Dirty Game (27 page)

Ruthie Carter had been at home in Surrey all week and she was fed up to the back teeth. All she had down here for company was the minder on the door, who had just a single brain cell rattling around in his head getting rather lonely – Dave couldn’t be relied on even to string a sentence together.

And as for Miss Arnott, that old cow was forever giving Ruthie dirty looks and thinking what a common little thing she was. Oh, she knew what Miss Arnott thought of her all too well. There was naff-all to do in this place, and the silence out here in the country was deadly.

Ruthie longed for London, for the noise of traffic and voices, for the close proximity of other people going about their daily lives. But she had agreed with Max that they would do this. They had sat down together and he had been straight with her.
He knew he had made mistakes. But they could still save this, they could still make it work. That’s what he said. But she had to stop the drinking, get herself busy, bringing this place to life. Ruthie had actually started to think there was some hope.

But that had been two weeks ago. Since that one night – when they hadn’t slept together – Max had barely shown his face in this arsehole of a rural nowhere. He’d been busy up in town. She had phoned him at Queenie’s old house. He had said not now, Ruthie, he was up to his ears in stuff, he’d be down at the weekend.

And here we are, she thought. The weekend. Her great bonus in the long haul that was being married to Max Carter. He showed up at eleven on Saturday night. Half the weekend gone, anyway. She was steaming, and Max hardly had a foot through the door when she let rip.

‘You said we’d spend the weekend together,’ said Ruthie, following him across the hall as he dumped his overnight bag and shrugged off his coat.

‘And I’m here,’ he said.

‘But you don’t want to be,’ yelled Ruthie.

Max glanced around. ‘Is Miss Arnott here?’

‘No, she’s off for the weekend. You don’t have to worry that I’ll show you up in front of your posh housekeeper, shouting about like a fishwife. I told her she could take some time off. I
thought
we’d be here together. I thought we’d need some privacy.’

‘And Dave?’

‘He’s asleep, so far as I know. Who the hell cares?’

Dave had a flat over the garage. Miss Arnott disdained Dave, too. Margie, the cleaner, had been in his flat and got an attack of the vapours. It was lined floor to ceiling with photos of nude women. Margie complained to Miss Arnott, Miss Arnott complained to Ruthie. But whatever Dave did within his own four walls was fine with her.

She knew she should have protested more, to gain Brownie points with Miss Arnott, to convince her that Ruthie was a
lady
. But Ruthie couldn’t be arsed. Miss Arnott knew what she was, all right. She knew that Max was ‘in business’ and she knew that Ruthie had married above herself. Ruthie wasn’t going to flog her guts out trying to convince the sour-faced old bag otherwise.

‘Nice welcome,’ said Max.

‘You don’t deserve a nice welcome,’ shouted Ruthie. ‘I had dinner all planned, and where the fuck were you? Up in town with
her
, were you?’

‘If by her you mean Annie, no, I wasn’t,’ said Max.

He turned his back on her and went through to the drawing room. He poured himself a brandy, and sat down.

Ruthie came and stood over him. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she spat.

Max raised his glass to her. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and took a drink. He put his glass aside and stood up to put on some music, but Ruthie came close and glared up at him, standing in his way.

‘You said you’d give her up. It was part of the deal.’

‘Along with you laying off the bottle,’ said Max cruelly. ‘I remember. I kept my half of the deal, Ruthie. Did you keep yours?’

Ruthie’s glance slipped away from his hard gaze. She’d had the odd glass or two. Miss Arnott had probably snitched to Max about it, the snooty cow.

‘No, don’t answer that,’ said Max after a beat. ‘We both know you’d be lying.’

‘We’re both good liars, Max. I think you’re still seeing her.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re lying,’ screamed Ruthie. ‘Listen, I’m warning you – if you don’t pack it in, I’ll tell the police you weren’t with me on the night Tory Delaney died. Then you’ll be in the shit.’

Max grabbed her shoulders. His eyes were icy as they glared into hers. ‘A wife can’t testify against her husband, you silly bitch,’ he hissed. ‘But go on. Tell them whatever the fuck you want to. Because I didn’t kill Tory Delaney.’

‘Oh, sure you didn’t. You were off somewhere that night. Eddie said he hid a gun for you.’

Max stiffened. ‘Eddie shouldn’t have said that.’

‘And what are you going to do about that, “discipline” him? Send the boys round? You’ll have a hard job. The poor boy’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Max with disgust. His eyes had narrowed to slits. His mouth was grim. He leaned in very close and Ruthie started to feel frightened. ‘Listen. You don’t go to the police. You don’t start any trouble. You keep your mouth shut and you do as you’re told, or I get very annoyed. You got that?’

Ruthie nodded dumbly.

