by Jessie Keane
Ellie blushed as she saw Annie returning her gaze.
‘It’s okay,’ she said sulkily. ‘I don’t grass to the Delaneys no more.’
Dolly gave her a stern look.
‘Yeah, we had a talk about that, didn’t we?’ Dolly looked at Ellie then at Annie. ‘After we had all that trouble with Ellie after Pat Delaney popped off, I took her back in but there were terms. And those terms were, no grassing us up to the Delaneys. What happens inside these four walls—or even outside them if it concerns any of us—don’t get told to them. That was the deal, and I think Ellie’s stuck to it.’
‘Course I have,’ said Ellie uncomfortably.
‘You’d bloody better have, if you know what’s good for you.’
‘I have,’ Ellie insisted.
Annie looked at Ellie. She hoped Dolly was right.
‘Everyone deserves a second chance,’ said Dolly with a shrug.
Annie wasn’t sure that she would have been so generous.
‘Where’s Una?’ she asked, thinking of what Constantine had said to her about the woman’s family link to Jeanette—and of what she would have to do about all that as soon as she got her chance to act.
She ached to batter Una, very soon. But for now, she knew she didn’t dare. If she so much as mentioned the Byrne family to Una, word would without doubt shoot straight back to them that she was sniffing around, getting clever.
No—it was safer to keep quiet. Safer for Layla. For now she would have to hold back. But later, she promised herself, they were going to pay for what they’d done, every one of them.
Annie squirmed with thwarted rage as she thought of the harm the Byrnes had inflicted on her family. For now they had her right where they wanted her. Right where they could keep an eye on her. Right where she could not even think of retaliating.
Una. That bitch. And silly, chatty Jeanette. Vita, the unknown sister. Danny—what about this Danny, was it him who had lopped off Layla’s finger, was it him she spoke to on the phone? And Jimmy! Jimmy had to be involved, and for that she was going to have his guts.
But not yet.
‘Una’s out,’ said Dolly, pulling a face. ‘And she ain’t signed the bloody book again. Thinks rules are for other people, that one.’
I can’t do a damned thing to her anyway, thought Annie. My hands are tied. I’m in chains.
But Layla was alive, she knew that now. And Constantine might be pissed off with her, but he was still there, still on her side. She hoped.
Ross put his head around the kitchen door. ‘Client,’ he said. ‘For Aretha.’
Aretha hauled herself to her feet.
‘A woman’s work is just never done,’ she complained with a grin, and went off into the hall.
64
Annie went and sat upstairs on the bed to think. She got out Max’s ring and held it in her hand; it gave her some comfort. In the other one she had the pizzino from Constantine Barolli.
Come Friday morning. Early. C.
She closed her eyes and let it all wash over her: the rage, the grief, the guilt, the fear. Max was gone for ever, and she had to accept that. Had to. She could hear Norman Greenbaum’s Spirit in the Sky drifting out from Ellie’s room. Lyrics all about death.
But accepting Max’s death was hard, almost too hard to bear. He was dead, and she was still alive, and she almost wished their positions were reversed. But Max wouldn’t allow his feelings to stand in the way of what he needed to do, and neither must she.
She had to be strong.
Dig deep and stand alone.
She’d lived by that creed all her life, clinging to it when the going got hard. It had sustained her, allowed her to always find a way through.
Would she find a way through this time?
She had to.
Annie turned her face into the pillow and gritted her teeth and willed herself to be strong enough to go on with this.
She had to find a way through the obstacles, to get Layla back.
Yes, Max was gone.
And there was something else she had to privately admit to—that there was a strong tug of attraction between her and Constantine Barolli, and that it was mutual. She thought of Barolli, suave bloody American, handsome, authoritative, sitting over there in Holland Park with everything nicely under control.
She thought of his family—his exquisite yet sour-faced sister Gina, the angelic Alberto, and slimy, dark-eyed Lucco, who had seen that there was a spark there, and warned her off. She thought of Constantine’s wife, Maria, dead five long years. He’d been through what Annie was going through now. He knew how it felt.
