Dirty Game

Jessie Keane

Dedication

To my Dad, who loved a cracking good book. Here’s to you, Dad. God bless.

Prologue

Annie Bailey knew she was dying. She was in an ambulance, she knew that too. It was very bright. She could hear the siren, feel the motion. She had drifted in and out of consciousness several times since they had bundled her in here. She knew that someone was leaning over her, saying her name, clamping a mask to her face, telling her it was going to be all right, Annie. While someone behind him shook his head.

Yeah, she was dying all right.

She could taste blood and her face was wet with it. Couldn’t seem to get her breath. Which was what you’d expect, if you’d been shot in the chest.

‘You’re all right, Annie, you’re going to be fine,’ said the medic.

Bullshit, she thought.

But she was okay with that because at least now there was no pain. They’d given her a shot of something, a sharp sting in her arm and suddenly she was floaty and hazy, but still aware. Aware of too-bright lights and the man bending over her telling her lies, aware when that same man turned and looked at his companion and nodded, aware that the other one moved to the front and said: ‘Every red light’s a green one, Steve.’

She closed her eyes. Too bright in here. But this seemed to cause the man agitation.

‘Come on, Annie, look at me. My name’s Simon. Look at me, can you see me, I’m right here.’

It was too bright in here. She kept her eyes closed, despite what he said. Stubborn as a mule, as always, going her own way. Going, for sure.

So this is what it’s like to die, thought Annie. Actually it wasn’t too bad. No pain, anyway, not now. She gulped down a breath. It was difficult, breathing. She tasted blood again – unpleasant. But now she couldn’t feel the movement of the ambulance as it roared, tyres shrieking, siren screaming, through the night streets of London. Couldn’t feel anything much, really, and that was good.

She was sinking into a warm cocoon. The medic’s voice was fading.

‘Fuck, she’s flatlining,’ she heard him say.

She felt a little movement then, someone doing something at her chest where the bullet had ripped through, severing flesh, exploding bone, but there was no pain now, no pain at all, and that was good.

She thought of Max, Ruthie and her mother, but there were no regrets now, it was too late for regrets. It was too late for anything because she was too busy dying. Her mind felt detached, disengaged from what was happening here. She let it wander back, to find the place where it had all begun for her.

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Chapter Fifty Seven

Chapter Fifty Eight

Chapter Fifty Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty One

Chapter Sixty Two

Chapter Sixty Three

Chapter Sixty Four

Chapter Sixty Five

Chapter Sixty Six

Chapter Sixty Seven

Chapter Sixty Eight

Chapter Sixty Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About The Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

Annie Bailey lay naked in the arms of Max Carter. They were in his bed in the flat over his club, the Palermo Lounge, and she could hear the sound of the star turn coming through the ceiling, a new rising star called Billy Fury. A good singer, but such silly names they had. That Heinz for example. What a joke! Dyed blond hair and a name taken straight from a tin of baked beans.

Max had left the small bedside light on while they had sex. He said that she’d been driving him mad and he wasn’t going to have her in the dark, when instead he could see her and enjoy her all the more.

She lay there, ecstatic, feeling the heat of his big hard body and stroking her fingers over the crisp damp curls on his chest. His right hand was flung over his waist. He had strong hands, a fighter’s hands. On his index finger he wore a gold ring, engraved with Egyptian cartouches on either side of a square slab of lapis lazuli.

Annie stared at his curving nose, at the smoothly tanned skin, the gleaming thickness of his black hair, the flat brows above the long dense black sweep of his lashes. His eyes were closed. She could hardly keep from laughing out loud with triumph and joy.

She’d been to bed with Max Carter!

Annie had wanted Max from the first moment she’d set eyes on him. She knew she was only twenty and he was thirty, but she’d been instantly struck by his elegance, his poise, his presence, and had quickly developed a massive crush on him. She was a girl who could smell power and wealth through a four-foot concrete wall, and Max had both.

Well, he owned the club. Three clubs, actually.

This, the Palermo Lounge, was the one his father had started out with. It was his favourite, and the one he frequented the most. But there was also the Shalimar, and the Blue Parrot. Max exuded an aura of danger and riches, and she loved that. It turned her on. And she had seen a reciprocal flicker of interest in his eyes, much as he might have tried to conceal it.

That flicker was all she needed. She had set out to get Max Carter.

She looked at him again and shivered with the excitement of it. Then there came a pang of guilt, but she quickly suppressed that. No, she was going to relish this moment. Nothing was going to stop that.

He must have felt her shiver. He opened his eyes, his head turned. God, he had such beautiful eyes! They were a bright clear blue, very deep-set and penetrating. Those eyes seemed to look straight into her soul.

‘You didn’t mind, did you – that I was a virgin?’ asked Annie.

Max shook his head, but truthfully she had surprised him. He had thought she was a right little tart, the way she’d come on to him, a dolly bird flashing her arse in those tiny miniskirts, showing off her long slender legs in those trendy white boots. Hanging around the club on the nights she knew he’d be there and giving him the glad eye even when her sister was there taking the punters’ coats and hats.

She had some front – but fuck it, she was a little beauty.

Max liked her big bouffant of long dark hair and her dark green eyes. He liked her low, husky voice. She followed the fashion of putting that horrible panstick on her mouth, making it look white, but he’d kissed all that away and now her lips were pink and she looked even more beautiful, rumpled and warm. No doubt about it, Annie was a handful.

Strictly mistress material, he thought. Unlike her older sister.

His old dad had given him just one piece of advice about women. He said: ‘Son, marry a plain woman. Keep her well fucked and poorly shod, and she’ll never give you a moment’s trouble.’

Max knew his dad was right. Ruthie was the sort a man married, Annie was the sort he took to bed.

Max cupped one of Annie’s full breasts in his hand. She shivered again, and arched her back as his mouth got to work there.

God, if Ruthie could see her now! Again she felt that tickle of guilt. Annie knew she shouldn’t be here like this with Max, but the temptation had been irresistible.

All her life Annie had grown up in Ruthie’s shadow. Ruthie was a good girl, home-loving and quiet, or so Mum always said. Mum favoured Ruthie, and always had. Annie had got used to that over the years, and she’d had no father to take her part when her more unruly nature had landed her in trouble.

Dad had left when the two girls were little, and Mum had worked like a slave, holding down three cleaning jobs, God knew how many catalogues and a job folding greetings cards that paid a princely four shillings and sixpence for every thousand folded. Connie never tired of ranting on about all the sacrifices she’d made to bring her two girls up decent and to keep the family home going.

There had been no money for luxuries. It was enough that they had food on the table and could just about pay the rent. Well, sometimes. There were times when Connie had to send Annie to the door when the rent man called, to say that Mum was out and would settle with him next week. No good sending good-as-gold Ruthie, who would have choked on the barefaced lie.

As part of their frugal existence, Annie had long since got used to wearing Ruthie’s cast-offs. She often went to Carnaby Street to window-shop on her days off, to drool over Chelsea Girl and Biba and Quant, just to stare longingly in shop windows. But she only worked in a corner shop, she couldn’t afford new stuff. It was all mend and make do.

And then their ship had come in! Ruthie got a job in the Blue Parrot and hit the jackpot. One night she caught Max’s eye, with her unremarkable looks and her reserved manner. Max started escorting Ruthie about town, taking her up West and lavishing money upon her. He moved her from the Blue Parrot to the Palermo so he could keep a closer eye on her.

One unforgettable day, Max Carter – the Max Carter – had bought Ruthie an engagement ring. Their mum Connie had been in heaven. She said that once Max married Ruthie all their money problems would be over, Ruthie would see them all right.

But all Annie could see was the prospect of more hand-me-downs of Ruthie’s. Ruthie the rich married lady would dole out cash and goods to her mother and sister, the poor relations. Resentment festered in Annie’s heart. Trust Ruthie to be at the front of the queue, getting a man like Max to marry her and never having to worry again where the next meal was coming from. Annie had always fancied Max like mad. But Ruthie had hardly even noticed him. How could it be fair that Ruthie got the wedding ring, when Annie was the one who really wanted Max?

So Annie had set about getting him for herself. Just for once in her life, she would have something first, before demure, ladylike Ruthie got her claws into it.

He was such a man. Not a bit like his brother Jonjo, who was always out on the town and fooling around with different women.

Nothing like his other brother, too-pretty Eddie, who, it was rumoured, went out on Clapham Common in the evenings touting for young men. But if that was Eddie’s bag then it was fine with her. After all, he wasn’t murdering nobody, now was he?

Max, she was pleased to find, was all man. And she’d had him first, on the night before her sister was to marry him.

When many another man would be out on the town with his mates getting blotto, Max was here bedding her. Not that Max ever seemed to drink much, and he didn’t like drunks around him. Drink made people loose-mouthed, she’d heard him say, and he wouldn’t have that.

‘This is lovely,’ Annie sighed happily.

‘Yes it is.’ Max raised his head and smiled down into her eyes.

‘You really don’t mind that I was a virgin, do you?’ she asked again, nuzzling her nose playfully against his.

‘No,’ said Max, caressing her cheek. ‘It doesn’t matter a bit. Because this is a one-off.’

Annie felt the smile freeze on her face. ‘What?’

‘You heard me, Annie love. This shouldn’t have happened, and we both know it. But now it’s done, and finished.’

Annie felt panic growing inside her. She hadn’t known what to expect from tonight. She didn’t know whether she thought Max would carry on seeing her covertly, or call off the big wedding that Ruthie had planned for tomorrow and announce that he was going to marry her instead. She had just aimed for this one night and believed that things would sort themselves out.

Oh, she had imagined various outcomes, played with visions of her walking up the aisle in white and Max waiting for her at the altar, of falling into bed with him all laughing and happy on their honeymoon. But the last thing she’d expected was what he’d just said.

‘But Max,’ she started, trying to sit up, her eyes wide with shock.

Max’s hand on her face was suddenly hard and hurtful. He grabbed her chin and stared into her eyes.

‘No buts,’ he said flatly. ‘This is it. Finished and forgotten. No one’s ever going to know about it. Clear?’

Annie nodded as best she could and he let her go. He patted her cheek. ‘Good girl,’ he said, and reached for a cigarette.

Annie lay staring at the ceiling, her face throbbing and her mind seething with resentment. So Ruthie won again. As always.

The phone rang and Max snatched it up. ‘Jimmy. What kept you?’

Someone spoke. Max put his hand over the mouthpiece and looked at Annie. ‘Go and get cleaned up, eh love?’

So she was dismissed. Had and then forgotten. Rage started to eat at her. Bastard! She threw back the covers and stormed from the bed, aware that he was watching her. Not that she cared. She was proud of her body. It was good, better than Ruthie’s. Better than a lot of girls could hope for.

Annie went into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her. She could hear Billy Fury still singing away downstairs as she ran water into the sink to clean the blood off her thighs. She snatched up the flannel and started to wash. She could hear Max on the phone talking about some club or other. She blinked back stupid, weak tears. She never cried. Never.

She turned the tap on harder to drown out the sound of his voice. Max’s business was best not known about.

2

The killer drove through the night and parked the car a mile away from the Tudor Club in Stoke Newington. Then the shadowy figure walked to the club and waited, cloaked in darkness. The killer was patient and could wait for hours, but this time wouldn’t have to. The information was sound, the soundest you could get.

The killer felt the cold, hard weight of the .38 Smith & Wesson and was reassured. The gun was familiar, like family.

The punters were coming out now. And it was fortuitous that Tory Delaney was – as usual – towards the back of the crowd and without a minder. The killer sneered at the man’s arrogance. He would pay for it.

The figure followed Tory at a discreet distance as he went to his car, a flashy-looking Rover. When Tory had the key in the lock and there was no one about, the killer stepped out of the shadows.

‘Hello, Tory.’

Tory was fast on his feet, always had been. You didn’t have to paint Tory no pictures, and that made him dangerous.

Tory turned and suddenly there was a knife in his hand. He came at the interloper with the blade slashing. The killer felt the knife swish past, missing by an inch as Tory lunged, teeth bared like a madman.

The gun lifted and shot Tory three times in the chest. Tory dropped the knife and fell back over the bonnet of his car. He slid down, his face draining of blood, and landed on the tarmac.

The killer kicked the knife away from Tory’s groping hand, then looked around to be certain no one was in sight. They would come soon, staff and management pouring out of the club to see what was going on. The noise would have alerted them. But there was a moment.

Just a moment.

‘You,’ gasped Tory, and his killer smiled.

One more shot was fired between Tory’s eyebrows. Pink jelly spattered, brain and bone. Then at last Tory was still, staring sightlessly at the balmy evening sky.

No time to gloat.

The killer was already walking away, slipping the gun back into its oiled bag and then into a larger polythene container – don’t want any cordite on our coat pockets, now do we? – then moving into deeper shadows as people started to appear at the door of the club, looking around to see what the noise had been about.

The killer walked away in darkness and strode out the mile back to the car, then got in, pleased with a job well done, and placed the gun in a concealed compartment under the passenger seat, removed the thick leather gloves and drove home.

Later that same night Max Carter sat in his Surrey kitchen and cleaned and oiled his gun. While he was doing it, his kid brother Eddie came in and sat down at the kitchen table.

‘Busy night?’ asked Eddie.

‘Fair,’ said Max, carrying on with his work.

Max looked at Eddie. Eddie was queer as a fish, but he was a good kid and trustworthy. He liked to wear all those floral shirts and cords, and his mid-brown hair was over his collar, like that new group The Beatles wore theirs. Mum would have thrown a fit to see it.

But she was gone. The bleakness filled Max again at the thought of that.

Gone for ever.

‘Where’s Jonjo?’ he asked Eddie.

Eddie made a face. ‘Out with a new blonde.’

That cheered Max up a bit. Jonjo was good entertainment value, that was a fact. Jonjo and his fucking blondes. When Marilyn Monroe offed herself last year, Max almost thought that Jonjo would off himself too. Marilyn, to Jonjo, had been the ultimate.

Max couldn’t see it himself. He preferred dark-eyed brunettes. And Eddie preferred pretty young blokes, but so long as he didn’t frighten the horses, so what?

Eddie was looking at the gun in his brother’s hand.

‘You did it then,’ he said flatly.

Max paused and looked at Eddie square in the eye. Max’s eyes were suddenly a chilly blue, like arctic ice. ‘I did nothing.’

Eddie swallowed nervously. His lips quivered. ‘Holy Christ,’ he muttered.

Max replaced the gun in its oiled cloth and held it out to Eddie.

‘Take it out and bury it,’ he told him. ‘I don’t want to know where.’

Eddie did as he was told. Max went into the lounge and put Mozart on the radiogram. He sat down with a brandy, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

3

‘And where the fuck have you been?’ Connie Bailey demanded of her daughter as Annie let herself in the front door of her mother’s little terraced council house.

It was nearly dawn and one of Max’s boys had just dropped her off at the end of the road. Annie silently cursed her mother’s erratic sleeping habits. Connie was always trotting about in the night, making cups of tea and smoking fags, and that was in the quiet times. Now it was the day of the wedding, and with all the excitement Annie doubted that her mother had slept a wink.

Connie was perched on the bottom stair with a mug of tea and a cigarette. Annie looked at her with stark dislike and hoped it wasn’t true that daughters turned into their mothers.

Connie was dirt-poor skinny, with a smoker’s lined and yellowish skin. Her dry, dyed blonde hair was up in the sponge rollers she always wore at night, and her candlewick dressing gown, once peach-coloured, had faded to dirty beige.