‘I didn’t kill Tory Delaney,’ said Max with soft venom. ‘But I’d like to shake the hand of whoever did. Serious. I’d like to buy that fucker a drink and pat him on the back. I wish I’d done it myself, but I didn’t.’

‘Then who the hell did?’ asked Ruthie more quietly. She knew she was in danger of going too far. She could see it in his eyes. Time to tone it down.

‘We’d all like to know the answer to that,’ said Max, letting her go. ‘But it’s done. And, really, who gives a shit? The bastard’s dead. End of story. Now is there anything to eat?’

Ruthie settled down after that. Went and cooked him some bacon and eggs while Max sat on the
couch and listened to his favourite Mozart concerto. He thought of the haul from the department store, all used notes and stored away nice and safe for the time being. God bless the January sales. That safe had been
stuffed
. He thought of the situation he was in, keeping face by remaining married to a woman he detested. He thought of Annie, up in Upper Brook Street. He thought of her dark green, laughing eyes and her thick dark hair spilling over the pillow as she slept.

Fuck it, he thought.

No one ever said life was going to be perfect.

 Sometimes you had to do things for a person’s own good. Billy knew this to be true. When he was little and he had used swear words, his mum had washed his mouth out with carbolic soap and water.

‘It’s for your own good, Billy,’ she had told him while he gagged and struggled. ‘You don’t want to grow up using words like that, now do you?’

And he didn’t. Oh, Max and the boys used bad words all the time, but he wouldn’t do it. His mum had taught him that standards were important, and he knew she was right.

That was why he was standing in the police station now. The desk sergeant was looking at him as if he’d just landed from Mars.

‘I want to report someone running a …’ He paused to get his words straight … ‘a disorderly house.’

‘Really?’ The sergeant looked at him. Clearly a nutter. Rigged out like Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake. With a sigh the sergeant pulled out a sheet of paper and started taking down the details.

‘Where?’ he asked.

‘Upper Brook Street.’

The copper’s eyebrows raised. ‘That’s a nice area, son,’ he said. ‘Not much disorder around there, I shouldn’t think.’

‘Oh, there is. Posh people, too, going in and out.’

‘Who’s running this disorderly establishment then, son?’ asked the sergeant.

This would give the boys in the back room a laugh, at least. Poor simple sod, probably a figment of his imagination. He looked shot away with his long face and his vacant eyes, his deerstalker pulled down low.

‘Miss Annie Bailey,’ said Billy with a tremble in his voice.

He hated to do this. He’d wrestled long and hard with his conscience about it, but it was for her own good. He reminded himself of that. She couldn’t go on like this, doing bad things with all these men. She really couldn’t.

‘And do you have any evidence to substantiate these claims?’ asked the sergeant with a sigh.

‘I’ve got it all written down,’ said Billy, rummaging in his briefcase. ‘In my book.’

He placed the book on the counter. The sergeant opened it. There was nothing but illegible scrawl in there. Page after page of it.

‘I’ve been keeping watch outside and noting down times and things,’ said Billy. He looked down at the open book and at the sergeant’s face. ‘No, no. Not at the front. At the back.’

The sergeant turned to the back of the book. There, in neat handwriting, were clear legible details of people entering the building, people leaving, times, dates, everything. The sergeant’s mouth dropped open. He was looking at the names of cabinet ministers, bankers, lawyers – even peers of the bloody realm.

‘You see?’ said Billy in triumph.

The desk sergeant took a breath. ‘Have a seat over there, son,’ he said at last. He picked up the book and the sheet of details. ‘I’m just going through to have a word with my superior. Hold on. I’ll be back in a jiff.’

Billy sat down, knees together, his briefcase hugged tight against his chest. This was hard, one of the hardest things Billy had ever done. But you had to protect the ones you loved. His mum had taught him that. Even if what you did seemed harsh, even if they had to suffer for it, their best interests were what counted in the end.

He loved Annie Bailey. He always had. He was doing this for
her
.

It was April and Annie was trying to put her cares behind her by throwing a special party. Her birthday fell on a Friday that she had scheduled for one of her regular parties, so she decided that she would make it extra-special for all the gents in attendance. There would be six additional girls, friends of Jen and Mira, to entertain the revellers. There would be birthday cake and champagne, and a reduction on the door. Fifty pounds would get you in for an afternoon of bliss.

She was going for a pink theme. She had pinned up pink balloons and streamers, there were pink tablecloths on the bar section and on the buffet. The cake itself was a masterly confection of pinks and white. There were pink flowers in profusion. Even the bloody
champagne
was pink. Perhaps she had overdone it?

‘No, it looks gorgeous,’ Mira assured her when
they were ready for the off. ‘And so do you. Happy birthday, Annie darling.’

Mira air-kissed either side of Annie’s immaculately made-up face and slipped a small carefully wrapped package into her hand. Annie looked at it in surprise.