How it felt was bad.
She clutched Max’s ring harder, felt the metal digging into her palm and welcomed the pain of it.
It was no use, though—whatever she did, however she felt, there was no way to summon him back to her side, no way now to make it all right again.
Max was gone.
And she was still here.
And so—for now at least—was Layla. She had to cling on to that.
So she was going to have to go to Constantine’s early on Friday, and this time she was going to make sure that things went smoothly between them. He would provide the cash as soon as she fell into line, so she would do it.
Friday morning, early.
This time, she was determined to do it.
Until then, all she could do was wait.
Oh yeah—and pray.
65
It was an attack designed to evoke panic.
They broke down the door of the little house near the Albert Docks at one o’clock in the morning, storming in, shouting and screaming and brandishing weapons. They ran down the hall into the kitchen, kicking open doors into the lounge, the cellar, what had once been a dining room. They ran up the stairs, kicking open more doors, bounding into rooms, intent on mayhem, on sudden surprise, on making anyone in there freeze with fear and not have time to try to harm the girl or use her as a shield.
The one in charge stood up there in the empty bedroom, looking around him in disgust. Nothing. No one.
Fuck it.
One of the boys came up the stairs behind him.
‘They haven’t been gone long. Trash in the bin. Stove’s been used.’
A miss is as good as a mile, thought the one in charge.
’You want us to do door-to-door round the area?
‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘Do it.’
66
‘Two days and we’ll be out of here,’ said Danny confidently.
They were in a scruffy family safe house near Epping Forest. Vita sat at the kitchen table with her watercolours. Phil was leaning against the worktop, sipping tea. They said nothing.
‘We’re nearly home and dry.’
There was no response.
‘We get the money, drop the kid off, smooth as silk. Well, ain’t you got nothing to say about it?’ Danny asked Vita, nudging her shoulder.
Vita pulled a face. ‘Just that I’ll be fucking glad when all this is over,’ she said.
‘Now what’s bit you up the arse?’ hollered Danny. ‘Christ, you’re a moody cow.’
‘I hate this place. I’ve hated all the places we’ve been in, they’re pigsties.’
‘They got to be, Dumbo. What, you think we should stay in some posh neighbourhood where people would say, who the hell are they, mooching about? And tell the fuzz all about it? It’s quiet here, out in the sticks, it’s ideal.’
‘I just want it all over,’ said Vita, dabbing at a duck’s wing with a little turquoise paint.
Amen to that, thought Phil. The pair of them were arguing again. They were always arguing. Nutters, both of them. Talk about bad blood. Vita was half-simple but Danny was seriously demented. Killing that couple on the island, that had been bad. And harming the kid had been worse. He hadn’t signed up for anything like that. He looked at Danny and thought, Mad bastard.
‘You got something to say?’ Danny asked Phil with a challenging grin.
<
br /> Phil shrugged. ‘Not a thing,’ he said.
‘Well, good,’ said Danny, and poured himself some tea, thinking that really everything was working out just fine.
By Friday he would have more money than he’d ever had before, and that felt good. He might give Vita a small share, but he wasn’t planning on letting Phil have any. In fact, he was planning on giving Phil a very nasty surprise, a terminal sort of surprise, poor old Phil. And of course, he wasn’t going to hand over the kid. It was a pity, but after all, it made perfect sense. She had seen his face. And he couldn’t have that.
67
Constantine got the call at dawn on Friday morning. He was an early riser—most of the family were—so he was already up and in the study, talking to Lucco, when the conversation with his son was interrupted by the phone. Lucco listened to his father speaking and his lips grew tight. He was getting everyone working hard to help the Carter woman. Lucco knew why. Lucco had seen her and, more important, he had seen the two of them together.
‘What you got?’ Constantine asked the man on the phone.
