Authors: Jessie Keane
‘Of course it’s your gun. I brought it from the villa after the hit. You remember? When I was left alone with my daughter missing and my husband was supposed to be
dead
? From now on, I’m sleeping with it under my pillow.’
He snatched the box of bullets off her and loaded them into the chambers with a far steadier hand than hers.
‘No, you’re bloody not, you’re a lousy shot. You’d blow your effing brains out. Just what
else
have you got of mine?’ he asked coldly.
‘Just . . . this.’ She delved into the drawer and brought out the heavy gold ring with its square slab of lapis lazuli and its engraved Egyptian cartouches.
He took it, slipped it onto the smallest finger of his left hand. Snapped the gun closed, checked the sights. Then he picked up the box of remaining bullets. All in a very cool and businesslike manner. Annie swore to herself then and there that she was never, ever going to let him know that she had worn his ring as a comforter, feeling that he was somehow closer to her, when she had been going through hell without him.
‘There was someone in here.’ Annie clutched at her head. ‘There
was.
When I was in hospital in the States after Constantine . . . and after I . . .’ She gulped hard and then went on. ‘After I lost the baby . . . someone held a pillow over my face. Nico and the nurse came in and they ran off. I . . . really think there was someone here. And before you say a word, it
wasn’t
Alberto after a bunk-up. Don’t you even dare
suggest
that.’
Max’s eyes narrowed as they rested on her face.
‘This has happened before.’
Annie nodded dumbly. Then she looked at him. Seemed to really
see
him for the first time.
‘Jesus, was it
you
?’ she demanded.
‘What?’
‘Just now. Was it you?’
Max looked at her like she’d finally gone mad.
‘The door was locked,’ he pointed out.
‘The connecting door, yeah, but not the one into the hall. Was it you?’
Max gave a low laugh. ‘You really do think you’re irresistible, don’t you?’
‘No. I don’t. But I know you’re mad as hell at me and maybe you’d like to frighten me.’
‘For fuck’s sake, I wouldn’t do a low-down thing like that.’
‘How do I know that’s true?’ Annie was pacing around the room now, her eyes wild. ‘I don’t know you any more. I don’t think I
ever
knew you, not really.’
‘What, and you think I’d bloody well
rape
you? Honey, I’ve got news for you. You’re not
that
attractive right now. You’re skinny and you look shot away. And more than that, you know what really gets my goat? You’ve behaved like a fucking
tart
.’
Annie stopped pacing and stared at him, hands on hips.
‘Look,’ she said shakily. ‘You’re my “security”, ain’t you? My bodyguard? Well, start fucking well
guarding,
will you? I’m telling you – someone’s tried to kill me at least three times. This might have been the fourth attempt. And
next
time they might succeed, leaving your daughter without a mother. How’d you like
those
apples?’
‘I checked all the locks last night,’ said Max quietly to Annie next morning as they went in to breakfast.
‘And?’ she asked.
‘They were secure. All the windows, all the doors. Impossible to get in from the outside without triggering the alarms. So,’ he said, lowering his voice further as Lucco came out of the study and crossed the hall towards them, ‘it was an inside job. Whoever came into your room was already inside the building.’
Lucco passed by, dressed immaculately in his morning suit, nodded to both of them, and went into the dining room while they hovered at the door.
It was really possible then. One of the family could be trying to kill her. But why, when she was no longer a danger to any of them? They had their money. Constantine’s last wishes concerning her had been ignored. She hadn’t dared contest the will. So why persist in trying to do her harm?
Maybe just because they hate me
, she thought with a shudder.
Cara, Lucco and Aunt Gina certainly did. And Rocco? He seemed indifferent. Alberto . . . no, she couldn’t believe it of him. She had always considered Alberto to be her ally.
But . . . could she be wrong about that?
Could she be wrong about
everything
?
And today they were all off to the races together, playing happy families.
Alberto was coming down the stairs, chattering to Daniella who was visibly blooming under his attention.
