Ruthless (29 page)

‘OK, boss.’

‘And show ’em it don’t pay to fuck around with us.’

When Alberto and Max and their boys got to the Holland Park house, Annie was still up. She was waiting in the doorway of the drawing room when they came into the hall. Their faces told the whole story.

‘No luck?’

Both men shook their heads.

‘I could use some sleep,’ said Alberto, crossing the hall and kissing her cheek. He rubbed her arm. ‘Don’t worry. This is just a setback. We’ll find this Rufus character.’

Annie nodded, aware of Max watching them, of the tenseness in him.

Alberto went upstairs. Annie went back into the drawing room, and Max followed.

‘Did O’Connor lie?’ she asked him.

He shrugged. ‘Who knows. Nobody’s been in that place since the sodding Ice Age. What did you want to see me about?’

‘I would have thought that was pretty obvious,’ said Annie.

‘Nope. It’s not.’ He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly two o’clock in the morning. ‘And it’s too bloody late for guessing games, so whatever you’ve got to say, why don’t you just spit it out?’

‘You know something?’ she said. ‘You take the fucking biscuit. You really. Bloody. Do.’

‘Drink?’ asked Max, heading over to the big world globe containing an assortment of liquors. He selected a tumbler, poured himself a whisky. ‘Oh no, you
don’t
drink, do you? Can’t hold your liquor. I forgot.’

So here they were again and here
he
was, helping himself to
her
whisky, offering her a drink in her own house, making her feel furious and discounted and as though
she
was the one in the wrong – the way he
always
made her feel.

She slumped down on to one of the sofas. Kicked off her shoes. Leaned back, closed her eyes. Then she said what had been boiling away in her for the last few hours.

‘Why didn’t you tell me what you were planning? You told Alberto. Why not me?’

Max drank some of the Chivas Regal. ‘That’s a very fine malt,’ he said, holding the glass up to the light.

‘Rosa has excellent taste in drinks. Don’t bullshit me, Max. Why didn’t you let me in on it? I was in shock from the minute you shot that fool straight through the foot.’

‘Do you think he’d have told me a damned thing otherwise?’ asked Max, coming to stand in front of her.

‘You,’ said Annie succinctly, ‘are a complete bastard.’

‘Yeah, but I get answers.’

‘Actually no. You didn’t. All you got was a pack of lies. Or a false trail. And who the hell is “Rufus”? That was the first time I’d heard the name mentioned.’

‘Didn’t it crop up back when you were all cosied up with Kieron Delaney? You and he were quite an item once, as I recall. And Redmond . . . I always felt there was something there, with you and him.’

Annie sighed bitterly.

‘Max, you’d suspect there was
something there
between me and the
cat
.’ Annie thought of Kieron, once a promising artist but, deep down, as dangerously unhinged as the rest of the Delaney tribe. Dead now. Just as Redmond was supposed to be dead. But then
Orla
was supposed to have been dead too – eighteen years had gone by, with not so much as a whisper about her, until she showed up at Annie’s house in the middle of the night with a knife in her hand. At least this time there could be no doubt whatsoever that Orla was dead. But as for her twin . . .

Annie thought of the paper shamrocks, fluttering out of Layla’s trainer, out of her Filofax. Someone was saying
Look, I’m here. Be warned
:
I’m coming to get you.

Max finished his whisky, put the glass aside.

‘You cut me out,’ said Annie. ‘You let me go into that situation tonight and you
knew
it was going to be dangerous, but you didn’t even think to warn me.’

‘Didn’t want to risk you signalling our intention. Things would have gotten even more dangerous if you’d given the game away.’ Max gave a slight smile. ‘You always were a lousy poker player.’

‘And I can’t drink. One glass of sherry and I’m out of it. Something else to add to my list of accomplishments, as outlined by
you
.’

‘And you’re a bad shot, in case you were building up to asking why I didn’t get you a gun, too.’

‘Thanks for that. Can’t drink, can’t play cards, can’t shoot, worth a single solitary damn.’

‘And your point is . . .?’

‘My point is, where the fuck do you get off, thinking you can treat me that way? Like the dopey little woman! You’ve got some bloody nerve.’

