Ruthless (24 page)

‘Frankie Day,’ said Annie and Max at the same time.

There was a silence. Annie cleared her throat, and avoided looking at Max. ‘The police filled me in. They phoned, asked me if I knew him. I don’t.’

‘I heard it from my people on the street,’ shrugged Max. He had a network in London who usually kept him up to speed on what was happening.

‘He was a hobo,’ said Alberto.

‘A . . .?’ Annie frowned.

‘A drifter. A drop-out. And a small-time thief. He obviously didn’t rig the thing. That was down to a red-haired man spotted at the scene just after you left the car,’ said Alberto directly to Annie.

‘You’re not telling us anything we don’t already know,’ said Max.

‘Then where are we going with this?’ asked Alberto.

‘So far? Nowhere,’ said Annie. ‘How was Layla?’

‘You went to see Layla?’ said Max. He didn’t look too pleased.

‘Yeah, I did. And she’s fine.’

‘She’s fucking traumatized, she’s not fine at all.’

‘She’s a tough kid. And I left a few of my guys there.’

‘That’s taken care of already,’ said Max. ‘My boys are on the spot.’

‘Still, a little extra never hurts.’

Annie looked between the two of them in exasperation. ‘This isn’t a contest for who can provide the best back-up,’ she pointed out. ‘We have to find out what’s going on. Or we won’t ever be able to rest.’

‘You think the intruder was Orla Delaney,’ said Alberto.

‘I don’t think. I know,’ said Annie.

Max leaned back in his chair, linked his hands behind his head. ‘Steve wasn’t one hundred per cent sure, but he thought it was, too.’

‘Well, I’m delighted he’s reassured you that I’m not imagining things,’ snapped Annie.

Max gave her a sour smile. ‘This red-haired bloke
could
be Redmond. You thought of that? And this business with the shamrock. That says Irish, don’t it. A calling-card.’

She had thought of it. And then she had tried not to. Whenever her brain did drift towards Redmond, it stalled in total panic. She had never feared
anyone
the way she feared Redmond Delaney. If he was out to get her . . .

‘What?’ asked Alberto, looking at her face. ‘What is it?’

‘Well, it’s just . . . why
Orla
?’ Annie was frowning. ‘Why would Redmond have left it to her to break into the house – assuming this red-headed man is Redmond. It doesn’t make sense. Orla was never one to actively
participate
in the hard game.’

‘She was always there to yank Redmond’s choke-chain when he got out of hand,’ said Max thoughtfully.

‘That’s it! Exactly,’ agreed Annie. She glanced between the two men. ‘And there’s something else . . .’

‘Go on,’ said Max.

‘You knew Redmond,’ she said to him. ‘Planting a car bomb – does that strike you as something Redmond would do, in person? He was always . . .’

‘I met Redmond too,’ said Alberto. ‘He didn’t seem the hands-on type.’

Annie had a vision of Redmond: the sharp Savile Row suits, the black coat, the black leather gloves; his pale, still face that looked as if it had been carved from ivory; his dark red hair clipped sternly into submission, and those stunning, coldly staring green eyes that seemed to lance straight through to your innermost heart. She felt a shiver run through her.

‘Maybe he’s changed,’ said Max, watching her face. ‘Maybe he don’t have the manpower he once had, maybe now he has to dirty his hands.’

Annie nodded slowly. Max could be right. The police said the man they were looking for was bulky and red-haired. Redmond had
never
been bulky. But maybe, in his middle years, he’d gained weight. Who knew? ‘The police said Semtex was used in the car.’

‘Suggesting what? IRA?’

‘The Delaneys were heading to Ireland when their plane vanished,’ said Alberto, thinking aloud. ‘If they survived, maybe they became involved in the Irish Troubles. Don’t you think that’s possible?’

‘Anything’s
possible,’ said Max. He looked at Annie. ‘You’ve warned Ruthie? And Kath and the kids?’

‘Of course.’ And here they were again, plunging the whole family into crisis, forcing them to scatter. ‘Junior’s being bullish about it, I don’t think he’ll go,’ she said.

‘Your cousin . . . Kath . . .?’ asked Alberto.

Annie nodded.

‘And Molly, her daughter. They’ve gone?’

‘Kath and Molly have made themselves scarce, even if Junior won’t,’ she said. ‘And Ruthie’s already gone.’

