by Jessie Keane
If it was her mother calling round again, he was going to give the stroppy old bint a piece of his mind.
The girl was nearly hopping from one foot to another.
‘For Christ’s sake, Jimmy, get up. It’s her. It’s Annie bloody Carter.’
43
‘They’re in. But they’re not answering,’ said Annie. She had seen the curtains twitch upstairs.
Jimmy certainly hadn’t wasted any time. Straight back from the meat market, straight into bed. Maybe violence gave him a hard on. Annie stood there, still feeling sick, but determined.
Tony rang the bell again.
They waited. And waited.
Finally Annie said: ‘Can you get this door open, Tony?’
Tony snorted.
‘I could get that door open with the cheeks of my arse.’ He paused. ‘Pardon my language, Mrs Carter.’
‘Okay, open it.’
Tony opened the door with a shoulder charge. It popped back, shattering the lock, and whacked against the inside wall. There was a girl with a blonde Afro halfway down the stairs, frozen in action in a pink dressing gown and slippers. She was holding her head in her hands and looking at her wrecked door in horror.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ she complained. ‘I was just coming.’
‘Hiya Jeanette,’ said Annie with a bright smile. ‘Long time no see. I like the new hairdo.’
Jimmy Bond appeared at the top of the stairs, pulling his shirt on.
‘And Jimmy!’ said Annie. ‘This is cosy. Well, you going to ask us in?’
They stood around in the kitchen. A nice kitchen too. All the latest units. They’d passed the front room on the way in here: that was nice too. Beautifully decorated, neat. Very nice. Money had been spent. Lots of it. Jeanette didn’t offer tea. The silence was ominous.
Annie waited.
‘Would you like me to wait in the car, Mrs Carter?’ asked Tony.
Annie glanced across at him, leaning against the worktop. Tony looked awkward. Jimmy Bond was a well-respected Carter boss. It was obvious that Tony felt bad about busting in on him like this. And Jimmy wouldn’t forget that Tony had witnessed his embarrassment today.
‘Yeah, if you’d like to,’ she said.
Tony was out of there like a dose of salts. Leaving the three of them, Jeanette fiddling with her hair, Annie quietly waiting, Jimmy with arms folded, scowling at the floor.
‘How long you two been an item?’ she asked the pair of them.
Jimmy opened his mouth.
‘A couple of months,’ said Jeanette the motor mouth. ‘Jimmy bought me this place, wasn’t that good of him?’
‘For God’s sake, why don’t you ever learn to button that fat mouth of yours?’ snapped Jimmy.
Jeanette flinched back, flushing, eyes wide.
Oh, so she hasn’t had any of the rough stuff yet, thought Annie. That was a surprise to her.
‘But not too long ago you were with Jonjo, in Majorca,’ said Annie.
Jeanette looked sulkily at the floor.
‘Yeah, I know, But he wasn’t very nice to me. He used to, you know, get rough sometimes.’
Poor old Jeanette.
How long before Jimmy, who was now flavour of the month, began to ‘get rough’ too? They were still in the honeymoon period. Jimmy beat up on his wife; sooner or later he was going to beat up on his girlfriend too. Annie guessed that Jimmy’s good behaviour wouldn’t last beyond a year.
She looked at Jimmy.
‘Jonjo couldn’t have known about this,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘He didn’t.’
Because he’d have cut your balls out with a blunt carving knife if he had.
‘I take it Kath don’t know either?’ Annie enquired. ‘You remember Kath—my cousin? Your wife? The mother of your two children?’
‘Hey, don’t start on me,’ snapped Jimmy, stabbing with his finger. ‘You know what she’s like. She’s a filthy bitch and she’s frigid as a nun.’
‘She’s had two children and she’s lost her mother. She’s had it hard.’
‘No, I’ve had it hard. You don’t know what it’s like, having to go back to that fucking tip every night, the kids crying, Kath sat there stuffing her face and bleating on about what a struggle her life is.’
