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here?
    She stood up and took it. ‘Thanks, Ross.’
    She sat back down at the table and spread out the piece of paper. Looked at it. Numbers.
    ‘Jesus H. Christ in a sidecar,’ she murmured.
    ‘What is it?’ asked Dolly, craning forward.
    Annie sat back, shaking her head, her mouth twisted in a bitter smile.
    Dolly looked at her. ‘Come on! What is it?’ She peered interestedly at the note. ‘Numbers? Haven’t you had some of these before? There was a name for them, I remember. Pizza somethings.’
    ‘ Pizzino ,’ said Annie.
    ‘ That’s the feller. Oh!’ Dolly’s eyes widened. ‘It’s from that Mafia bloke. Barolli. Well, come the fuck on, what’s it say?’
    ‘What’s it say ?’ Annie stared back at her in outrage. ‘Look, Doll, mind your bloody own will you? I can’t think about him now, how the fuck could I? Poor Aretha’s dead because of some psycho, and he thinks he can just waltz back into my life, after three months of nothing, with a note ?’
    ‘Well, when you put it like that…’
    ‘There’s no other way to put it, Doll.’ Annie screwed up the note and lobbed it angrily into the sink. She took a calming breath and nodded to Dolly’s notebooks. ‘Right, Doll, let’s get back to business.’ She stood up. ‘I’m going to phone Jerry, get him down the station to speak to Chris.’
    Jerry Peters was Annie’s brief from way back: a tall, overweight man with a shock of fluffy ginger hair, a florid complexion and a brilliance in legal matters that belied his shambolic looks. ‘While I do that, dig out Aunt Louella’s address. And—yeah—everything you’ve got about Aretha’s last client, and where she met him.’
    ‘Ah,’ said Dolly awkwardly.
    ‘What do you mean, “ah”?’
    ‘Fact is,’ said Dolly, her eyes downcast, ‘I don’t actually know who her last client was. A woman phoned in the booking, said room two-oh-six at the Vista in Park Lane and the time, asked for Aretha, and the client paid Aretha, so…’ Her voice tailed off.
    ‘You didn’t know this woman? You didn’t even take a name ?’
    Dolly looked up, her expression unhappy. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘no.’
    ‘Shit,’ said Annie.

Chapter 5
    Mira Cooper would forever remember the first time she set eyes on Redmond Delaney. She’d been sitting in the luxuriously ornate dining room at Cliveden with Sir William Farquharson, married ex-member of the House, when they’d shown Redmond and his party to a nearby table.
    He was just the most exquisite man she’d ever seen: tall and lithe, with red hair, lime-green eyes, smooth skin and an air of command about him. He was with a group of five others, and a darkhaired stunner was paying him a lot of attention. Redmond’s attention, much to the brunette’s visible annoyance, was fixed upon Mira, whose beautiful blonde looks had always been her fortune.
    Chatting to William as they ate, her eyes were constantly drawn back to Redmond—and she couldn’t help but compare the two. William was short, pot-bellied, balding and plain. Redmond Delaney, however, was a god.
    Oh yes, she remembered it all: being in the pool the following afternoon, wearing her best silver bikini, hoping he’d be there. And he was. Sir William was lounging on one of the chairs at the side of the pool, talking to another old man and smoking a Havana cigar. Mira’s heart almost stopped when Redmond appeared at the edge of the pool. He slipped off his robe and dived in, swimming a couple of powerful laps until he ended up leaning against the side of the pool, right beside her.
    ‘Nice day,’ he said.
    She flicked a flirtatious glance at him. She knew how to use her looks to good effect. He saw her stunning blue eyes widen slightly, saw her pupils dilate, and that was good. She liked the look of him and she was determined to let him know it. He was a handsome man, a striking man. He wasn’t old or pot bellied—and he had to be rich to stay here; she knew that.
    ‘Lovely,’ she said,