Ruthless (45 page)

‘Did you ever get back with your wife? I notice you don’t wear a wedding ring any more.’

‘No, I don’t. And I didn’t. The job, you know. It makes married life difficult.’

‘Shame.’ He looked like a man who needed some lightness in his life. She pushed away from the desk and stood up. ‘Well, it’s nice of you to call, DCI Hunter, but I have to go out, so if that’s all . . .?’

‘Yes, I think that about covers it,’ he said, and stood up too. ‘And Mrs Carter . . .?’

‘Hm?’

‘Your stepson. Alberto Barolli.’

‘Yeah, what about him?’

‘No idea where he is right now, I suppose?’

‘None whatsoever,’ said Annie.

Hunter gave her a sceptical look. ‘That’s exactly what I thought you’d say. Well . . . try to keep out of trouble in future. If you can.’

112

Tony drove her to the Palermo, where Dolly was downstairs checking the bar takings.

‘Hiya, sweetheart,’ she said, greeting Annie with a distracted smile.

‘How’s tricks?’ asked Annie, hauling herself on to a bar stool.

‘All fine. You?’

‘Great. I’m officially returning your driver and your car.’

‘Oh?’ Dolly’s blue eyes were shrewd on Annie’s face. ‘You sorted out your bother then?’

‘Think so.’

‘Max still here?’

‘He is.’

‘Staying?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

‘If you asked him to stay, I bet he would.’

‘Well, I’m not asking. He’s got his life, I’ve got mine.’

‘Yeah, but you ain’t got
much
of a life, have you?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning all you ever do is spend money and do lunch.’

‘Maybe I’ll open another club. Another Annie’s. Here in London.’

‘Well, if you need a manager –’ Dolly winked – ‘call me. OK?’

Leaving Tone and the company Jag to Dolly, Annie took a cab on to the Shalimar to see Ellie.

‘Hey!’ said Ellie, hurrying forward to give her a hug. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m fine,’ said Annie, as Ellie ushered her into the kitchen. They sat down at the table.

‘And Layla? I sort of miss having her about the place.’

‘She’s fine too.’

Ellie’s smile faded away. ‘Terrible business about Precious, wasn’t it? Poor girl. It’s the funeral on Friday.’

‘Ellie, I want you to fire Junior’s arse.’

Ellie looked taken aback, then she shrugged. ‘If you say so. He hasn’t shown up for days and I don’t think he’s going to, so it’s a bit of a moot point.’ Ellie stared at her old mate’s face. ‘You don’t think he was
involved
in what happened to Precious, do you?’

‘Up to his neck. So if he shows his face . . .’

‘Consider it done.’

Maybe Max had already seen to this. Kath and Junior and Molls would no longer be welcome in this town. She’d tried her best for them, but look how she’d been repaid.

‘The police called, said the bloke who’d done it had been found.’

‘Yeah, shot dead,’ said Annie. ‘Seems he’d upset someone else, and they got to him.’

‘Is that so?’ Ellie’s eyes were like saucers in her plump, pretty face. ‘Well, good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’

‘The other girls OK? This must have been a horrible shock for them. Layla told me to ask after Destiny and China.’

‘China’s cleared out.’

‘What, gone?’

‘Back to the Philippines. I reckon what happened to Precious scared the crap out of her, and her daughter Tia’s not well. She might come back, but my feeling is she won’t.’

‘And what about Destiny?’

‘Jeez, that blew up in a big way. The husband wasn’t satisfied with beating the living daylights out of her – he started in on the kids too. That finally brought her to her senses – she’s moved them out of the family home and into a women’s refuge. She’s still showing up for work, but I don’t know for how long. He’s been turning up at the door here, making a nuisance of himself.’

Annie thought of her own heartache over Max – and Layla, mourning not only the loss of her friend but of Alberto too.

She heaved a sigh. ‘Ellie, do you sometimes think that men are just too much trouble?’

‘Hell yes.’ Chris passed by the open door, saw the two women sitting there, gave them a smile. ‘But not my Chris,’ she added.

Annie left her there, and took a taxi home to Holland Park. She needed to phone Ruthie, give her the all-clear.

113

Annie offered to go with her to the funeral, but Layla refused.

