Ruthless (17 page)

‘You did
what?
’

‘I told Dolly.’

Annie sipped her tea, trying to put a lid on her anger and the panic welling inside her. She glanced at Layla’s hand, at the missing finger. Annie would never forget the despair she’d felt when her baby girl was taken from her, the horror when the kidnappers delivered her child’s finger in a box. She had done things then she hadn’t believed she was even capable of; there was
nothing
she wouldn’t have done to get her baby back. And now someone had targeted her daughter again. That bastard who tried to grab her could have been Redmond. If he’d succeeded . . .

‘You told Dolly and she didn’t tell
me
?’ said Annie.

‘She wanted to tell Steve.’ Layla threw the toast down on to the plate. She glared at her mother. ‘Look, I’m not used to all this, I can’t even think straight! But this is what you do, isn’t it?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning all
this
: lurking in shadows, getting rid of bodies in the middle of the night. I don’t know about any of this, I don’t
want
to.’

Annie was still thinking about Dolly. ‘So how come Dolly didn’t tell Steve about this bloke in the park?’

‘I made her promise not to. I didn’t want to
start
anything.’ Layla eyed her mother in something approaching disgust.

All her life she’d fought against being part of that world. Her mother, the Mafia queen. Her father, the gangland boss. Layla was proud
not
to be a part of that. The incident in the park had seriously rattled her. It was a reminder that the shadowy world she had resisted for so long was merely a footstep away. Her first instinct had been denial, to pretend it never happened. The last thing she’d wanted was to stir up a hornet’s nest by raising the alarm.

‘There was something else,’ she said at last. ‘Something weird. When I went out to pick up my trainer, there was a little paper shamrock in it.’

Annie hitched in a breath.
A shamrock?
She stared at Layla. No use ranting and raving. She could see that Layla was upset enough as it was. But she was going to have to do something about this, and quick.

‘You know, like a four-leaf clover? Do you think there could be a connection between that and Orla breaking in here?’ Layla asked. She was peering at the buttered toast as if it was going to rear up and bite her.

‘It’s possible,’ said Annie. Orla and a shamrock – oh, there was a connection, no doubt about it.

‘What should we do?’

‘You have to go into work?’

Layla nodded.

‘Phone in sick.’

‘I can’t do that.’

You bloody well can. Until I find out what’s going on here, we’re not taking any chances.’

‘But—’

‘That’s not a suggestion, Layla. That’s an order.’

Layla drank her tea and said nothing. Much as she resented her mother barking out commands, after what happened last night she was – grudgingly – glad to have her here, taking charge.

Annie stood up.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Layla.

‘This and that,’ said Annie, heading for the door.

‘And what does
that
mean?’ demanded Layla.

‘What it says,’ said Annie. ‘Stay here. No running around the park or anything like that.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘Good. Use the gym in the basement if you want. And there’s the outside pool. Steve’s left one of the boys on the door, his name’s Bri. You’ll be quite safe here.’

‘You’re saying I can’t go out?’

‘I’m saying it’s wisest not to. Seriously, Layla: stay inside. I’ll be back in about an hour.’

38

By dawn Rufus was climbing the walls of the rented flat in Islington with anxiety. Orla should have been back hours ago. The previous night she had gone to bed still angry with him. Given the mood she was in, he’d sensed that sharing a bed was out of the question, so he’d gone to sleep on the couch. At one o’clock he’d woken to find her all dressed up in black like a ninja, fired up with excitement about what she was about to do.

‘I should come with you,’ he’d said, worried for her.

‘No!’ she’d been adamant. ‘Keep away, Rufus. I don’t want your help, not with this. We stick to the plan, this time. No deviations.’

He nodded. He wasn’t happy, but this was her quest, not his.

‘If anything goes wrong, anything out of the ordinary happens, we meet back at the farm. OK?’

He wanted to kiss her, but knowing it would not be welcomed he merely nodded.

‘I’ll be back by six. If I’m not, stick to the plan.’

‘I’ll say a prayer for you,’ he said.