Oh God, Annie thought, I could do without this. She was still smarting from the fact that Max had barely bothered to say goodbye to her. Annie wondered if he’d had Ruthie yet, but she doubted it. Ruthie was the Virgin Princess, the sort that men took home to meet their mums. Ruthie had been presented to Queenie Carter over tea at Christmas and, when she had met with Queenie’s approval, the marriage had been given the go-ahead.

Annie had never even met Queenie, although she had seen her about now and again with Max and his brothers. She’d never meet the imperious old woman now. She’d croaked back in the spring, heart attack or something.

There had been a lavish funeral on a rainy April day, a huge fleet of black Daimlers gliding through the East End behind the hearse. The pink carnations on either side of Queenie’s coffin had spelt out MUM. The streets had been lined with silent, respectful watchers.

All the men had removed their hats.

Some of the women had cried.

The Carter family were held in high regard around this manor, and that day was the proof.

‘I stopped at Kath’s,’ said Annie, closing the door behind her.

‘You’re a bloody liar,’ said Connie flatly, snorting smoke from her pinched little nose. ‘I spoke to Maureen two hours ago and she said that Kath was home by eleven and she didn’t have you with her. You’ve been up to no good.’

Annie let out an angry breath. ‘I’m twenty, Mum, not ten. What I do is my business.’

‘Not while you live under my roof,’ snapped Connie. ‘You’ve been out mucking around with some bloke or other.’

Annie stared at her mother. She ached to wipe that smug look off Connie’s face by telling her that the bloke was Max Carter, who was marrying good-as-gold Ruthie today.

It would be quite a laugh, standing behind them both at the altar in her role as bridesmaid, looking at Max’s broad, expensively suited shoulders and knowing that her scratch marks were still on them.

‘What’s going on?’

They both looked up. Ruthie was standing at the top of the stairs yawning as she shrugged into her red dressing gown. Her mousy hair was rumpled around her plain, placid face.

Ruthie wasn’t bad-looking, really.

There was a serenity about her.

But she didn’t have Annie’s incendiary beauty, and she didn’t have that flirtatious spark that made men lose their heads and sometimes their hearts. Connie always said that Ruthie was her good little girl. She also said that Annie was trouble just like her father, always had been, always would be.

Annie had been hurt by that when she was little. For a while she had tried to be good like Ruthie, to prove her mother wrong, but then Dad had left so it was clear that the good-behaviour policy had got her nowhere. Bad behaviour won her a lot more attention. All right, it was a clout around the ear or bed without supper, but it was attention nevertheless, and she had to claw a little back from perfect Ruthie now and again, or go mad.

‘Nothing’s going on, sweetheart,’ said Connie, and Annie’s lip curled because even Connie’s voice was different when she spoke to Ruthie. It was soft and gentle and soothing. When Connie spoke to Annie, her voice was harsh with dislike. ‘Just Annie out on the tiles, hooking her pearly about for any lad that wants it.’

Now that was unfair. Sure, she went down the pub with her mates and up West sometimes when she was flush, and she flirted and danced and teased, but she’d never come across for a man until last night, and she wanted to tell her mother that but she couldn’t. Pride wouldn’t let her.

‘Oh Annie,’ said Ruthie. ‘I don’t want you looking all washed-out for the big day.’

‘I won’t,’ said Annie tightly, pushing past Connie and running up the stairs. She paused in front of Ruthie. ‘What time did you say we had to be at the hairdresser’s?’

Ruthie rolled her eyes. ‘Nine o’clock. I told you.’

‘I forgot. I’ll get washed up,’ said Annie, and hurried into the bathroom.

She leaned on the sink and looked at her reflection. Her face was flushed, her dark eyes flashing with suppressed anger. She heard Ruthie go downstairs, heard their murmuring voices and knew what they were saying.

Poor Annie, Ruthie would say, she seems so lost.

Little tart, Connie would retort, if she isn’t knocked up before Christmas I’ll eat my hat.

Annie touched her belly thoughtfully. No, Max had been careful. An unplanned pregnancy would really put the cat among the pigeons. She thought back to how tender he had been at first, how sweet … and then how dismissive. Had and then forgotten, she thought. Her first time, a special time with a special man. That’s what it had been to her. To him, it had been nothing.

Nothing at all.

She felt tears prick her eyes again and blinked them back, hating the momentary weakness. Dig deep and stand alone, she told herself. She never cried. Even when her dad had left, she hadn’t cried, even though she had missed him like mad. She had idolized her dad and he had called her his little princess, but he had left her all the same, left them all, without so much as a kiss-your-ass.

Annie had withdrawn into herself with the shock of his leaving, but Ruthie had cried for days and got lots of cuddles off Connie as a consequence. Annie was made of tougher stuff, and she knew it. You could only ever rely on yourself in this world, she knew that too. Hard lessons, but she had learned them well.

So what if Connie had cuffed her more often than cuddled her? She had learned to cope with that.

She would cope with this.

4

Billy Black was excited. He stood among the gathering crowds outside the Bailey house and stared with awe at the pristine white Rolls-Royce parked at the kerb. Peach-coloured ribbons fluttered from the flying-lady mascot on the bonnet and flowers were draped over the parcel shelf behind the rear seats. Small, wide-eyed boys in short trousers ran their grubby hands over the paintwork.

The chauffeur stood there in his peaked cap and glared.

Aproned mothers with curlers in their hair and fags in their mouths snatched the boys back, but not too roughly. Everyone was in a good mood. The sun was shining, that was good too. Ruthie was a sweet girl and she deserved the sun shining upon her on this special day.

Then the front door opened.

The onlookers surged forward with smiles and cheers.

‘Look out, here she comes!’ rippled through the crowd, but it was the bridesmaids. It was Annie, Ruthie’s sister, and Kath her cousin, done up in empire-line peach silk and awkwardly clutching bouquets.

Billy held his breath.

‘Don’t they look a picture?’ cooed a woman beside him, but he was deaf to all that, his attention focused one hundred per cent on his beautiful Annie.

That was how he always thought of her: his beautiful Annie. He had adored her since she was eleven years old and he was sixteen, but not in a pervy way. In a pure and noble way. Her sister was all right, but Annie’s beauty glowed like a beacon, eclipsing all around it. He’d never been in love until he clapped eyes on Annie Bailey across the school playground. Once he’d seen her, he’d been lost.

Not that she would ever show the slightest interest in him, he knew that. He knew he was odd-looking. He had a long, thin face and a vacant look to his eyes. He’d had rickets when he was little and so he had a limp, and a bit of a humped back. Sometimes he stammered.

Billy had always been the outsider, watching everyone else having a good time and wanting to be included in that charmed circle. He had desperately wanted to be in Max’s gang when they were at school. All the others were part of Max’s gang, and they had grown up still in a gang and become Teddy boys together and gained a reputation for being tough nuts to deal with.

Billy remembered Max back then, how elegant he’d been in his royal-blue, black-trimmed Teddy jacket, black drainpipes and blue brothel-creepers, while his brother Jonjo had gone for red with black trim.

Billy didn’t like Jonjo.

Jonjo had a bit of a temper.

All the boys in the gang had gone on to work for Max in the rackets. Max was the leader and everyone else was doing his bidding. This had always been the case. When Max was a boy, he’d hung his white shirt out of his bedroom window, the signal for all the gang members to come running; and they had.

Billy had so wanted to be one of them, summoned by Max, valued by him, and he had been as proud as punch when one of Max’s boys had approached him in The Grapes and asked if he wanted some work. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer but he was dependable, everyone knew that. It was just picking up and dropping stuff around town, that was all. He didn’t have to split the atom or anything. He’d jumped at the chance to be on the inside for a change, a part of the action; and he’d done his job punctiliously, pleasing Max and prompting him to trust Billy with other jobs.

Now he regularly did the milk round for Max. That was what the boys called collecting the takings from the billiard halls and arcades and parlours. Billy relished the responsibility and he was scrupulously honest.

Max appreciated that.

Billy was a bit slow but he was not a fool. The temptation was there sometimes to pinch a bit, but no one in their right mind would cross Max Carter.

Sometimes the Delaney mob pushed their luck, and Max didn’t like that at all. Billy felt a tremor of unease when he thought of the Delaneys. They’d done him over many times at school, but he’d pushed in on the edges of Max’s crowd and so gained a tenuous place of safety.

The Delaneys were scum, that’s what Max said, a mad, red-haired family of self-serving, devious Irish tinkers who didn’t belong here, and there was big trouble brewing. Tory Delaney and Max Carter had always been sworn enemies, and there had been many minor rucks between hot-tempered Jonjo and Mad Pat Delaney.

The whole thing made Billy nervous. The Delaneys were right cheeky gits and getting bolder all the time. He wondered at their nerve. Billy knew it was madness to upset Max. There were stories of people being done over by the boys, broken bottles and chains and even knives and guns coming into play.

There were even rumours about a pub landlord who’d parted company with a hand and a foot because he’d been into something nasty. Billy didn’t know what the man had done and he didn’t want to either. Keep your head down and do your job, that was his policy. That way you kept Max sweet, and nothing was more important than that.

Oh, but Annie was beautiful! She grinned, full of self-confidence, and waved to the crowd. Billy edged back among the throng. He didn’t want her to see him. He was too bloody ugly even to be in her presence. But he loved her. Worshipped her.

She ducked into the Rolls and was gone from view. Kath followed, looking surprisingly good for a change. She was an ugly mare, but today she looked okay. Her mum Maureen stood by, beaming with pride, in a purple suit and one of those feathery little clip-on hat efforts. Annie’s mum, Connie, was in yellow which didn’t suit her. Her weary, washed-out, smoker’s skin was emphasized by her yellow cartwheel hat.

Billy had a fine appreciation of hats. He’d seen Jack the Hat McVitie in his trilby around town, doing a bit of business and rattling the Kray clan, and Billy thought he looked quite stylish. He had quickly realized that here was a way of attaining sartorial elegance.

He chose for himself a deerstalker, which made him look intelligent like Sherlock Holmes. He teamed the hat with a raincoat and a large brown leather briefcase in which he carried the tools of his trade, his notebooks and pens. People looked at him, and he felt proud. He had achieved what he had long craved for; to be a respected member of Max Carter’s gang.

He watched regretfully as the Rolls roared away. It would come back in ten minutes and collect Max’s bride-to-be, but Billy wasn’t going to wait around with the rest of them to catch a glimpse of Ruthie on her big day and throw confetti all over her sweet, laughing face.

He turned on his heel and walked away. He’d seen all he wanted to see.

Billy went down The Grapes because they always made him welcome there. The Grapes was on Max’s manor, and all Max’s boys were respected there, even himself. There was never any trouble. Two of the boys, Gary Tooley and Steven Taylor, were in, wearing their best suits and white carnations in their lapels. They were sitting just inside the door of the snug, talking in low voices.

Billy moved about quietly and he had good ears, Max always said so, and Billy heard Gary say: ‘No offence, all respect to the man, but you’d have to be a bit of a cunt to do that, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not paid to think,’ said Steven.

‘Yeah, but even so. Buying a fucking mansion in the arse end of the country, what’s that all about? He’s an East End boy like us, why the airs and graces? He’s getting out of touch.’

‘Nah, he’s in touch,’ said Steven, shaking his head.

‘No, he ain’t. And he’s been odd since his old mum died like she did, you have to admit that. He’s starting a shitstorm war with the fucking Delaneys, and that means all our cocks are on the chopping block, see what I mean? Fair play to him, he’s got to do something about it, but I dunno.’

Steven saw Billy hovering there. ‘Watch your mouth,’ he said, and nudged Gary. Gary looked up and went pale.

‘Heyup, it’s creeping Jesus,’ he said with bravado. ‘All right, Sherlock? How’s Doctor Watson keeping, then?’

Billy smiled uncertainly at the pair and moved over to the bar to order his usual lemonade. He never drank alcohol, and that was another thing that Max valued about him.

Billy thought that the atmosphere in The Grapes felt strange today, and he drank up quickly and left as soon as he could, noticing as he did so that Steve and Gary were already gone. It was a big day; Max’s wedding. Billy hadn’t been invited but then he hadn’t expected to be. It was close friends and family only.

It was a day of celebration for the Carters. It would have been nice if old Queenie Carter could have lived to see it, but her heart had given out, that was the word that was going around.

Billy frowned.

There had been a robbery. There was a story circulating that someone had meant to rob the annexe where she lived at Max’s posh place in the country and finish her off at the same time; a deal had been struck with someone, maybe one of the other mobs. Maybe the Delaneys. But her heart had given out before the deed could be done.

Lots of rumours, nothing definite. It worried him.

Ruthie Bailey had never felt so happy. Her life had been hard, with Dad going like he did and Connie taking to booze for the duration. And she’d always been the plain one next to Annie, the dull one, the worthy one, the one everyone approved of. Which wasn’t all it was cracked up to be, even if it did win her Mum’s approval while Annie caught all the drunken knocks. Ruthie had always felt boring beside Annie; predictable, staid – a homebody.

Then she’d got the push from the hairdresser’s because business was slack and it was last one in, first one out. Connie had told Max. He was always ready to help the people on his patch. Suddenly her little Ruthie was a hat-check girl in one of his swanky clubs. The job was all right, but it was Max who made it for Ruthie. From the minute he’d handed her his coat and winked at her, Ruthie had been in love with him.

She hadn’t told a soul.

She watched him charming everyone, throwing parties for famous people, even mixing with members of parliament, and she silently adored him.

He came in and out of the clubs and as the weeks passed he’d say hello to her, ask her how the job was going, then he’d started to chat to her and – oh God! – then he’d asked her out on a proper date. She couldn’t believe it was true. She, dull little Ruthie Bailey, was dating Max Carter.

He’d taken her to this really posh restaurant where you sat in a vast lounge before dinner and a chap in evening dress played the piano. The chairs were huge and comfy, and you drank something called an ‘aperitif’ while your table was prepared. The menu was all in French and there were no prices beside the dishes. Ruthie was overawed. She was struck dumb by the opulence of it all.

And then Max asked her what she’d like, and she panicked, she couldn’t understand a word on the menu. Blushing and feeling a fool, she had to ask him to explain what the food was, and her ignorance seemed to amuse him. He looked at her fondly, and she started to relax.

There were people around them who looked rich and spoke in that haw-haw way that posh people did. The men wore dinner jackets, the ladies wore glittery dresses, fur stoles and heaps of jewellery. Ruthie drank it all in, knowing that such good fortune was unlikely to come her way again.

But it did.

Max took her out again.

And again.

Although he kissed her, he never tried to go all the way. He was always the perfect gentleman, and she liked that. She knew this was a permissive society now, with girls on the Pill and enjoying a free sex life without fear of the backstreet abortions that had been the plague of women all through the fifties. But that wasn’t her. Max treated her with respect, and she loved him all the more for that.

Finally they were engaged, and now plain little Ruthie Bailey was emerging from the gleaming white Rolls-Royce into sunlight outside the church. Her Uncle Tom, Mum’s brother, was giving her away. He took her arm with a smile. Annie and Kath kept hold of her long lacy train. It had rained last night, and it mustn’t be allowed to trail in the mud. It was an expensive item.

But then, Max was paying. Max always paid. He knew the Baileys didn’t have much, and he had plenty. There were new nets up at Connie’s windows now, and she was the proud owner of a television, and even a fridge. She was made up.