‘So our next move is . . .?’ asked Alberto.

‘You’re the fucking Golden Boy. No ideas?’ sneered Max.

Alberto stared at Max. Then he smiled, very slightly. ‘Not one,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the word out, see what I can rustle up.’

Annie felt comforted by that. She knew what a word from Alberto involved. The request for information would be passed from mouth to mouth in bars, restaurants, discos, working men’s clubs, at Salvation Army hostels, on taxi ranks in high streets and outside airports; working girls shivering on the streets would pass it on to doormen; truckers in greasy spoon cafés would be notified. Everyone would be keeping an eye out, searching for the information, anticipating a rich pay-off if they passed on anything valuable.

‘Did Layla get a good look at the man who tried to attack her? That could be a help,’ said Alberto.

‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Max.

The phone rang on the side table. Annie snatched it up. Listened. Then put it back down on the cradle. She swore once, loudly.

‘What?’ Max demanded.

‘That was Ellie. About Layla.’

‘What about her? She OK?’

‘She’s gone back to work.’

54

Rufus was going crazy with worry. Three days had gone by and still there’d been no word from Orla.

He’d called the farm in Limerick. She should have been there by now. She’d told him that if anything went wrong, that was where she’d go. But there was no answer. Even though he’d let the phone ring and ring, no one picked up.

Knowing Orla, she was probably out in the barn, music blasting out of the speakers while she worked on those mad paintings of hers. She’d be livid, knowing that Annie Carter was alive, that her plan had failed. Maybe she was still angry with him, for letting the daughter slip through his hands. Maybe that was it: she was ignoring the phone deliberately, to punish him. Her mother was a bit deaf, so she wouldn’t hear it ringing, and old Davey’s mind was too far gone for him to notice.

Despite the sick dread in the pit of his stomach, he would not let himself consider the possibility that she was dead, that the Carter woman had somehow turned the tables and emerged triumphant.

After the car bomb screw-up, he had driven to the house in Holland Park. There was a burly guy guarding the front door, so he kept to the far side of the square, careful not to attract attention. It was as well he was cautious, because it was soon apparent that he wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on the place. He spotted a couple of men in cars, and there were other men repairing the burglar alarm and replacing the basement window.

I’ll be back by six. If I’m not, stick to the plan . . . we meet back at the farm.

He remembered how insistent she had been that there must be no deviation from the plan. So that was where she would be: at the farm, waiting for him. And he would join her there.

‘I will. I swear it,’ he muttered under his breath.

It was a promise he intended to keep. But he wasn’t going to show up empty-handed.

First he would kill Annie Carter. Then he would take a little gift for his beloved, something to prove that he had succeeded in his mission – a hand or a foot would do, or perhaps the scalp. Yes, that beautiful long dark hair would make the perfect trophy.

The Holland Park address remained heavily guarded, but Rufus had seen the daughter leave the house on the day of the bomb, he’d followed the car that took her to the Shalimar. He’d been keeping an eye on the place ever since, waiting for an opportunity. And finally he was rewarded for his patience. The girl emerged, minders all around her. And she travelled into the City. An accountancy firm, Bowdler and Etchingham. He went in, timing his entry so that he walked in with another man while the girl on the reception desk was on the phone, busy. Once inside, he took the lift to the second floor.

‘Where’s Layla’s office?’ he asked the first secretary he saw.

She didn’t know. ‘Try the next floor up,’ she told him.

He did. Picked up a few leaflets from a desk and sauntered through with them in his hands. No one stopped him. He asked another girl the same question.

‘Over there,’ she said.

At lunchtime, when Layla Carter went out with her minders, he got one of his little helpers to leave a gift, and a little something extra in her Filofax.

55

There was an atmosphere so thick in the office that you could cut it with a knife. Resentment festered beneath the surface of every water-cooler conversation. Nobody spoke to Layla. But she was determined to tough it out. They’d mellow. She wasn’t sure
Ellie
would, though. They’d got into a screaming match as Layla was going out the door.

‘What harm can I come to?’ Layla had demanded. ‘The minute I move, an army of heavies trails behind me. Dad’s boys and the Barolli boys too. They’re watching me like bloody
hawks.
I’m safe as houses.’

