Black Widow (16 page)

‘I been looking after your kids all day, in case you ain’t noticed,’ Kath yelled after him. ‘I ain’t had time to think about cooking.’

Jimmy went upstairs. Even the bedrooms were stuffed with crap—bottles and sponges and spiders’ webs and dust balls. He went into their bedroom and straight over to the loose bit of carpet beside the window, yanking it back. He lifted the board and took the cash out and sat on the bed, wrinkling his nose at the dirty, mildewy smell of the sheets. He counted up the cash. Then he frowned. Then he counted again.

Jimmy stuffed the cash in his trouser pocket, replaced the board, and kicked the carpet back into place. He went downstairs, into the kitchen.

‘It’s not very fucking easy, you know, just stuck here all day with these two howling and screaming,’ Kath was whining loudly at him in her high-pitched and bloody irritating voice.

Jimmy didn’t pause in his pace. He hauled back and slapped her right across her fat chops, then gave her another one, then another.

Jimmy Junior started to shriek. The baby, knocked loose from the teat, joined in.
Happy fucking families
, thought Jimmy in rage. He gave Kath another slap and she cowered down in the seat, no longer giving him earache.

Well, that was good.

‘What is it?’ she screamed, trying to cover her head with her upraised arm. ‘What did I do?’

Jimmy hit her again. Blood flew, spattering over the dirty floor as his signet ring caught her brow.

Fucking fat useless cow
, thought Jimmy. The kids were going apeshit now.
How the fuck did I ever get tucked up with a slag like her?

Jimmy grabbed a handful of his wife’s hair and pulled her head back and yelled full in her face: ‘You been in my money?’

Kath’s face froze in fear and denial.

‘No! No, I—’

‘Don’t lie to me!’ He shook her head about, to emphasize his point. ‘That money ain’t yours, I keep telling you. You don’t touch it. It belongs to the firm. Hear me? You. Don’t. Touch. It. Ever.’

Kath tried to nod, tears and blood running down her face.

Jimmy released her.

‘I just wanted to buy some nice bits for the kids,’ sobbed Kath.

‘You want bits for the kids, you ask
me.
You don’t go in there and help yourself, you got me?’

‘Yeah. Okay.’

She’d taken out five hundred pounds.
Five hundred pounds.
But then Annie Carter wouldn’t notice a damned thing, why was he worrying? And even if she did—and she wouldn’t, he was sure of that—then he could always say that it had been Kath, the silly cow, and Kath was her family; she wouldn’t begrudge the kids a few bits, now would she?

Had Jonjo been here, it would have been a very
different picture. Jonjo would have noticed straight away and there would have been hell to pay. And Max always kept a tight eye on the books, too. Rob Max, and you’d only ever do it the once.

But that was then, and this was now. Max and Jonjo were history.

She won’t notice
, he thought, and started to relax a bit.

‘Right,’ he said, feeling calmer. ‘Stick a steak on, and I’ll have some chips with it.’

Kath nodded tearfully.

The kids kept right on shrieking.

‘And for Christ’s sake shut them
up
, will you?’ he roared.

Jimmy shook his head in disgust. Kath wanted shagging with the rough end of a pineapple, the lazy, ugly mare.
He
certainly wasn’t going to shag her, that was for sure. He went to the fridge. He took out a beer and got the bottle opener from the drawer and went into the front room, kicking the door shut behind him. He turned on the telly to drown out all the noise.

Happy fucking families!

It would all be okay.

Annie Carter wouldn’t notice.

After all, she hadn’t noticed what he’d already milked from the clubs.

They’d gone to the villa up near Deia, looked at the wreckage of the pool house, stood around by the pool, just soaking it up, taking it all in. First, they stopped in at the little villa by the gate to see what was inside.

‘Phew,’ said the one in charge, a big friendly-looking bear of a man. He put his hand over his nose and mouth as he stood in the bedroom door. ‘Not pretty, uh?’

His colleagues agreed that no, this was not a pretty sight.

They went off down to Palma.

The word had gone out.

There had been a kidnapping at a Majorcan villa, three people or possibly four involved. Maybe two, three men and one who might or might not be a woman, who the fuck knew just yet?

