by Jessie Keane
He hoped that sour-faced wife of Max’s wouldn’t be there. If there was one thing Jonjo hated it was a woman with a face like a smacked arse on her. He thought Max was far too soft with Ruthie. If she was his woman, Jonjo would have kicked her straight up the puss by now. His sister-in-law didn’t seem able to make up her mind where she wanted to be. Sometimes she was at the old house, sometimes she was down in Surrey at the big posh place that was now on the market, talking to the estate agent and packing up all their belongings. Jesus, what a pain in the backside she was.
Max had confided to Jonjo that Ruthie was a bit too keen on the bottle. She was a loose cannon, Jonjo thought, rattling about the place, skinny as hell and ugly as fuck. At least Annie Bailey had a good set of knockers and a great arse on her.
Even if she was a brunette.
Ruthie Carter was at the Surrey house and, despite the lateness of the hour, she was still up, wrapping things in paper and packing them into tea chests. Max had told her not to bother about the annexe, of course. He would see to that. Ruthie sneered to herself and took another pull of her voddy and tonic.
Blimey, this place was a size. She’d already completed the packing up downstairs, helped by Miss Arnott; now she was working her way through the bedrooms. This particular room had been Eddie’s. She didn’t mind being up here in Eddie’s room late at night on her own, with the Surrey night so still and dark all around her. Ruthie didn’t believe in ghosts. The dead wouldn’t hurt you, she was sure of that. It was the bloody living you had to watch out for.
It was a bit sad to be sifting through his things, though. Eddie had been such a snappy dresser. His clothes were designer, and immaculately clean and cared for. Now what the hell would become of them? She piled all his shirts and trousers and stuff to one side ready for disposal. Unless Max wanted to keep them, but she couldn’t really see that happening. Of course he’d kept Queenie’s annexe just as it was on the night she’d died, maybe he’d want to build a shrine to his dead brother, too.
She shivered.
Clutching her drink, she went over to the dressing table where Eddie’s silver-backed brushes looked forlorn as if they were waiting for him to come back. Well, they’d have a bloody long wait. She pulled out the bottom drawer and yanked out the piles of vests and pants laid neatly in there, then moved on to the next large drawer up and found jumpers and a couple of waistcoats.
All that remained of a life, she thought.
God, she was low today. Lower than usual, and that was saying something. She moved on to the smaller drawers at the top and opened the left-hand drawer to reveal a stack of brown bottles, every one full of the pills they had given Eddie before he died. Pills to ease the pain. Pills to clear infection. A fat lot of use they’d been. And pills to make him sleep. Jesus, how she would love to sleep! Ruthie laughed and the sound was loud in the room. She jumped a bit and looked around, suddenly feeling nervous.
Maybe spirits did linger. Who knew? Maybe Eddie was right here with her now, showing her the way to go. She picked up one of the bottles of sleeping pills. It was full to the brim. She unscrewed the cap and shook a few into the palm of her hand. She raised her hand to her mouth. The taste on her tongue was slightly bitter, but the voddy and tonic washed it away.
41
Annie collected the keys to the Upper Brook Street apartment, and went straight over to see it again. It was perfect, she was made up. In ebullient mood she returned to Limehouse with the keys in her purse and her head full of plans.
She found Dolly alone in the kitchen with a face on her. Jim Reeves was playing on the little red radio by the sink. Dolly loved Jim, usually she sang along to his ballads and was happy. But not today. Annie asked her what was wrong.
‘Oh nothing at all,’ said Dolly. ‘Only you setting up in business with the Delaneys and taking my sodding trade, that’s all.’
You could always rely on Dolly to call a spade a shit-shovel.
Annie sat down at the table. After Dolly’s reaction to her moving back in, she had been expecting something like this.
‘I’m not taking your trade,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll be operating up West.’
‘Look. My gents come out from Whitehall to get here to Limehouse for a good time. They won’t bother if you’re right there on the bleeding doorstep.’
‘Yes they will. You’ve got a nice client list going. Lots of regulars, and they’re loyal. They’ll still come.’
‘No they won’t.’
