Dirty Game

by Jessie Keane

  Ellie obediently told Chris; and Chris seemed to believe her. Dolly gave him a bit of a bollocking for vanishing when things hotted up with Pat, and told him that if he thought she swallowed that load of fanny about his sick mother he had better think again. But thank God, she told him, Pat had buggered off just after he himself had left the premises, so everything was fine – and this time she was not going to tell Redmond Delaney about the fact he’d legged it.

  ‘Thanks, Dolly,’ said Chris humbly.

  Annie and Dolly beefed up the dirty looks and sullen silences between them, egging the pudding like mad. Annie knew it was time for her to go. She dialled around Dolly’s auxiliary brasses and got some names and addresses together. She packed up her belongings within four days of Pat’s death and was all ready to go when Kieron showed up with a huge bunch of flowers.

  Chris let him in, of course. No way could he refuse a Delaney entry. Annie accepted that. But she didn’t need this right now. She had too much on her mind, not least of which, the fact that she had killed this man’s brother.

  She came downstairs when Chris called her. Better to see him, she supposed, better to keep everything smooth and orderly. She went into the front room and there he was, lanky, blond, appealing, holding a bunch of flowers bigger than he was, the clown. She almost smiled to see it.

  ‘Kieron,’ she greeted him formally.

  Kieron thrust the huge bouquet at her. ‘For you,’ he said. ‘As an apology. I realize I upset you last time I called, and I’m sorry. I know I’ve taken my time, but I wasn’t sure you’d see me. I’ve only just managed to pluck up the courage and now here I am.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for.’

  ‘Yes I have. I’m not good at all the romantic stuff …’

  ‘You’re giving it a fair old try,’ said Annie, indicating the bouquet.

  ‘It doesn’t come naturally to me,’ rushed on Kieron. ‘I get too involved in my work, and I don’t see things until they hit me right between the eyes. You want to be just friends? Fine. We’ll be friends. So, in the spirit of friendship, Annie Bailey, come along to my new exhibition with me or I’ll have to go alone and I’ll look a great tomfool into the bargain.’

  ‘Kieron,’ sighed Annie. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Come on. I need cheering up. Red and Orla can’t come, they’re tied up with business. And we haven’t seen Pat for days, I’ve no idea where he is, but I’m hoping the bastard won’t come back.’

  Try the sea, thought Annie. Bile rose in her throat at the thought. She felt strung out, having to remember to keep her story straight, scared shitless that she or one of the girls was going to say something that would cause suspicion, worried about what would happen with Ruthie and Max, and now Kieron hadn’t taken the hint. Or if he had, he was covering it up very well.

  Here she was again, sitting on a perilously high fence between the Delaneys and the Carters. She seemed unable to get down from it. If anything, it seemed to be getting higher. She couldn’t see the ground any more. She barely knew which way was up.

  ‘As a friend only,’ warned Annie.

  ‘You’ll come?’ His big goofy face lit up.

  ‘Yes. All right. Just this once, mind.’

  ‘Just this once,’ agreed Kieron.

  45

  Annie was aware that this day should be a moment of triumph for her. It was the day of her first party in the new apartment. She stood in the centre of the Upper Brook Street place’s oak-panelled drawing room and looked around her and saw how far she’d come. This was a million miles from the Limehouse knocking shop. Big leather Chesterfields for the clients to sit on. A crackling fire to keep them warm. Sinatra on the radiogram because Sinatra always said class. Champagne and twenty-year-old malt whisky. Oysters and salmon and caviar, all set out on a side table – the best things for the best people. Havana cigars in wooden boxes on the small occasional tables dotted all around the big room. The scene was set. Everything looked good.

  ‘It’s a gentleman’s club with extras,’ said Redmond when he’d walked around it with her just this morning. ‘You must be very pleased with it.’

  ‘I am.’

  She was nervous of Redmond now, and she didn’t have to ask herself why – the ghost of Pat stood between them.

