Black Widow (10 page)

Jimmy Bond had been as good as his word and delivered the accounts books to Annie. Now all she had to do was try and read and understand them, and she’d never kept legitimate accounts in her life.

Annie knew she had a choice. She could sit around and wait, or she could keep busy and stop herself going crazy. No contest. Later that afternoon she snatched the books off Dolly’s dressing table, put on her coat, and told Dolly she was off out. She hesitated and then left the gun in Dolly’s top drawer.

She’d brought it all through Customs with her, expecting to be stopped, searched, banged up, but no: they’d let her through, and she was glad. Having Max’s gun made her feel a little better, a little safer. She told Dolly the gun was there, and Dolly nodded as if this was an everyday occurrence.

‘Where are you off to?’ asked Dolly. ‘In case that bastard phones unexpectedly.’

‘To the clubs. And Max’s mum’s old place.’ To search for Max’s stash of money. He had to have one somewhere, and she was determined to find it.

‘Okay.’

Outside, Tony was reading the paper while sitting patiently behind the wheel. She tapped his window. He wound it down and looked at her without expression.

‘We’re going to the clubs, Tony. Palermo first.’

Annie got in the back and put the accounts beside her on the seat. She settled back. Tony hadn’t started the engine. His eyes were watching her in the rear-view mirror.

‘Problem?’ she asked.

‘You’ve got a plaster over your eyebrow,’ said Tony.

‘Ten out of ten for observation.’

‘Anyone giving you grief, Mrs Carter?’

Annie held his gaze. ‘Fell down the stairs, Tony.’

Tony watched her a moment longer, then he reached over to the glove compartment. He drew out a small cylindrical black item and handed it back to her.

Annie looked at it, mystified.

‘You just flick it out. It’s a martial arts weapon. It’s called a kiyoga,’ said Tony.

Annie gave the thing a hefty flick. A spring
appeared, and a steel ball.
Jesus
, she thought.
Whack someone with that, you could kill them.

‘In case you fall down any more stairs,’ said Tony.

Annie nodded and looked at the kiyoga. ‘Um,’ she said.

‘Tap the steel ball on a hard surface to close it up again,’ said Tony helpfully.

Annie leaned over and tapped the thing on the floor. The spring and the steel ball vanished back inside the thin black tube. Annie straightened and put the lethal little thing in her coat pocket.

‘Thanks Tony,’ she said.

Tony looked awkward.

‘Mr Carter’s always been very good to me,’ he said, and started the engine.

‘Let’s call in at Jimmy’s place first,’ said Annie decisively. ‘Time I caught up with our Kath.’

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Kath asked Annie when she opened her front door and found her cousin standing there.

‘Just catching up with family,’ said Annie, recognizing Kath more by her voice and her bright flinty brown eyes than by any other feature.

She looked beyond Kath and the whining toddler clinging to her leg. The hallway was dusty, dirty, and cluttered. Filth on the carpet, toys and prams littering the hall. A radio was blaring out ‘Love
Grows’ by Edison Lighthouse somewhere in there, and a baby was crying. Bedlam.

And the state of Kath. Christ, she’d never been a treat to look at but at least she used to make an effort. Annie had never seen anyone change so much in such a short space of time. Kath had never been a beauty, but she’d made the effort, taken trouble with her appearance, and somehow she’d looked good.

Now she looked
bad.

She’d piled on the weight. Her hair was short now and showing grey at the roots, styled into an unflattering old-lady perm that aged her a good fifteen years. She wore loose dark slacks and a shapeless T-shirt.

Poor bloody Jimmy Bond. And what had Annie said to him?
You ought to keep your house in-order.
Where the hell would the poor bastard start in this tip? Well, no one had ever thought Jimmy married Kath for her looks. Maybe for her sparkling personality?

‘I suppose you’d better come the fuck in, now you’re here,’ grunted Kath, turning away from the door to display an arse the size of a small continent.

Maybe not for the sparkling personality, then. Annie trailed in after Kath unwillingly, wondering what fresh domestic disaster she was going to discover.

She soon found out. In the kitchen, the breakfast dishes were still all over the table. There were dirty nappies on chairs. The draining board and sink were stacked high with filthy plates. There was a child bawling its head off in a pram by the back door. Annie leaned over to look at the crying infant and the stink of urine and faeces stung her nose. She touched the baby’s bedding and found it wet. Christ, it was soaking. There ought to have been a sodding rainbow over the end of the pram.