‘They will. And you know damn well that the parties are oversubscribed. You do three parties a month, I can do one on the week you don’t, how’s that? You must agree there’s already an overspill. I can take care of that. You can pass business to me and I’ll pass business to you. It’ll work.’
Dolly looked sceptical. ‘Those brasses up West are going to expect to be paid the earth,’ she warned. ‘They know the clients have got plenty of cash.’
‘We’ll work something out.’
Dolly nodded. ‘What’s he really like then – Redmond Delaney?’
Annie thought of how it had been in the Upper Brook Street apartment when she had been there with Redmond. He’d looked the place over with his pale eyes and his calculator brain. Two minders with him, because there’d been a lot of trouble on the manor lately. The estate agent had been white and sweating while they followed him around, there had been a lot of nervous laughter. Poor bastard. Annie didn’t miss not having a minder. She wondered what had become of Donny, her own personal hulking shadow. He might have gone back to Manchester. Or down to Smithfield meat market like Celia, if Max wasn’t happy with his answers about her leaving.
‘He’s scary,’ said Annie. ‘Cold.’
‘Just like on the phone then,’ said Dolly.
‘You being polite to him when he rings?’
‘God yes. Arse-licking like mad.’
They both knew that respect was due, and lack of it was dangerous. Look at what had happened to Celia with Max. Annie still shuddered when she thought about it. She still couldn’t quite believe it. She’d never thought Max would make war on women, but he had. Who knew with boys like these where the lines were drawn? These were hard men, and you stepped carefully around them.
‘If there’s nothing else?’ Annie asked, standing up.
‘Your sister phoned while you were out.’ Dolly pulled a face. ‘She sounded pissed. Wanted to talk to you.’
Yeah, to heap more abuse on her head. Annie didn’t need any more aggravation. It was bad enough that she felt like a cruel bitch for giving Kieron the hard word. All she needed was Ruthie spitting poison down the phone at her. Annie picked up her bag.
‘I might give her a call later on,’ she said. Or I might not. ‘I’ll be moving out on the Monday after next, Doll. I need to get some girls lined up, I hope you don’t mind if I do that while I’m here?’
‘Nah, I don’t mind,’ said Dolly. ‘So long as you don’t pinch my new girls out from under my nose. They’re good girls and I want to keep them.’
‘I just need their contacts,’ said Annie. ‘A couple of them are classy, they’ll know the West End working girls.’
Dolly thought. ‘Okay then,’ she said.
Talk about walking on fucking eggshells, thought Annie, but she was more amused than put out by Dolly’s carping.
‘I just want to say thanks for this,’ she said. ‘For letting me stay and everything.’
‘What else are friends for?’ asked Dolly. She hesitated. ‘I hope it goes well up West. I really do.’
The best and most trustworthy boys were in for the meet upstairs at Queenie’s old place. Max and Jonjo were there, with Jimmy Bond their number-one man, and Gary Tooley and Steven Taylor – all staunch men. Deaf Derek was off somewhere getting pissed; since Eddie had come to grief, Derek had learned the hard way to give Max and Jonjo a wide berth; he was no longer welcome in their inner circle. He counted himself lucky to be still breathing.
Sitting near the head of the table with Jonj
o and Max was an ex-telephone engineer and a gelly man, both recommended to Max by one of the other London firms.
‘So run that past me again,’ said Max.
Jonjo loved to see his brother like this, focused on business like he should be. Life was too short to get hung up on a piece of skirt. He was pleased to see that Max had finally realized this. Jonjo was excited about the job. It was a large department store on the Delaney patch, rich pickings from all accounts. With any luck it would cause the Delaneys major grief, which would be a bonus.
‘There’s a frame room where all the lines come into the premises and cross-connect,’ said the engineer. He was lanky and bald and his eyes were active, like his brain. ‘All the lines inside the building, to each department and to the alarm, come out of this point. I have to get in there.’
‘Piece of piss,’ said Jonjo. ‘Jimmy can open any locked door, he’ll be with you.’