But they were going to find out.

People were doing door-to-door in Sóller and Manacor and Felanitx and in Palma, covering all the bases. Questions were asked and leads were pursued and sometimes—just occasionally—they got a result.

Marietta and Julio Degas were lying peacefully upstairs in bed one night when someone broke their front door down. Suddenly chaos filled the house as men surged up the stairs, big hooded men with knives and machetes.

Marietta screamed,
‘Madre de Dios!’

Julio started up, and was shoved back down on to the bed. The men switched the light on; it glared harshly on the bemused couple. They blinked, trembled, stared. Wondered what the hell was going to happen to them.

‘Money? You want money?’ asked Julio in hasty Castilian Spanish. ‘It’s in the drawer over there, right there.’

No one made a move toward the drawer. Five masked men stared down at the trembling couple on the bed.

‘You been renting out the place next door?’ asked one of them in English, and instantly the one beside him translated.

Julio hesitated. The angry blond Englishman had told him not to say a word about their transaction, had said that they wanted only to be private
and not be bothered by anyone, so he was not to discuss the fact that they were there, not with anyone. He had paid handsomely, too. Julio was a man of honour, and he had given his word.

One of the men moved forward and clubbed him around the ear with the handle of the machete. Marietta screamed again, then started to sob. Julio cringed in pain as blood began to pour from his scalp.

‘Answer the fucking question,’ said one in English.

It was repeated in Spanish.

Julio answered. He told them about the two men, the woman.

‘A child? Was there a child, a little girl? Dark hair, green eyes?’

They both shook their head. What name had the people given?

Philips.

Which meant nothing.

‘Describe these people,’ said the one in charge, and Julio did, in detail.

‘What about the child?’

No. No child. Neither of them had seen a child, what were they talking about, a child? And anyway the people were gone, they’d paid for a fortnight and they’d left at night, not saying where they were going. The big one, the dark one, he was a nice quiet man and he called in and paid them.
The blond man was not so nice. Nervy. Aggressive. And the blonde woman never spoke, she seemed afraid to.

‘You’ve no idea where they’ve gone?’

Both of them shook their head fearfully.

‘Fuck it,’ said the one who spoke in English.

‘The nice one asked who to see about a boat,’ said Marietta suddenly in faltering English. He
had
been nice, the dark-haired one; he always thanked her politely for the food and drink she delivered to them every morning.

The men listened. But no child, they asked again. You’re sure, no child?

The couple in the bed shook their heads.

No. They’d just moved in and then out again with their luggage. Big bags, nothing else.

Big bags.

The men looked at each other.

How big? they asked.

Very big bags.

The men piled back down the stairs and out through the front door and away. Marietta started sobbing with relief. Julio was bleeding like a pig. They clung to each other. Julio’s eyes strayed over to the drawer. Marietta’s followed. The men hadn’t even touched the money.

Vita was getting worried. They were in a little terraced house now down by the Albert Docks. No one knew who they were and no one gave a fuck. Danny had told her this, before going out and not saying where he was going. Phil had gone out too, saying he was going mad cooped up in here all the time, and now, wouldn’t you fucking well
know
it, the girl had come out of her drug-induced stupor. At first she’d whimpered but now she was crying. Loudly.

For fuck’s sake.

Danny just never seemed to get that dose right.

Vita ignored it for as long as she could. They’d put the girl in the smaller of the two bedrooms. Danny had taken the other one, and Phil had slept on the sofa downstairs, and Vita was supposed to sleep in with the girl, make sure she was okay.

Which was not at all okay with Vita.

‘You don’t like it, tough,’ said Danny, and that should have been the end of
that
debate.

But Vita had whined on about it, so eventually it was agreed that Vita would sleep in Danny’s room on the floor, in their one dirty old sleeping bag, while Danny took the bed.

Vita could live with that. Anything to avoid being alone with the girl.

Vita felt sick about the whole thing now. It was creasing her up to even look at the girl during the day; if she had to spend the night in there with her she’d go berserk.

She wanted out, but she didn’t dare say so to Danny. Danny was fully committed to this gig now. He’d done Max Carter and Jonjo Carter too, and the hired help up at the little villa by the gate, and he’d cut up the girl just a bit, make her doting mama pay up and not give him any more lip.