‘For God’s sake Jimmy—Kath’s life is a struggle. And since you probably ain’t bothered to get her any help, I’ve sent one of the girls over from Dolly’s place to help her get the place cleaned up,’ said Annie.
Jimmy looked as if he was about to burst a blood vessel. ‘You had no right to do that,’ he said.
‘I had every right. She’s family, and she’s drowning.’ Annie looked at him and her eyes were hard. ‘Plus, she’s very accident-prone. Keeps walking into doors. Or tripping on the stairs. Or something.’
Jimmy went even redder. ‘I don’t want you sending people into my home to spy on me,’ he shouted suddenly. ‘I know what you’re doing.’
‘I’m helping Kath,’ said Annie. ‘That’s all’
‘No you’re not. You’re snooping around, seeing what you can find. How did you find this place, eh? I know. I was followed, right?’
‘Jimmy, you can’t be surprised I want to know what you’re up to,’ said Annie. ‘You’ve been anything but straight with me. For instance, you knew about what had happened to Max and Jonjo when we first spoke about it, because Jeanette must have told you. Jeanette usually tells everyone everything, don’t you Jeanette?’
Jeanette just stood there, open-mouthed.
‘So you knew they’d been hit. You knew, but you made me jump through hoops anyway. Why, Jimmy? For fun? Because you’re a fucking sadist?’
‘Look.’ Jimmy made an effort and got himself back under control. ‘I’m entitled to a private life.’
‘You’re not entitled to treat a member of my family like a fool. Your loyalty should be to her and to the firm. Right now, I am the firm. Don’t make me question your loyalty again. I want this finished, Jimmy. Kath’s your wife—start treating her like it.’
Annie left the room. She went out of the shattered front door and got into the car and sat there, fuming. She was up against a whole shitload of grief. And the one person she was supposed to be able to depend on most, Max’s number one man, was proving to be nothing but fucking trouble.
She leaned her head back against the leather upholstery and closed her eyes. She was getting nowhere. Time was slipping past, and she was getting nowhere. Snatching Charlie Foster, Jimmy’s opposite number on the Delaney firm, had proved nothing except that she had no stomach for torturing people. And there could be repercussions—Redmond and Orla Delaney would not take an attack on a Delaney boy lightly. There could be trouble.
Everywhere she looked, there was trouble. And she was still no closer to getting Layla back alive.
Time.
Time was her enemy.
Time was running out fast.
‘Where to, Mrs Carter?’ asked Tony, starting the car.
‘Limehouse,’ she said.
I need help, she thought.
Well, it had been offered.
Oh yes—but at a price.
When they got back to the Limehouse brothel, Dolly had news.
Aretha was back in the saddle, doing three days a week.
Ellie was disgusted with Kath’s place, but she was cutting through the dirt downstairs like a good ’un, even though Kath had made it clear she didn’t want any favours off ‘Annie fucking Carter’.
Una and Aretha had—predictably—hated each other on sight.
Darren was off sick again.
‘What—again?’ Annie asked, worried about him. ‘What’s up with him Doll—really? He looks damned rough and he don’t seem to be getting any better.’
‘Don’t ask,’ said Dolly grimly.
Oh yes—and Billy had dropped by to say that Constantine Barolli wanted another meet with her.
44
It was getting dark by the time they got over to Hol
land Park. Tony drove steadily and smoothly through the traffic while Annie twitched with impatience in the back.
This could be it. The breakthrough. He might have news of Layla’s whereabouts. Soon, very soon, she might hold her daughter in her arms again.
But it was dangerous to hope too much. Because it could be bad news, not good.
It could be the worst news.
Layla could be dead.
Annie refused to believe that. She could not allow herself to even think that for a second. Layla was alive. She had to be.
She was ushered inside the palatial house by the same doorman.
‘Mrs Carter, please come in.’
The big man ushered her across the empty, cavernous hallway and into Constantine Barolli’s study.
Third time lucky, maybe, she thought as the doorman knocked on the study door and she was summoned inside.
‘Mrs Carter.’ Constantine Barolli came around the desk, hand outstretched, palm down. Charming, authoritative, strikingly handsome.
