‘Friends?’ asked Hunter.
‘She had friends all right. Close friends. Ellie at the Shalimar. And me.’
‘Relatives?’
Annie squinted at him through the rain. It was coming down harder, sticking her hair to her head. Jesus, she hated the rain. All at once she had an urge to run back to the airport and get on a plane, escape to her carefree sunlit life, to Max.
‘How should I know?’ she asked. She didn’t know a damned thing about Dolly pre-Celia, and that had been the sixties. Dolly had never spoken about brothers or sisters, or her mother and father.
‘What, you’ve known this woman for a long time, been friends with her-’
‘Best friends.’
‘And you don’t know whether she has any relatives? Don’t that strike you as strange?’
Annie took a moment, considering this. ‘Sometimes you know when a person don’t want to talk about something. They don’t have to tell you, you just know. Dolly didn’t want to discuss her past. And I never dug around in it because I got the message loud and clear, OK?’
‘Would Ellie at the Shalimar know more?’ he asked.
‘She might…’
‘I’ll talk to her.’
‘… but I doubt it.’
Hunter was silent, staring up at the Palermo Lounge’s façade. They were both getting soaked to the skin. Then he stirred and let out a sigh. ‘I’m going inside,’ he said, and moved off toward the PC standing at the door.
‘Can I come?’ asked Annie, following.
Hunter stopped in his tracks. ‘For what?’
‘I might be able to see if something’s wrong. You never know,’ said Annie.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I could help you,’ she said.
Hunter turned and looked at her.
‘I have contacts. Lots of them,’ said Annie.
‘I know that. I know what type of contacts too, Mrs Carter. Keep out of this.’
Annie stared at him. ‘Anything I find out, I’ll share with you. That’s a promise.’
He paused, gazing at her hard-set face, drenched in tears or rain, or both. He really couldn’t tell. In that moment, he thought she was beautiful, formidable. He’d always thought it, and it annoyed him. Annie Carter had been many things in her life – a Mafia queen, a gangster’s moll, a madam in a Mayfair whorehouse. When he looked into her eyes he saw a steely determination and a strength that was alien to most women. She was a bad lot. Not the type of woman that any self-respecting, straight, top-class copper should go thinking thoughts like that about. But she was right: maybe she could help.
He stared at her for another moment. Then he said: ‘You don’t touch anything. Not a damned thing. You understand me?’
