw to her shock that he was handcuffed. And his hands were bloody.

‘Hey!’ she said, quickening her pace. ‘Hey, Chris!’

All three men stopped and looked at her. One of the cops was tall and dark haired, the other one was dumpy and balding. Chris towered over them both.

‘I didn’t do nothing!’ Chris yelled out, tears streaming down his face.

Annie hurried over. The tall, dark-haired one had the air of being in charge, so she addressed her remarks to him. ‘What’s going on here? Wait up! You don’t think Chris had anything to do with Aretha…?’

The two plain-clothes cops exchanged a glance, then looked at her as if they’d stepped in something nasty.

‘And who are you?’ asked the tall one.

‘Annie Carter. This is Dolly Farrell.’

‘We’re interviewing Mr Brown. The officers will show you out.’ He turned away.

‘I’m going nowhere until I’ve talked to Chris,’ said Annie.

He turned back and stared at her with dark, unfriendly eyes. ‘What?’

‘You heard. Chris used to work for me. He’s a close friend of mine, I want to talk to him.’

He looked at her. Assessing her. He was going to tell her to bugger off, she just knew it. But then he surprised her.

‘All right. You can sit in on the interview for ten minutes, then you’re out.’

Annie nodded and moved forward. Dolly started to follow. The tall one blocked her way. ‘These officers will show you out,’ he said.

Dolly gave him a glare and turned to Annie. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said.

Annie followed Chris and his captors into the interview room.

The room was small, bare and windowless. On the near side of an oblong table were two chairs, one of which was quickly occupied by the portly, bald and sweaty-looking cop. They seated Chris on the other side of the table. He slumped there, his slab-like forearms spread out on the table, his big ugly ex-boxer’s head resting upon them. He looked fucked.

Annie watched him worriedly. She’d known Chris for years. He was a big, hard man who had once been the bouncer on the door at the Limehouse brothel. He was a Delaney man, but he was rock solid. Tough as nails. Took no crap from anybody. Now when he looked up at her his eyes were full of desperation; his face was wet with tears.

‘Oh Christ,’ he said, and put his head back down again, and sobbed like his heart was breaking.

‘All right, what the fuck you been doing to him?’ Annie demanded.

The tall dark-haired one gave her that ‘stepped in something nasty’ look again. She was already getting a bit tired of it. He moved a chair to the other side of the desk, beside Chris.

‘Take a seat,’ he said.

‘I’ll take a seat when you start telling me what’s going on here,’ said Annie.

He looked at her. His dark eyes were unfriendly. ‘Take a seat. Then I’ll tell you what’s going on here.’

Annie sat down. She looked at Chris, hulking great Chris, sitting there crying like a baby. She had a very bad feeling about all this. She patted his arm. She noticed his hands were cut. She dug in her bag and pulled out a wad of tissues and handed them to him. He took them, nodded, wiped his face.

‘What’s going on, Chris?’ Annie demanded. ‘They been knocking you about?’

The fat bald cop let out a laugh. ‘You kidding? Look at the fucking size of him.’

Which was a point. Chris looked as if he could eat both these cops; put them between two slices of bread—even the tall dark-haired one, who had the look of a man who could handle himself in a tight corner. But she had never seen him upset like this. Never seen him shed a single tear.

‘I want to know what’s going on here,’ she said, looking directly at the one in charge, the dark-haired, sour-faced one, who was now standing there leaning against the wall. He loosened his tie and stared at her again like she was shit on his shoe. He said nothing.

She turned her attention back to Chris. ‘How long you been in here?’

‘Jesus, I dunno,’ he groaned, running a huge, shovel-like hand over his face. He looked at her wearily. ‘Hours. Fucking hours.’

‘Shouldn’t he have a brief here?’ Annie asked the cops.

‘Probably he should,’ said Prune Face. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Hunter, this is Detective Sergeant Lane.’

‘Oh. Right. I’ll get a brief organised.’ She looked a question at Chris. Wondered why Redmond Delaney hadn’t done this already .

‘Good. The sooner the better.’

‘What happened?’ Annie looked at Chris, who shook his head. Tears were still seeping out of his eyes, running unchecked down his face. ‘Chris, come on. What happened?’

He gulped.

‘It’s Aretha,’ he mumbled. He closed his eyes. His face was a mask of anguish. ‘She’s dead, Annie,’ he said, and buried his head in his arms again, and cried hard.

‘I know.’ She thought of her friend with the huge grin, the shock of dreadlocks, the wildly colourful clothes, wafting in to Dolly’s parlour just a few days ago shouting, ‘Hey girlfriend!’ and giving her a high-five and a warm hug.

‘She’s dead,’ sobbed Chris. He lifted his head and looked at her. Desperation and despair and deep, heart-wrenching grief were all written large across his face. ‘She’s fucking dead , and they think I killed her!’

‘No,’ said Annie. She looked at Chris, then at DI Hunter and DS Lane. She shook her head.

‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ said Hunter.

‘There has to be some mistake.’

‘There’s no mistake,’ said Hunter.

He nodded to Lane. The fat one stood up, went to the closed door, opened it, snagged a passing uniform and told him to fetch in some water. He closed the door, sat down again. DI Hunter was leaning on the desk and looking at Annie and at Chris as if they were both guilty as hell.

Annie looked up at him, trying to take all this in. ‘Does her family know yet?’ she asked him.

‘Not yet,’ he said.