Ruthie looked around her at all the smiling faces. The vicar was standing at the church door waiting for her. For her! Ruthie Bailey. Soon to be Mrs Max Carter.

The photographer was fussing around them now, setting up shots.

‘Veil up for this one,’ he said, and Annie lifted the veil off Ruthie’s face, which for once was radiant with pride and happiness.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Ruthie to Annie, who was very quiet today. Unusually quiet.

Connie, their mother, was clucking around, trying to tell the photographer how to do his job. This was a big day for her too – her daughter, marrying into the Carter clan. People around here were going to have to start treating her with more respect after today. Connie was relishing the idea and throwing her weight about already. She knew that Max’s boys always met upstairs in the house that had once been Queenie’s, but Connie was going to suggest that they meet at hers instead. After all, she would be family. She would take care of them, make tea and cakes. Imagine the neighbours’ faces when that happened!

Ruthie looked sympathetically at her younger sister. ‘Don’t worry, Annie,’ she said. ‘It’ll be your turn before you know it.’

Annie eyed her sister with dislike. How dare the smug cow patronize her!

Annie was in a foul mood, still smarting from the fact that Max had walked past her fifteen minutes ago without even acknowledging her existence. All right, she hadn’t expected hearts and flowers, but after what they’d shared last night she expected at least a show of warmth.

All the hurt of years seemed to flood up into her throat, choking her. Ruthie the favoured one, Ruthie the good girl. Ruthie the one who was making a fantastic marriage while she, Annie, stood behind her and watched the man who should have been hers wed himself to her holier-than-thou sister.

She’d had years of it.

All the hand-me-downs. All those seconds worn first by Ruthie; things that were too long, too loose, threadbare, washed out and worn out. Second-best. Everything Annie had ever had was second-best. Ruthie came first.

But not this time.

‘Maybe I’ve already had my turn,’ Annie said, her eyes hard and angry.

Ruthie’s smile faltered. She stared at Annie. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh – nothing.’

‘Yes you do. What are you talking about?’

The photographer had gone into the church to set up his tripod for the aisle shot. Connie was fussing around Kath’s peach draperies. Uncle Tom was taking a furtive nip of brandy from a hip flask. The vicar was talking to Gary Tooley, a close associate of Max’s, who was one of the ushers. For the moment, the two sisters stood alone.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing,’ said Annie. Then her eyes looked straight into Ruthie’s and her mouth curved into a vicious smile. ‘I’ve had your hand-me-downs all my life, Ruthie. But today, guess what? You’re getting one of mine.’

‘Come on, Ruthie. Let’s get your veil down, oh, don’t she look a picture, Tom?’ Connie was there again, pulling the veil down over Ruthie’s shocked and stricken eyes.

‘Beautiful,’ said Uncle Tom obligingly, his eyes lingering covertly on the far more eye-catching Annie.

Ruthie saw the look. She swallowed, reeling, sickened, as the full meaning of Annie’s words sank in. She tried to compose herself again as she stepped up to the church’s grand entrance.

‘My little girl, getting married,’ gloated Connie.

Kath and Annie stepped in behind Ruthie and the vicar, and then the Wedding March sounded loud and clear from inside the church.

Annie followed her sister up the aisle to join Max at the altar. Her throat was closed and she was choking with hatred and misery. She saw Max there looking impossibly handsome and his brother Jonjo as best man standing by his side. She saw the expression in Max’s eyes as he looked back and saw Ruthie.

He’d never looked at her like that.

The bastard.

But at least she’d had her revenge for the way he’d so casually dismissed her. Ruthie knew. There was no going back from that.

Ruthie knew.

5

They sat outside in the car and looked at the shop. They were Max’s boys, and they were following orders. One of his most trusted lieutenants had told them to do the shop late on the Saturday afternoon when the information was that there would be upward of three thousand quid in the till.

They knew that they were on the Delaney patch. They knew the shop-owner was paying protection to the Delaneys, and this had caused them some concern.

‘Just do the fucking job, leave the thinking to those that can,’ came the orders when they questioned this action.

There were four of them, all of them handy but still worried. If the Carters were looking to take a pop at the Delaney manor, there was going to be seven kinds of shit flying about, and they weren’t happy.

Some things were set in stone. The Richardsons and the Frasers had the South, the Regans the West, the Nashes had The Angel, the Delaneys held Battersea – and a small pocket in Limehouse down by the docks, often disputed over – the Krays had Bethnal Green and the Carters had Bow. You never argued with that. But the boys were loyal, and there was a bonus in it for them. When they had asked what their cut was to be, the answer had come swiftly back from Jonjo Carter.

‘Take the fucking lot. Piss it all up against a wall if you want to, just take it.’

Which was very unusual. The Carters were notoriously keen on taking their pound of flesh. The boys took this to mean that this job was intended as an insult to the Delaneys, a message to say, look you cunts, we can take you any time you like, no worries.

They were worried all right. There had been rumours that Tory Delaney was out of circulation, maybe ill, maybe God knew what.

But orders were orders, and Max Carter was the guvnor. He knew what he was doing, and he didn’t like people questioning his judgement.

‘Right then, here we go,’ said the driver when the last of the punters departed at five to five, then one of Max’s boys pulled on his mask and gloves and ran into the shop.

The owner was there, mopping up after the day’s trading. He froze like a deer in headlights, which was good. The till was one of those big heavy efforts, but Max’s boy was tasty and could lift it easily, he’d already taken care to look it over.

He leaned over and grabbed the thing.

Or he tried to.

‘Shit!’

It was screwed down.

The shop owner started gabbling away in a foreign language. Christ knows what he was saying. Fuck you, probably. The man started slapping at Max’s boy with the wet mop. It was a bit funny but Max’s boy was getting steamed up.

Two of the others had seen there was a problem and came running in to help, while the driver stayed put. The mop attack and the slopping of water all over the place and the shouting was getting worse and worse. Then the shop-owner chucked the remains of the bucket of water over the lot of them and suddenly they were skidding and sliding all over the fucking place. Then he reached for the phone.

One of the boys yanked the cord out of the wall and gave him a cautionary slap.

Another went back out to the car and grabbed a pickaxe from the boot. With it he demolished the counter and then they had it away with the till, no problem.

They took the till, with bits of broken counter clinging to it, outside and got it into the car. They piled back in and the driver gunned away. They pulled off their masks and gloves and roared with laughter in the aftermath of the excitement. They were drenched to the skin.

‘Jesus, it was like being slapped in the face with a cod,’ said one, trying to dry himself on a rag from the dashboard. ‘Good job Jonjo wasn’t there, he’d have wrung his fucking neck.’

Two of them were in the back with the till.

They opened it.

Plenty of notes.

They sat back, smiling.

‘That’s what I call a good day’s work,’ said one.

‘Yeah,’ agreed his companion.

6

Ruthie was very quiet, thought Max.

He knew she was never one to gabble on, but this was quiet even by her standards. Because there was heavy business going on they had to forgo a foreign honeymoon, but he knew she would be impressed with his Surrey place and he took her straight there after the reception, his Jag rattling with tin cans until he stopped round the corner and took them off.

During the rest of the drive she was silent. Then they got home to Surrey and she was still too quiet. Maybe she was just overawed.

She was mistress of this grand manor house now, she would live among the fancy furnishings and crystal chandeliers and would step on to deep-pile carpets when she emerged from her bath or from the big bed they would share tonight.

There were grounds instead of gardens, huge stretches of green to do as they liked with. There were garages and outbuildings. There was an annexe, for Christ’s sake. It was a far cry from the East End, a very long way away from what she was used to.

That was it, he thought. She was probably just overcome with it all. Max could see that she was tired, and suggested they go straight up. It was after two in the morning. It had been an exhausting day for them both.

He opened a bottle of the best champagne that had been laid out ready by the bed. His housekeeper Miss Arnott had turned back the sheets, stoked up the fire, made everything comfortable for the newlyweds. His mum would have done it had she been here and, as always when he thought of Queenie, he felt the wrench of grief at her loss and the gut-deep anger at those who had taken her from him.

He poured the bubbly while Ruthie hovered uncertainly by the bed. She looked almost pretty today in her going-away suit of soft cream wool. Her hair, always her best feature, was swept up in an elegant chignon, throwing the clean lines of her face into sharper focus.

‘You look lovely today,’ he said, pouring the champagne into expensive crystal flutes and holding one out to her.

Poor kid, she looked more lost than lovely. But there were three things that never failed with women. Talk to them gently, tell them they look good even if they didn’t, please them sexually.

Ruthie came around the bed and took the glass and drank from it.

‘Hungry?’ he asked. ‘I’ll get something sent up.’

She shook her head and gulped down more champagne.

‘Steady with that,’ said Max with a smile. ‘It goes to your head.’

Ruthie drained the glass. She still felt numb after what Annie had said.

Annie and Max.

She’d been so happy to be marrying him, she’d loved him so much, worshipped him almost. She’d felt that he was too good for her from day one. But somehow he’d convinced her that it would all work out okay. That she was what he wanted.

But now she knew the truth.

Annie and Max.

How long had that been going on? And – oh God – would it still go on now that Max was married to her?

How could she stand that?

She felt anger thaw the numbness until she flushed with heat. They’d made a fool of her. All the time she’d been misty-eyed with love, they’d been at it, screwing like animals. Like dogs in the street.

Max took the glass from her and placed it on a side table. All the furniture in here looked costly to Ruthie’s eyes. The whole place was full of lovely antique pieces, things she had never even been close to before. Connie’s furniture was charmless Utility stuff from the war and a few modern bits that had come off the back of a lorry, no questions asked.

This was a whole new world, a world that she had felt so excited to be entering. But now it was all ruined, and she hated Max and Annie for doing this to her, for killing her dream.

‘I’ll get ready for bed,’ she said coldly.

Then she looked around. He’d brought her small suitcase upstairs with them and she was so tired, she just wanted to change into her nightdress and go to sleep. But Max was here. He was here, and things were expected of her. But she couldn’t undress in front of him.

She just couldn’t.

Max saw her sudden confusion and took pity on her.

‘You get yourself settled in,’ he said, swigging champagne then putting the flute aside. ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

He went into the adjoining bathroom and relieved himself, then shucked off his suit and washed, shaved and splashed on cologne. He felt excited at what was to come, every part of him seemed to pulsate with anticipation.

His wedding night.

Christ, married at last.

Well, it had to happen. He wanted to pass all this on to someone, and Jonjo was still the crazy bachelor, showing every sign of staying a fucking playboy for the rest of his natural, while Eddie was a bum-bandit and unlikely ever to father a kid. Some fucker had to carry on the Carter family line, to build the family back up into the force it should be, and it was going to have to be him.

He put on his dressing gown and went back out to the bedroom. Ruthie was sitting up in bed looking like she was about to be shot. Her hands were gripping the bedcovers so tightly the knuckles were white.

Her nightie was one of those cotton floral things, nothing seductive but somehow sweet and showing her purity, he thought. He knew he’d made a good choice in Ruthie. She would do very nicely. He was pleased.

He faced the bed and took off the dressing gown. He saw her eyes widen as she clocked the size of his erection, but he didn’t hesitate, he got into bed and cuddled right up to her.

She was cold to his touch.

Poor kid, he thought. She’d never had it before and probably had never even felt the urge for it, this was bound to be a shock.

‘It’s all right,’ he said softly, hugging her. ‘We’ll take this slowly, okay?’

Ruthie was trembling with rage and disappointment. Max Carter, the man of her dreams, was naked in bed with her, his hands working their way under her nightie, and all she could see was her treacherous sister’s face.

‘Lie back,’ he said, kissing her neck and touching her between the legs. A spasm of pleasure shot through her as he touched the little button there, but she was unresponsive and so upset that she just couldn’t let go.

Bitterness welled up in her, smothering all prospect of enjoyment, but Max was shoving the nightie up under her armpits and cupping her small breasts in his hands. Ruthie knew they weren’t as lush or as pert and big as Annie’s, and she imagined him doing this to Annie, and she knew that Annie would be up for it, far more so than she was.

Max moved between her legs, panting now, and she felt that big stiff thing nudging her sex open.

‘No,’ she said, pushing at his chest, furious, gasping with pent-up rage.

‘Come on sweetie,’ cooed Max, pushing at her.

‘I know about you,’ spat Ruthie.

‘We’ll talk afterwards,’ said Max, nudging harder. She was as tight as a duck’s arse, he thought. Tight and dry.

‘About you and Annie!’

He burst through her hymen and thrust in deep. Ruthie screamed. Max froze, not believing what he’d just heard, but he was in now and too excited to stop. He thrust quickly, ten, twenty times, while Ruthie groaned and shoved helplessly against him, then he came. He rolled off her. Ruthie curled up into a foetal ball, aware only of the pain between her legs and the bitter hurt in her chest. She started to sob.

Max lay there and looked up at the ceiling in a daze.

Shit, that little bitch Annie.

Her and her fat gob, she’d ruined this. He’d told her to keep it buttoned, but she couldn’t resist rubbing Ruthie’s nose in it. The fucking little cow. He touched Ruthie’s shuddering back, but she twitched away from him.

After a while he got up, put on his dressing gown, and went to the adjoining bedroom. He got into the cold bed and lay there cursing Annie Bailey and swearing to himself that she would pay for not keeping her trap shut.

7

Kieron Delaney stood shivering at the side of his brother Tory’s grave. Summer had given up for the day and was drenching the funeral party in cold rain. The weather suited their business here. His mum and dad were standing like statues beside him.

He stole a glance at them.

His mother was devastated, her white curls and floods of tears hidden by a thick black veil. His father seemed to be swaying on his feet, as if he would fall at any moment. Kieron was appalled to see how much weight his father Davey had lost. Suddenly, big strapping Davey Delaney, founder of the family firm, looked his age. Kieron saw his older brother Pat clutch at their dad’s arm to steady him.

‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ intoned the priest, dropping dirt on to the coffin in the hole.

He held the box out to Redmond, who took a handful and slung it in. Then Pat. Then Orla, who was tearless and composed. Then Kieron. Then their mum and dad.

Kieron tuned out the rest of it. He thought of Tory Delaney, his big brother, carrying him on his shoulders when he’d been tiny. He remembered the soft feel of Tory’s curly golden hair beneath his little fingers, remembered the booming Irish laugh of this man who was now nothing more than a corpse being buried in the dirt.

They’d drifted far apart over the years. Kieron was the youngest of Davey and Molly Delaney’s five children, and he had benefited from the family firm’s wealth without ever having to get involved in it.

He’d stuck his head in the sand and refused to acknowledge the sort of dodgy business his siblings were engaged in. He’d gone to art college and then had a year travelling. Ignorance was bliss. But in his guts he’d known that his dad had been into all sorts in his time, including a spell in Strangeways, and that Tory, Pat and Redmond had built the firm up from that base into what it was today.

He knew damned well his brothers were racketeers, thugs, criminals; he knew they ran girls and were into the ‘heavy game’, their term for armed robbery.

Live by the sword, die by the sword, he thought.

‘I wonder you bothered to show up,’ said Pat when it was over and they had moved away from the grave.

Kieron looked at Pat. There had always been a sting of animosity between them. Kieron thought Pat a stupid bully, and Pat thought Kieron a fairy. The two were never going to happily co-exist, so Kieron had been glad to get away from home and see the back of his thuggish older brother. But it was clear to see that nothing had changed between them despite time and distance.