‘This kid’s wet through,’ she told Kath.

‘I’ll change her in a minute,’ said Kath, shaking out a ciggie from the packet on the table and groping around for matches.

It didn’t seem to be bothering Kath in the least, but the baby’s wailing was grating on Annie. She took off her coat and picked up the little girl.

‘Where do you keep the clean nappies?’ she asked Kath, clearing a space on the table and laying the baby on it.

Now the toddler was joining in with the baby’s crying. And Kath was still rummaging around for matches.

‘Kath!’ said Annie sharply.

Kath stopped rummaging and looked at her.

‘Fuck the matches—get a clean nappy. Now.’

‘Christ, you don’t change,’ said Kath huffily, but she went off to the airing cupboard and—miracle of miracles—emerged with a clean, warm
nappy in her hand. Annie pulled off the plastic pants and unfastened the dirty nappy and took it over to the plastic pail by the back door, dunking it in with a grimace of distaste. It was obvious that the poor kid had been lying there like that for hours; no wonder it was screaming the place down.

She turned to see that Kath had shifted herself at last and was desultorily washing her daughter down. Kath dried her, smiling down at the child and making goo-goo noises. Annie handed her the clean nappy and the safety pins. Kath applied talcum powder and then put the clean nappy on the quietening little girl. Better late than never, thought Annie grimly.

She went and looked at the pram. Everything in there was wet and stinking, but it was a fine windy day and things would quickly dry. So she went over to the sink and cleared it, put the plug in, and found a packet of Omo in the cupboard. She ran in hot water and then put the pram’s bedding, all of it including the pillow, into the hot soapy water.

‘Christ, I never thought you’d turn out to be so domestic,’ said Kath, who was now sitting down at the table with the baby rooting away at her breast under her T-shirt. The toddler had stopped whining and was squatting in the far corner on the floor, slapping watercolours on to a sheet of paper.

‘This place is disgusting,’ said Annie.

Just as well Kath’s mother Maureen—Annie’s aunt and her mother Connie’s sister—had passed over. She had been faultlessly neat about her person and her house. To see her daughter living like this would be a bitter disappointment to her.

‘Listen, don’t you come around here telling
me
what to do,’ said Kath. ‘You might be able to boss Jimmy around because he’s scared of Max bloody Carter, but it don’t wash with me.’

So Jimmy had been as good as his word; he hadn’t told Kath what had happened to Max. Annie breathed a sigh of relief.

‘What’s your name?’ Annie asked the toddler, who was now swooshing his paintbrush around in a glass of water. He didn’t answer, just got back to his paints.

That noise
, thought Annie.

‘That’s Jimmy Junior,’ said Kath with a hint of pride. ‘Looks like his dad, don’t he?’

The toddler had Jimmy’s pale brown hair and vivid blue eyes, it was true. Lucky kid, he looked nothing like Kath at all.

‘And this one?’

‘This is Maureen, named after Mum,’ said Kath with a glimmer of tears. ‘Mum passed away last July, and I had Little Mo in August. It seemed fitting to call her after Mum.’

‘Yeah. She’s lovely,’ said Annie.

Dolly had told her all about that. Annie had heard the news of Maureen’s death with real sadness and had phoned Kath immediately. Kath had put the phone down on her, so she sent flowers, feeling that she should do more, but knowing that her efforts would not be appreciated. Annie was looking at Jimmy Junior, painting. He dunked his brush in the water again, swooshed it around. Again, the noise. The familiar noise.

The baby had blue eyes and silky light-brown hair too. Lucky baby. Kath fished her out from under the voluminous T-shirt and put the baby on her shoulder to burp her. Mo let out a massive burp and a fart for good measure. Annie’s eyes met Kath’s, and for a moment Kath was almost smiling at her; then she remembered herself and her face straightened out again.

‘So what did you come here for? Really?’ Kath demanded irritably.

‘I wondered how you were.’

‘As you can see, I’m bloody fine.’

Yeah sure
, thought Annie.
Everything running just like clockwork, I don’t think.

‘You look like you been in the wars,’ Kath said, her eyes on Annie’s face.

‘Fell down the stairs,’ said Annie.

‘You and Max split up, is that what’s really happened?’