And he knows it, Annie thought. And again with the fucking hand, and she still wasn’t going to kiss it.
She shook his hand firmly and once more Constantine seemed to be suppressing a smile.
‘Is there any news?’ she asked, getting straight down to business. ‘Or haven’t you even bothered to start looking?’
Constantine looked at her.
‘Take a seat, Mrs Carter,’ he said, and went back around the desk. The light was growing dim as he started to speak. Annie listened and put everything else to the back of her mind, including the shocking thing he had said to her on her last visit here.
Constantine Barolli told her that in fact he had bothered. He had bothered quite a bit.
‘Yeah?’ Annie looked at him sourly.
‘Yes,’ he said. Then he told her about the bother he’d been to.
The word had gone out, he told her. A little girl with dark hair and eyes had been snatched in Majorca. This girl was Max Carter’s daughter. The word had gone out in Majorca, Ibiza, Minorca, and mainland Spain, and throughout France and the UK, too. The word was: say nothing, keep watch, report back.
In bars and snooker halls and working men’s clubs and discos and restaurants, in Salvation Army hostels and on newsstands and anywhere else the word could be carried, it was delivered, seeping into the minds of the people who heard it, dripping like rainwater on to rock, moving down through layers until it reached the substrata, the basest levels.
Working girls heard about it as they shivered on the streets. Doormen hovering in the neon-lit doorways of strip joints passed the word on. Say nothing, keep watch, report back. Truckers stopping at greasy spoons were passed the word, taxi drivers met on their stands outside airports and in the high streets, and they passed it on to co-workers.
Everyone wanted to find this girl. This was an opportunity not to be missed. A chance to do a favour not only for the New York Mafia don, Constantine Barolli, but also for his London associates, the Carters. They would be effusive in their thanks and generous in their rewards to whomever helped with this, and that help was needed fast. Speed was necessary here: Constantine had made that very clear.
Everyone wanted to find the girl.
And the people who’d taken her.
Three people, they knew that now.
One slim and slight blonde woman, big breasts, blue eyes. Annie thought this was the one who had bodily snatched Layla: it tallied with what Jeanette had told her.
One big, dark-haired, dark-eyed, squat, powerful. Maybe a telephone engineer who had the knowledge to tap lines.
One tall, restless, straight blond hair, crazy eyes. This one could be Kieron Delaney, Annie thought. Fast enough to get up close to Max and take him by surprise, because in a fair fight Kieron wouldn’t have stood a chance against Max and he knew it.
In Palma they had used the name of Philips, claiming to be a married couple and a brother on holiday together. But none of the three had worn a wedding ring, and they had not seemed like people on holiday. They were edgy, nervous. No one had yet seen the girl with these three people, who had rented a place in Palma from Marietta and Julio Degas. But there had been mention of a faint noise, maybe a child crying, heard once and never explained. And when the three adults had left that place, the big dark-haired one was carrying a large holdall, big enough to hold a child.
The word had spread like lightning, conducted by word of mouth: Constantine Barolli wanted this little girl, Layla Carter, found and delivered safely home to her mother. The person or persons who did him this favour, whatever their contribution, however small, however large, would be paid back a thousand-fold for their efforts.
Constantine filled Annie in on all this and, when he stopped speaking, Annie nodded, a bit dazed by the scope of it. But reassured too. If anyone could help here with this, it was Barolli. Despite all her misgivings, despite the fact that she knew she was out of her depth here, she knew she’d come to the right man. She’d doubted him, but now look—he’d surprised her. He’d got the whole thing moving.
‘Soon, hopefully, we’ll get more news,’ said Constantine.
He reached out and switched on the yellow banker’s light on the desk, illuminating them both in a soft glow as dusk crept further in, lengthening shadows.
‘Thank you,’ said Annie. It nearly choked her to say it, because she had been convinced that he was just screwing around, just kicking his heels and wasting time until she was desperate enough to fall into line with his demands.
Constantine shrugged.