‘Don’t bother,’ sniffed his beloved. ‘I don’t need your prayers. Say one for
her,
she’s the one who’ll need it.’

But now it was seven the following morning and Orla hadn’t returned.

Her orders had been crystal clear:
If I anything goes wrong, we meet up back at the farm
. But he couldn’t just go back to Ireland, not if it meant abandoning her. He
loved
her. Anything could have happened.

He got dressed, not bothering with breakfast, stuffed his gear into a backpack – safer than leaving it here in the flat – and went out and hailed a taxi to take him to Holland Park. Having paid the driver, he loitered at the end of the square. He could see the house where he’d almost caught the girl. The place was quiet, no signs of life. His car, the one Orla had taken the previous night, was parked a few doors down. It was a Fiat, bought cheaply off an East End car lot a couple of weeks ago. He strolled towards it, glancing in as he drew level. It was empty, the keys still in the ignition. He took off his backpack and carefully placed it on the front passenger seat, then got behind the wheel and closed the door, his mind in turmoil, his eyes glued to the dark blue doors of the house.

Where could Orla have got to?

Follow the plan, she’d told him. Meet up back at the farm.

But she hadn’t come home to their tatty little rented flat. And the car was here, keys in the ignition. She must have done it, though. When Orla set her mind to anything – and this in particular – for certain, it would be done.

He thought of Rory then, mouldering in an early grave, and shuddered.

Still undecided, he sat in the car, weighing his options.

She’d be angry if he stormed in there, went looking for her.

No, he couldn’t do that. He’d . . .

And that’s when he saw Annie Carter, alive and well, exit the house, stride down the steps and across to a black Mercedes. She got in and drove away.

He was so taken aback that for a moment he was unable to think. Then he gunned the engine, and followed.

Layla remained sitting at the breakfast table, too numb to move, as her mother left the room and closed the door. She heard Annie’s rapid footsteps going off across the hall.

The house settled around her, silent, waiting. Rosa was downstairs but that wasn’t much comfort. Annie had questioned the old housekeeper before breakfast, and Rosa had sworn she’d set the alarm last night, same as she always did. A swift examination by Bri, the man now on the door, of the outside of the house revealed that the wires to the alarm had been cut and the lock on the basement window forced. Orla had climbed in through there, made her way to the ground floor and up the stairs.

Feeling like a prisoner in her own home, Layla went into the study and sat down at the desk, chewing her lip nervously. Shivers of dread and horror still coursed through her body every time her mind went back to last night, to what had happened.

Someone had come to kill her mother
.

She couldn’t absorb it, no matter how she tried. Worse still,
she
had killed the woman, never intending to – of
course
not. Nonetheless, she had shot the woman dead.

But she was carrying a knife. A knife she’d intended using on Annie Carter
.

Annie Carter . . . Her mother hadn’t reverted to her maiden name after the divorce. She’d claimed that Bailey didn’t suit her, she hated the name, it conjured up bad memories. So she’d remained Annie Carter.

Maybe she still loves him a little?
wondered Layla.

She shrugged the thought aside. No. When her parents had been together, there’d been nothing but ferocious rows and ugly scenes.

Sitting in her mother’s study, she wondered where Annie had gone, what she was doing that was so urgent. Feeling sick to her stomach and cripplingly anxious, she picked up the phone, called the office. As she’d anticipated, it wasn’t well received. The work ethic at Bowdler and Etchingham was set in stone: illness was unacceptable.

She put the phone down and listened to the silence in the house. What had once seemed to her a comfortable home had changed overnight. The whole place now felt creepy, unsafe. Layla stared at the phone, trying to make her mind up. Finally she picked it up and made another call. This one was international.

39

Max Carter was lying in the hot sun on the terrace, wearing black Speedos and nothing else. He loved basking in the sun. It refuelled him, made him stronger. At teatime he would take a shower and dress for dinner, until then this was
his
time and he was all alone, blissfully alone at the villa with the sun warming his skin and no sound but the lap of the waves on the narrow crescent of white sandy beach.

