Ruthless (21 page)

Because I didn’t want to speak to you or see you or even know you’re breathing,
she thought.
Because it hurts.

She wasn’t about to tell him
that.

Aloud, she said: ‘By that time, Layla had already told me she’d been in touch with you. I knew you’d show up.’

‘And you’re delighted to see me, I can tell.’

‘Oh yeah. Ecstatic.’ Annie smiled sourly.

‘I took a ten-hour flight to get here.’

‘Yeah. In first class. With air hostesses dropping their phone numbers “accidentally” in your lap, I’ll bet. That must have been rough on you.’

‘Is there anything else I should know about?’

‘Not much. Unless you count the paper shamrock that was left in Layla’s trainer. And unless you count someone bombing my car.’

‘You what?’

‘My car was blown up. But hey – bonus – I wasn’t in it at the time.
Someone
was, though. Or at least they were near enough to get blown apart.’

Max was silent for a moment. Then he said: ‘What the fuck have you been up to?’

Annie sank back in her chair with a sigh. ‘Anything kicks off and it has to be
my
fault?’ She shook her head and stared at him. ‘You don’t change.’

He stood up. ‘Look, I came back to see that Layla’s all right. So where is she?’

‘At Ellie’s place,’ said Annie. ‘Locked up tight.’

‘I’d better get over there.’

‘Yeah you’d better, hadn’t you,’ said Annie, and picked up the phone.

He went to the door. Paused there.

Annie looked at him. She just wanted him to go, before she lost it completely and flung a heavy object at his smug face. ‘What?’ she asked.

‘I’m glad you’re OK,’ he said, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Annie sat there staring at the door in mute surprise. Then she shook herself and dialled her sister’s number.

‘Hello?’ It was Ruthie, picking up at her house in Richmond.

The sound of Ruthie’s voice calmed her a little. Her older sister was everything she was not. Ruthie was gentle, considerate, caring. She would have made a wonderful mother for Layla. So much more suitable than Annie was or could ever be.

‘Hi, Sis, it’s me,’ said Annie.

‘Annie. You OK?’

Hearing the smile in Ruthie’s voice, she hesitated. She hated to have to do this. Ruthie had her nice safe life. She was a dental receptionist, she had a nice home, she was straight. She was also single, and Annie was convinced that she liked it that way.

‘Not so good,’ said Annie, swallowing hard.

‘What is it?’ Ruthie’s voice was immediately anxious.

‘Max is back.’

‘Oh?’ Ruthie was silent for a moment. ‘That doesn’t bother you, does it? I mean . . . it’s
over
between you, isn’t it? Has been for . . . oh, how long is it?’

‘Eight years.’
And he can still rile me like no one else. I’m sitting here shaking like an over-excited teenager just because he’s been in this room.

‘That’s right. A long time.’

‘Yeah, but . . . thing is, Ruthie, Layla called him because we’ve had some trouble.’

‘Trouble? What sort of trouble?’

Annie told her. And then she suggested it might be a good idea if Ruthie were to take herself off somewhere for a while.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me,’ said Ruthie.

‘There is. It’s about the woman who was shot,’ said Annie. She hadn’t told Ruthie, not even Ruthie, that Layla had fired the gun.

‘You didn’t
know
her, did you?’ asked Ruthie anxiously.

‘I did. Ruthie, it’s really weird. I thought she was dead, years ago.’

‘Who?’

‘Orla Delaney.’

Ruthie was silent.

‘Ruthie?’

‘I’ll pack a bag,’ she said, and hung up the phone.

48

Layla was in the kitchen above the Shalimar. It was eight o’clock and the club was starting to come to life, the staff busying themselves putting the champagne on ice and making sure everything was looking glamorous for the punters. Meanwhile Layla was pouring hot water on to a pot of noodles. She really didn’t think she could eat anything, not after all that had happened. But she had to try.

‘Jesus, that looks grim,’ said a voice behind her.

Layla stopped pouring. She turned to find a vision standing in the doorway. The woman was about the same age as her, but she might as well have been a totally different species. She was tall – taller than Layla herself, and voluptuously built. She was wearing an emerald-green silk evening gown that showed off a terrific pair of breasts. Her hair was big too, tumbling down her back and shoulders in a rich dark cascade. Her face was pale, long, her lips pouty and accentuated with scarlet. Her brows were straight dark lines above huge black-lashed eyes of a strikingly clear light grey.