Annie watched Daniella, feeling pleased on her behalf. She’d helped her get dressed this morning, shown her how to use some coral-coloured lipstick, a little powder and a lot of black mascara to bring her pretty face even more vibrantly alive – and she’d shown her how to tame that frizzy black hair of hers with a smear of Estolan rubbed into the ends. Daniella wore an orange-and-black floral dress that was fitted at the bodice and waist and flared out into a full skirt. The coral necklace was around her neck. Her hair was pulled neatly back in a ponytail and her olive-toned skin glowed with health. The overall effect was stupendous.
‘Stepmom,’ said Alberto with a smile, coming across the hall with Daniella on his arm. He kissed Annie warmly on the cheek. ‘All better now? No more dreams?’
‘No, I’m fine. Sorry to disturb you last night.’
‘No problem. So long as you’re okay. You’re coming in the car with us?’
‘No, she’s not,’ interjected Max smoothly. ‘I’m driving her, we’ll meet you there.’
Alberto looked from Max to Annie.
‘He’s very good,’ he congratulated her.
‘Oh, he’s a marvel,’ said Annie, with only a hint of the bitterness she felt coming out in her voice.
Lucco had – in the grand old tradition of his father – hired a private box at Goodwood with a spectacular view overlooking the winning post and the glorious South Downs beyond.
They had a champagne reception and canapés laced with golden imperial caviar and shavings of white truffle, then there was a four-course lunch while watching the finer details of the races on a closed-circuit TV. Alberto kept sneaking off with Daniella to place bets, mostly, Annie suspected, to cheer the poor thing up – because Lucco had invited other guests along: glossy corporate contacts who seemed to ooze wealth and bonhomie, and a stunning leggy blonde called Sophie Thomson.
Everyone knew Sophie, if only by sight. She was a regular on the catwalks of London, Paris and New York and the cover of
Vogue
and she was, Annie found, effusively charming and one hundred per cent false. She remembered walking in on Lucco making a phone call to someone called Sophie: this must be her. She was obviously besotted with that rattlesnake, and Annie thought that it was unbelievably cruel of him to parade his mistress so blatantly under Daniella’s nose.
It was obvious too that Sophie, although initially jolted by the fact that he’d brought his wife along today, was made of strong stuff and, after the first shock of it, she recovered quickly and simply ignored Daniella. And it was a mark of Lucco’s sadistic nature that he was visibly enjoying his wife’s dismay, sipping Bollinger and watching her skirt around his spectacularly beautiful mistress with almost painful care.
‘I’m betting on Surefire in the two thirty,’ said Max as they stood out on the balcony, alone for the moment. He was looking at the race card. ‘How about you?’
Christ, how could he behave so casually, as if everything was normal? It was anything but. Annie’s head was spinning with the stress of it all. And yet here
he
was, beautifully turned out in a morning suit, looking – in fact – as if he had been
born
to wear it, with his effortless physicality and his brooding presence, and also – oh Christ, she remembered it so well – wearing that fragrant Trumper’s Lemon cologne he’d always favoured.
That scent was a step back into another world for her. Such memories it evoked. Her and Max in the early days, her besotted with him, him mad for her but fighting it every inch of the way. And how, for the love of God, had they come from that to
this
?
‘I can’t even think, let alone bet,’ said Annie.
She hated being here at the races but she hadn’t wanted to disappoint Alberto by refusing to come. It was too poignant a reminder of all she had lost. She should have been here with Constantine. She missed him horribly. Constantine had been a rock that she could cling to. But Max . . . well, Max was a rock that she could smash against, and sink.
‘You know Lucco’s horse is running in the next?’ she said to him, trying to take an interest, trying to pretend everything was normal and not shot to hell.
‘No, what’s the name?’
Annie swallowed. ‘Annabella.’
He looked up from the race card, straight into her eyes.
Annie had to look away. ‘It was Constantine’s horse; he named it after me. Now it’s Lucco’s. Along with everything else.’
She hated this. She had never been in a more surreal situation, standing here with her dead first husband while attending a race meeting with the family of her dead
second
husband. She was full of anxiety about Layla’s whereabouts, terrified that Nico’s plan had somehow gone awry. She’d trusted Nico, she knew that Nico would have taken good care of her beloved daughter – but that didn’t alter the fact that Layla was out there somewhere with Gerda, God knew where.