  Annie showed him the bedrooms. With any other man she’d be nervous of getting jumped. But not with Redmond; instinct told her this was not his style. She suspected he never had sex. Didn’t want it, either. She had the same feeling whenever she saw Orla. Sad somehow – but she was relieved. The last thing she needed was another complication. She had complications enough. She had been bracing herself while they toured the apartment for any mention of Pat, and finally the moment came. Redmond said that Pat hadn’t been seen since he left the party at Limehouse the Friday before last.

  ‘Really?’ said Annie, her heart galloping her in chest. ‘Does he often just take off like that?’

  ‘Occasionally. I hope he caused no trouble at the party?’

  Oh Jesus, thought Annie, nearly paralysed with fear.

  ‘He was a bit drunk.’ She shrugged. ‘No more than usual, though. He seemed fine when he left.’

  And – thank God – Redmond said no more about it. He professed himself happy with all the arrangements she had made, and then he left.

  Annie dragged her attention back to the here-and-now. Her three new girls, Mira, Jennifer and Thelma, were sitting around chatting to their clients, just chatting as ladies would do. That was the first rule Annie had insisted upon – no shagging in the drawing room. There were three lovely luxurious bedrooms for that; in there, they could do whatever they wanted. They could have threesomes, foursomes, all-out orgies if they wanted, behind closed doors. But out here, there was to be a polite house-party atmosphere and no one with their trousers around their ankles and their pricks in their hands. There was music, and laughter, and drinking and eating; a prelude to the more serious action. Annie preferred it that way.

  ‘William’s invited me to Cliveden with a group of friends for the weekend,’ said Mira, sidling up to Annie.

  Mira was a statuesque blonde with a don’t-touch-me air about her that could soften to oh-go-on-then in an instant, once you showed her enough money. Like the other girls and like Annie herself, Mira was dressed in a simple shift dress with court shoes and pearls. Annie insisted that her girls look like ladies even if they were highly skilled tarts.

  ‘What you do in your own time is your own concern,’ said Annie. ‘But be careful.’

  Mira nodded and moved away, back to the side of the middle-aged peer of the realm she was entertaining. They all knew about Christine Keeler. Pillow-talk was all very well, Annie had stressed when she gave the girls their initial pep-talk, but you had to be circumspect about cross-contamination. Like don’t mix Soviets with British Cabinet Ministers. When you were moving in these high circles, it was easy to slip and fall, and it was always the woman who carried the can, not the punter.

  ‘Sir Paul, how nice to see you. How are you?’ said Annie in her best ‘posh’ voice to a distinguished, grey-haired gentleman, one of the Limehouse regulars, as she sat down beside him.

  He told her, in detail. She nodded and smiled and laughed in all the right places. The party was going well. But still, she felt screwed up into a knot. She had felt that way ever since the night Pat Delaney died. She was nearly going mad with the weight of guilt on her shoulders. And having to talk to Redmond more often now was sheer torment, she was terrified she was going to let something slip. Her guilt felt like a beacon, signalling that she had killed his brother, struck the first blow anyway.

  Max’s boys had disposed of Pat Delaney, shoving him aboard a trawler leaving the Thames and then pushing him off the deck when they reached the open sea. She knew the body would never be found. Nothing would ever be pinned on her or the others. But the thought of Pat lying with the fishes, being buffeted by the tides and his flesh slowly decaying on his bones, played constantly on her m
ind. She had thought she was tough. Well, maybe she wasn’t tough enough to commit murder.

  And she no longer knew what to think about Max. Pat’s words about Celia – she was sure he meant Celia – had left her feeling that she had walked away from Max for nothing. Left what made her happy, only to be condemned to feeling tense and miserable for the rest of her puff. She knew she should feel good today; but she couldn’t.

  ‘Annie!’ It was one of the Horse Guards, a lovely chap with the physique of a god and flirtatious blue eyes. He leaned down, nodded politely to the old gentleman, and kissed her hand. ‘Lovely to see you again, m’dear.’

  Yeah, she’d come a long way from a dirty, rented two-up-two-down on the mean streets of the East End.

  Maybe too far.

  Annie went and got herself a glass of champagne. She sipped it. Ugh. Made you light-headed and the bubbles went up your nose. God, there was no danger of her ever getting a taste for booze. She gave up and poured herself an orange juice instead, and looked around again at all her happy punters and her high-class tarts. A couple making for a bedroom … another couple kissing … three on the sofa, they’d be off together soon. She was doing good business, and she ought to feel happier.