A few years back, Kieron would have flown at Pat in a rage. Today, he merely smiled.

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’

‘Brought your sketch pad, did you?’ Pat sneered.

‘Padraig!’ said Molly sharply, coming up to them and touching Kieron’s arm.

‘It isn’t a crime to have a talent,’ said Kieron.

‘It’s a gift from God,’ said Molly, patting his arm. She looked back towards the grave where Davey her husband was still standing, supported by Redmond. ‘This is going to kill your father,’ she predicted with a tremble in her voice.

‘No it isn’t, Mum,’ said Orla, hurrying over and embracing her mother. ‘Dad’s a tough nut.’

A year away had given Kieron a new perspective. His sister Orla was a lovely young woman now, no more the freckly girl. Her red hair was long and sleek, and her green eyes were gorgeous. She was tall and slender, like Redmond her twin, and the black of mourning flattered her pale skin.

‘Tory was a tough nut too,’ said Molly. ‘And now look.’

The priest was striding back towards the vestry for his tea and biscuits. The crowds were dispersing and there were many sad faces.

Things would change now.

If Tory was no more, then who would take over the manor? The Carters were chipping away at them day by day. It would be down to Redmond, the eldest, to take over the firm, but for now no one could face that prospect. Everyone on the manor had respected Tory Delaney and they were all sick at heart to see him gone. The streets had been lined with bare bowed heads when the cortège drove through to go to the church. No one would be celebrating on the manor tonight.

Davey and Redmond joined the rest of the family.

‘I want to know who did this,’ said Redmond. Unlike big golden Tory, Redmond’s hair suited his name. It was red like his mother’s had once been, long ago. He had green eyes and pale lashes. He did not appear a man of action, but he looked sleek and elegant in his black coat and leather gloves.

Redmond hadn’t got into boxing like Tory and Pat, like their dad before them. Accountancy was his game, adding up figures and doing deals, and he was good at it, Pat had to admit that. Pat looked at his effete older brother and wondered if Redmond could ever hope to fill Tory’s shoes.

And then Pat wondered, not for the first time, if he could do the job better. Jaysus, he knew full well that he could.

‘We’ll find out who did it,’ said Pat.

The police seemed clueless about the shooting, or at least took pains to appear so. It was how the Bill always reacted to gang business. All the boys knew that the police’s attitude to a feud in the East End was, fair enough, so one of them’s dead, so what? Cut down the numbers a bit, that’s a good thing.

And there were plenty of coppers in the pay of the other major gangs, everyone knew that. Sometimes a blind eye was turned because the payment had been right. A fortnight on the Costas, a cash sum, all helped to obscure the vision of the boys in blue. That was just the way it was. You couldn’t rely on the police to do your work for you.

All this week the papers had been full of the news of this alleged ‘gangland killing’.

The public were enthralled.

The police didn’t give a fuck.

‘Let’s get home,’ said Molly from behind her veil. ‘I’m sick of this day. Kieron, you can show me all these paintings you’ve been doing and tell me all about your travels. Cheer me up a bit.’

Kieron nodded. Padraig looked at him daggers, but Orla was smiling at him. His big sis had often saved him from a beating from the pugnacious Pat. Kieron looked at Redmond, but those strange green eyes gave nothing away at all. Not grief. Not elation. If Tory had been hot-headed, Redmond was unfailingly controlled.

No, cold was more the word, thought Kieron, suppressing a shudder. Cold as fucking ice. That was Redmond.

8

The minute Annie got home from work, she knew something was wrong. Connie was sitting at the kitchen table alone, chain-smoking, an ashtray brimming with stubs in front of her. When Annie came into the kitchen Connie jumped to her feet and gave her youngest daughter a heavy slap around the face.

‘What the hell was that for?’ asked Annie, holding a hand to her stinging cheek and watching her mother as if she might go for the carving knife next. Annie’s eyes were watering with pain.

Connie waved her fag in Annie’s face, ash spilling down her tightly belted trench coat. Fucking English weather, she was tired and drenched through and now this.

‘You know what it’s for, you little slag,’ she yelled.

Annie was about to open her mouth to speak when she saw a suitcase at the foot of the stairs through the open hall door.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her heart racing.

‘What’s going on?’ sneered Connie. ‘What’s going on? Christ, you’ve got some front, I’ll say that for you.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, beginning to shake with the shock of her mother’s attack.

‘Oh you don’t?’ Connie took a deep drag, sucked the nicotine right back into her lungs. Christ, if Connie Bailey lasted until fifty Annie would be amazed. She was used to her mother’s bad temper, and it was even worse since golden-girl Ruthie had got married and flown the nest. It wouldn’t be too long before Connie got herself invited to stay at Max’s posh place in Surrey. Annie knew her mother, she knew that this would be Connie’s master plan. She’d take Queenie’s place at Max’s table, and lord it over all she surveyed. As for Annie, she would have to piss off and fend for herself. If she had Ruthie near at hand, Connie would certainly not want Annie.

‘Then why is it I’ve had poor Ruthie in tears to me on the telephone, telling me all about you, you dirty little whore, and her new husband?’

Annie recoiled as if Connie had struck her again. Her words were a total shock. Annie had never imagined that Ruthie would be so stupid as to tell anyone that she knew Max and Annie had been together. She felt her belly start to crawl with dread.

‘Oh that,’ she said, deliberately casual. ‘We had a little fling, that was all. And Ruthie found out. But it was nothing. Just a fling.’

‘A fling? Ruthie’s in tatters down there, you selfish little tart,’ roared Connie, her face inches from Annie’s. Annie shut her eyes. Connie’s breath was foul from all the fags, and flecks of saliva spattered Annie’s face with the force of her mother’s shrieking.

‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ demanded Connie. ‘We’re talking about your sister’s intended. You should have had the decency to leave him alone, not go spreading your legs for him at the first opportunity.’

Annie opened her eyes. Something snapped inside her head. ‘I saw him first,’ she said flatly. ‘He should have married me, not her.’

Connie threw back her raddled head and howled with croaky smokers’ laughter. ‘You?’ she mocked. ‘He didn’t have to marry you to get what he wanted, did he, you bloody little fool. Trust me, no bloke would want to put a wedding band on your finger. You’ve got whore written all over you. Not like Ruthie. Ruthie’s a good girl.’

‘Yeah,’ flung back Annie, stung. ‘I bet the wedding night was a barrel of laughs. She’s as frigid as a fucking nun and we both know it. That won’t keep a man like Max happy for long, trust me.’

Connie flung her fag down on to the scratched lino and stamped it out with a gesture of finality.

‘I want you out of here right now,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘OUT!’ yelled Connie. ‘O. U. T. Out. Out that bloody door. Your stuff’s all packed, pick up your bag and clear off. I’ve had enough of your tarting about. And doing this to your own sister? It’s the final fucking straw, and I’ve had enough.’

Annie started to speak, but Connie grabbed her with surprising force and pushed her out into the hall. Connie flung open the front door while Annie stood there in a state of shock. Connie snatched up the suitcase and flung it out on to the pavement. She grabbed Annie’s arm and hustled her out after it. Annie found herself out on the pavement in the drizzling rain. People were passing, and they looked curious but carried on by.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she yelled.

Net curtains were starting to twitch. A couple of doors opened and female heads peered avidly around doorframes.

‘Chucking you out, you worthless tart,’ said Connie. ‘And good riddance.’

The door slammed shut.

Annie stood there, wondering what had hit her.

‘Annie?’ The low male voice broke into her tumbling thoughts. Where would she go? What would she do? She looked around to find a hunched man in a deerstalker hat standing there staring at her with limpid brown eyes. He wore a mac and held a large, brown leather briefcase. It was Billy. He was a bit slow in the head, but he was one of Max’s boys. She knew him of old. He was always wandering around the manor with that vacant look on his face, poor bastard.

‘Hello Billy,’ she said absently.

A car went by, nearly hitting the suitcase which was lying in the road. The horn blared. She went and retrieved it and put it on the pavement. She glared at their next-door neighbour, who was still peering out nervously. ‘Seen enough?’ she demanded loudly, and the door closed. A curtain twitched again across the street. ‘Nosy old bitches,’ shouted Annie, and the curtain fell.

She snatched up the case and started walking. She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do about a roof over her head. She’d think of something – she’d have to. She was deeply irritated to see that Billy had fallen into step beside her. Why didn’t he just bugger off? This was just what she needed, an idiot for company when she was on her uppers.

‘Has she chucked you out?’ asked Billy.

‘No, I’m off on my holidays. Of course she’s chucked me out. What else did you think when you saw this suitcase flying past your ear?’

‘What will you do?’ he asked. Billy was impervious to mockery and deaf to insults. He’d suffered them all his life. He was happy for the moment because he was at last talking to the beautiful Annie, the girl of his dreams, and she was talking back to him.

‘Who knows?’ Annie shrugged, but deep down she was worried. She wondered who else Ruthie had told about her and Max. This could turn out to be a difficult situation if she’d blabbed it about too much.

It was starting to rain more heavily. People were diving for cover, ducking into shop doorways, heading for home. Home! She didn’t have a home now. She looked up and down the road and saw a big black car drawing nearer. Her heart seemed to stand still in her chest. The car drew level with them. Annie and Billy stopped walking. The back window wound down and Max looked out with cold blue eyes.

‘Fuck off, Billy, there’s a good lad,’ he said.

Billy glanced between Max and Annie. He hesitated, but knew better than to disobey. He scuttled away up the rain-misted street and was soon lost to view. There wasn’t a soul about now. Annie’s hair was hanging around her shoulders in rat-tails, her mascara was running in the rain. She was shivering.

The car door opened. ‘Get in,’ said Max.

* * *

‘Take a walk, Tony.’

The driver got out and walked off, flicking his collar up and hunching his shoulders, into the rain. The windscreen wipers were still going. Ker thunk. Ker thunk. Ker thunk. Annie felt the sound inside her head. She felt as if she were going mad. Max just sat there, cool as you like. He was always cool. Usually, she liked that about him; but she didn’t like it now. It smelled of leather in here, and petrol, and expensive cologne. She felt as if she was going to throw up. Yet despite her fear she felt that old treacherous tug of attraction. Max had an aura of intense male sexuality. Even when he was looking at her as if he despised her, still she felt its pull.

‘Some men hit women,’ said Max.

Annie’s head flicked round. She stared at him. He looked right back at her, dispassionately, like she was a bug wriggling on a pin.

‘My old man,’ Max went on, ‘was going to hit my mum once. Came home from the pub all tanked up and full of himself, she had a go, gave it some verbal, and then he thought he’d have a go. Funny how you remember these things.’

Something was required of her. Annie worked some spittle into her dry mouth and swallowed before she could speak.

‘What happened?’ she asked, trying to make it sound casual.

‘I broke his arm,’ said Max. ‘In two places. Men who beat up women are scum. They’re not men at all.’

Annie nodded. It was too soon to feel relieved, but still, she did. She knew Max had a strict code of honour. A man on equal terms, fair game. Women or children, forget it. So she was safe enough. And yet, she doubted it. He was seriously pissed off with her, that much was plain.

‘Why did you do it, Annie?’ Max asked.

Annie shook her head. It was all a jumble. All those years of being second-best with Ruthie forever the favourite. All those small slights and hurts that had somehow burrowed beneath her skin until they formed one huge uncomfortable boil, that somehow had to be lanced. When she had whispered in Ruthie’s ear on her wedding day there had been one blissful moment of utter release. At last, she had her revenge. But then there had been the numb hurt on Ruthie’s face, Ruthie who had always been kind to her, even when she was far from deserving it.

‘I don’t know,’ she said hopelessly. It was all a mess, muddied by rivalry and bitter black hatred and deep despairing love.

Max suddenly grabbed her chin and dragged her face close to his.

‘What do you mean, “I don’t know”?’ he snarled. ‘You wreck your sister’s happiness, you piss me off, and you say “I don’t know”? What the fuck’s all that about, Annie? What the bloody hell did you go and do that for?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Annie.

‘You’re sorry? You don’t know the meaning of the fucking word yet, girl.’

Yet. Too soon to be relieved, then. Far too soon. Her jaw was aching in his grip, but she kept still.

‘I told you it was a one-off. I told you to keep it buttoned. What did you think, that I was having a laugh or something? That I didn’t mean it? Do you think I say things I don’t mean, Annie Bailey? For fuck’s sake, say something.’

‘I’ve got no excuse,’ said Annie, closing her eyes with the pain. ‘She got on my nerves, all right? She was so smug and self-satisfied.’

‘Well you must be pleased now. She’s in fucking bits.’

Yeah, I should be pleased, thought Annie. But somehow I’m not. There were all these confusing images in her mind. Ruthie at ten, giving Annie a lick of her ice cream when she’d dropped her own on the mucky pavement. Ruthie picking her up and dusting her down when she fell over and scraped her knee. Ruthie defending her when she committed the indefensible and was down for a hiding from Mum. Ruthie, Ruthie, Ruthie. She hated her and loved her in equal measures. After the relief of hurting her had come the remorse. A sick, soul-eating remorse that had been gnawing at her ever since.

‘I’m sorry,’ muttered Annie. ‘All right?’

‘No, it ain’t all right.’ Max released her with a derisory flick that sent her reeling back against the car door. The expression on his face was one of complete disgust. ‘What a selfish little tart you are,’ he said.

Annie rubbed her jaw. ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ she said bitterly. ‘That’s me.’

‘Go on, bugger off.’

Annie stared at him.

‘Bugger off!’ yelled Max. ‘And keep the fuck out of my way in future, or you’ll be sorry.’

Annie hardly knew she had opened the door, but she tumbled out on to the pavement. Tony, the driver, was there in an instant, plonking her suitcase down at her side as she scrambled to her feet. He stepped into the driver’s seat, and the car pulled away. Annie was left there, the rain beating down on her head. With nowhere else to turn, she started walking up the road towards Limehouse, towards her only possible place of refuge.

9

‘She told me you’d be coming,’ said Aunt Celia when she opened the door and found Annie there, wet, bedraggled, and clutching a suitcase.

Annie was irritated to be so obvious. But where else could she have gone? Connie would have lost no time in spreading the word about her tryst with Max, and all the relations would side with little angel Ruthie against her; they always had. Annie’s best friend was Kath, her cousin, but she was on Mum’s side of the family, and her mother would kick up bloody hell if she knew Annie had been in touch and got a good response. Bailey family bonds were strong. Max’s influence was even stronger.

But Connie detested her husband’s sister, Celia. Annie didn’t know why. She said ‘that family’ were all the same; wasters and thieves. Annie hadn’t seen Celia for years. She hadn’t even been sure that she still lived in the same place. Celia and Connie had had a major falling-out when Dad left and all contact had been lost. But here she was, still in the same large Edwardian semi. Still pretty – although slightly faded. Still with that same wry smile on her face, still wearing her neat two-piece suits, still with a fag in her hand. The fag was still stuck in an ivory holder, too.

‘Tarty bloody piece,’ Connie had always said of Celia with a sneer. ‘Poncing around all affected with that thing in her mouth, thinks she’s the fucking Empress of India.’

But Annie had always liked her chic aunt.

‘I had nowhere else to go,’ said Annie.

‘She’s fucking mad at you,’ said Celia.

‘I did a stupid thing.’

‘We all do stupid things, Annie. She said I wasn’t to take you in under any circumstances.’

‘Oh.’ Annie’s shoulders dropped. Her feet were killing her, she was worn out; now Celia was going to turn her away.

