‘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.
‘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
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
‘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.
‘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.
