Stay Dead - [2]

It did end, eventually. In this century or the next, she wasn’t sure. But not before she’d passed out; not before she’d prayed for oblivion, even for death, just to make the pain stop.

Help me, she thought.

But no one came.

Oh yes. It was a bad, bad day.

PART ONE

1

February 1994

The calls started late one night, waking Gary Tooley, the manager of the Carter-owned Blue Parrot nightclub, from his peaceful slumbers alongside his latest squeeze, Caroline Wheeler.

‘What the fuck?’ he asked, because actually it wasn’t even late one night, it was early the next morning.

To be precise, it was three o’clock, and he was pissed off to be woken up like this. He’d had a crazy Friday night, punters kicking off and complaining left, right and centre, staff arsing about and people shooting up in the toilets, and all he wanted now was some kip. Was that too much to ask?

Of course Caroline, the idle bitch, didn’t lift a finger to answer the phone. She’d been working the bar a couple of months when they’d started getting friendly, and friendly had quickly turned into fucking the life out of her down in the stockroom, then in the empty bar, then in the cellars, then in bed.

Now here she was, snoring like a hog and taking up most of the quilt. Christ, he would really like his own bed to himself for a change. Caroline was good in the sack – she was even good on the floor - but sometimes all a bloke wanted was some sleep. He leaned over her huddled form and snatched up the phone.

‘What?’ he demanded.

And then came the voice. Female. Foreign accent. But speaking English. Saying that there was a crash, she knew about it, Constantine had planned it.

What the hell? wondered Gary, brain fogged with sleep.

‘Who is this?’ he said, when she’d babbled on for a full five minutes.

There was a long pause. Then a decisive: ‘I am Gina Barolli.’

‘OK. Right. And why are you phoning me in the middle of the night?’

‘You work for the Carter family.’

‘I do. Yeah.’ Gary scrubbed a hand wearily over his face. Caroline snored on, undisturbed.

‘It was all for her. Annie Carter. The crash.’

‘The what?’

‘The plane crash.’

Gary’s attention sharpened. Was the mad old bint talking about the plane crash in the seventies, the one that should have put an end to those mad cunting Irish the Delaneys forever? Sadly, it hadn’t. Redmond Delaney survived. Gary knew all about the plane crash; all the trusted people close to Max Carter did. So what?

‘My brother, Constantine…’ she said, and paused.

‘Yeah. Your brother. What about him?’

‘I’ll tell you everything,’ said the woman, and the line went dead.

That was the first call. And then came others, and that made Gary think. Maybe it was time to cash in on some of this info. Caroline had expensive tastes and he had a bit of a gambling habit, loved the dogs and the horses; a bit more wedge would come in very handy right now. And he knew exactly who he was going to get it from.

2

It was a pity, Redmond Delaney thought, that he’d been ousted as a priest. A real shame, because the priesthood had suited him nicely, given him a standing in the community that he’d missed after being forced to abandon his previous existence as an East End gang leader.

The Delaney mob had ruled Limehouse and Battersea, back in the day, and people had treated him with respect, treading very carefully around him. Cold and controlling, he had relished his position and his fearsome reputation. It had amused him to see terror in people’s eyes when they came face to face with him. How ironic, that the roles of gang boss and priest should turn out to have so much in common: extracting confessions from sinners, doling out hellfire and damnation to wrongdoers…

Both jobs had similar perks, too. Gang groupies had flocked to him when he’d run the Delaney mob. Church groupies had twittered around him when he ran his parish. Ah, so tempting they were, all those shy, bored housewives who were dazzled by this stunning red-haired Adonis in his black soutane and pristine white collar. Too tempting, that was the trouble. Easy meat, really. One after another he used them, and every time he’d prostrate himself before the altar afterwards and say, ‘Sorry, Lord, but I am only flesh and the flesh is weak. Forgive me.’ And every time he’d be forgiven, his sins wiped clean… until the next time he weakened.

He’d been busy indulging the flesh again the morning his career as a priest came to an abrupt end.

The woman had come to him with a personal problem – something about a bored husband who she believed was straying. Redmond had listened, or appeared to, while thinking: Tasty. Blonde. Curvy. Quite delicious. A little morsel for him to gobble down at the first opportunity.

‘Drop by the presbytery, we’ll discuss it,’ he said, thinking that she was very angry, very hurt, about her husband’s extramarital activities, and that anger and hurt would make her vulnerable. He couldn’t wait.

The minute she set foot inside the hall and the door closed behind her, Redmond put his tongue in her mouth and slipped a hand under her dress to touch a silken cool thigh. As he kissed her, his hand went higher, delving deeper.