‘Hi,’ the creature announced herself. ‘I’m Precious.’

‘You’re
what
?’ Layla was half-smiling at the absurdity.

‘Precious.’ The girl was smiling too, a huge megawatt grin. ‘Yeah, I know. We don’t use our real names here. You’ll meet China and Destiny too. And a couple of others. All called Jane or Margaret or something boring in real life. But this isn’t real life, is it?’

Layla blinked. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No, no. This is dreamland. This is where men come when they’re tired of what’s going on out there, and need to connect with fantasy.’

‘Can I get you something . . .?’ asked Layla, stirring her noodles, trying not to gawp.

‘No, it’s OK. Just having a herbal tea,’ said Precious, reaching up to one of the cupboards and taking down a packet. ‘That’s all I ever drink, apart from a sip of bubbly when the punters are in.’

‘Right.’ Layla carried on stirring, still staring.

‘Ellie said she had a guest staying,’ said Precious, putting the kettle back on.

‘Oh! I’m Layla,’ said Layla, belatedly.

‘Layla. That’s your
real
name? That’s pretty.’

‘That’s me. Layla Carter.’ Layla took up a fork, leaned against the worktop and determinedly started in on her evening meal. ‘What’s
your
real name?’ she asked, curious.

Precious held up a manicured finger. ‘House rules. We don’t use those here.’

‘Oh.’ Layla felt rebuffed. And wrong-footed, somehow. Not only that, she felt
plain.
She didn’t wear make-up, she never had. Her fingernails were short and unpolished, and her hands were covered in paper cuts. And here was this
apparition,
so beautiful and bedecked in bright jewel colours, like a celestial being.

Precious poured boiling water on to her camomile tea. Her movements were delicate, very feminine. Layla watched her. She was almost mesmerized. She’d never even been inside one of her dad’s clubs before, in fact she’d avoided them. They were all part of that dodgy underworld her parents seemed to operate so comfortably in. She’d certainly never seen or spoken to any of the girls who worked here.

‘Layla
Carter?
’ said Precious. ‘Hang on a minute. Are you Max Carter’s daughter? The Max Carter who owns these clubs?’

‘Guilty,’ said Layla. ‘So . . . you dance for money then.’

Precious turned to look at her; she was smiling. ‘Yep. It’s good, too. Well paid.’

But isn’t it embarrassing?
Layla wondered.
Writhing about half-naked with men watching you?

She couldn’t ask her that.

‘You enjoy doing it?’ she asked delicately.

‘I wouldn’t put it as strongly as that.’ She picked up her cup. ‘Look, I have to go. Catch up with you later, yeah?’

‘Yeah,’ said Layla, and Precious left the room, trailing a waft of Giorgio strong enough to stun a bull.

Layla stared at her half-eaten noodles. Again the image rose in her mind – Orla Delaney, lying dead at her feet, killed by her own hand. She’d never set eyes on a dead body before. Her stomach clenched queasily and sick bile rose in her throat. With a shudder, she slung the rest of her dinner in the bin.

‘Layla?’ Ellie bustled into the kitchen.

‘Hm?’ asked Layla, wondering if she was going to hurl.

‘Your dad’s here.’

‘Dad!’ Layla ran out into the hall and flung herself into her father’s arms.

‘It’s OK, I’m here,’ said Max, hugging her tight.

Suddenly all the fear and bewilderment she’d been holding in became too much for her and she started to cry. Max’s eyes met Ellie’s over Layla’s shoulder.

Taking the hint, Ellie heaved a sigh and left them to it. Sometimes, she found it hard to believe that soft-hearted Layla really was Annie Carter’s daughter – she was nothing like her.

‘It’s so awful,’ Layla was sobbing.

‘We’ll fix it,’ said Max. ‘Whatever it is.’

‘How?’ she wailed.

‘Where can we talk?’ asked Max, rubbing her back reassuringly.

‘Oh . . . in here,’ said Layla, and led him into her bedroom. Max followed her in and closed the door, leaned against it. Layla sat down on the bed.

‘Tell me all about it,’ he said.

Layla told him, leaving out nothing. The man pursuing her in the park. The intruder her mother believed to be Orla Delaney. The car bomb.

‘Mum could have been killed, you know. She was so brave and I was just . . .
useless.
She could be
dead
now,’ she said, dropping her head into her hands.

