Dirty Game

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