‘No, it’s OK. I can do this on my own.’

And she could. She took the train up to Durham, booked into a hotel overnight. Next morning she dressed carefully in her black power suit, added a chunky necklace, black courts, put her hair up in a neat French pleat. Checked herself in the mirror. Added pillar-box red lipstick, smoky black eye shadow and a lot of mascara. Checked herself again. Yes, she looked the business. Precious would be proud.

At ten thirty she took a taxi to the church. They were handing out black-edged booklets as she went in the door, with
Amelia Westover
picked out in silver on the front cover.

Amelia Westover!

Precious suited her
so
much better.

There were a lot of mourners, a lot of school friends by the look of it, university types, aged uncles and aunts. Settling herself in at the rear of the church, she saw Mr and Mrs Westover up at the front. Mrs Westover was in bits, and Mr Westover looked gaunt with grief.

Then the organ music changed tone, and the pall-bearers brought in a mahogany coffin laden with white lilies.

Precious is in there.

But she wasn’t. Precious was gone, out into the stars.

Layla felt tears choke her. She put her hand over her heart, did the heart-brain exercise the way Precious had taught her, and grew calmer.

Precious wasn’t in there.

She was gone, she was free.

Later, she shook hands with the Westovers. They seemed so devastated she almost started crying all over again.

‘Oh! It’s Layla, isn’t it,’ said Mrs Westover, looking at her with Precious’s heartbreakingly beautiful eyes.

‘I thought I’d come,’ she said.

‘We’re so glad you did, dear.’ Mrs Westover turned to a woman beside her – a sister, Layla thought, the same bone structure, the same stunning eyes. ‘This is Layla,’ she told her.

‘Did you know Amelia well?’ asked the woman, trying to smile.

‘No, not very well,’ said Layla, thinking of Precious, the Glamazon, the most fabulous creature she had ever clapped eyes on. ‘But she was my friend,’ she said with pride.

114

‘But you can’t let him go,’ said Layla.

She was back at home in Holland Park, in the study with Annie. And Max had just told them both that he was flying out to Barbados tonight. He was upstairs now, packing.

‘Layla, it’s his decision,’ said Annie. ‘Trouble’s over. He can do whatever he wants.’

Layla eyed her mother intensely. ‘Ask him to stay,’ she pleaded.

Annie sat back in her chair. Her heart felt bruised, the way he’d come right out with it: “I’m going. See you.”
Bastard.

‘The funeral went off OK?’ she asked.

‘Don’t change the subject! Yes, it was fine. Bloody horrible, but a nice funeral.
Please
ask him to stay.’

‘No,’ said Annie. ‘I can’t. Now drop it.’

‘Are you going to at least get the door fixed before you leave?’ asked Annie.

She had wandered upstairs and was now leaning against the wall in the adjoining room to the master suite, watching Max fling things into his bag.

He paused, glancing over at the door still lying there on the carpet.

‘No,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Keep it there as a little reminder of me.’

I don’t need reminders,
thought Annie.
I’ll never forget you, not as long as I live.

But she couldn’t say it. She was obstinate, true, but
he
was the one who’d hurt her, not the other way around. All
his
pain had been whipped up out of his past experiences and his own fevered imagination. She’d done nothing wrong, had nothing to apologize for, all the blame was on him.

‘Did you sort out the Kath business? And Junior and Molls?’ she asked.

‘They’ve been told to fuck off, if that’s what you mean. And word is, they have.’

‘Good.’

Silence fell. He tossed in a shirt, the dark blue one the same colour as his eyes.

‘Well . . . I hope you have a good trip,’ she said.

‘Thanks.’ He looked at her. ‘I will.’

He’s not even going to kiss me goodbye,
she thought.

Well, fuck him.

‘See you then,’ she said, and left the room before she broke down and cried.

When she woke next morning, he was gone.

115

New York, A month later . . .

Annie had put feelers out. As well as scouting for premises around Covent Garden in London, she was considering locations for another Annie’s club in New York. She was there now, with Layla, and right this instant she was standing in Times Square with Sonny Gilbert, her manager, looking up at the frontage of the club there.

‘Maybe the red’s a bit dated – what do you think? Time for a refurb?’ she asked him.

She’d been impressed with Max’s three clubs in London; they were classy.