Annie tensed. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Jimmy said you were taking over here and that Jonjo and Max were staying out in the Costas for a bit.’ Kath shrugged. ‘It just don’t seem to fit together, that’s all. I know Jonjo and what he’s like with women, and he’s been running the show here—well, mostly Jimmy has really. Seems unlike Max, that’s all. Handing over the reins like he has. Especially to a woman.’

‘Max is still in overall charge,’ said Annie, wishing this were true. ‘He wants me here running things for a while. The clubs, for instance. Things have got sloppy.’

‘Christ, I bet you’re in your element,’ sniffed Kath. ‘You always were a bossy cow, giving orders left, right, and centre, snatching your sister’s husband.’ She looked at Annie with a stern eye. ‘Oh yeah, I don’t forget. Some of us got long memories.’

‘Ruthie and I parted on good terms,’ said Annie.

‘Like fuck.’ Kath snorted. ‘She gave up and left the scene, that’s all, because she’s a nice woman and you’re not. It’s all about sex with you, Annie Bailey. You wanted Max Carter in bed, and nothing was going to stop you getting him between your legs.’

Annie stood up and put her coat on. ‘Has Ruthie been in touch with you?’ she asked Kath. She’d been daft to come here. What had she honestly expected, except abuse?

‘Sure she has,’ said Kath smugly.

Mo was starting up again with the howling. Not to be left out, Jimmy Junior was joining in.

‘Can I have her address?’

‘No you fucking well can’t.’

‘Her telephone number then?’

‘No. Now bugger off out of my house, Annie Carter.’

What else did I expect but this?
Annie wondered. She thought of Jimmy, always neatly turned out, taking pride in his appearance—and the walking shit-heap that was Kath. What would a man like Jimmy do, confronted with this house, this woman, day by day?

She thought she knew.

Annie left and climbed back into the Jag. Tony looked at her in the mirror.

‘Palermo, Tony. Please.’ She sat back and wearily closed her eyes.

Danny had a look of terrible violence about him and it frightened Vita. She had seen him like this before; there was no reasoning with him.

‘Well, what did she say?’ asked Vita, trying to calm him down.

They were in the kitchen of a shabby two-up two-down on the south coast of England and it was not like Majorca in any way. It was fucking cold for one thing, no central heating, no nothing, and she was shivering the whole time. Venture outside and the wind knocked you flat. The rain was vicious. Waves spumed over the nearby front. All she could do was peer out at grey skies and tossing seas from the upstairs window while she tried to distract herself with her painting-by-numbers.

Not that she was much distracted by it. Not when Danny was like this.

She watched him rifling in a drawer, looking for…
oh shit
…he pulled out a knife.

‘She’s not taking this seriously. Can you believe that bitch is trying to pretend she can’t raise that much money? Christ, Max Carter owns half the East End. No, I’ve got to send her something. Something to convince her I mean business.’

He had that demented look in his eye again.

Vita could feel the bile rising in her stomach, the fear squeezing her guts. She knew Danny had a dark side. Look at what he’d done to the Majorcan couple. Even as a kid he’d been crazy. At eight years old he had strangled his pet rabbit, killed it, and laughed when she ran off crying.

Phil Fibbert, sitting at the kitchen table, was sipping tea and watching all this going on. His eye caught Vita’s. She gave him a look that said:
Listen, can’t you do something? Help me out here? Calm him down?

Phil carried on placidly sipping his tea and buried his head in the paper he was pretending to read. He had already decided that Danny Byrne was mad as a box of frogs. And there was no way he was going to try reasoning with him when he had a fucking great knife in his hand.

‘What you going to do?’ Vita asked Danny.

‘Send the bitch a little souvenir,’ he said, and went to the cellar door. He threw it open, flicked on the light at the top of the stairs, and hurried off
down to where Layla passed her drugged-up days on a little put-you-up folding bed.

Phil looked up and his eyes met Vita’s again.

Then he went back to the paper, and his tea.

Shuddering, Vita left the room. She edged past the open cellar door and went back upstairs. She didn’t want to hear or see what was happening.

Arnie McFay had been having a good night down at his local snooker hall: he was on a roll and feeling fine. Out with his mates. Having a laugh and a few pints. Everything was good. Stripping off his black leather bomber jacket with ARNIE picked out in studs on the back, he prepared to win a few frames and then the game, pocket the dosh, and roll on home to the old lady.

‘That fucking peacock Arnie,’ his friends always laughed.