‘We’ve started the ball rolling, that’s all. Within two weeks I have to go back to New York. Business. But before then I hope we’ll see a breakthrough.’
That soon, thought Annie.
Suddenly her heart was in her mouth. Suddenly she was shaking. She might, she really might, get Layla back.
But if they were carrying her around in a holdall, she must be gagged, restrained, surely? Or drugged.
Oh Jesus.
‘You’re not going to faint again, are you?’
‘No.’ Annie shook her head, trying not to smile, trying not to just whoop with joy or maybe even cry her bloody eyes out. ‘It’s just…I can’t believe it.’
‘Hey—no guarantees,’ he warned. ‘You know, I’ve thought about this a lot. And I think to these people the money’s a bonus, but maybe they also want to see you squirm. My guess is someone’s got their eye on you, Mrs Carter. They’re watching you.’
Annie sighed. ‘I don’t know. I don’t even care. I just want to get my daughter back—that’s all.’
He nodded. ‘I heard there’s been trouble. A Delaney man hurt. Rumours, you know.’
Annie looked at him blankly.
‘There’s always rumours, Mr Barolli,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Do you suspect Delaney involvement in this?’
Annie shrugged. ‘The Carters and the Delaneys are old enemies.’
‘Sure. But go easy. These things escalate. You pick up a brick, they pick up a knife, you pick up a gun, they throw a grenade. And so on. You know how it goes. Things can turn ugly.’
He looked at her. Annie said nothing.
Constantine sighed and went on: ‘Maybe we can turn this thing around now, get a good result. There’s hope.’
And before I had none, thought Annie. She owed Constantine Barolli, big time. But then, he had already pointed that out to her the last time they’d met.
These people always want payment, Jimmy Bond had told her. They don’t ever do favours for nothing.
But then, she knew what Constantine Barolli wanted. He’d made it very plain.
It wasn’t the Carter clubs.
It wasn’t Queenie’s old house.
It wasn’t, as Jimmy Bond had feared, the entire manor.
It was her.
And she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to give him that.
Constantine rose, closed the curtains on the encroaching darkness of night. Suddenly t
he study was cosy, comfortable. Then he came around the desk and stood there looking down at her.
Their eyes locked.
Constantine Barolli extended his hand, palm down.
‘Now, Mrs Carter,’ said Constantine, his blue eyes holding hers. ‘Kiss my hand.’
Well, she’d known this was coming. She knew there would be a price to pay. And now was the time that she was expected to pay it.
‘Mr Barolli,’ she said candidly, ‘I haven’t seen any real results yet. When I see results, maybe I’ll consider paying the price for those results.’
Constantine looked down at her. Then he laughed.
‘Mrs Carter, you have a lot of nerve, and I admire that. But my patience has its limits.’
Annie looked at him. Looked at his hand, still outstretched to her.
What the hell, she thought. For Layla.
She clasped his fingers and brought his hand closer to her face. Inclined her head slightly. Looked at the ring on his index finger. A thick band of gold, set with a scattering of small, perfect diamonds that glinted as the light caught them. She could smell his cologne—Acqua di Parma. Classic, fresh…arousing.
Surprised at that, Annie started to draw away, but his fingers had closed around hers and she was swiftly pulled to her feet. She staggered slightly, caught unawares, and found herself being held tightly against Constantine Barolli’s chest.
She felt his breath, warm and sweet-scented on her cheek, and quickly turned her head away.
‘Now my lips,’ he said.
‘Let go of me,’ she said, alarmed, shaken.
‘Mrs Carter, this was always part of the deal. As I told you the last time we met.’
Annie turned her head and glared at him.
‘I can’t,’ she said. And it was the truth.
She was Max’s wife. Max’s. Everything in her fought against this. Yes, she had known it would be expected. Logically, she had even begun to accept that this would be the case. She had known from the very first meeting that Constantine Barolli had been drawn to her. His wife had been dark haired and dark eyed and so was she. Probably—like Max—he had always been turned on by brunettes. He was doing her a favour—and she was expected to return it.