‘From Jen and Thelma and me,’ said Mira. ‘We hope you like it.’

‘Oh – well, that’s so nice of you,’ said Annie, touched.

She still couldn’t get used to receiving gifts. Max had been lavish with them, and the Limehouse tarts had surprised her once or twice with very small presents, but she was so used to getting the shitty end of the stick when she was growing up that she wondered if she would ever be blasé about such things. As a child, Annie got the knocks – Ruthie got the presents. Funny how she still half-expected it to be that way.

She unwrapped the long slender package and found a ladies’ gold Rolex watch inside. She looked up at Mira.

‘That’s bloody lovely,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Mira.’ She looked over at Jen and Thelma, seated on the Chesterfield, watching with beaming smiles. ‘Thanks, Jen, Thelma. It’s gorgeous.’

‘It’s engraved,’ said Mira. ‘Have a look.’

Annie took out the beautiful thing and turned over the dial.

From the girls to Annie with love
.

‘Some of the old boys call you the Mayfair Madam,’ said Jen. ‘We thought about having that put on it, but “Annie” seemed better.’

‘Help me put it on,’ said Annie, delighted, and Mira did so.

‘Okay girls – let’s get ready now,’ said Annie, moving over to the door where Joshua was ready with pink champagne for the drinkers or pink grapefruit juice for the teetotallers.

The bell rang.

The party was on.

‘Any movement?’ asked the sergeant as he joined his young constable outside in the rainy street. Talk about April showers. What a fucking job! He envied the toffs inside having a bloody good time. A fucking sight better than standing out here with the rain dripping off your arse.

‘Fifteen gents gone in there so far,’ said the constable. ‘Look, there goes another one. Looks busier than normal.’

For weeks they had been keeping Annie’s apartment block under surveillance – ever since that weird bloke had come into the station and told them about what was really going on in there. Sergeant McKellan and his three constables had taken it in shifts to watch and record every arrival and departure. They’d noted what time the mail was delivered, when the
rubbish was emptied and when the milkman came. They’d noted – with some surprise – that there were people going into the block who seemed of good standing in the community.

As the weeks went past, a pattern had emerged. There was a major shindig once a month, and individual visits during weekdays. Over seven weeks, he and his men had clocked over a hundred men and a regular selection of between three and ten high-class trollops coming and going.

They’d checked the rubbish over and found an awful lot of empty bottles. Malt whisky, champagne, fine wines, exquisite brandies, had all been consumed on the premises. Annie Bailey was running a well-stocked bar up there.

Selling liquor without a licence, thought Sergeant McKellan, shivering in the chilly downpour. Bloody good liquor too. These people were supposing to be setting a good example, not having a fucking good time at a high-class knocking shop.

Jesus, they’d even seen a Cabinet Minister going in there, but they’d have to keep quiet about
that
. The sergeant curled his lip in disgust. These people were supposed to be his
betters
. And they behaved like this.

Monitoring the rubbish had turned up a surprising quantity of used condoms and tissues, too. Sergeant McKellan thought that there was no
limit to the depravity of the upper classes. He felt badly let down by them.

As the wet, dismal weeks went by, his grievance against the toffs became more intense. He already had a warrant to search the premises because of the illegal liquor sales, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to stop this operation in its tracks, and that meant waiting and watching out in the cold and the wet. They’d gone inside once or twice and questioned Annie Bailey’s neighbours. There had been music and voices, that was all they’d say. Nothing to complain about, really, although one regal old Dame in the apartment underneath Annie Bailey’s select knocking shop had clutched her Pekinese dog to her scrawny chest and said in plummy tones that she suspected something was ‘going on’ up there. Something
nasty
.

‘There goes another one,’ said the constable as a distinguished silver-haired gentleman entered the block.

A taxi swerved into the kerb and decanted a blonde woman, a big black woman, a small dark-haired woman, and an obvious queer.

‘Fuck, this is turning into a bloody orgy,’ said Sergeant McKellan.

‘Yeah,’ said the constable wistfully.

The constable sneezed and fished out his handkerchief. Loitering around this corner, they were constantly frozen to the marrow. His trousers
were wet six inches up the leg. He felt he’d never again get warm. Inside, there would be drinks, food, lovely women … heaven on fucking earth, he thought. He fumbled out his Vicks inhaler and took a snort up each sore, red nostril. His sergeant watched him.

‘You want to put some Vaseline on that nose, Constable,’ he said.

‘Yes Sarge,’ said the constable gloomily. He nodded across the road. ‘Look. Two more.’

Sure enough, two more gents entered. Looked decent types, too. One was swaggering along, his expression arrogant, looked like a barrister. The other one …

‘Fucking
hell
,’ said Sergeant McKellan. ‘That bugger’s wearing a dog collar. He’s a man of the sodding cloth!’