Arnie was a character: everyone said so. He was dark and good looking and prone to being pursued by short-skirted dollies wearing tight tops, white heels, and love bites. One slapper had chased him all through Woolworth’s and her boyfriend had got a bit narked. Finally the boyfriend had tracked him down to this very place, where he was propping up the bar with his pals and had said: ‘Are you Arnie?’

‘Me? No,’ said Arnie—with his fucking name picked out in studs on the back of his jacket.

Oh, how his mates had laughed.

Before the skin and hair started flying, that was.

But that had been before the Carter mob moved in and kept the peace, squashing such incidents before they even started. Lolly Dean the owner now paid a good wodge over every week, and this was a decent place. Fights were a dim memory. Dim like Arnie, his friends joshed him.

The trouble with Arnie was he always bent the rules. Couldn’t resist it. Loved to throw the dice in the air and see how they fell. Loved to take risks. Loved to live on the edge.

So tonight he was on a roll, a real diamond of a roll. He was playing this dickhead from across town who couldn’t use a cue to save his life, so why not make things a little more interesting? He laid down fifty quid and so did Dickhead.

Only maybe the man wasn’t such a dickhead after all.

Because suddenly Dickhead’s form seemed to come good; he was potting them all over the place and Arnie was standing there with his mouth open, catching flies. His mates were wincing and smirking. Poor Arnie, he’d fallen for one of the oldest scams in the book. You played like a two year old, let the other boys see what a complete cunt you were at the game, and you waited for
them to take the bait. Then you turned out to be county champion.

Arnie had swallowed the bait whole. Had invited Dickhead to play a game, and what about a wager on the side?

Dickhead had reluctantly agreed.

And Arnie had been neatly stitched up.

He felt the anger burn him as his mates stood at the bar, snorting with laughter into their pints at what an arsehole he’d been made to look. All Dickhead’s mates were sniggering down the other end and Dickhead was potting the black. He’d wiped the table with Arnie.

‘Nice,’ said Dickhead, his hand reaching for the hundred-quid prize.

But Arnie whipped out his cue and rapped Dickhead’s knuckles.

‘Nah, that’s not fair. Best of three. Let’s say best of three,’ said Arnie.

All his mates held their breath.

‘I’ve had enough excitement for one night.’ Dickhead pushed the cue aside. ‘One game was the deal, and one game we had.’

‘I still think we ought to do best of three,’ persisted Arnie. His face was smiling but his eyes were cold. He didn’t like being made to look a prick.

‘Sorry,’ said Dickhead.

‘Never mind, Arnie, come and have a pint,’ said
Col, one of Arnie’s mates, feeling nervous on his pal’s behalf.

Not that there would be any trouble. The Carter boys were sitting in the corner…or they had been. Col straightened, feeling a little twinge of unease. He looked up and down the bar but all he could see was that gawky mare Deirdre polishing glasses behind the bar and eyeing the punters. Deirdre was a lovely girl but no looker. She was tall with big feet that played her up so she had to wear orthopaedic shoes.

‘Christ,’ he’d teased her on more than one occasion, ‘with feet that size you’d be better off wearing the fucking shoe boxes.’

Oh yes, how they’d laughed at
that
one. But nothing seemed very funny right now. No Lolly, no Carter boys. Nothing, in fact, between silly Arnie and a good kicking, because he was in the wrong, as usual, but the dopy cunt was still pushing his luck all the way.

Col was looking at Deirdre, whose face was suddenly rigid with horror. Behind her in the bar mirror he saw the chair coming, and ducked. The chair crashed into the mirror and knocked half a ton of bottles about like skittles. The noise was deafening. Col turned and saw Arnie on the floor, with Dickhead using Arnie’s stomach for football practice.

Silly bastard
, thought Col.

All Dickhead’s mates had gathered around to cheer Dickhead on.

Col looked down at Arnie as Dickhead transferred his attention to Arnie’s head. It was too late for Arnie, but Col gave his mates the nod and they waded in. Right or wrong, a mate was a mate, after all.

But where the fuck were the Carter boys?

Deirdre was screaming her stupid head off and yanking down the metal grilles over the bar. The other punters were scattering for the door. As Col doled out a punch to someone’s chin, he saw the club doors swing open and spotted Greg, one of the Carter boys, getting it in the neck even worse out there in the car park than they were in here. There was a big gang at work here tonight. He realized that as he lay on the floor next to what remained of Arnie.

Silly bastard
, he thought again, and then Col passed out.