Ruthless - [44]

‘Yeah?’ he demanded, dragging a hand through his hair in irritation.

That was when he heard Layla’s voice, high with tension. ‘Dad?’

Max Carter grew still. Irritation evaporated to be replaced by concern. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘God, it’s so awful…’ she said, a tremor in her voice as if she was trying not to cry.

‘Take your time. Tell me.’

She told him.

He couldn’t believe it.

Orla Delaney?

How the fuck had that happened?

40

Annie drove herself to the Palermo in her new Mercedes. The club was quiet at this time of day, the punters long gone. One of the cleaners, recognizing her face, opened the door for her. The interior was luscious, luxurious, and identical to the Blue Parrot and the Shalimar, her ex’s two other clubs. All three were popular with the glitterati and with the big City earners. There were matt tobacco-brown walls, gold angel frescoes, gilded chandeliers, deep cosy banquettes and overstuffed armchairs, all covered in the same striking soft faux tiger skin. There was a small stage and podiums where the girls danced, and over in the far corner to the right of the long blue-backlit bar was the VIP area and the rooms where private dances took place.

She made her way through a door to the left of the bar and up a flight of stairs. Hearing voices, she stuck her head around the dressing-room door. Delight and Marlena were in there, wearing their day clothes, smoking and chatting, all day to kill before they had to get set for the evening’s business.

‘Hi, Annie,’ said Delight, a tall voluptuous redhead with a broad toothy smile.

‘Dolly in?’

‘Yep, up in the office.’

‘Thanks.’

Rufus watched Annie Carter park the sleek black Mercedes and go into the Palermo. Rufus glanced at the backpack. Maybe Orla would be annoyed with him for not following instructions and heading back to the farm, but that was a chance he was prepared to take. Her anger would soon turn to joy if he could report that he had succeeded where she’d failed.

He tried to imagine the expression on her face when he told her the good news. It helped to suppress the doubts that were eating away at him. Ever since he found the Fiat sitting in the street with the keys in the ignition, he’d had a sick feeling in his gut. Why had Orla abandoned the car like that?

Rufus pushed the doubts aside, told himself to focus on the job in hand.

It was time he fixed Annie Carter for good.

Frankie Day was a forty-two-year-old junkie who spent his days picking over the detritus of other people’s lives and usually coming up empty. He’d been on the streets for months, having been chucked out of the squat by his mates, who weren’t exactly princes but were picky enough to know they didn’t want to share their grand abode with filthy Frankie and his gross personal habits for one minute longer.

So, here he was. Mooching around the streets, mugging a granny here, snatching a wallet there, doing a bit of housebreaking, nicking a few cars, selling stuff on and using the proceeds to buy smack. He’d had a decent education. He was even – in the days before drugs and drink had fucked his brains up for good – what you’d call bright. He’d picked up a few skills. He could get into a house and have the contents away – jewellery, cash and electrics, all easy to sell on – before you could say knife.

Oh, and he could hot-wire a car.

He loved hot-wiring cars.

Whistling under his breath, he was ambling along, Nothing to see here, officer, discreetly trying this car door, then that one, then another. One or two in every London street would be unlocked. He knew this from experience.

A group of girls passed by, got a waft of his unwashed body, looked at him in revulsion, and edged away.

Frankie didn’t care.

He was on a mission.

He needed another hit.

As he moved on down the street, trying the next car door, and the next, he saw a bloke up ahead sitting in the driver’s seat of a black Mercedes. The door was wide open, he had one leg out on the pavement as he leaned in, fiddling with something in there, cassette player maybe. The man glanced around.

Frankie had never seen such a long curling mop of fire-engine-red hair, especially on a guy. It was all the more striking because his skin was bleached-out white. Funny-looking fucker. Frankie slowed his pace and watched, fascinated. Finally the man finished whatever he was doing, got out. He was big, Frankie noted, a burly geezer, not someone you’d want to tangle with. Not realizing he was being watched, the guy closed the car door gently. Didn’t lock it.

Frankie smiled.

All his Christmases had come at once.

What could he get from selling on a hot Merc?

A fucking fortune, that’s what.

The man hurried away up the street. Frankie moved in.

41

The office door was open and Dolly was sitting at her desk. She looked up in surprise as Annie appeared.

‘Hello,’ she said, starting to smile. ‘What are-’

‘Why the fuck didn’t you tell me Layla’d had bother?’ Annie asked, shutting the door behind her.

Taken aback, Dolly sat gawping at her.

‘Well, come on,’ snapped Annie. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’