Max.

No. She wasn’t going to think about him.

Sonny puffed out his cheeks. He was a tall thin man with a bald dome of a head, thick glasses and eyes that twinkled through them as he spoke. He folded his arms and gave it some thought.

‘Mm, dunno. I’m still liking the red.’

‘Maybe alter the italics on the lettering? What about Gothic?’

‘Nah, too
Interview with a Vampire.
You read that?’

‘No.’ Annie never had time to read. Layla loved books; she didn’t.

She thought of Layla, who’d said she was going shopping today. All in all, she thought that Layla was coping with her anguish over Alberto. She was covering it up well, anyway.

‘I thought maybe the background would be better dark blue, or burgundy?’ she suggested.

‘Hm. Not sure.’

Annie turned to Sonny in mild exasperation. He had this whole place running like a Swiss watch and he didn’t like changes. But fuck it,
she
was the owner.

‘I’ll get some design people in, put some ideas together,’ she said.

‘Yeah, fine. You’re the boss.’

Oh am I? For a second there, I thought
you
were.

Sonny went back into the club. Annie hailed a cab, and returned to her apartment.

Layla had been shopping in Bloomingdales on 59th and Lexington. She came out of the store laden with bags, and into the gusty air. People poured along the busy sidewalks, yellow taxis moved in droves through the multi-laned street. The sheer
activity
in New York had come as a shock to her: she hadn’t visited since she was a child.

She was on her way to meet her mother at the apartment overlooking Central Park, and looking forward to it in a way that she never would have guessed at a year ago. Annie had become her friend as well as her mum now. Since that business with Orla Delaney and Rufus Malone, Layla had come to treasure her.

She was, she supposed, fairly happy. Mum was keeping busy, but then Mum usually did. And she . . . well, she shopped. She hadn’t thought about finding another job, not yet, she was just keeping Mum company, looking at possible venues for the new club.

She was happy enough.

As long as she didn’t think about him.

Then she didn’t feel happy at all.

So she shopped, and lunched and . . . she caught a glimpse of herself in one of Bloomingdales’ exquisitely dressed shop windows, and paused. She was elegantly groomed now – as Precious had taught her to be. She was wearing a black cashmere coat with a thick faux-fur collar. Black leather boots. Her hair was loose, glossy: her Gucci shades were big and dark.

I am turning into my mother,
she thought. And once that would have appalled her; now she just felt proud. She turned away from her reflection, moved into the milling crowds, and a man came out of nowhere and bumped hard up against her.

Her bags went flying. She let out an ‘Oh!’ of shock and staggered back. She had a quick impression of a middle-aged man, grey-haired, instantly forgettable. He scrambled around, picking her bags up.

‘Sorry, lady,’ he said, and thrust them into her hands.

‘Wh—’ she started, but he was gone, vanishing into the crowds.

She looked down. He’d put something else into her hand too: a piece of paper. Frowning, she stared at it. Then she closed her fist over it, stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, and flagged down a cab.

116

Annie went pale when Layla showed her the small square of paper.

‘It was weird, Mum. This guy bumped into me outside Bloomingdales, knocked my bags everywhere, then he gave them back to me and he gave me this, too. Next thing I knew, he’d disappeared.’ She squinted over her mother’s shoulder as Annie sat at the table. ‘It looks funny. Letters, numbers, I don’t know what the hell it is.’

‘Oh shit,’ said Annie.

‘Do you know what it means?’ Layla dragged out a chair, sat down, peered at her mum’s face in concern.

Annie looked at Layla. ‘I know what it means. I know what it is.’

‘OK, what is it? Come on.’

‘It’s a
pizzino.
Caesar’s code.’ And she hadn’t seen it in a lot of years. Not since Constantine.

Who would use the same code that Constantine had always used? She stared at it, started to shake her head.

‘Get me a pencil and paper,’ she said. ‘Hurry up.’

Layla did so. They sat at the table and as she scribbled on the paper, her pen moving faster and faster, Annie talked.

‘This code is over two thousand years old. It was used by Julius Caesar. Each letter of the alphabet becomes a number, and you add three. So A is one, plus three, which equals four, B is two, plus three, that’s five, and so on. Constantine reversed it for numbers.’