Ruthless - [42]

?’ said Annie.

‘She wanted to tell Steve.’ Layla threw the toast down on to the plate. She glared at her mother. ‘Look, I’m not used to all this, I can’t even think straight! But this is what you do, isn’t it?’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning all this: lurking in shadows, getting rid of bodies in the middle of the night. I don’t know about any of this, I don’t want to.’

Annie was still thinking about Dolly. ‘So how come Dolly didn’t tell Steve about this bloke in the park?’

‘I made her promise not to. I didn’t want to start anything.’ Layla eyed her mother in something approaching disgust.

All her life she’d fought against being part of that world. Her mother, the Mafia queen. Her father, the gangland boss. Layla was proud not to be a part of that. The incident in the park had seriously rattled her. It was a reminder that the shadowy world she had resisted for so long was merely a footstep away. Her first instinct had been denial, to pretend it never happened. The last thing she’d wanted was to stir up a hornet’s nest by raising the alarm.

‘There was something else,’ she said at last. ‘Something weird. When I went out to pick up my trainer, there was a little paper shamrock in it.’

Annie hitched in a breath. A shamrock? She stared at Layla. No use ranting and raving. She could see that Layla was upset enough as it was. But she was going to have to do something about this, and quick.

‘You know, like a four-leaf clover? Do you think there could be a connection between that and Orla breaking in here?’ Layla asked. She was peering at the buttered toast as if it was going to rear up and bite her.

‘It’s possible,’ said Annie. Orla and a shamrock – oh, there was a connection, no doubt about it.

‘What should we do?’

‘You have to go into work?’

Layla nodded.

‘Phone in sick.’

‘I can’t do that.’

You bloody well can. Until I find out what’s going on here, we’re not taking any chances.’

‘But-’

‘That’s not a suggestion, Layla. That’s an order.’

Layla drank her tea and said nothing. Much as she resented her mother barking out commands, after what happened last night she was – grudgingly – glad to have her here, taking charge.

Annie stood up.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Layla.

‘This and that,’ said Annie, heading for the door.

‘And what does that mean?’ demanded Layla.

‘What it says,’ said Annie. ‘Stay here. No running around the park or anything like that.’

‘I wasn’t going to.’

‘Good. Use the gym in the basement if you want. And there’s the outside pool. Steve’s left one of the boys on the door, his name’s Bri. You’ll be quite safe here.’

‘You’re saying I can’t go out?’

‘I’m saying it’s wisest not to. Seriously, Layla: stay inside. I’ll be back in about an hour.’

38

By dawn Rufus was climbing the walls of the rented flat in Islington with anxiety. Orla should have been back hours ago. The previous night she had gone to bed still angry with him. Given the mood she was in, he’d sensed that sharing a bed was out of the question, so he’d gone to sleep on the couch. At one o’clock he’d woken to find her all dressed up in black like a ninja, fired up with excitement about what she was about to do.

‘I should come with you,’ he’d said, worried for her.

‘No!’ she’d been adamant. ‘Keep away, Rufus. I don’t want your help, not with this. We stick to the plan, this time. No deviations.’

He nodded. He wasn’t happy, but this was her quest, not his.

‘If anything goes wrong, anything out of the ordinary happens, we meet back at the farm. OK?’

He wanted to kiss her, but knowing it would not be welcomed he merely nodded.

‘I’ll be back by six. If I’m not, stick to the plan.’

‘I’ll say a prayer for you,’ he said.

‘Don’t bother,’ sniffed his beloved. ‘I don’t need your prayers. Say one for her, she’s the one who’ll need it.’

But now it was seven the following morning and Orla hadn’t returned.

Her orders had been crystal clear: If I anything goes wrong, we meet up back at the farm. But he couldn’t just go back to Ireland, not if it meant abandoning her. He loved her. Anything could have happened.

He got dressed, not bothering with breakfast, stuffed his gear into a backpack – safer than leaving it here in the flat – and went out and hailed a taxi to take him to Holland Park. Having paid the driver, he loitered at the end of the square. He could see the house where he’d almost caught the girl. The place was quiet, no signs of life. His car, the one Orla had taken the previous night, was parked a few doors down. It was a Fiat, bought cheaply off an East End car lot a couple of weeks ago. He strolled towards it, glancing in as he drew level. It was empty, the keys still in the ignition. He took off his backpack and carefully placed it on the front passenger seat, then got behind the wheel and closed the door, his mind in turmoil, his eyes glued to the dark blue doors of the house.

Where could Orla have got to?

Follow the plan, she’d told him. Meet up back at the farm.

But she hadn’t come home to their tatty little rented flat. And the car was here, keys in the ignition. She must have done it, though. When Orla set her mind to anything – and this in particular – for certain, it would be done.