‘We got an address. A Byrne cousin’s got a house out in the wilds near Epping. We got it staked out, from a safe distance.’ He gave Constantine the address. ‘I’ve seen two guys going in and out, no one else. What you want us to do?’
‘Hold back. Keep watch. I’m coming.’
Constantine put the phone down and stood up. ‘Got to go, Lucco,’ he said. ‘Business.’
Lucco nodded. ‘For the Carter woman, yes?’
‘For Mrs Carter.’ Constantine looked at Lucco, sitting there, pouting like a truculent five year old. ‘You got a problem?’
Lucco shrugged and stood up. ‘No, not at all,’ he lied. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Constantine watched his son leave the room. Lucco. Dark and deep, just like Maria, his mother, had been. He had loved that trait in Maria, loved her mystery, her sensuality. Annie Carter had that quality too. You never knew which way she was going to jump, you only knew that her direction would surprise you. He liked that. He liked her.
But shit—he’d blown his chances with her, big time.
And anyway, for today, the girl must be his priority.
68
Annie, Dolly, Aretha, Darren, and Ellie were having breakfast. Annie was sunk in gloom. Today was it. At midday the kidnapper would phone her.
Within the next hour she had to get her arse over to Constantine’s and do the deed. Last chance. Get the cash from him. Christ knew he could spare it; he was loaded. Save Layla. Or, if not, lose Layla for good.
Dolly was moaning on about Una not showing up for work again.
‘Friday’s party day. I’ve told her time and again, we need to get everything in place ready for the party, no hanging around in bed and no going out on the piss on Thursday nights with your druggie mates, but does she listen? Does she fuck as like.’
‘Hey, no sweat, I can fill in,’ said Aretha, glancing at Annie with a sigh.
Ross stuck his head round the kitchen door. He was holding out a note and he looked narked.
‘Another one of these bloody things just came. For you again.’ He held it out to Annie.
What the fuck now? she wondered, taking it. Another fifteen minutes and she’d have been on the road to Constantine’s place, all primed and ready to do the deed and bag the money. Now what?
‘What’s it say?’ asked Darren.
Annie looked up at him briefly.
Poor bloody Darren. His eyes looked sunken. His hair, once so lustrous, was dry. He coughed all the time now—a dry, hacking cough. No clients now. He wasn’t up to that; didn’t even look good enough to attempt it any more.
Her eyes drifted on to meet Aretha’s, and she saw her own concern for Darren reflected there. And on to Ellie. Ellie the traitor, given another chance by Dolly, who was so kind, the best friend any woman could ever have; and look at the shit Annie had brought to her door, and yet still, still, Dolly hadn’t turned her away.
She looked at the note from Constantine. Spread it out on the table. She was now so panicked, so completely driven by dread, that she found it hard to break the code. Possibly because he was saying something different this time. Oh sure, she thought. Like, Your arse is mine. But then, she knew that already.
She had to force herself to concentrate, to break the very simple code. A was four, B was five. She read it, very slowly, struggling with the numbers and the words this time because she was in a dark place in which her baby could die unless she complied with Constantine’s demands.
Well, she had already decided that she was going to do it. She had a second bite of the cherry, and she had to take it. She knew that.
She would read this note, and then she would go over to Holland Park, get it over with. Get the money. Get Layla. Please God, let her get Layla.
‘Come on, Annie, don’t keep us in suspense, what’s it say?’ demanded Dolly, craning over to get a look.
Annie’s jaw had slowly dropped as she deciphered Constantine’s latest pizzino.
‘Annie?’ Ellie was staring at her. ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’
‘Come on, girl,’ urged Aretha, eyes wide with worry. ‘Tell us, for fuck’s sake. What is it? Is it…is it bad…?’
Annie looked up and her eyes were full of shock.
The kitchen was silent.
‘He’s found them,’ she said numbly. ‘He’s only gone and fucking found them. The address is right here.’
