Instead, he said: ‘She was shot. Killed. In the flat over the Palermo.’
Annie stared numbly at the phone. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Dolly, shot?
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tony again when Annie said nothing.
‘What…?’ Annie croaked. She coughed, cleared her throat, tried again. ‘What the hell do you mean, she was shot? Who shot her?’
‘We don’t know. Pete on the bar came into work and she hadn’t opened up. He thought that was strange – you know what she’s like, always up and at ’em…’
Annie knew. Dolly was a morning person; she was not. Back in the day when they’d both lived at Aunt Celia’s place in Limehouse, there Dolly would be, irritating as hell, whistling at seven o’clock in the morning while everyone else nursed sore heads and growled at each other.
‘… He used his own main door key, went up to the flat and there she was. Dead.’
Annie still couldn’t take it in. Dolly. For God’s sake. She thought of her friend – her oldest, dearest friend – full of life and coarse jokes. Once the roughest of rough brasses, Dolly Farrell had evolved over the years into a very efficient club manager, a pivotal member of the Carter workforce.
And now Tony was telling her that she was dead? That someone had killed her?
‘Why would anyone want to hurt Doll?’ she asked, pulling a shaking hand through her hair. Across the room she could see herself reflected in a big driftwood-edged mirror that she’d picked up on a trip to the market with Max – a lone woman in a red silk robe, slumped in the seat as though she’d just been knocked sideways. Her hair was mussed up from sleep, her tanned face was grey-tinged as the shock set in, her dark green eyes were shadowed with pain.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t,’ he said.
‘The police…?’ she asked.
‘They’ve been. Done their stuff. Dabs. Pictures. The usual.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Thursday night.’
‘It’s Saturday. Why the fuck didn’t you call me sooner?’ Now anger was overriding the anguish.
‘What could you have done?’ Tony was silent for a beat. Then he said: ‘Mr Carter’s not there with you?’
‘No. He’s not.’ But she was used to coping without help, even without hope. Dig deep and stand alone, that was her motto in life. So far, it had served her well. She had come through storms before, had soaked it all up and she was still standing. But this… this was the bitterest of blows.
‘Have the Bill got any leads?’ she asked, thinking, Not Dolly, no, make this be a bad dream, please