Max sat down at the other end of the sofa. ‘Jesus, a man can’t do right for doing wrong around you.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I was trying to protect you, you silly mare. That’s why I didn’t want you there in the first place. I said you shouldn’t come along. But you insisted.’

‘Christ, the word “chauvinist” was
invented
for you,’ said Annie.

‘Some things are too tough for a woman to get involved in.’

‘Bollocks.’

‘Would you have used the gun?’

‘Like that? No.’

‘I rest my case.’

‘So you didn’t find him. You didn’t get this Rufus.’

Max shook his head.

‘I’m going to bed,’ said Annie, getting to her feet. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to call on Dickon’s landlady. What was her name? Moira?’

Max nodded.

‘See yourself out,’ she said, heading for the door.

Max caught up with her when her hand was on the handle. He was suddenly standing very close behind her.
Too
close. She could feel the heat coming off his body, enfolding hers. She felt one hard-muscled arm snake around her middle, pulling her hard against him. His other hand was resting on her thigh.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked coldly.

‘Feeling you up,’ said Max, brushing her hair aside and putting his lips against her throat. His breath there made her shiver.

‘Well
don’t,
’ she snapped.

‘Sure?’ His mouth was getting busy, and Annie was having trouble concentrating on non-arousal.

‘Perfectly sure, thank you,’ she said.

Max let her go. Annie thought she did very well, she didn’t even stagger though her legs felt like jelly.

‘Maybe I should stop here,’ said Max. ‘Act as chaperone to you and Golden Boy.’

Jesus was he never going to let that go?

But she realized he was only saying it to provoke a reaction. If she were to fly into a rage and turn on him, she knew precisely how the night would end – with them having wild sex, which would resolve nothing, mean nothing. Tomorrow, she would hate herself for having weakened. And tomorrow, the same old problem would still be there. His jealousy. His need to control her. His general
craziness
where she was concerned.

Annie reined in her temper. ‘Suit yourself. I don’t give a toss either way. There are at least a dozen bedrooms going begging, take your pick,’ she said, very casual. She wasn’t going to admit, not even to herself, that the idea of him sleeping under the same roof was disturbing. It was. It
really
was. But she’d die rather than admit it to him.

Max was staring at her face, trying to fathom her mood. ‘OK, I will,’ he said. ‘How about the one adjoining yours. That free?’

Annie stared at him. ‘That’s Layla’s room,’ she said.

‘But Layla’s not here. And as you say: plenty of rooms going begging. She can take one of the others if she comes back. In present circumstances, it’s better if I stay close. Don’t you reckon?’

Annie
didn’t
reckon. The very idea of having him in the same
house
, sleeping, living, was bad enough. Having him in the adjoining room – that would be torment.

‘Suit yourself. Goodnight,’ she said with as much dignity as she could manage, and she tore out the door and up the stairs, not looking back. Not once.

Next day, the Carter and Barolli boys returned mob-handed to Partyland. There were twinkling lights that flickered and Mexican-waved like a mini Vegas all along the front of the place. Boy George’s ‘Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?’ was blasting from the speakers – an appropriate choice, given the circumstances. There were big brightly lit clown cut-outs all over the place, vividly coloured bumper cars in a smooth-surfaced little pen, polished and ready for the day’s entertainments. And cowering in the midst of them was a terrified manager who went the colour of putty when he saw the big men striding in. The only other employee was a teenage girl, doling out change to the kiddies from a booth. No evidence of Rufus Malone, anywhere.

The boys emptied the place of punters, gave a mouthy dad a warning slap, then took their baseball bats to the machines, pushing the gaily coloured money-guzzlers over like so many heavyweight dominoes, smashing the glass cases, until all the pops and whistles and toots and flashing lights fell silent and dark and were finally dead. Suddenly Partyland didn’t look much fun any more.

After the job was accomplished, Steve and Jackie drew the manager to one side. He was quivering with fear. Jackie was blowing cigar smoke in his face, turning him a sickly shade of green. Steve loomed over him, a wall of solid muscle, his face an implacable mask.

‘You see Rufus Malone around here,’ said Steve, tucking a small scrap of paper into the manager’s shirt pocket, ‘you phone me. Got that?’

The man nodded, apparently unable to speak.

Steve patted his cheek. ‘Good,’ he said, and the boys left.