Her mind stalled, unable to comprehend such an outrage. All right, she couldn’t relate to her, but Mum had been a constant, solid presence in her life, and to think of her gone for ever – that was too terrible to contemplate.

‘Layla . . .’ Max came to the bed and sat down beside her. He gave her shoulder a tiny shake. ‘She wasn’t hurt. The main thing is, you’re both OK. And you’re safe here.’

‘Yeah.’ She might well be safe here, but . . . stupid as it might sound, what she felt right now was
hurt.
Rejected. Her mother had sent her away yet again. ‘I’ll lose my job if I don’t go in tomorrow,’ she said, wiping her eyes. ‘They’re laying people off, and if I don’t show up—’

‘Fuck the job,’ said Max. ‘Stay here. Just until we know what’s happening.’

‘What
is
happening?’ asked Layla in despair.

‘That’s what I’m going to find out,’ said Max.

49

DI Sandra Duggan was doing the door-to-door on shops and offices up and down the street where Annie Carter’s car had been done. She was getting nowhere in a hurry. Nobody knew a damned thing. Nobody had
seen
a damned thing. They looked at her, saw FUZZ writ large all over her, then she flashed the badge and they thought,
I don’t need this trouble.
So far everyone she’d spoken to might as well have been deaf, dumb and blind for all they’d told her.

She was tired. Her feet were aching. She was sick of looking at these people and seeing only lies and evasion staring back at her. Then she went into the charity shop and the girl behind the counter – who was tricked out in kohl eye make-up, sucking on a lollipop from a bristling potful of lollipops beside the till – said yes, she’d seen something.

Sandra nearly wept with gratitude.

‘What did you see?’

‘Who,’ said the girl. ‘
Who
did I see.’

‘Who then?’

‘I saw Frankie.’

‘Frankie?’

‘Frankie Day,’ smiled the girl. On her own at lunchtime, thank the Lord. No one with half a brain in here to shut her up.

Sandra wrote it down.
Frankie Day.

‘So you know him, do you? This Frankie Day?’

‘Everyone knows Frankie,’ said the girl, shifting the lollipop deftly to the other cheek with her tongue.

‘I don’t.’

The girl laughed as if this was extremely funny.

‘But
everyone
knows him. He’s always up and down this road, all the time.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Sandra.

The girl laughed and tossed the lollipop with her tongue again.

‘Doing what?’ Sandra persisted.

The girl winked. ‘Doing the . . . you know.’

‘No, I don’t. What?’

The girl made a gesture with her hand, swivelling the wrist.

‘Trying the car doors,’ she said with a sharp sigh and a roll of the eyes, as if Sandra was thick and should have known. ‘He passed by the front of the shop. Then I heard the bang. It blew out some of the windows, but this one –’ she nodded to the big plate-glass job at the front of the shop – ‘
this
one was OK. It moved in the frame, though. You know what I mean? And I went to the door to go out and see what had happened, but Martha – she’s the manager – she screamed at me not to touch it, because the whole thing was out of its frame, just hanging there. If I’d opened the door, it could have fallen out and cut me.’

‘And you didn’t see Frankie again, after that?’ asked Sandra.

‘He hasn’t been back.’ The girl frowned. ‘I don’t know why.’

Think I do,
thought Sandra. ‘Can you describe Frankie for me?’

The girl described Frankie, and Sandra made notes. ‘Can you remember anything else?’

‘A dark-haired woman dressed in black left the car that blew up,’ said the girl, her forehead knotted with concentration.

Annie Carter.

‘And then a big tall man, thick-set, with lots of this bright red hair, he went to the car and got in. I think he popped the lock. He sat in the driver’s seat with the door open. And when he’d left it, Frankie rolled by.’

‘And when the car blew up, you were standing here?’

‘No, I was over there. By the baby clothes.’

‘And you could see the car?’

‘Yeah. I saw the red-haired man sitting in the driver’s seat of the car after the woman with the long dark hair left it. He had the door open. Next thing I knew, he was gone, the car door was shut and that’s when I saw Frankie try the handle. Then I was walking back to the till, and boom! Up it went.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Tracey Esler.’

Sandra made a note of that and put her book away. ‘Thanks, Tracey. You’ve been a great help.’

Tracey beamed and held out the pot of lollies. ‘Have a lollipop,’ she said.