  Maybe Kieron’s exhibition tonight was just what she needed. Get her out, cheer her up. Stop her brooding.

  Fat chance.

  46

  Toby Taylor’s Jermyn Street gallery was heaving with crooks that Friday night, and he was thrilled. Regans, Nashes, Krays, Delaneys, Foremans – everywhere you looked, it was Crook City. Toby was the original mob whore. Mixing with criminal gangs almost gave him an orgasm.

  He was mincing around the gallery, smiling and pressing the flesh, his ever-expanding belly straining against his fluorescent green floral shirt, his toupee clinging to his sweat-dampened head. His rings and neck chains flashed in the gallery’s vivid lighting. Paolo, who was being swept unwillingly along in his partner’s slipstream, thought Toby had all the easy charm of a rabid rat.

  All around them hung Kieron’s work. Landscapes: fields and dales, cliffs and turbulent seas. Some were already sold, but it wasn’t going as well as his last. English pastoral always lost out to the more exciting African savannah. And the portraits and the nudes were missing this time. Everyone loved a good nude.

  ‘Maybe he’s lost his muse,’ said Toby to Paolo.

  Paolo cast a sullen look at his older lover. ‘No he hasn’t. There she is, right over there.’

  Paolo drew closer to Toby. Major odour alert, he thought, wrinkling his pert nose in disgust. Couldn’t the pervy old whore ever wash? If Toby wasn’t so free with his cash, Paolo would have been out of there in an instant.

  ‘They say she is running a very discreet establishment in the West End now,’ whispered Paolo.

  Toby gazed at Annie. ‘She’s very beautiful,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Looks like butter wouldn’t melt.’

  Paolo thought that if he were ever to fancy women – not that he imagined he ever could, with their strange sex odour and their sponge-soft bodies – Annie Bailey was the sort of woman he’d go for. She was not only beautiful. She had the unmistakable gloss of prosperity, too. Even he might be tempted. For a little while, anyway, if she treated him right, and spent plenty.

  But Toby’s attention had drifted on. ‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘Not again.’

  ‘So, are you enjoying yourself?’ Kieron asked Annie as they stood in front of a painting showing a tranquil scene of a river and a bridge.

  Annie was gazing intently at the painting. Thinking that she wished she could vanish into a scene like that, lose herself somewhere peaceful. Lose the guilt. Lose the ability to think. To imagine. To not constantly see Pat Delaney – this man’s brother – dead at the bottom of the sea.

  ‘Yeah, very much,’ she lied.

  She sipped her drink. Fruit juice again. Kieron had tried to get her into champagne, but it was a lost cause.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked her a touch desperately. She was hard work tonight, stiff as a block of wood, distant. Unlike herself. Something must have upset her.

  ‘No,’ said Annie.

  Since Pat had gone, her appetite had waned. Sometimes at night she had bad dreams. Even awake, she had flashbacks – the door to her room crashing open, Pat reeling into the room, drunk, drugged, dangerous, threatening rape and God knows what else.

  She’d had a bolt fitted to her bedroom door at the new place. With that on, she could get a little sleep. Just a little. She knew it was silly, but she had been unable to sleep at all without it.

  ‘I’m pleased Red and Orla could come,’ said Kieron.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Annie.

  ‘They weren’t sure they’d be able to make it.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Business, you know. I might have known Pat wouldn’t show up, of course. Perhaps it’s just as well. He can’t seem to behave himself these days.’

  Oh, he’s behaving himself now, thought Annie.

  ‘I’m pleased you came, too,’ said Kieron determinedly.

  ‘Sorry, Kieron, I’m a bit tired tonight,’ said Annie. Poor Kieron, he looked anxious. She had to try to behave more normally. That was what Max had told her. Behave normally. How did you do that, when you had blood on your hands?

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Kieron more gently. He put a friendly arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re here. That’s all that matters.’

  Annie wondered afterwards how it all kicked off.