‘She didn’t tell me why, though.’ Celia opened the door wider. ‘Come on in, then, and spill the beans. Put the wood in the hole after you.’

‘I slept with Max Carter,’ said Annie as they sat at the kitchen table. Celia’s dark, glittering eyes lit up.

‘You never did,’ she said breathlessly.

‘The night before the wedding.’ Annie sipped her tea. Nice and warm. The kitchen was cosy. She’d been frozen to the bone out there in the rain. This was lovely.

Celia let out a plume of smoke. ‘Never!’

‘And I told Ruth I’d done it. On her wedding day.’

Her aunt clicked her tongue in disbelief. ‘Fucking hell. What did you want to go and do that for?’

‘I told you it was stupid.’

‘You must have had a reason.’

‘Nothing that matters.’ Annie looked at Celia in anguish. ‘I loved him before Ruthie did. She gets everything! And I saw him first.’

Celia stubbed out her cigarette. ‘This ain’t the bloody playground, Annie. You really in love with him?’

‘Can I have a fag, Auntie?’ Annie had never smoked in her life, but now seemed like a good time to start.

‘No you bloody can’t. It’s a disgusting habit, don’t ever start doing stuff like that. And don’t call me Auntie, it makes me feel a bloody hundred. Call me Celia, you’re old enough. Drink your tea. Were you careful, Annie?’

Annie felt herself colouring up. She nodded.

‘Well thank God for that.’ Celia started tapping on the tabletop with her long, red-painted nails. Tart’s nails, Connie would call them. Annie thought they looked incredibly elegant. Her mother’s were stained yellow from nicotine, broken, ridged. Hideous. Celia was the same age as Connie, but she had looked after herself, that was obvious. Her dark hair was teased into a stylish bouffant. Her figure was still trim. Her tailored suit was a flattering powder-blue wool. It looked expensive. Annie remembered what else Connie had said about Celia, and wondered if it could be true.

‘So Connie knows all about it because Ruthie told her?’ asked Celia.

Annie nodded.

‘And what about Max – does he know what you’ve done?’

She nodded again.

‘Blood and sand,’ breathed Celia, and lit another cigarette from the packet of Player’s with an air of urgency. She stuck it in the holder, took a deep draw and regarded her niece with disfavour. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

‘Yeah, I did.’ It hurt Annie afresh to think of the words they’d exchanged in the back of his car.

‘Did you tell him you were coming here?’

‘No,’ said Annie.

‘Keep it that way. I don’t want to upset the Carters. What did he say to you?’

‘To get out of his sight and stay out,’ said Annie bleakly.

‘Well just make sure you do. It’s good that he doesn’t know you’re here, although how long we can keep it that way is anyone’s guess. Connie needn’t know, either, in case you were thinking of letting your mother know where you’ve got to.’

‘I wasn’t,’ said Annie bluntly. ‘She doesn’t care about me. Do you mean I can stay?’

‘Of course you bloody can. But here’s the house rules, Annie. You don’t go poking around outside your room. You can use the lavvy and this kitchen, but I don’t want you wandering about in the other rooms, got that?’

Annie nodded. She looked around the kitchen. It was clean and neat, nothing fancy. She put her cup down and bit her lip.

‘Whatever you’re thinking, you might as well say it,’ said Celia, tapping ash on to a saucer. ‘Tell the truth and shame the devil.’

‘No, it’s okay,’ said Annie. She didn’t want Celia getting the hump and changing her mind about letting her stay.

‘Come on,’ prompted Celia. ‘Out with it.’

‘You won’t like it.’

Celia looked her niece square in the eye. ‘I’m not going to change my mind.’

‘Mum said you ran a massage parlour,’ blurted Annie. ‘And that you were all pally with the Delaneys.’

Celia looked momentarily startled. Then she threw back her head and roared with laughter.

‘Is it true?’ asked Annie.

Celia’s laughter subsided. She took another drag. ‘What do you think, Annie?’ she asked, watching the younger woman keenly.

Annie looked at Celia’s neat turnout and made-up face, at her shrewd button-bright eyes.

‘I think she’s probably right,’ said Annie.

‘And I think we’re going to get on fine,’ said Celia, standing up and stubbing out her fag. ‘Come on up, doll-face, let’s get you settled in.’

10

Jonjo Carter was getting seriously annoyed. Not that this was anything new – anyone who knew Jonjo also knew that he had a short fuse. He was on his way out to the Shalimar. Nothing like having your own club to impress your latest lady, and this one was sweet. Blonde and cute with a rosebud mouth and big black-lashed blue eyes. A little scoop-necked white top and tight leopard skin trousers showing an ass you could stand a pint on. All bubbly and chatty, the sort he went for big-time. He’d picked her up when she was working in one of the new clip joints not far from the Starlight Club on the Richardson manor; there was never any trouble between the Richardsons and the Carters, they had a mutual respect and were always pleased to welcome each other.

Julie – or was it Julia? – was a hostess there, and she never tired of rattling off at the mouth about her working life, which was a drawback but with an ass like that, was he bothered?

‘The johns like me,’ she prattled on to him when they were in bed together and had just concluded a pleasurable session. He’d worn a French letter, of course. If he had his way he’d wear three, tart like this. Women always wanted to get you tied down with a baby, either that or they’d give you a dose of something nasty. Like the Boy Scouts, Jonjo was always Prepared.

‘They’re such mugs,’ she went on. ‘They buy me drinks all night and think I’m going to come across for them. Not that I ever would, Jonjo sweetheart, I’ve only got eyes for you,’ she added quickly when his brows drew together.

Jonjo was handsome, but not so handsome as Max. Jonjo was bulkier and she guessed he’d go to seed as he aged. His dark hair was curly, his eyes were dark too. He had a bullish look to him. But he was a Carter, and she was pleased and proud to be seen with him.

‘What else do they do?’ Jonjo grunted, not that he gave a shit or wanted to know, but he never did like the idea of dirty old men drooling over his current girl. What was his was his, no argument.

Julie or Julia shrugged and her breasts – not her best feature, he thought, too small for his taste really – jiggled nicely.

‘I arrange to meet them up the road,’ she giggled. ‘Not that I ever do.’

Which was a lie, Jonjo suspected. If a good-looking punter gave her the eye and spent enough, he reckoned she’d come across in the blink of an eye. Women were no good. They loved whoever they were with, he knew that. Hadn’t Ma told him so often enough? And she was right. The conversation was starting to irritate. He rolled over on her and she squealed with delight.

‘You talk too much,’ he said, and kissed her into silence.

So things were good. She fucked like a weasel and she fucked only him. Well, that was the case since he’d been going out with her, he knew that because he’d had his contacts watching her to make sure. Everything was nice and neat.

So a drink in The Grapes to do a bit of business on the way to the Shalimar had not seemed too big a deal. Julie, or possibly Julia, who gave a shit, was pleased to be on his arm as they strolled up to the bar. Eric, the landlord, started grovelling around, fetching her a Babycham and Jonjo a pint of his usual, waving away Jonjo’s offer of payment like he always did. Eric paid protection to the Carters, and respect was due.

‘Go and put something nice on the jukebox,’ said Jonjo, handing her some change and giving her ass (wow, that ass) an encouraging pat when he saw Kyle Fox, the man he had the meet with, come up to the bar alongside him. The place was quiet tonight, it was early. Just a couple of punters down the other end of the bar.

‘Put on some Orbison or some Frank Ifield,’ he told her.

Julie – he had decided he was going to call her Julie, what the hell – pouted at being dismissed but did as she was told, teetering off on her high heels, drink in hand.

‘Hiya Kyle,’ said Jonjo and offered his hand. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

Kyle Fox was a weedy-looking type of man, thin hair, bad teeth, a look of malnourishment about him and the pale complexion of the indoor-worker. Which was about right for a forger, really. The hand that shook Jonjo’s was limp and damp. Being polite, Jonjo didn’t wipe his hand afterwards. A tasty-looking bloke in a dark coat had come in with Kyle and was now sitting by the door, watching.

‘Hello Mr Carter,’ said Kyle, and swallowed nervously. ‘Half a shandy, please.’

Christ, what sort of man drinks halves? wondered Jonjo. ‘My brother hears you have some plates. We’d like to make an offer for them.’

‘I’ve had several offers already,’ said Kyle, starting to sweat. ‘They’re good quality, you’ll get the best possible print runs from them.’

‘Just tenners?’

‘Fivers too.’

‘How much then, Kyle?’

Kyle shrugged, trying to look indifferent, sorry bastard.

‘Make me an offer,’ he said.

Jonjo took a pull at his pint. In the mirrors behind the bar he could see Julie over at the jukebox, looking down the list of records. The men at the other end of the bar were drinking Guinness. They looked like dockers, they weren’t regulars. Big men built like brick shithouses, and talking with marked Irish accents. Probably Delaney men, he thought. Fuckers. They had some front, coming in here.

‘I dunno.’ Jonjo pretended he was thinking. He’d had a word with Max and they already knew how much they were prepared to pay. ‘Five grand?’

‘I’ve had offers of six.’

Jonjo smiled. ‘Six grand then.’

‘That just meets the offer I’ve already got on the table.’

‘So it does. That’s the offer, Kyle, and it comes with a promise.’

‘What’s that?’ Kyle’s eyes flicked sideways to where his backup sat. Some backup, thought Jonjo. I could slit Foxy here open like a pear before that twat got halfway across the floor.

‘We do the deal at six grand and you don’t get any trouble.’

Eric was keeping well out of the way polishing glasses. He didn’t want to accidentally overhear anything. The jukebox suddenly erupted into life and Kyle jumped. Ned Miller started singing. Jonjo hated it and felt annoyed. Orbison was the business, now that was class. That Australian chap Ifield was okay, too. He saw one of the Irishmen at the end of the bar turn and say something to Julie. She smiled.

‘Six grand,’ he reiterated to Kyle. ‘And nothing happens.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Kyle. Nervous sweat was rolling down his face now. He stank of fear.

Jonjo shrugged. ‘Well, let’s say for instance you don’t fall under a bus, you don’t get your legs accidentally broke, you don’t unexpectedly wake up one morning fucking dead, do you see what I mean, Kyle?’ Jonjo’s voice had lowered and now it was a growl. Kyle’s Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down like a marble on a string. ‘It could be very inconvenient, that, don’t you think?’

Kyle’s fingers were clutching the bar top so hard they were white.

‘So what do you say, Kyle? Six and we shake on it?’

‘Six,’ said Kyle. He’d anticipated a better offer. Up to ten, he’d thought. But fuck upsetting this geezer. This one had crazy eyes. Kyle had seen eyes like that when he was inside. Killer’s eyes. You didn’t push your luck with a man with eyes like that. ‘Six then.’ He held out a shaking hand.

Jonjo shook it. ‘I’ll arrange for collection and payment tomorrow.’ He smiled. ‘We know where you live, don’t we.’

‘Yeah.’ Kyle gave a horrible grimace of a smile.

‘We’ll give you a bell, Kyle. Drink up. It’s been nice doing business.’

He left Kyle and went down the other end of the bar. One of the Irish was putting a coin in the juke and saying to Julie: ‘Go on, pick out another.’ And she was giggling and sipping the drink he’d bought her and making cow eyes at the fucker.

She turned as Jonjo came up, and the Irish bloke gave him the once over.

‘You’re talking to my woman,’ said Jonjo.

‘What’s it to you?’ asked the Irish.

Jonjo snatched a glass off the bar just as the Irish started to throw a right-hander. The red mist descended and he let him have it in the face with the glass. Blood spurted and Julie screamed. The Irishman’s eye was hanging out on his cheek and he was yelling blue murder. His pal came at Jonjo and Eric came round the bar with the ice pick, but Jonjo didn’t need any help. He dropped the glass and decked the pal then grabbed him by the throat and squeezed. The Irish turned red and then blue. Eric was pounding at Jonjo’s back without effect. The landlord bent down and looked urgently into Jonjo’s eyes.

‘That’s enough, Mr Carter,’ he gasped. ‘Come on, that’s enough now. Don’t kill the bastard, not in my pub, that’s enough.’

And Jonjo heard him at last. He came to with both Irishmen on the floor, one with his face in tatters and one unconscious. He got to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, tidied his coat. There was a speck of blood on the lapel and he looked at it with distaste. He looked around for Kyle and his minder, but they were gone. Julie was still howling her stupid head off.

‘You get off, Mr Carter. I’ll sort this out,’ said Eric.

‘Thanks, Eric. We’ll pay for any damage.’ Jonjo grabbed Julie’s arm and marched her out the door. She still had the Babycham in her hand, and Ned Miller was still warbling on. Fucking women, thought Jonjo. They always caused trouble.

11

Ruthie sent Dave, her minder, to fetch Kath, her cousin, down to the big Surrey house on Miss Arnott’s day off. It was just a month since the wedding and she should have been on cloud nine but she was bitter to the bone, knowing how completely she had been betrayed. She was miserable and she was bored too, to tell the truth.

Max had said to her, redecorate, do whatever you like, but she hadn’t the heart.

He’d had clothes sent down from posh West End boutiques for her to try, saying that he liked this one, and that one, but never the one that Ruthie liked herself in best, so that one was always sent back.

Max didn’t come home very often. Most nights he slept at Queenie’s old place in the East End, or was out working or having a meet with the boys upstairs at Queenie’s, so he phoned her and told her he’d be back tomorrow, or the day after. Sometimes a whole week went by without her seeing him. Down here there was only Miss Arnott the prune-faced housekeeper and Dave who was on the door. Her minder, she supposed. Built like a tank, he was. He never said a word.

Kath’s reaction to Ruthie’s new home did cheer her up a bit, briefly. Kath came in the front door and stopped dead in the centre of the huge hall with her mouth hanging open in amazement.

‘Bloody hell, Ruthie,’ she gasped, then laughed. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. Only in pictures. Those stately homes, you know? It’s a fucking stately home.’

Ruthie looked around her and knew that what Kath said was true. The place was beautiful. She took Kath’s coat and led her all over it, enjoying playing lady of the manor for a brief time while Kath marvelled over the lovely furnishings, the thick velvet drapes, the expensive flock wallpaper, the carpet which was so deep you sank into it, the huge soft beds.

‘Jesus wept!’ Kath was bouncing up and down on one of the beds, laughing like a delighted child. ‘How many bedrooms did you say, Ruthie?’

‘Seven,’ said Ruthie.

The feelings of emptiness, of coldness, washed over her again.

And nothing happening in any of them, she thought.

‘Come on, let’s go downstairs and have a drink,’ she said.

Kath watched her cousin covertly as they tramped down the huge staircase and went into the drawing room.

A fucking drawing room! thought Kath. There was a roaring log fire, big couches on either side of it. A massive gilt mirror above the mantel. Drapes and carpets and … God, it was a fabulous place. Kath was pea-green with envy.

At least, she was until she looked at Ruthie’s face.

Because this wasn’t the Ruthie she knew of old.

This was a pale, drawn stranger.

Kath thought that Ruthie didn’t look well. She had dark shadows under her eyes, and she’d lost weight. She was wearing an olive-green dress and jacket with a lovely silky sheen to it. Her hair was pulled back into one of those classic French chignon things. She was nicely made-up. Ruthie looked elegant, and skinny, and … well, rich. Which of course she was. But she didn’t look well. She didn’t even look happy. There was a sort of bleakness about her and once she’d been so warm, so full of laughter.