It killed her every day, the worry of it. But then there was an additional turn of the screw, another torment. She so wanted to hear from Gerda, but what the hell would she do if she did? Max would take Layla away from her and he would abandon her, leave her to this pack of jackals – and they couldn’t wait to tear her to pieces. She was in a state of constant fear about where the next threat was going to come from. She found herself again and again staring at their faces and wondering,
is it you who wants me dead?
She was looking around at them now.
Aunt Gina sitting there, sipping champagne as if it was arsenic, still all in black as a mark of respect for her dead brother. Gina was old school. Annie knew she hated her for disturbing the status quo and enticing Constantine into marrying
out.
Annie knew she was jealous of Annie’s relationship with Constantine, because she had been a spinster all her life and had doted on her brother with almost creepy maternal care.
And Lucco, casting sneering looks over at Annie and her ‘minder’ now and again. Oh, yes, Lucco hated her enough to do something about it. She was sure of that. It was Lucco who had warned her off Constantine in the first place; it had
always
been Lucco.
‘He don’t like you,’ said Max, seeing the young Don staring at his companion.
‘I don’t like him either,’ said Annie with a shudder.
And what about Cara? Annie watched her thoughtfully. She was looking very fine today, dressed in a powder-blue shift that hugged every curve of her body, with matching hat and shoes. She was flirting with one of the guests, a deeply tanned and expensive-looking banker who seemed to be enjoying the experience. Lounging by the door was Fredo, on guard, watching Cara and all the other guests with a blank expression. Annie thought back to that scene she’d witnessed, Cara and Fredo humping like dogs.
And Rocco? He hadn’t come today; he’d pleaded business as an excuse. He was so bland, so inoffensive. But . . . there was something hidden about Rocco, something secret. Annie had always felt that. You only got a surface impression of him, you never knew what lay in his heart.
As for Alberto . . . no. Of all the Barollis, she believed totally that Alberto was on her side. To him, she was family, and family was sacred in his eyes.
‘Surefire?’ asked Max, interrupting her thoughts.
‘No, Annabella.’
‘Form’s not too good.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘I’ll go and sort it out.’
‘Fifty to win,’ said Annie, and gave him the notes. She didn’t care whether she won or lost.
‘Not each way?’
Annie looked him dead in the eye. ‘When I commit, I commit one hundred per cent,’ she said. ‘I thought you knew that.’
Max nodded and she almost thought he was about to smile, but he didn’t. He went off to the Tote.
Annie was standing by herself, her hands clasping the balcony rail, looking down at the multi-coloured crowds in the race-course stands below. She could see her reflection in the glossy paintwork at the end of the balcony.
Like Gina, she was wearing plain, respectful black. But today she’d taken some trouble with her appearance; she’d washed her hair and pulled it up in a chignon, even put on a bit of make-up. She was gaining a little weight now; she didn’t look too bad. There were still dark shadows under her eyes, but she wasn’t stick-thin any more – although her face still had that haunted look about it.
‘Mrs Barolli?’
She turned. It was Annabella’s trainer Josh Parsons, a well-bred, upper-crust Englishman, tall and thin with a year-round tan, an elegant greyhound nose and piercingly kind pale blue eyes. She’d met him here last year, when she had come over with Constantine for the races. She had even visited his stables to see Annabella as a talented two-year-old out on the gallops, being put through her paces. She had taken breakfast in the hectic, messy farmhouse kitchen with Constantine, Josh, his comely blonde wife Jenny and their gaggle of very noisy children.
‘Mr Parsons,’ said Annie.
They shook hands.
‘Josh. Please. I was hoping to catch you, but I can’t stop,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to say, Mrs Barolli, that I was so sorry to hear about Constantine. He was such a great friend to me and we were all devastated to hear such bad news.’
‘Thanks,’ said Annie, feeling choked up again. She’d liked Josh Parsons and his wife, and the genuine feeling in his voice when he spoke got to her.