And the kitchen erupted in yells and screams, such a frenzy of delight that Ross came charging in and asked what the fuck had happened now? But they only laughed. All except Annie, whose shock had deepened to nothing less than abject fear.
What if Layla was dead already?
Yes, she had spoken to her on the phone, but they could have done it straight afterwards. Killed her. Too much trouble to let her live, to deliver her back to her mother. They’d already hurt her. They were animals. Scum. Pond life.
She looked at the note again while all the others whooped and leapt around the kitchen in a mad cacophony of joy.
‘I’ve got to get there,’ she said dazedly, clinging on to the merest chance that Layla might still be in the land of the living. She stood up, shaking, and went into the hall to get her coat.
‘Wait a sodding minute,’ said Dolly. ‘If you’re going, we’re coming with you.’
‘Yeah,’ said Ellie and Darren together.
‘Damn sure,’ nodded Aretha.
‘No,’ said Annie, already in the hall, shrugging on her coat, Ross standing there looking at them all as if they’d finally flipped.
‘Yes,’ said Dolly.
Annie didn’t have time to argue the toss. She hesitated, then said: ‘Wait.’
She tore up the stairs and into Dolly’s room. Flung open the knicker drawer, took out the Smith & Wesson, checked it was properly loaded, checked the safety was on, shoved it in her coat pocket. Then she ran back down the stairs and straight out of the front door.
They all ran after her. They barrelled up to the Jag, parked at the pavement with Tony sitting there, reading his paper behind the wheel.
Annie piled in the front, Dolly and her workers jumped in the back.
‘What the f—?’ asked Tony, dropping his paper.
Annie told him where they were going, and why.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Tony. He gunned the engine and shot out into the traffic with the Jag’s wheels screaming in protest. He didn’t even apologize for the language.
69
Danny was going to make the call at twelve noon, tell the Carter woman where to drop off the money, and no funny business or else she wouldn’t get her daughter back, alive or dead.
Now it was nearly eleven, and he was getting sort of nervous.
After all, it wasn’t every day you took possession of half a million pounds.
He sat there at the kitchen table and daydreamed pleasurably about what he would do with it. Jimmy would take his share and Vi
ta would get a small cut: that was okay. But he’d need the rest, get a nice place abroad in the sun, get a car, get all the pussy he could eat, it would be fucking amazing.
‘Today’s the day then, yeah?’ Vita said behind him, washing up dishes, making all that bloody noise, clattering stuff about. Jesus, she was a pain in the arse.
‘Yeah,’ he grunted, looking at the pistol in front of him on the table, its clip already loaded, ready for action.
‘I’ll be glad when it’s all over,’ said Vita for about the zillionth time.
‘Yeah,’ said Danny.
‘It’s been hard,’ said Vita. ‘And, let’s face it, you ain’t made it any easier.’
Why doesn’t she ever just shut the fuck up? wondered Danny.
‘You got to admit that’s the truth, Dan,’ she went on.
Danny imagined picking the pistol up, half turning in his seat, and blowing Vita’s tiny, troublesome pea brain straight out of that window over the sink. Now he remembered why he’d left home so early. Their mum had been a nag too. In fact, all the women in his family seemed to have a talent for mindless high-pitched chatter—except Una, who was so spaced out of her head most of the time that she said very little.
Jeanette was nearly unbearable, gabbling on yack-yack-yack all day and night. She might have a good body but, let’s face it, her brain was screwed.
His poor old dad. A nag for a wife, and three stupid daughters, and just the one son, the one boy he could rely on.
Danny sat there feeling good about himself, even though reliability had never been his strong suit. He didn’t know how his father had ever stood it, but then Dad had been in and out of the nick for most of his life, mercifully, and his stays at home had usually been brief. His father had died inside, heart attack. Well, that wasn’t going to happen to him, thought Danny. He was going to finish this one big job, then take the money and run as far and as fast as it would take him. Which was pretty fucking far, he believed.