65

Rufus was starting to wonder what had happened to Dickon. A couple of days ago he’d vanished; no one had seen him in any of the crappy pubs he usually hung around in. But no matter. He’d seen all the men heading out and he’d got word that Partyland had been smashed up. Good job he’d fed that lie to Benny, thrown them off the scent. All those years of ducking and diving and dodging Big Don Callaghan had taught him everything there was to know about covering his tracks.

Thankfully, Big Don seemed to have given up trying to find him. Not because he’d finally accepted that Rufus hadn’t intended that Pikey should fry that way. No, according to Rufus’s contacts back in Ireland, the old man had forgotten about trying to avenge his nephew because he had bigger troubles to contend with. The big C – pancreatic, terminal. So instead of hounding Rufus to death he was preparing for his own demise. Too bad the bastard hadn’t kicked the bucket years ago, before he dragged Rory into all this.

He thought of that night at the farm, Orla pulling the knife out of Rory’s throat. He’d never have dreamed she was capable of such violence, but after the things she’d been through, who could blame her? She’d never have survived otherwise. There had been the same wild look in her eyes that night she left the Islington flat to deal with Annie Carter. When she got that way there was no stopping her . . .

But something had stopped her, because the hit had failed: Annie Carter was still alive. Whereas Orla . . .

No, she wasn’t dead. She’d gone back to Ireland, as planned. She still wasn’t answering his calls – he’d phoned the farm every day since she left, but no one answered. Most likely she was angry with him for not sticking to the plan, for hanging around in London. All the more reason not to show up at the farm empty-handed. She’d soon forgive him when he showed up with a little souvenir for her, a little token to remember Annie Carter by.

Meanwhile, he had a girl or two on the go here: just for sex, though there was one who was proving useful in other ways too. But it was Orla he loved.

He phoned the farm again.

No answer.

But she was there, waiting for him. He was convinced of it.

66

‘OK. Let’s see what we have here.’ Precious had scrubbed Layla’s face clean, slicked it over with moisturizer, then placed her in front of the brightly lit dressing-table mirror. Layla sat there like a prize dog at Crufts while Precious tipped her head this way and that. ‘Right. What we have is good skin. Flawless, actually. Well done for that.’

Layla said nothing. If she had clear skin then it was down to genes: her mother’s skin was good, too.

‘Also we have a good face shape, very defined cheek bones. Those eyebrows are a bloody disaster though. Hold still.’

Precious got busy with the tweezers.

‘Jesus!’

‘Shut up and hold still.’

Layla yelped a lot, but by the time Precious had finished, she looked in the mirror and saw that she had nicely shaped, finely arched black brows.

‘Good lips,’ Precious went on. ‘Got a proper little cupid’s-bow mouth there, and
very
nice oval-shaped eyes. What’s that colour? Brown?’

‘Sort of a dark green. Like my mother’s.’

‘Actually, with the big hair you look a lot like her.’

‘Oh, come on.’

‘You do.’

‘No way. She’s . . .’ Layla paused.

‘She’s what?’ Precious leaned over the dressing table, started pulling tubes of flesh-coloured gunk out of her make-up bag.

‘She’s beautiful,’ said Layla on a sigh. ‘Absolutely bloody stunning.’

Actually Layla thought that Annie was
more
than that. In addition to her amazing looks, she had balls, real authority. Layla had seen the way grown men jumped when her mother snapped out an order.

‘And you’re not?’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘This is what in psychological circles we call a breakthrough,’ said Precious.

‘A what?’

Precious squirted foundation on to the back of her hand, then began dabbing it on to Layla’s face. ‘A breakthrough,’ she said, squinting as she worked. ‘
Don’t
frown – those lines’ll get stuck in there. A breakthrough is when you get to the nub of the problem. And that’s what we’ve just done.’

‘So what is the nub of the problem?’ Layla was curious.

‘Your mother.’

‘My mother’s the problem?’ Layla tried to think without frowning. ‘Well, we don’t get along
that
well, but she’s my mother, for God’s sake and she’s—’

‘Stunningly beautiful,’ finished Precious. ‘Shut your eyes, that’s right. And
because
she is so beautiful, you’ve never felt able to compete. So you haven’t. Instead you’ve retired from the contest. Refused to participate. Hence the no make-up, the pulled-back hair, the sexless clothes.’