  She was aware of a commotion behind her. Then someone grabbed Kieron’s arm. She was shoved sideways. She stumbled and her sore knee shot pain up her leg. Had someone passed out in the warmth of the gallery, and knocked against them?

  ‘Oh, not your fucking minder again,’ she heard Kieron say.

  There was a moment of complete bewilderment. Then Annie saw that Max was there. He had hold of Kieron’s shirt front and was shaking him and glaring into his eyes. Max’s eyes were glittering. They looked murderous.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ gasped Kieron as all around them people drew back. ‘You again.’

  ‘What the fuck do you think you’re doing?’ Max demanded.

  ‘Max!’ said Annie.

  ‘I knew it was you, you little bastard,’ said Max. ‘You want to fucking-well watch your step.’

  ‘I’m not afraid of you,’ said Kieron, going purple as Max exerted more pressure.

  ‘No? Well you cunting-well ought to be, you tosser.’

  ‘Ready to kill another Delaney, are ya? Well not me. I’m not scared of the likes of you!’ gabbled Kieron.

  Annie’s head was spinning. She hadn’t even seen Max come in. He must have moved like a rattlesnake. Toby ran up with Paolo and started making calm-down noises.

  ‘Fuck off out of it,’ snarled Max, and they both scuttled back.

  All the other gangs were looking the other way, Annie realized with dismay. No one wanted to upset Max, or side with him against the Delaneys. Picking sides would be unwise. No one wanted to start anything.

  ‘You’re talking out of your arse,’ hissed Max, glaring into Kieron’s eyes. ‘You think I don’t know that it was that fat bastard Pat who did for our Eddie? I ain’t even started with you Irish cunts yet. And if I see you lay a fucking finger on her again, I’ll fucking-well kill you, and that’s a promise.’

  ‘Stop it, for God’s sake,’ said Annie, horrified. ‘Max – please.’

  Max ignored her plea. ‘I’m warning you,’ he said to Kieron.

  ‘Carter,’ said a cool voice at her shoulder. ‘Get your hands off my brother.’

  It was Redmond. Annie turned and there he was with Orla and three minders. Where was Max’s backup? She couldn’t see anyone. He had come in here alone, she realized, and had seen Kieron with his arm around her and had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Max gave a sneer and dropped Kieron. He sagged against the wall.

  ‘Now just get out,’ said Redmond.

  ‘I’m going. I want a word with you,’ Max said to A
nnie.

  ‘You don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to,’ said Kieron.

  Max gave Kieron a look that should have dropped him dead.

  ‘It’s okay. I’ll get my coat.’ Annie’s legs were weak, she felt as if she’d just avoided death herself. ‘Okay, Max. Let’s go.’

  Max drove them in his big black Jag. He parked the car near the Embankment and they walked along by the Thames. The Houses of Parliament loomed across the black, glittering river. Big Ben chimed out eleven. Annie sat down on a bench, shaking with cold and still trying to get over the night’s events. After a moment Max sat down, but at the other end of the bench. There was a large space between them.

  ‘I’m calling in the debt,’ he said. ‘I sorted the Pat Delaney problem for you, now it’s time to pay up.’

  Annie looked at him. So that was it. He wanted her to sleep with him again.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ said Max. ‘All right. I’ll admit it. You drive me crazy. Most of the time I don’t know whether I want to fuck you bandy or wring your bloody neck. But all I want right now is the truth. I want to know what happened on the day of your mother’s funeral. Something changed for you that day. I want to know what it was.’

  Annie looked at the ground. She hated herself for feeling a twinge of disappointment.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I met Celia.’

  ‘Celia? I thought she took off somewhere a long time ago.’

  ‘She did.’ Annie glanced at Max. ‘She was frightened of what you’d do. Because of Eddie. One day, she was gone. There was a note, nothing else.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘She showed up at Mum’s funeral.’ Annie’s mouth dried as she remembered that fateful day. ‘She didn’t mean anyone to see her there, but I was waiting outside because I didn’t want to upset Ruthie. I didn’t want a scene. So it was by pure accident that I saw Celia out by the gate and went to speak to her – not that she wanted to speak to me. She was trying to get away, but I stopped her.’