Jimmy nodded. He had already cased the store; Jonjo’s insider had pointed out a room marked Staff Only that the security guy never bothered to check on, where they could hide away before the store closed. All they had to do was wait until the appointed hour and then get inside the frame room.
‘Once I’m in there, I go to the records and find the alarm’s DP on the cards.’
‘Meaning?’ asked Max.
‘The distribution point, the line the alarm’s on.’
‘Then what?’
‘It’s simple. I bare the wires here and here.’ He did a little drawing on a notepad. ‘Then I put on two crocodile clips to the bare surfaces with a diverter wire attached. The circuit’s still complete but the alarm’s inactive.’
Max nodded. ‘That’s good. We come in the back entrance. The alarm’s out. Then it’s over to you, Jack.’
Jack was the gelly man. He was sandy-haired with a red moustache. He had the look of an airline pilot or a submarine commander – icy cool under fire. Jesus, thought Jonjo, when you were handling gelignite you had to be bloody cool, or you were in trouble. No good getting all hot and sticky. That stuff sweated like a bastard as it was.
‘No problem,’ said Jack, and placed a packet of three condoms on the table. ‘I use these.’
‘You’re having a fucking laugh,’ said Steven.
‘French letters or balloons,’ said Jack. ‘They’re the best things for keeping your gelly in.’
There was a surge of laughter from around the table.
‘I’ve heard it all now,’ said Gary.
Jack went on to explain how he intended to crack the department store safe wide open, so they could pocket the thirty grand that should be inside it. Not a bad night’s work, and it sounded easy enough. Made you wonder why more people weren’t out on the rob, really.
The meeting broke up after midnight and, as the other boys filed out, Jimmy took Max to one side.
‘Kath asked me to tell you that Ruthie’s not answering the phone,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Max was pulling on his coat.
‘Kath rings Ruthie on Monday at seven in the evening, then Ruthie rings her on Tuesday, and so on all through the week. Only Kath’s been ringing and getting no answer, and Ruthie hasn’t called her either.’
Fuck it. Bloody Ruthie was a liability. She was probably on the piss again, laid out on the sofa and drunk as a lord.
‘I’ll give Miss Arnott a call.’ Then Max remembered that they’d already let Miss Arnott go. Damn. Ruthie was on her own down there apart from his boy, and he wasn’t exactly the brain of Britain. If he heard the house phone ringing off the hook, he wouldn’t trouble himself to wonder why.
‘I thought I’d better mention it,’ said Jimmy apologetically.
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
With everyone else gone, Max went downstairs to the hall and phoned the Surrey place. No bloody answer. He rang Dave’s number, but no answer from there either. He flung the phone back on the cradle. Fuck that raving drunk. He ought to just let her stew. But … there was something else he could do. He dialled again.
‘Hello?’ One of the Limehouse tarts had picked up.
‘Put Annie on, will you?’ he asked.
‘Who shall I say?’
‘Max.’
There was a pause.
‘This is Dolly,’ said the woman. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Carter. Annie’s told me she don’t want to talk to you.’
‘Put her the fuck on this phone,’ said Max. ‘It’s about her sister.’
Yeah, revenge was sweet. Annie was so concerned about Ruthie, was she? She couldn’t go on doing Max behind her sister’s back? Fair enough. So let her look after her fucking sister, if they were so tight together.
‘Hello?’
It was Annie. Sounded like she’d been dragged out of bed. Well, good. Fuck her.
‘Ruthie’s not answering her phone. Kath’s been trying to reach her, and she can’t. I haven’t the time. You can go down and see what she’s up to,’ he said.
‘Me?’ Annie sounded aghast. ‘It’s after bloody midnight.’
‘Yeah, you. Didn’t you say you were concerned for your sister? Prove it. Put your money where your fucking mouth is. I’ll send the car round and the key.’
‘Wait! Just a bloody minute.’ Annie clutched her head and tried to think. Ruthie would be passed out drunk again, that was all. Max was just playing silly buggers, winding her up deliberately. ‘Okay. I’ll go in the morning. Send the car at ten. All right?’