‘It’s so lovely to see you, Kath,’ said Ruthie as they stood warming themselves before the fire.

Kath saw that there were tears in her eyes.

‘Ruthie, Ruthie.’ Kath rushed forward and hugged her. Ruthie felt frail, as if she might snap in two if you hugged her too hard. Christ, she even smelled different now. Kath inhaled a sweet expensive perfume when she pulled Ruthie into her arms. Whatever scent she was wearing, it wasn’t cheap and cheerful four seven fucking eleven. It was exotic. It matched her look.

Ruthie pulled herself free, wiping away a tear.

Kath saw that her nails were bitten down to the quick.

‘Come on, let’s have a drink,’ said Ruthie.

She went straight to the drinks cabinet and poured out what looked like a large sherry for them both. She brought the brimming glasses over and plonked herself down on the couch, kicking off her high-heeled shoes and tucking her birdlike legs up under her.

Kath had expected a cup of tea, not bloody sherry in the middle of the day. Still, she took a sip just to be sociable. She didn’t like alcohol much and she was appalled to see that Ruthie knocked half of hers back straight away.

‘So,’ Kath said briskly, ‘what’s it like, being Mrs Max Carter?’

Ruthie pulled a face. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, and dipped into the sherry again.

‘He’s ever so good-looking,’ said Kath. ‘You always sort of fancied him, didn’t you? When we were thirteen or fourteen you used to stop over with me at night. Remember? We used to lie in the dark and talk about Max Carter and Jonjo and the rest of the boys, and wonder what it would be like to be married. To be in charge of our own household.’

Ruthie nodded, her heart like lead in her chest. She wasn’t in charge of this household. It was in charge of her. Or Miss Arnott was. She thought back to those carefree teenage years, of all the dreams they’d had, her and Kath; how exciting and full of promise the future had seemed.

‘Yeah, I remember.’ She emptied her glass and went to fill it again.

‘We used to wonder what it would be like to actually do it,’ laughed Kath, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Ruthie seemed preoccupied. She was sitting down again, taking quick sips of the sherry. Fuck, she’s really putting it away, thought Kath.

‘It’s not so great,’ said Ruthie.

‘What?’ Kath spluttered. ‘With Max Carter? You kidding?’

‘It’s like being poked with a stick, if you want the truth,’ said Ruthie, and emptied her glass again. She stared moodily into the fire. Max and her hadn’t done ‘it’ since the night of the wedding.

‘Right,’ said Kath, her smile fading. She could see there was something horribly wrong here. ‘Has your mum been down yet?’

Ruthie shrugged. ‘A couple of times.’

‘She must be made up.’

‘She is.’ Ruthie thought about her mother, poncing around down here like she owned the place. Visiting her daughter, Mrs Max Carter. She enjoyed chucking her weight about with snooty Miss Arnott, lapped up being chauffeur-driven by Dave.

Silence fell.

‘What about Annie?’ asked Kath a bit desperately, then wondered if she wouldn’t have been better to keep her fat mouth shut on that subject.

She knew there’d been some sort of a falling-out with Ruthie and Connie and Annie, but even Kath’s mum Maureen didn’t know what had gone on. Connie wouldn’t tell her. All they knew was that Annie had moved out. No one was saying where to.

‘I haven’t seen Annie,’ said Ruthie, frowning.

She couldn’t even bear to think about the sister who’d betrayed her. She could hardly bear to think about Max, her husband. Yet already she’d been obliged to lie for him. The police had called one evening asking desultory questions about the death of gang leader Tory Delaney, but she’d been adamant that on that night, the night before their wedding, Max had been with her.

Wasn’t that a bit unusual? asked the police. Wasn’t that considered unlucky?

That was the groom seeing the bride on the morning of the wedding, Ruthie had told them, with Max’s arm around her shoulders, the happy couple, so much in love they couldn’t even wait for the wedding night.

What a laugh.

What a lie.

But everyone on the Carter patch would swear it to be true.

‘Come on, let’s get something to eat,’ she said, and managed to get through another hour of forced chatter until Kath said she really had to be going.

‘Not already?’ Ruthie was suddenly anxious for her to stay.

‘I’m dating Jimmy Bond,’ said Kath proudly. ‘He’s taking me to the Shalimar tonight.’

‘He’s one of Max’s boys, isn’t he?’

‘Yeah, and he’s gorgeous.’ Kath looked at her cousin awkwardly. ‘Sorry and all that, Ruthie. I’ll come down again.’

But as they hugged goodbye, Ruthie knew that Kath felt awkward here, out of place, and that she wouldn’t come back anytime soon.

So here she was, alone again with the big empty house. The ticking of the clock was the only sound in the whole place. The awful soul-churning anger and the God-awful loneliness gripped her by the throat again, nearly choking her. She swigged back another drink and then took the glasses into the kitchen and washed them. Didn’t want Miss Arnott thinking she was hitting the bottle during the day and having the nosy old biddy pass on the glad news to Max, now did she?

As she stood at the sink, her eyes were caught by the keys hanging beside the back door. She’d looked at them many times – keys to unknown doors, unlocking secrets. She was fascinated by them. She knew what some of them were for, but there were a couple she didn’t. Emboldened by the drink, she grabbed the whole bunch and went out of the back door and across the courtyard to the annexe. It was locked, as usual. She tried a couple of the keys and one fitted. She pushed the door open, glancing behind her to check that she was unobserved.

Of course she was.

She felt a little woozy, sherry on an empty stomach was never a good idea. She knew she should cut back, but at the moment the booze was all she had. But did she really want to end up like her mother? Just look at Mum, the poor raddled old cow, that’s what the drink did to you. See and learn, see and learn, Ruthie.

Giggling to herself, she stepped into the hall. It was so small, compared with the big house. And cosy. A real little home, with nice floral carpets on the floor and up the stairs. She wandered into the silent place, feeling like an intruder. She opened a door and found a proper lounge, nothing like that big barn of a room in the main house, where she had to sit on her own day after day, night after night. This lounge had a fireplace and a sofa and lots of ornaments, pictures of Max and Eddie and Jonjo as babes in arms, kids at the seaside, teenagers wearing boxing gloves, hard-eyed men lounging against big black cars. Over the fireplace was a larger portrait. Ruthie froze.

It was Queenie Carter. Queenie with her imperious expression, her hard little mouth, her sharp blue eyes, her white hair billowing out around her face like a cloud. Queenie seemed to stare back at her and ask what the fuck Ruthie was doing, wandering around inside her home without permission. Ruthie left, closing the door firmly behind her. Her heart was racing and she felt light-headed, almost sick. She knew she shouldn’t be in here, Max had said she could go anywhere but not into the annexe, and now she could see why.

This was not an annexe. This was a shrine to Queenie Carter.

‘What’s going on?’ said a voice behind her.

She turned. Max was there, he’d found her. But no, it was okay. She blinked and clutched a hand to her hammering chest. It was only the gardener. She’d forgotten this was his day to come and do the lawns, trim the shrubs.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Carter,’ said the gardener. ‘I wondered what was going on. Sorry to make you jump like that. I haven’t seen anyone in the annexe since Mrs Carter died. Mr Carter’s mother, I mean.’

‘I know who you mean,’ said Ruthie, shoving past him and relocking the door. Suddenly she felt stone-cold sober. ‘She died, I didn’t. I’m still alive.’

But as she walked back to the main house, she wondered if that was really true.

12

‘Don’t I know you?’ asked Aretha, leaning her rangy black frame against Annie’s open door.

Annie was sprawled out on the bed flicking through a magazine. She wasn’t in the best of moods. She didn’t like being at Celia’s. All that bumping and grinding in the night, people coming and going at all hours. This morning, glad to get out of the place, she’d turned in for work as usual at the corner shop. Monday morning. Ruthie had been Mrs Max Carter for a month but for Annie it was just more of the same old shit.

But this Monday, things were different. Bert Tobey, the owner, looked uncomfortable as she started to shrug off her coat.

‘Better keep that on, Annie love,’ he said, his eyes avoiding hers. ‘Sorry, but your job’s gone.’

Annie stood there, half in and half out of her coat, and stared at him. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

‘We don’t need extra staff any more,’ Bert said. His big good-natured face looked unhappy. ‘Vi and me can manage on our own, we’ve decided. Sorry, but there it is.’

‘But I need this job,’ said Annie. ‘You’re happy with my work, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve had no complaints on that score,’ said Bert carefully.

‘Well then.’

‘Well nothing.’ Suddenly his eyes blazed with irritation. ‘I’ve told you, the job’s gone. You’re all paid up until last Saturday, so we’re square. Now piss off.’

Annie recoiled. Bert had never spoken to her like that before. Through the beaded curtain that led to the stock room she could see Vi, his wife, listening to what was going on. And then she understood and rage engulfed her.

‘Who are you telling to piss off, you old bastard?’ demanded Annie.

She knew what was going on. She knew damned well that Bert paid for protection. She’d seen Billy in here, collecting. Blushing when she spoke to him, the stupid git.

‘This is Max Carter, isn’t it,’ she said in bitter realization.

‘Look, I told you nicely, I don’t want to see you here again. Clear off,’ said Bert, and stormed off into the stock room.

So that was that. Annie left the shop and started walking back to Celia’s. Now her job was gone and she’d be lucky to get another one, she knew that. Certainly not on Max’s manor or in the areas controlled by most of the other gangs, gangs who were friendly with Max and would be only too pleased to do him a favour by making sure she stayed out in the cold. The bastard!

For the first time in her life she was on the Delaney patch. She’d lived all her life on Carter territory, seeing Max and Jonjo passing by in their big black cars, seeing them treated like royalty, people bowing and scraping. Consequently she’d grown up with the firm notion that the Delaneys were mad, dirty, red-haired Irish tinkers. The Delaneys were the enemy. But now it seemed that the Delaney manor was the only place she could breathe around here. Talk about a turnaround. But she’d brought all this on herself. She’d been a silly cow. She knew it.

And now here she was, dossing down in her disreputable aunt’s knocking shop, on dirty Delaney soil, with a brass wanting girly chats. She was not in the mood.

‘I said – don’t I know you?’ said Aretha, her dark brown eyes challenging.

‘I doubt it,’ said Annie, and got back to her mag.

‘Only you look kind of familiar.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

This was bad news. If this tart recognized her from somewhere as Ruthie Carter’s sister, then the shit would hit the fan and she would possibly have to move on. And where to? She hadn’t a clue. She was already jobless. She didn’t want to be homeless again. She comforted herself with the fact that the Carters and the Delaneys were at loggerheads. This was Delaney turf. But still she didn’t feel safe.

Annie took a look at the girl. Aretha was beautiful, tall, muscular in the way that black women often were, no spare padding at all. A big powder puff of black curls, big earrings. A tiny pink top pulled tight across small breasts. A black belted PVC miniskirt. Thigh-high black boots. How could anyone look that good and be a brass? Or a masseuse, Annie corrected herself. The girls here gave massages to a surprisingly diverse range of men. She’d spotted dockers and navvies coming and going, but she’d also seen one or two well- known actors, an MP, and a high-ranking police officer. All here to be ministered to by Celia’s three masseuses and one masseur, who by the way also gave blow jobs, hand jobs and a good shag at an additional fee, thank you, your honour.

‘She really your Aunt Celia?’ asked Aretha.

‘She really is.’

‘Some aunt.’

Annie shrugged.

‘You a working girl too?’

Annie slapped her magazine shut. ‘No,’ she said, and got up and shut the door in Aretha’s face.

Aretha knocked on the door.

Annie flung it open. ‘Okay, what?’

‘Don’t go shuttin’ the door in my face, baby doll. Or you’ll be sorry.’

‘I want some privacy. Is that a crime?’

‘Ain’t no need to go puttin’ on airs just because you’re related to Madam down there, always sippin’ her tea with her little finger stuck out and paintin’ her nails and smoking that friggin’ fancy cigarette thing and tellin’ us to be sure to get ’em to wash their winkles before we get started on any little extras.’

‘You got something against Celia? Take it up with Celia,’ said Annie.

‘I got no beef with her. But she makin’ a good chunk o’ money out of us eager beavers.’

‘Oh really,’ said Annie.

‘Yeah, really. So how come you not gettin’ a little of the action? Plenty of money to be made, I tell you.’

‘I’m not a brass,’ said Annie.

‘Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a brass,’ said Aretha. ‘You get to charge for it instead of givin’ it away for free, that’s all.’

‘That’s very interesting. Thanks for the information,’ said Annie, and shut the door again.

Or she would have, if Aretha hadn’t stuck a large boot in the gap.

‘I’m sure I know you.’ Aretha gave her the once- over. ‘You’re a looker all right. Sometimes a client like a little man sandwich, know what I mean?’

‘No,’ said Annie, which was true.

‘Hell, you naïve.’ Aretha was tickled by this. She grinned hugely. ‘Man in the middle, girl either side, got that? You and me, we could be good in a threesome. You so pale, I so dark, they’d love it. Top dollar.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Annie, and kicked Aretha’s boot out of her doorway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it. She heard Aretha stroll off along the landing to her own room. She was roaring with laughter.

‘Cheap bitch,’ muttered Annie, and threw herself back on to the bed. God, she was fed up. And she wouldn’t admit it to a living soul, but she missed having Ruthie to talk to.

13

Orla Delaney bent down and laid a fresh bouquet of blood-red roses on her brother Tory’s grave. Dead brown leaves whirled in the cold wind. Months now since he’d been gone. Kieron stood back and watched as his sister replaced the old, dead blooms with the new ones. She was a lovely girl, he thought. Her red hair shone like flames in the sunlight. Her skin was alabaster-pale, like the marble of Tory’s headstone. Her hands were long and moved with elegant precision. He’d drawn and painted her often as they grew up, much to her annoyance. Orla never wanted to be still. Time enough for that in the coffin, she said.

All of a fidget, that was Orla, thought Kieron. She had the nervy energy of a thoroughbred racehorse. He knew she didn’t sleep well. Dreams, she’d told him more than once. Disturbing dreams. But she hadn’t elaborated on that. Actually she didn’t need to. Kieron understood, better than Orla could ever suspect.

‘Hard to believe he’s gone,’ he said.

‘Very hard,’ she agreed.

‘I’ve often thought it must be nice to have a twin. I envy you and Redmond that closeness.’

Orla turned and stared at him.

‘I’ve always felt a bit of an outsider,’ shrugged Kieron.

‘You’re too sensitive.’

‘Goes with the artistic temperament, I’m told.’

‘You’re not an outsider.’

‘Sure I am.’ He smiled at her as she stood up, and took the rubbish bag from her to dispose of later. ‘I don’t have anything to do with the firm, for one thing.’

‘You’ve never been here long enough to do that,’ said Orla as they left the graveside. Petey, her minder, joined them at a discreet distance as they moved back to the car.

‘It feels bloody odd, having heavies tagging along at every turn,’ said Kieron, glancing back at the big man.

‘It’s necessary,’ said Orla.

Their brother Pat was waiting for them in the car.

‘You could at least have come to the grave,’ said Orla coldly as they got in.

‘No point,’ said Pat. ‘Dead’s dead, there’s nothing there but a pile of bones.’

‘Even so. As a mark of respect. Redmond would appreciate it.’

‘Feck Redmond,’ said Pat, and Petey got in and drove them away.

‘I’ll tell him you said that,’ said Orla.

‘Do. And feck you too, Orla Delaney.’

‘Hey!’ objected Kieron.

