Ruthless - [45]

For a moment, Dolly could only stare at Annie, who’d marched in, all guns blazing, and was now leaning both fists on the desk and glaring at her.

Dolly let out a sharp breath. ‘One,’ she said, counting off on her pink-manicured fingers, ‘Layla didn’t want me to. She insisted. She made me promise not to call Steve, although I wanted to. Two -’ Dolly raised another well-kept digit – ‘I couldn’t tell you because you were faffing around en route from the States as per bloody usual. I didn’t think there was any possibility I could reach you. Also as usual.’

‘Faffing around?’ snapped Annie. ‘I was in New York on business. That’s not faffing around, that’s doing a job.’

‘You’re a bit touchy, ain’t you?’

Annie’s face tightened with anger. ‘For fuck’s sake, Doll. If I’d known about what happened to Layla, I’d have been forewarned. I’d have been prepared for something serious instead of being caught off guard.’

She pulled out a chair and sat down, wiping a weary hand over her brow. She was shattered. After Steve and the boys had taken the body away in the early hours, she’d spent the rest of the night in Layla’s room, neither of them getting any sleep. It had taken a lot of convincing to keep Layla from freaking out and phoning the Bill. Even now, Annie wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing in leaving her, but she couldn’t rest until she had it out with Dolly face-to-face.

The fact is, I could be dead, she thought. Layla could have been hurt, taken away, maybe tortured or raped – anything. My whole world could have fallen apart. Again.

So here she was, exhausted and edgy and anxious, trying not to think about what could have been – and failing. Because disaster could still strike. Yes, Orla was dead. But – oh, and shit she didn’t want to think this, but it had to be faced – Redmond might still be alive.

It had been a man chasing Layla in the park. Annie thought it unlikely that it would have been Redmond himself – Layla had described her assailant as thick-set, huge, with a wild mane of hair. Nonetheless Redmond might be the one calling the shots. And if he was, he’d be wondering where his sister had vanished to. It wouldn’t be long before he’d come looking for her.

‘Something serious?’ Dolly was frowning at her. ‘Like what?’

‘Never mind,’ said Annie. Part of her wanted desperately to confide in Dolly, but it was no good flapping the lip to her about this. The less people knew about what had gone on last night, the better. She let out a shaky sigh. ‘How’s tricks, Doll?’

‘Good,’ said Dolly, peering closely at her old mate. Something was up, but Annie had that familiar keep out expression on her face. No use pushing. If she wanted to confide, she would. If not, forget it. ‘Full of loaded punters most nights, everything’s fine.’

‘Girls all OK?’

‘One or two niggles, nothing much.’

Annie looked around her. ‘This old place has seen some changes,’ she said wistfully.

This was true. Back in the Sixties, when it was known as the Palermo Lounge, major acts had performed there. Heinz with the white-blond hair, and the chap with the deaf-aid, Johnny Rae, and many others had taken to the stage beneath the arching red curtains with the gold MC over the centre. Then for a while – along with the other two Carter clubs, the Shalimar and the Blue Parrot – it had been a cheap strip joint, one more tasteless haven for the dirty-mac brigade. Annie had soon put that right.

In the seventies she had transformed the three clubs into discos where dolly birds bopped in white-fringed bikinis on strobe-lit podiums while the punters lounged on chocolate-coloured banquettes eating scampi or chicken in the basket with chips.

Now it was the eighties. You moved with the times or you got left behind. The Carters never got left behind. So the clubs offered table-dancing. Nothing tacky, not here. The clientele were wealthy City types, jaded executives, TV personalities, sometimes even film stars. Following the stock market crash last year there’d been a sharp decline in trade, but there were still enough high-flying punters to keep the clubs busy. All three venues were packed with yuppie bankers and stockbrokers every night, out for a good time and a wind-down after a frantic day’s trading on the money markets. Max’s clubs were giving Stringfellows a run for their money, and if they were doing that, then they were doing just fine.

‘Is anything wrong? Anything else?’ asked Dolly delicately.

Annie shook her head. ‘Listen, in future, Doll, if something happens – regardless what Layla says – don’t keep it to yourself. Tell me or tell Steve, pronto.’

‘What about Mr Carter?’ asked Dolly. ‘Should I tell him too?’

Annie stood up. ‘Dolly,’ she said, ‘shut the fuck up, will you? I’m going to borrow Tone and the car. OK?’

Dolly’s mouth opened. Then she closed it with a snap as she saw the look on Annie’s face.

‘What?’ asked Annie.

Dolly shrugged. ‘I’m wondering why you need a driver, that’s all. You drive.’

Annie stifled her irritation. She’d taken her test a couple of years after the split from Max. Maybe she’d been trying to prove she was self-reliant, that Max Carter could go and