But despite her bold words, she didn’t
feel
safe. The journey to work was taken in a limo with one of Alberto’s heavies at the wheel. Another one followed her to the door. She saw a muscle-bound suit watching her from across the street as she entered the office building. Everything about the men crowding around her reminded her that she’d stepped sideways into a dark and dangerous world.

However, the minute she got to her desk – the atmosphere notwithstanding – she settled down to work, and was soon absorbed, soon calmer.

So what if all the office banter seemed to be directed towards anyone but her? She was happy enough, making neat columns of figures into perfect sense.

Then Graham Etchingham, her head of department, walked by her desk, and paused.

‘Have you brought in the doctor’s certificate?’ he asked.

Layla shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get an appointment. Sorry.’

‘Make sure you bring it tomorrow.’

‘I will,’ she said, and he moved on.

He didn’t ask if she was better now. Didn’t give a
shit,
she knew. She was just a number cruncher. Who could be replaced, in an instant, by some other hopeful, job-hungry number cruncher.

Layla knew that Ellie would tell Mum. And Mum would tell Dad, and Alberto, and they would all kick off like crazy. For now, though, she was happy. She could almost – but never quite – forget what had happened, what she had done, how awful it was.

Lunchtime, she had arranged to meet up with Precious in the park. She nipped to the shops for a sandwich and a drink, aware of the minders dogging her footsteps.

‘Hey! Layla! Layla Carter!’

She stopped dead on the pavement. She wasn’t ten paces from her office building. Junior was rushing towards her. Two men immediately moved in and jostled her backward; two more grabbed Junior.

‘Shit!’ complained Layla, dropping her pack of sandwiches.

‘What the fuck?’ bellowed Junior.

People were turning, staring.

‘It’s OK, it’s only Junior,’ she said quickly. ‘My cousin.’

The heavies drew back. The two holding Junior dropped him. He straightened his jacket, glaring at them. ‘Thank
you
,’ he said, stalking towards Layla. ‘Jesus, is this all to do with what your mum told us about? What’s going on?’

He really was
very
good looking, thought Layla. And very aggressive. Very in-your-face. Which was quite attractive, in a man. Layla thought of the contrast between loud, bouncy, bolshy Junior, who always seemed such a child, and Alberto, who was so adult, so smooth, so polished – and yet so deadly. Just thinking of him, she felt her stomach contract with longing.

‘What has Mum told you?’ she asked him cautiously.

‘That we should clear off out of it, that there’s trouble. The thing with her car. And she said someone tried to nab you.’

‘That’s right. But you haven’t gone,’ said Layla.

He shrugged. ‘Molls and Mum have.’

‘Not you though?’

‘I’m not scared of some bastard I can’t even see,’ said Junior.

Isn’t that the scariest type?
thought Layla. ‘So Mum told you about the bomb?’

‘Christ,
everyone
heard about that. It was on the freakin’ news.’

‘Well, I’d say that was pretty damned scary.’

‘Look, I’ve got to go. Working,’ said Junior, planting a smacker on her cheek. ‘See ya, Layla.’

Then he was gone, surging off into the crowds. She watched him go, springing along on his toes. So bloody self-confident. Whatever Mum had said to him, he clearly hadn’t been listening, or he’d be running for the hills right now.

Layla walked on, crossed the road to the park.

‘Hey! Layla!’ She was searching out a free seat when the female voice halted her. She turned. Four minders in eye-line. And Precious, hurrying along in jeans and a cream ruffled shirt, her hair loose and bouncing around her beautiful face, her luminous grey eyes alight with a smile.

‘Hi, Precious,’ grinned Layla. Precious’s was only the second friendly face she had seen since starting work this morning.

Two of the minders approached, watching Precious, their hands creeping inside their jackets. Layla shook her head hard, and they backed off.

‘Here’s a free one,’ said Precious, and they sat down on a guano-spattered bench under the shade of a tree.

‘Haven’t you brought any lunch?’ asked Layla.

‘God, no. I never eat until six. Got to watch the body.’

‘Don’t be daft, you’re gorgeous. Have one of these, I can’t eat all this.’ Layla split open the cellophane pack and handed Precious half her lunch.

‘Oh, OK. Thanks.’

They ate in companionable silence. Rather, Precious ate and Layla nibbled. Then Precious said: ‘Um, Layla?’