There was silence as the car wove its way through the London traffic.

‘I’m not kowtowing to a precious shite like Redmond, much as he enjoys all the world kissing his arse,’ said Pat finally.

‘He’s the head of the family now,’ said Orla.

‘Our father’s still alive, unless you’ve forgotten,’ snapped Pat, glaring out of the window at the rows of terraced houses and the shops with their brightly lit windows.

‘Dad isn’t involved any more, you know that,’ said Orla after a pause.

‘Clubs and fecking parlours,’ grumbled Pat. ‘There are other trades, you know. Trades that pay a damned sight better.’

‘We’re not having that old conversation again, are we Pat?’ asked Orla tiredly.

‘You know it’s true.’

Orla did know it. Drugs were the new thing, there was an endless market for pills and smokes. But the firm was doing all right. Why fix what wasn’t broke? Pat was like a bloody stuck record, she thought, going on and on when they’d already decided no. When they got to Brompton Road she tapped Petey on the shoulder

‘Let us out here, Petey, there’s a love,’ she said. ‘Pat’ll take the car, you come with me. You too, Kieron.’

‘Yeah, you bugger off the pair of you,’ said Pat, as Petey pulled in to the kerb and his brother and sister hopped out. ‘I can take a hint.’

Pat replaced Petey in the driving seat.

‘You’re a sour bastard sometimes, Pat,’ said Orla. ‘I don’t think you can take a hint at all. And you’d be wise to.’

Pat made a face and didn’t reply. They stood on the pavement and watched him speed away, burning rubber.

‘He doesn’t improve with age,’ said Kieron.

‘He’s all hot air,’ said Orla, making for the huge building and dark green canopied doors of Harrods.

Inside it was a treasure trove into which Orla always loved to dip. Kieron wandered along with her, indulgent, exclaiming over this and that, having a nice time with her. Then Orla fetched up short at seeing a familiar face.

‘Hello Celia,’ said Orla.

Celia straightened up. Annie, standing alongside her, saw her aunt’s face change. Suddenly Celia looked cautious and deferential.

‘Hello, Miss Delaney,’ said Celia. ‘How very nice to see you.’

Orla inclined her head. It was a regal gesture. Annie stared at her. One of the famous Delaneys. And such red hair!

‘I don’t think you’ll have met my brother Kieron?’ said Orla politely. ‘He’s been away, he’s a painter.’

Celia nodded and shook Kieron’s hand.

Annie knew that if you were a Delaney you could be whatever the fuck you wanted to be. Everyone knew that. So he wanted to call himself a painter? Delaney contacts would ensure exhibitions and plentiful sales. Who, after all, was likely to turn the man away? Annie looked at him with jaded eyes. The gangs ran these streets and she’d already had a brush with the Carters, she didn’t want to get into conversation with another lot.

‘This is Annie,’ said Celia, not elaborating further.

Annie shook Kieron’s hand. Actually he was good-looking. Blond floppy hair and a long thoughtful face, brown eyes that seemed on the point of laughter. His hands were long, but strong. His grip was dry.

‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Hello.’ Kieron was staring at Annie and thinking how gorgeous she was. That long dark hair, those depthless dark green eyes, that delicious figure. His mouth was dry with sudden excitement. ‘Have you ever had your portrait painted?’

Annie laughed.

Celia nudged her sharply.

Annie stopped laughing. ‘Oh. Sorry. Are you being serious?’

‘Deadly,’ said Kieron, then, thinking that this might worry her, he added: ‘Very serious.’

‘No. I’m not into all that. Standing on pedestals and stuff.’ Annie wrinkled her nose.

‘Ah, you’re like me,’ said Orla. ‘You like to keep on the move.’

‘I’d pay the going rate,’ said Kieron.

Annie’s interest was perked. She had no job. Celia was being kind and letting her stay for nothing, putting aside all Annie’s protestations, saying that she was family and to say no more about it. But she felt bad, like she was sponging off her. Some money coming in would be very welcome.

‘What is the going rate?’ asked Annie awkwardly.

‘Five pounds.’

‘Oh.’ Well, it was something. ‘Well that would be okay, a fiver for the whole thing.’

‘No. That’s five pounds an hour,’ Kieron corrected her.

‘An hour?’ Annie echoed in disbelief. ‘That’s a bloody fortune. Sorry,’ she added to Orla, blushing because she had sworn in front of the sainted Delaneys.

‘It’s all right,’ said Orla. ‘Celia has our number. Perhaps you’ll give Kieron a phone call soon?’

‘I will,’ said Annie, although she felt unsure.

‘If you want to,’ said Kieron, looking a warning at Orla. ‘If you don’t, it doesn’t matter.’

‘Well… maybe in a little while,’ she stalled.

‘Sure,’ said Kieron. ‘Whenever. Just call, if you want.’

‘Are you sure he’s one of the Delaneys?’ Annie asked Celia as they stood and watched Orla and Kieron walk away across the store. ‘He doesn’t act like one.’

‘No, that’s true,’ said Celia. ‘But don’t upset him, Annie love. The Delaneys look after us. Don’t ever forget that. Tread carefully.’

14

Celia had succeeded in cheering Annie up. They were drenched in a dozen different perfumes and clutching bags full of clothes and shoes, all paid for by Celia. They were exhausted but happy.

‘Pay me back when you start earning, if it bothers you,’ Celia had said when Annie protested that she couldn’t pay Celia back yet. ‘But if an aunt can’t buy her niece a thing or two, it’s a pretty poor do.’

When they got back home Annie did a double- take when she saw Billy sitting at the kitchen table. This was Delaney turf, after all.

‘Billy! What you doing round here?’ she blurted out.

‘Oh, so you know Billy as well?’ asked Celia.

‘Of course I know Billy. Everyone on the Carter patch knows him.’

‘No one takes any notice of Billy coming here,’ said Celia. She smiled at him. ‘And he comes here every week for tea and biccies, don’t you, pet?’

Annie put down her bags feeling suddenly anxious. The poor loon would find himself filleted like a kipper if he wasn’t careful, wandering about down here.

‘What about the Delaneys?’ she asked.

‘They don’t bother Billy,’ said Celia, her gaze pointed as she looked at Annie. ‘I cleared it with Redmond Delaney, and none of his boys are going to argue with him. I lived next door to Billy’s mum years ago, he nearly grew up in my house and he’s been visiting ever since. We’re old pals – ain’t that right, Billy?’

Billy nodded shyly. He had coloured up at sight of Annie.

But Annie was still worried. Would Billy tell Max where she was? She didn’t know what went on in that funny brain of his. She knew Max had been good to him, and he was probably loyal to Max before all else, which could put her at risk.

‘Put the kettle on, Dolly, will you?’ Celia said, collapsing into a chair and kicking off her heels. Groaning with relief, she rubbed at her feet. ‘God, that’s bliss. We must have walked fucking miles.’

Dolly was one of Celia’s girls. She was a small, curvy and ill-tempered blonde who now slapped the kettle on the stove and slammed the doors open to get the tea caddy and the cups.

‘Four cups, Doll,’ said Celia, seeing that Dolly had only got out three. ‘Billy’s stopping for tea, and Annie’s parched, and you’ll join us, won’t you?’

Billy, his bulging briefcase perched on his lap, his raincoat buttoned to the neck, was scribbling in his notebook with a black Biro. He often did this. Annie had peeked once or twice, interested to see what he was writing. But all she ever saw was a dense, dark scrawl across the paper, meaning nothing. The poor sod wasn’t right in the head.

Dolly put four brimming mugs of tea on the kitchen table.

‘Biscuits?’ asked Celia, and the biscuit barrel was slapped down in front of her. ‘Thanks, Doll,’ said Celia, pulling out her cigarette holder and lighting up. ‘Everything been quiet here?’ she asked as she took her first luxurious pull.

‘Dead as a morgue,’ sniffed Dolly. ‘Aretha’s got a client in, but me and Ellie and Darren are at a loose end.’

They could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Andy Williams through the ceiling. Darren would be in there with her, having a girly chat. Annie thought Darren was sweet. She never thought she’d take to a shirt-lifter, but Darren was more like a girl than most girls she knew. And some of the male clients – particularly those who’d had a rough time with Nanny and learned bad habits at expensive boarding schools – preferred a pretty boy to a girl any day of the week, so he did good business.

‘It’ll pick up this evening,’ said Celia confidently. ‘Have a biscuit, Billy,’ she said.

‘I’m going on up,’ said Dolly, and took her tea upstairs.

‘So how are you, Billy love?’ asked Celia.

‘I’m v-very well,’ said Billy, and fell silent again.

Talk about witty banter, thought Annie. Poor bastard. Maybe he wouldn’t tell Max she was here. She thought – she hoped – that Billy liked her enough to keep quiet. And maybe Max didn’t care about her whereabouts any more. The thought was somehow not as cheering as it should have been. It might have been a quick fuck to Max, but she’d had real feelings for him. She still did, she realized miserably. The rotten handsome sod.

After a while, just trying to have a normal conversation with Billy, Annie felt tired. She admired Celia for her ability to wring a sentence or two out of him, but she hadn’t the knack or the patience.

‘I’m off up to get washed up, Celia,’ she said, and made her escape.

She took the remains of her tea and her bags upstairs. Up on the landing she could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Cliff Richard. Ellie and Darren were carolling away, horribly out of tune. Annie felt herself smiling. Overlying Cliff and Ellie and Darren and the Shadows was the sound of groans and the headboard hitting the wall in Aretha’s room. Annie dumped everything on her bed, kicked off her white PVC boots and was about to shut the door when Dolly appeared looking pleased with herself.

‘I know you,’ said Dolly. ‘Aretha thought she’d seen you somewhere, and she was right. And you know that loony Billy, don’t you, and he’s on the Carter payroll. You’re Ruthie Carter’s sister. Which makes you Max Carter’s sister-in-law.’

‘So what if I am?’ shrugged Annie.

‘You fell out with her and your mother,’ said Dolly.

‘So?’

‘Word was you’d stepped on Ruth’s toes, if you get my meaning.’ Dolly was smirking.

Whatever she’d said or done, there was no way she wanted to be standing here discussing it with this cheap little tart.

‘That’s my business,’ said Annie. ‘Not yours.’

‘No need to get all uppity with me,’ grinned Dolly. She was enjoying this. Annie had been queening it around here, Madam’s niece, too posh to pull punters. ‘Word is you fucked her bridegroom the night before the wedding.’

‘Whatever the “word” is,’ said Annie, ‘I’ve got nothing to say about it.’

‘Oh go on,’ crowed Dolly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Annie.

‘That isn’t very nice, now is it? I’m only taking an interest.’

‘Who asked you to?’

Dolly’s smug smile dropped from her face. She came and stood directly in front of Annie. Annie was close enough to see enlarged pores clogged with too much make-up, and black roots in Dolly’s blonde frizzy hair. She smelt Dolly’s smoker’s breath and grimaced. Jesus! She pitied the punters. Imagine having to kiss a tart like this – and pay for the privilege!

‘I could tell you things I’ve heard,’ said Dolly.

‘Such as?’ asked Annie.

‘Word is your sister’s not well.’

Annie felt a tug of anxiety but she was careful to keep her face blank. ‘Says who?’

‘Says everyone. You know, you ought to be nicer to me,’ said Dolly. ‘I could get word to Ruth that you’re living in a knocking shop, how would that go down? You wouldn’t be so fancy then, would you, with your sister thinking you were making your living flat on your back.’

Annie slapped that fat, smirking mouth. Dolly stood a moment transfixed with shock and then she launched herself at Annie, knocking her back on to the bed, clawing at her hair. Annie hit her again, harder, and Dolly started screeching and trying to get her nails hooked into Annie’s face. Annie grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. Dolly was small and flabby – Annie was taller and stronger, and mad enough to bite this slapper’s head off and beat her with the soggy end. But all at once Darren and Ellie were pulling Dolly off her. Dolly was still shrieking and spitting. Between them they dragged Dolly back out on to the landing.

‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ screamed Dolly.

‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.

‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, who looked shocked and excited at the same time.

‘Well pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid- gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the place.’

Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he could see a man tied to the bed, face-down. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked buttocks were striped with pink.

‘Nice arse,’ commented Darren, who was a fine judge of such things.

‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back to her room. ‘Keep it down, okay?’

‘Come on love, shake hands and make up,’ said Ellie, a plump little brunette with a sweet face. She gave Dolly an encouraging smile.

Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.

‘That’s a no, then?’ asked Darren.

‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ promised Dolly, and went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

‘Come in and listen to Cliff with us,’ said Ellie to Annie. ‘She’s always getting her knickers in a twist, she’ll calm down.’

‘No, I’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Annie. She went back into her room, closed the door and fell on to the bed.

What the hell, she thought. Max didn’t care where she was. So long as she kept out of his way things would be fine, she told herself. She wondered if it was true that Ruthie was ill, or was that little tart Dolly just enjoying winding her up? She didn’t like to think of Ruthie being ill. Maybe Ruthie was pregnant. That thought cut into her like a knife. Ruthie, pregnant with Max’s child? Too restless and unhappy to settle, Annie went downstairs and got the Delaneys’ phone number from Celia.

15

Eddie Carter often wondered about the night he’d buried the gun for Max. His gut feeling was that Max had shot Tory Delaney dead, but something about the way Max had denied it niggled at him. He knew the police had been round asking questions, but Ruthie had provided an alibi, as any good wife would. It was best not to speculate. Tory was dead and that was an end to it.

Or was it? Because there was still Redmond and Pat Delaney.

Best not to think about that, either.

Eddie was enjoying his life, going round the clubs and pubs with his friends tonight, calling in on the Shalimar and The Grapes and finishing up at the Palermo Lounge. Max and Jonjo were in, the place was buzzing. They had their heavies with them, standing a discreet distance away. Eddie didn’t want a minder and had refused one more than once, even when Max tried to insist. He hated the idea of someone sneering at his sexual tastes, and he knew a lot of Max’s macho hard men did. Then one of the boys whispered that there was the most exquisite boy in a house not too far away, Eddie would adore him, why didn’t they go on over and visit?

‘Really?’ Eddie was intrigued but unsure.

His taste for pretty boys had got him into trouble a couple of times. He knew that Max disapproved. Jonjo despised Eddie for the fact that he liked to bed men instead of women, he knew that too. But Eddie did feel the urge, he was drunk but not incapable, so why not?

‘Is he blond?’ Eddie asked, his words only a little slurred. Max would disapprove of that, too. Drunks annoyed his sainted older brother. Drunks and loose women and men who liked shagging pretty boys … the list just went on and on. Eddie laughed at the thought of it. And there he was, the great Max Carter, sleeping in a separate room from his wife, a fact that must never ever be revealed to the wider world. Eddie liked Ruthie. The poor cow. Ruthie fussed over him like an older sister, and he liked that. He’d never had a sister, only a domineering mother who had frightened the arse off him most of the time, cuffing him around the ear or whopping his backside for stepping out of line.

Ruthie was different, gentler. She never nagged, never screamed like a tart in the street or hit people. He and Ruthie enjoyed their long chats and shopping trips. Despite the fact that he could see how unhappy she was, she never bad-mouthed Max to him or to anyone else. He liked that about her, too. Loyalty to the family was imperative. His mum had drummed that into them when they were growing up, and it had stuck. The Carters fought the world; never each other.