What was the world coming to? A regular orgy of depravity, thought Sergeant McKellan with pious disgust. He’d soon sort out this little lot. Oh yes. A Black Maria pulled into the kerb beside them and three more officers piled out from the back of it. Time to get on with it, he thought with relish.

‘Come on, lads,’ he said, and led the way across the road.

Annie opened the door with a smile on her face and found Sergeant McKellan standing there. Her smile dropped. She slammed the door shut.

A heavy hand thumped upon it.

‘Open up! Police!’

Fucking hell
, thought Annie.

Behind her, there was a scene of pandemonium as lords and tarts scattered in all directions. Dolly, to her credit, stepped up and said: ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Annie had gone pale. Joshua dropped his tray of glasses and pink champagne spread in a sticky ooze over the costly Aubusson rug. He legged it over to his bar and started cramming bottles into boxes.

Dolly went to the door. ‘What do you want?’ she shouted.

‘I am an officer of the law,’ said Sergeant McKellan. ‘I have a warrant to enter these premises.’

‘We’re going to have to let them in,’ said Dolly to a stricken Annie, ‘or they’re going to break the bloody door down.’

Annie straightened herself up and nodded. The game was up. She put her bag aside – crammed full of notes from all the punters – and opened the door.

‘Thank you, miss,’ said the sergeant, and showed her the warrant. ‘Are you Miss Annie Bailey?’

Annie nodded. She felt pole-axed with the shock of it.

‘Miss Bailey, we have reason to believe that you are selling liquor without a licence on private
premises, and that you are running a disorderly house here too.’

‘This is a private party,’ said Dolly in Annie’s defence. ‘It’s Miss Bailey’s birthday.’

‘We’ll see,’ said the sergeant, and the constables elbowed past the two women to get a better look at what was going on.

‘Who are you, sir?’ one asked an elderly gentleman sitting quietly in a club chair talking to Ellie.

‘Mickey Mouse,’ said the old gent staunchly.

The constable got out his notebook and licked his pencil with a sigh. Rain was dripping off the poor soul. Annie almost felt inclined to offer the lad a drink.

‘Mickey Mouse is it, sir?’ the constable looked pained. ‘And your address, sir?’

‘Disneyland, Constable,’ said the old gent. ‘Where else?’

Another of the constables went off into one of the bedrooms and came back out with screams ringing in his ears. He looked shaken.

‘Think you ought to see this, Sarge,’ he said.

Leaving a constable guarding the main door into the apartment, in case anyone thought they might make good their escape that way, Sergeant McKellan went into one of the bedrooms and found on the bed, a middle-aged, naked man, all hairy legs and huge belly, hastily covering up his private
parts. A glamorous blonde was zipping herself back into her dress. On the bedside table Sergeant McKellan found packets of the new contraceptive pills, boxes of tissues, bottles of baby oil and tins of Crowe’s Cremine.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, picking up a tin and sniffing it, suspecting illegal substances.

Mira tossed her blonde hair back out of her eyes. ‘It’s make-up remover,’ she said.

Annie stood shattered in the doorway but she gave Mira an approving glance. They all knew that the cream was the best sexual lubricant going.

The police proceeded to the next bedroom and found Jen in her red, cutaway undies, scrabbling off a bed where a man, naked except for his socks, reclined. He had an erection you could have balanced a plate on. It wilted when its owner saw the police looming in the doorway.

‘What the fuck’s the meaning of this?’ he said with all the authority of old money.

‘May I ask you, sir, to stop whatever it is you are doing and get dressed,’ said Sergeant McKellan formally.

‘This is a bloody poor show,’ huffed the man, but he got off the bed and started to dress.

The sergeant had seen enough. He went back into the drawing room and confronted Annie.

‘May I ask if I might see your handbag, miss?’
he asked, indicating the Hermès bag that Annie had dropped on to one of the club chairs.

Annie numbly picked up the bag and handed it to him. She knew she was in deep shit now, and there was nothing to do but go along with it. Sergeant McKellan opened it and found it bulging with money.

He refastened the clasp and said, ‘Annie Bailey, I am arresting you for running a disorderly house and for selling liquor without a licence …’

And that was it. I’m sunk, thought Annie through a fog of terrified gloom. Sunk without a fucking trace. Who the hell did this? Who would hate me enough to do it to me, on my bloody birthday too?

Billy stood in the rain and watched as they started to empty Annie’s party guests out of her flat and into the Black Maria. Lots of them. Then the girls. And finally, Annie herself. Looking beautiful, as always. His lovely Annie. Oh, how he adored her. He was sad he’d had to do this, but she had to learn. It was for her own good. He turned away, feeling sad but justified in his actions. She would be better for it, he thought. In time.