He let his mind meander into freefall. He had a good life out here in Barbados. His villa was one of a select few situated on the west coast up near Prospect, away from the encroaching luxury hotel complexes, shaded by manchineel trees and palms. He passed his time easily, developing the odd property or two around the islands, doing a few deals, swimming off Prospect beach and target-shooting in his garden among the mango and breadfruit trees to keep his eye in.

He was living the Bajan dream of hot sands and turquoise-blue seas. And there were other diversions too, very pleasant diversions – like the women who sometimes shared his bed, but never his life. Nevertheless there were times – though he would never admit this to a living soul – when he woke up and
she
was there in his mind, even after all these years. That annoyed the hell out of him. Sex with other women shifted her image, but somehow it always returned. He’d even find himself reaching for her in the night before it hit him that she wasn’t there, that they were divorced, that she was involved with another man and living half a world away.

The fact that she was so far away was a
good
thing, he knew. Their fights, his suspicion of her, her defiance – they had caused each other nothing but pain. Jealousy had made him vicious, verbally attacking her: she had retreated into coldness, had become as responsive as a block of stone.

No, they were better apart.

This
was the life . . .

The peace was shattered by the ringing of the phone.

He got to his feet, his movements lithe and easy. With his deep tan and his muscular, compact body, his predatory hook of a nose set under black brows, his dark curling hair, he didn’t look English. ‘My little Italian’, his mother Queenie had always called him, though he was English to the core. Even his eyes were dark – a dense yet piercing navy blue.

He went into the shade of the villa, snatched up the phone in the hall.

‘Yeah?’ he demanded, dragging a hand through his hair in irritation.

That was when he heard Layla’s voice, high with tension. ‘Dad?’

Max Carter grew still. Irritation evaporated to be replaced by concern. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘God, it’s so awful . . .’ she said, a tremor in her voice as if she was trying not to cry.

‘Take your time. Tell me.’

She told him.

He couldn’t believe it.

Orla Delaney?

How the fuck had
that
happened?

40

Annie drove herself to the Palermo in her new Mercedes. The club was quiet at this time of day, the punters long gone. One of the cleaners, recognizing her face, opened the door for her. The interior was luscious, luxurious, and identical to the Blue Parrot and the Shalimar, her ex’s two other clubs. All three were popular with the glitterati and with the big City earners. There were matt tobacco-brown walls, gold angel frescoes, gilded chandeliers, deep cosy banquettes and overstuffed armchairs, all covered in the same striking soft faux tiger skin. There was a small stage and podiums where the girls danced, and over in the far corner to the right of the long blue-backlit bar was the VIP area and the rooms where private dances took place.

She made her way through a door to the left of the bar and up a flight of stairs. Hearing voices, she stuck her head around the dressing-room door. Delight and Marlena were in there, wearing their day clothes, smoking and chatting, all day to kill before they had to get set for the evening’s business.

‘Hi, Annie,’ said Delight, a tall voluptuous redhead with a broad toothy smile.

‘Dolly in?’

‘Yep, up in the office.’

‘Thanks.’

Rufus watched Annie Carter park the sleek black Mercedes and go into the Palermo. Rufus glanced at the backpack. Maybe Orla would be annoyed with him for not following instructions and heading back to the farm, but that was a chance he was prepared to take. Her anger would soon turn to joy if he could report that he had succeeded where she’d failed.

He tried to imagine the expression on her face when he told her the good news. It helped to suppress the doubts that were eating away at him. Ever since he found the Fiat sitting in the street with the keys in the ignition, he’d had a sick feeling in his gut. Why had Orla abandoned the car like that?

Rufus pushed the doubts aside, told himself to focus on the job in hand.

It was time he fixed Annie Carter for good.

Frankie Day was a forty-two-year-old junkie who spent his days picking over the detritus of other people’s lives and usually coming up empty. He’d been on the streets for months, having been chucked out of the squat by his mates, who weren’t exactly
princes
but were picky enough to know they didn’t want to share their grand abode with filthy Frankie and his gross personal habits for one minute longer.