Annie Carter was their cash cow. Danny had explained that very carefully to his sister. The cash cow was the one who would pay them any amount of money he cared to mention, just to get the kid back.

Because Annie Carter was the cash cow, because they
knew
the Carters were rolling in loot—shit, they owned half the East End—Danny had gone in hard with half a mill, but then the silly cash cow had quibbled and he’d had to cut the girl. Her fault, not his.

Vita didn’t like to think about that. But Layla’s wound—she thought of it as Layla’s wound but it was really Layla’s
disfigurement
, who was she kidding?—was healing well, she was getting no pain with it. Vita was always careful to change the bandages, keep the…the
stump
clean, and it all looked okay. Hideous, but okay. Only the girl sat there and looked at her as if she was a monster every time she went near her.

And maybe that’s what she was, going along with a thing like this. A monster.

It must be frightening for the kid, all these people around her with their faces covered up. You had to feel sorry for the little girl: it wasn’t her fault she was in this predicament. Not Vita’s fault, either, really. All Danny’s idea, as usual. She’d gone along with it, her big brother, of course she had. Danny was usually right about everything, anyway.

But this time—for the first time ever—Vita wondered about that.

She put her hood on and went upstairs. Phil had fitted a bolt on the outside of the bedroom door, and Vita slid it back and went into the small bedroom. Layla was sitting up on the edge of the bed, kicking her feet and crying.

‘Hey babes, what’s up?’ asked Vita, going over to her and sitting down.

‘I want Mummy.’

‘She’s busy right now.’ Christ, hadn’t she said
this a thousand times? When would the kid shut up about her fucking mummy? ‘Soon you’ll be back with her.’

‘When?’

‘Very soon. You hungry, peanut?’

Layla bit her lip. There were tears and snot all over her face. She nodded. ‘I don’t like it here,’ she whined.

Me neither kid
, thought Vita.

Layla looked up at the hooded face.

‘Your eyes are blue,’ she said.

Vita quickly stood up.

Oh great
, she thought.
She’s seen my face and now she even knows what colour my eyes are. Wonderful!

And how come it was always her who had to fetch and carry for the kid, while the two men just sat around downstairs reading papers and drinking beer? How come when
she’d
gone walkabout in Palma there’d been a riot, but when they went out—like now—she was expected to say nothing and just sit here, as usual, clutching the shitty end of the stick?

She left Layla and went downstairs to the kitchen. She got out a tin of beans and the can-opener and again the gun caught her eye just lying there on the kitchen table. Why’d Danny leave the damned thing lying about like that, in full view? She looked at it. Thought again about Layla seeing
her face in the hen house, and now commenting on the colour of her eyes. She turned away from the gun and opened the cupboard to find a pot for the beans, and then the front door opened and something small shot past the corner of her eye and a man said ‘Hey!’ very loudly, and a child screamed.

Really
screamed.

Vita ran out into the hallway and found Danny there with Layla squirming and kicking in his arms, his hand over her mouth, his eyes blazing with fury as he rounded on Vita.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ he roared. ‘What the fuck you doing, you stupid bitch? She nearly ran straight past me.’

The bolt
, thought Vita.
Forgot to shoot the damned bolt on the bedroom door.

‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ she gabbled.

‘
Sorry?
For fuck’s sake, will you get a hold of yourself? We nearly lost her then, what are you, crazy?’

Maybe she was crazy. Vita felt that she was going seriously
mental
with the stress of all this.

‘It’s all right, she didn’t get out, no one saw her, no harm done,’ she said hurriedly.

‘She screamed the bloody place down.’

‘Yeah, but there’s no one about. It’s okay.’

But Danny was not to be appeased.

‘We’ll move on tonight,’ he said, and carried
Layla back up the stairs. ‘Can’t take any chances. Next time make sure you
bolt the fucking door
, okay?’ he shouted down at her.

‘Okay,’ said Vita faintly, thinking that the kid had seen Danny’s face too now, and that things were not looking at all good for Layla.

Oh Jesus, she really wanted
out
of this.