‘Deal.’ Max threw the phone back into the cradle. Women! They were a pain in the arse, a bloody torment. Jonjo was right. And why, when he had everything he wanted out of life – money, prestige, respect, all that shit, and he could have any woman in the world he wanted – why then did he only want that one, that fucking Annie Bailey?
It was a mystery.
It was beyond him.
42
At ten on the dot on Friday morning one of Max’s boys pulled up outside the house. Annie had been watching from the window, waiting. She hadn’t slept a wink all night. As she lay awake in bed she started to think, what if Ruthie wasn’t just arsing about drinking herself into a stupor? What if she was in trouble and needed help? Maybe she should have gone down there last night, or maybe she was just panicking over nothing.
God, she wasn’t looking forward to this.
Ruthie hated her, and it hurt like fuck.
At lunchtime Dolly put one of her favourites on the radiogram in the front room. Brian the barman was lining up bottles and polishing glasses, setting out the food the girls had prepared this morning. Dolly hummed and twirled along to Andy Williams. Smiling, she looked around; the whole room gleamed, the food looked good. Brian poured her a voddy and black, she liked that. Everything was going well.
She was happy. She was in control.
‘Hey, babe, got one of those for me?’ asked Aretha, coming in wearing black PVC thigh boots and a white plastic bikini.
Brian poured her a shot.
‘Everything ready?’ Aretha asked Dolly.
‘Yep.’
‘What crap’s that you’ve got playing? Girl, ain’t you heard of the Stones? This stuff is just gone, Dolly.’
‘It’s a classic, Aretha.’
And then the bell rang, and they were on.
It was a good party. There were a few gentlemen from the Horse Guards, nice, fit, muscular men who had been recommended by friends and family. Dolly’s was the place to be for fun. Experienced men loved the diversity of the girls here. Young innocents were brought here by their fond papas to be properly introduced to the arts of love.
Ellie set to work with two of the Guards upstairs. Darren had one of his regular politicians, and Aretha was doling out severe punishment to a High Court judge. Two of the new girls were going at it like good ’uns with a couple of the older clients in the front room – the stairs were difficult for them, poor old sods – while Dolly circulated and made sure everyone was happy. Chris was on duty at the door. Brian was mixing drinks and keeping a deadpan face on him, as ordered.
Annie had cleared off somewhere, Dolly didn’t know where. Everything was fine – until Pat Delaney showed up.
Dolly didn’t like Pat Delaney. She wondered if anyone did. He was a creep. Annie reckoned he’d been passing stuff around at a couple of the parties. She’d told Redmond about it, apparently, but Redmond hadn’t brought Pat into line. If Redmond couldn’t do it, they sure as fuck couldn’t. You didn’t cross a Delaney. It would be madness.
So she greeted him politely while he sneered at her and glared at Chris.
‘It’s the new Queen of Tarts,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Where’s the old one then? Busy upstairs, is she?’
‘If you mean Annie, she’s out,’ said Dolly.
‘Shame,’ said Pat. He was swaying on his feet and sweating. His eyes looked odd. He was high as a kite, Dolly realized with a sinking feeling. ‘I like a high-class cunt like her.’
Suppressing an expression of disgust, Dolly guided him into the front room, throwing a look back at Chris. Watch him, she mouthed. Chris nodded.
‘What can we get you to drink, Mr Delaney?’ asked Brian.
‘You a poof? You look like one,’ said Pat.
Brian flushed brick red.
‘Mr Delaney likes whisky,’ said Dolly quickly, and Brian poured him a Bell’s.
Pat reeled away with his drink and collapsed on to the sofa, nearly landing on one of the girls and a frail old gent.
‘Watch it!’ complained the girl.
‘Fuck off out of the way, you filthy whore,’ said Pat icily.
The girl took one look in Pat’s eyes and scrabbled up, dragging her old gentleman with her, his trousers still at half-mast. They fell to his ankles and he clawed at them, embarrassed. Pat let out a shout of laughter.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Darren, coming down the stairs with his client and seeing Dolly’s face as she stood in the front-room doorway.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. And then she noticed that Chris wasn’t in his seat any more.