‘Yeah,’ said Deaf Derek, queer as a yellow duster with his earrings glinting in the light of the big revolving mirrored ball in the centre of the club. It winked like fairy dust over the dancers on the small dance floor, highlighted the boys in the four-piece band. It was late in the evening, everyone was feeling mellow and grabbing a last excuse to waltz up tight with their ladies. Jonjo was up on the floor hugging a curvaceous blonde in a bear grip. Max sat at his table alone, watching the dancers.

‘Is he slim?’ Eddie watched his own weight religiously, and dressed to flatter his elegant frame. His idea of a living nightmare was to find himself closeted with a fat, ugly old queen. Deaf Derek was sweating in the heat of the club. He wore a hearing aid, he’d been born deaf in one ear.

‘Slim. And young. He’s gorgeous,’ Derek told Eddie.

‘Well,’ said Eddie, ‘why not?’

A taxi took them to an address in Limehouse. Eddie stumbled into the house with Deaf Derek, only vaguely seeing the clean, cosy, red-flocked hallway, a clock on the wall shaped like a guitar, a wooden plaque showing a bull and bullfighter, red cape whirling. They climbed the stairs, Derek first, Eddie giggling because Derek stumbled and nearly fell.

‘You’re pissed,’ laughed Eddie, but Derek was up ahead and a bit mutton so he didn’t respond. Up on the landing they were met by a pretty young man. Yes, he was slim. Almost skinny. But a lovely face, a shiny mop of blond hair, friendly blue eyes, nicely turned out.

‘How much for the night?’ asked Deaf Derek brusquely.

‘For you?’ The guy looked Derek up and down and sniffed. ‘You couldn’t afford me, darling.’

‘Not for me. For my mate Eddie.’ He pulled Eddie forward and suddenly Eddie wished he hadn’t agreed to this. He was wishing he’d just gone back to Queenie’s old place and crashed. He felt tired. And having to pay for it yet again felt demeaning. But the boy was smiling at him. And he was pretty.

‘To you,’ said the boy, smiling seductively into Eddie’s dazzled eyes, ‘twenty.’

‘Twenty?’ Deaf Derek echoed. ‘This ain’t fucking Mayfair, girly.’

‘Okay,’ said Eddie. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Darren,’ said the boy.

‘Really?’

‘No, really it’s Horace,’ said Darren with a laugh. ‘But I’ve been Darren since I was sixteen and left home.’

Eddie turned to say that Derek could go now, but Derek was already halfway down the stairs. He was alone on the landing with a male tart.

‘Come on in,’ said Darren, and they went into his room. It was neat and clean as a new pin, which was what Eddie would have expected. There was a small sink in the corner. ‘Wash your dick, there’s a love. Towel’s on the rail.’

Again Eddie felt that stab of mortified disgust at his own behaviour, but he was already excited. He was closeted with a beautiful queen and he couldn’t wait to get down to business. He went to the sink, pulled down his trousers and pants, and washed his genitals carefully. He dried himself on the towel, and when he turned around Darren was on the bed, naked.

Eddie felt a crushing disappointment. He’d wanted to talk, to get to know Darren a bit before they got down to it. This felt so cold, so businesslike. He hated being a queer. He didn’t have to hide it away like some people did because he was a Carter, and no one poked fun at a Carter. But he missed the easy closeness that men and women could enjoy. You went out, saw a woman you fancied, took her home to meet Mum, and lived happily ever after – in theory anyway. But Eddie always had to struggle to get past the ‘are they or are they not queer?’ question, sometimes offending people without meaning to, and it slowed things down, ruined the mood.

Sometimes he found it was easier being alone than going to the bother of finding a partner who wanted the same things out of life. Which was why he often resorted to paying for sex. Because it was a transaction – a bit of business, and that was all. Soulless, yes; but at least no hassle. He looked down, dismayed to feel his hard-on dissolving.

‘Don’t worry about that, deary,’ said Darren casually. He patted the bed. ‘Come and lie down here with me, I’ll give you a bit of a rub down and he’ll soon be in the mood.’

God, he’d noticed. How embarrassing. Rigid with self-consciousness, Eddie stripped off his clothes and clutched the towel in front of himself as he went to the bed. He laid down.

‘That’s it,’ said Darren with breezy professionalism. ‘Face down now. I’ll do you a nice back rub with some lavender and baby oil.’

It was a long time since he’d been touched. Under Darren’s skilful hands Eddie relaxed. He hadn’t realized quite how tense he’d been, but Darren had the hands of an angel. Eddie closed his eyes and drifted away, and the first he knew something was wrong was when there were heavy footsteps on the stairs and the sound of the door crashing back on its hinges.

He heard Darren say: ‘Who the hell are you?’ and then there was the sound of a blow being struck and Darren screamed. Eddie tried to scramble up, but a heavy hand caught his arm and twisted it up behind his back. He felt his shoulder pop out of its socket and shrieked with pain.

‘Just stay right where you are, fairy,’ snarled a voice in his ear, ‘or I’ll break your other cunting arm, got that?’

Eddie felt cold pointed steel touch his anus. ‘I heard you like it up the arse, shit-stabber,’ said the voice over Darren’s sobs. Then there was agony. An agony so severe that Eddie couldn’t even cry out. The knife went in deep, then was jerked brutally out. Hot liquid gushed over Eddie’s thighs. Blood. His blood. Sickness and horror welled in his throat. Oh Jesus please stop, he thought, but he couldn’t say it, his words were stuck at his lips.

‘Say hello to Max for me,’ said the voice by his ear, and then the knifeman was thundering back down the stairs and out.

He felt himself slipping away. He knew he was losing a lot of blood and tried to ask Darren for help. Then he heard a voice. Female and concerned.

Alerted by Darren’s scream, Annie had run out of her room to see what the hell was going on.

‘Darren, what’s been … oh Jesus,’ said Annie. She saw Darren naked and clutching his bleeding face, crouched on the floor. And on the bed … someone covered in blood. Drenched in it.

‘Get Celia,’ moaned Darren.

‘She’s out,’ said Annie, feeling suddenly sick and giddy. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. She grabbed a towel. ‘Darren, get up here. Come on. Press this to the wound, hard as you can. I’ll phone for an ambulance.’

‘It’s Eddie Carter, Max Carter’s brother,’ wailed Darren.

‘What?’ Annie stared in disbelief.

‘He’s one of the Carters.’ Darren crawled over to the bed and pressed the towel to Eddie’s bleeding anus.

‘Stay there with him,’ said Annie. ‘And get some trousers on, Darren, for Christ’s sake.’

Heart thundering, she went downstairs to the phone in the hall. She called for an ambulance. Then she thought about Eddie’s family. Max. Jonjo. Ruthie. She ought to let them know. Bracing herself, she phoned her mother’s number and was relieved to find Connie in.

‘What the fuck do you want?’ asked Connie.

‘Don’t put the phone down,’ said Annie quickly. ‘It’s an emergency. Eddie’s been hurt at Celia’s place. I’ve called for an ambulance. You’ll have to tell Ruthie and Max.’

Annie put the phone down and tottered into the kitchen. She pulled out a chair and flopped at the table, head in hands. She was shaking with shock. When the front door opened she jumped, ready to run. Someone had walked right in here and hurt Eddie Carter badly. They might come back and do for the rest of them. Maybe whoever it was hated whores. Maybe they would mistake her for a whore and cut her about like that poor bastard upstairs.

She watched the kitchen door open, not daring to even breathe, waiting for God knew what horror to come and envelop her.

But it was Celia.

Annie’s breath escaped in a rush. ‘Oh God,’ she gasped.

‘What’s happening, Annie?’ asked Celia, staring at Annie’s ashen face. ‘You look like shit.’

Annie told her.

Celia sat down. ‘Did anyone see who did it?’

‘No. Nobody.’

‘Who knows about this?’

‘I phoned for an ambulance. And I phoned Mum, so that she could let Max know.’

All the life went out of Celia’s eyes. She looked blankly down at her manicured hands.

‘You let Max Carter know that his brother came to harm while he was in my house?’ she echoed quietly.

‘Celia, I had to.’

Celia nodded. ‘I’m a dead woman,’ she said.

16

When Annie pitched up at her mother’s door a week later, Connie tried to shut it in her face, but Annie was quick and shoved her foot in the gap. She pushed hard, forcing her mother out of the way, and strode in.

‘You’re not welcome here,’ snarled Connie.

Annie was looking around her with distaste. She hadn’t been back to this place in months. The room stank of booze and cabbage and urine, there was dust everywhere and the carpets were stained. It was the middle of the day and Connie was still in her dressing gown. It was obvious that without Ruthie’s sobering influence, Connie was sinking further into her dependency on booze.

Annie looked at her mother. Her eyes were puffy, her skin yellower than ever. There was a fag in her hand, as usual, and a vodka bottle not far away, if Annie was any judge.

‘Don’t worry, I wasn’t expecting you to roll out the red carpet,’ said Annie. ‘I just want to know what’s going on, that’s all.’

‘What do you mean?’ Connie took a deep drag, squinting her pale eyes against the smoke.

‘You’ve been putting the phone down every time I’ve called. So now I’m asking you straight. How’s Eddie?’

‘Eddie Carter’s none of your fucking business.’

‘No, you’re wrong. Celia is worried sick, that makes it my business.’

‘Talk about like taking to like,’ Connie sneered. ‘She’s a tart and so are you.’

Annie gritted her teeth. ‘Just tell me about Eddie, you rotten old cow!’

In her worst nightmares Annie often revisited that awful night. Eddie bleeding like a stuck pig, Darren hysterical, Celia catatonic with shock.

But a calmness had settled over her and somehow she had taken charge. Called the ambulance, got them organized. But the minute she’d phoned Connie, other things had started to happen. Before the ambulance arrived, Gary and Steve, two of Max’s boys, had come and taken Eddie away, bundled him into the back of a car. She would never forget Eddie’s white, tortured face. The ambulance men had arrived six minutes later and so Darren took advantage of the facilities.

‘They told us two casualties,’ said the men, eyeing the bloodied empty bed with suspicion.

‘My mate legged it,’ said Darren, holding a towel to his battered face. ‘We had a fight, it was nothing.’

‘Come on then,’ said one of the men. ‘Let’s get you seen to.’

‘What the fuck did you have to go and tell Connie for?’ Celia asked when they’d gone. She still sat at the kitchen table, her hands shaking, her face blank.

‘They had to know. They’re his family.’

‘He was targeted in my house.’

‘Darren said there was another man with him. Man with a deaf aid.’

‘One of his own?’

‘Seems so.’

‘I hope for his sake he’s a long way away by now,’ said Celia. ‘That’s what I should do. Just take off.’

‘You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘It happened in my house.’

‘Don’t keep saying that!’

‘Not saying it won’t make it go away. I’m responsible. Me. No one else. Just me.’

After that night things had gone ominously quiet and Celia had seemed to shrink into herself, become smaller somehow.

So here she was, Annie thought bitterly. Back at her dear old mum’s. Who was being a bitch – as usual.

‘Coming round here pretending you give a shit,’ she was yelling. ‘Who do you think you’re kidding?’

And maybe that was justified. Annie knew she should have called before, seen how her mother was getting on. She knew she should have contacted Ruthie long before now, too, and begged her forgiveness – grovelled if necessary – but every time she felt the impulse to get in touch the guilt kicked in and she just couldn’t face it.

‘Is he okay, that’s all I’m asking.’

‘Oh, he’s okay. Half dead, but doing just fine. She must let some scum in there, for a thing like that to happen. But what am I saying? Of course she does, the cheap whore. She let you in.’

Annie raised her hand to hit her mother as hard as she could. She wanted to wipe that pathetic, malicious smile off that drunken, shrivelled face. But she held back.

‘Go on – hit me. Is that what that whore teaches you in that place?’

Annie swallowed her anger and ignored Connie’s taunts.

‘Is he recovered?’ She let her arm drop.

‘He’s dying, you silly cow,’ spat Connie.

‘What?’

‘I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’ She grabbed Annie’s arm and started bundling her back out the door.

‘And Ruthie?’

Annie had to ask the question, much as she really didn’t want to. She was on the step trying to take in what Connie had said about Eddie. If it was true – and why would Connie lie? – Max must be devastated. And when she thought of Max, she thought also of Ruthie. Ruthie must be in the thick of it all, the poor cow.

But Connie didn’t answer.

The door slammed shut. Annie heard the bolt go across.

‘What about Ruthie?’ she asked the closed door. She kicked it once, hard. ‘What about poor bloody Ruthie?’ she repeated hopelessly.

She shouldn’t have come. She’d wrecked everything, why couldn’t she just accept that and leave it alone? Hating herself, she turned and walked away.

When she got back to Celia’s Kieron was there, sitting at the kitchen table talking to Ellie. He looked up as she came in, his eyes laughing.

‘You forgot, didn’t you,’ he said to Annie.

Annie stood dumbstruck. ‘What?’

Ellie got up and left the room, smiling at Annie in passing and mouthing: ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘You said you were going to sit for me today, at my place. Eleven o’clock. I phoned when you didn’t show up, but Ellie said you’d gone out. I thought I’d come over and wait.’

‘Oh.’ God, how had she forgotten? Her mind was whirling. And Celia had always stressed that she should keep the Delaneys sweet. What a fool she was. ‘I’m sorry. I completely forgot.’

‘Not very flattering,’ said Kieron.

‘Sorry,’ Annie said again.

Kieron looked at her as she sat down. He said: ‘I’m not like the rest of them, you know.’

‘The rest of who?’

‘The Delaneys. I’m not part of that world.’

‘Oh.’

‘So there’s no need to be walking on eggshells trying not to upset me. I won’t take offence. There’ll be no nasty comebacks. Just say if you’ve changed your mind about the sitting.’

‘I haven’t.’

‘Well, good.’

‘I’ve just got a lot on my mind, that’s all.’

‘I’ll try to help with that,’ smiled Kieron. ‘You can talk while you sit.’

‘Talk to a Delaney about Carter trouble? I don’t think so,’ said Annie.

‘I told you. I’m not into all that. I’m like a priest, I hear confessions. And the confessional is confidential.’

Annie found herself looking at him properly for the first time. Ellie was right, he was easy on the eye – and so friendly. He stood up. He was tall and gangly, with big bony hands. His jacket was tweed with leather elbow patches. There was a long, unravelling, purple scarf around his neck.

‘You’re staring,’ he said.

‘Sorry.’ Annie stood up, flushing.

‘You think you like the cut of me, do you?’

Annie had to smile too now. ‘I’ll let you know.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘When I’m ready.’

‘I was jealous of my sister, Ruthie,’ Annie said as she sat in Kieron’s flat. It was way up in the top of a house in Shepherd’s Bush, with cold north light streaming through big windows. It was piled high with canvases and stank of paint and linseed and turps. There was a bed and a little kitchenette in one corner, and a Bobby Darin LP was playing on the turntable on the floor. There was a one- bar electric fire at Annie’s feet. It was a workplace rather than a home, but it was kept well.

‘Keep the fuck still, won’t you?’ said Kieron lightly, busy sketching away. ‘Why? Is she prettier than you?’ He stood back from the canvas and looked her over. ‘That’s hard to believe, at the risk of getting you a big head.’

‘She’s not prettier than me,’ said Annie.

‘What then?’

Annie shrugged. ‘Dad left. I was a daddy’s girl. Mum loved Ruthie, not me. I reminded her of Dad.’

‘Ah, that must be the handsome side of the family.’ Kieron was back at the sketching.

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