‘Layla!’ called Annie, crossing the marble hallway, her steps echoing in the stillness of the house.
No answer.
‘She could be downstairs in the gym,’ said Annie, peering around her with worried eyes as she made her way to the basement stairs.
Suddenly she needed to know where Layla was as a matter of urgency.
This place was grand, luxurious in the extreme. It had belonged to Constantine, one of many properties he owned all over the world. These included vineyards in the Loire Valley, an old sugar plantation in Jamaica, a beachside retreat in Martha’s Vineyard and a compound in glamorous upstate Montauk. When he died, all Constantine’s properties had passed first to Lucco, then to Alberto, with the exception of the Upper East Side apartment, and this London house, both of which were now Annie’s. Much as she loved the New York apartment, this was the place that had always felt like her true home.
Or it had done until now. After the events of the last twenty-four hours it made her feel uneasy, just being here.
Orla Delaney had made her way in here with murder in mind. Annie found herself starting at shadows. She no longer felt secure in her own home. And that explosion . . . she could still hear it, ringing in her ears. The jar of the shockwave when the device had gone off kept reverberating in her bones. Her mind insisted on replaying each detail, over and over. And it was dredging up memories of that
other
explosion, the one in the States, that had wrecked her life seventeen years ago, the whole ghastly thing playing on an endless loop. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, closed her eyes, gulped hard. It felt as if someone heavy was sitting on her chest.
Tony took her arm. ‘You OK?’
‘Yeah.’ She managed to raise a smile. ‘Bit shook up, that’s all.’
They could hear Duran Duran blaring out of the speakers, and the treadmill humming.
That was a relief. Layla was OK, she was here, she was safe. So was Tony. Annie thought again of the panic she’d felt when there was no sign of him after the explosion.
‘I thought we’d lost you back there,’ she said with an unsteady laugh.
‘I thought we’d lost
you
.’ He grinned. ‘Scared the shit out of me, till I saw you standing in the doorway.’
They crossed the hallway and pushed open the door to the gym. It was state-of-the-art, with a mirrored wall and a water cooler, cross-trainers, rowing machines, static cycles and a heavy-duty treadmill – on which Layla, hair pulled back in her usual no-nonsense ponytail, wearing black shorts and beige T-shirt, was pounding furiously away. She saw her mother and Tony in the mirror, and punched a button on the machine. The treadmill slowed, then stopped. Layla unclipped the safety tie.
Breathing heavily, she stepped off, turned down the music. She snatched up a towel, patted her face. ‘Did you want me?’
‘You OK?’ asked Annie.
‘Yeah,’ said Layla.
Annie didn’t think she was. Layla’s eyes were shadowed, haunted. She’d done a dreadful thing last night, and Annie could see that it was tormenting her.
‘What’s up? Has something else happened?’ Layla was glancing from Tony’s face to her mother’s.
‘Somebody blew up my car,’ said Annie.
Layla’s jaw dropped. ‘You
what
?’
‘It went off too early,’ said Annie. She thought of the bloodstained pavement. ‘Maybe the bomber muffed it.’
‘Thank God for that. Are you OK? The person who set it, were they . . . were they hurt?’
Annie let out an irritated breath. ‘Was the bomber hurt? Not that I care, but he was blown to
fuck
. That’s what bombs do to people, as a general rule.’
‘Right.’
Seeing the chastened expression on her daughter’s face, Annie felt guilty.
‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘It was a shock. Get cleaned up and come upstairs, will you? I think we’d better talk about all this stuff that’s been happening.’
Tony was looking at Annie curiously. He held up a shovel-like hand. ‘Wait on. Are you telling me there’s something else, apart from the car?’
Annie heaved a sigh. ‘You don’t know the half of it. Unless Steve’s told you . . .?’
‘He ain’t told me nothing. Is this to do with Bri being on the door? What’s going on?’
‘Look, let’s go upstairs and I’ll fill in the blanks.’
‘Mum . . .’ Layla grabbed Annie’s arm. Her eyes were wide with alarm.
‘It’s OK,’ said Annie. ‘Tone’s sound as a pound. We’ll see you up there.’ She’d already decided to dig out the kiyoga Tone had given her years ago. And she had a can of Mace here somewhere.
Yeah, really effective against knives and bombs
, she thought.
What the hell. Any protection was better than none.
Rufus couldn’t believe it. He’d stayed to watch, from a distance. This time he wanted to see the Carter woman get what she deserved. Instead some scruffy little tit had come along, trying car doors. And it wasn’t as if he could run over and stop him.
The inevitable happened. The car blew up, taking the homeless guy with it.
Boom!
That bitch must have nine lives, like a cat.
Worse, there was still no sign of Orla.
If anything goes wrong, we meet at the farm
.
He clung to the hope that she was following the plan, that when her hit failed she’d hot-footed it back to Ireland. Part of him wanted to race to the farm, to see for himself that she was OK. Part of him was terrified to go there in case it would confirm his worst fears.
Either way, he was determined not to leave London until he’d finished the job she started. When Annie Carter was dead, then he would head home.
44
‘The police are going to come calling over the car, for sure,’ said Tony when they were sitting in the drawing room.
‘So? I tell them the truth. It’s all legal, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Annie.
‘Yeah, but someone bombed it out. They’re going to wonder.’
‘They can wonder. They’ve been wondering for years. So what?’
Tony was silent for a while. She’d just filled him in on the news about Orla, and about Layla nearly getting herself abducted in the park. Layla was chewing a fingernail, saying nothing.
Annie started ticking off items on her fingers. So long as she kept thinking, trying to reason all this out, then she wasn’t panicking, she wasn’t losing it – and losing it was only a heartbeat, only a single moment of lapsed concentration, away.
‘Three things: Layla in the park. Orla in here last night. The car bomb today.’
‘For God’s sake, how can you be so damned
casual
about it?’ Layla slammed her hand down on the armrest.
‘What do you want me to do? Run around screaming?’
‘At least that would prove you’re not
totally
made of wood,’ snapped Layla.
Though obviously uncomfortable about the bickering, Tony kept quiet. It wasn’t his place to interfere in Carter family business.
‘Layla, honey,’ said Annie more reasonably, ‘we have to keep thinking here. Someone’s trying to get to us. The minute we cave in, we’re done for.’
‘Well,
I’m
caving in,’ Layla cried. ‘I should be in work today, doing VAT returns, and instead I’m sitting here discussing the fact that I’ve murdered someone, and that someone else has just tried to murder
you
. It’s
insane.’
‘Insane or not, hard to take in or not, it’s
happening
,’ said Annie. ‘So we have to deal with it.’
‘
We?
This isn’t the sort of thing I deal with. I wish I’d gone ahead and called the police last night, like I wanted to. Let them deal with it.’
‘That would be a bad move,’ said Tony.
‘Hear that?’ Annie pointed a finger at Tony while staring at her daughter. ‘Do you
hear
that? Those are wise words. No police. We don’t
ever
mention what happened last night to the police, you got that?’
‘But the car—’
‘The car, that’s OK. They’ll trace it to me, and I’ll handle it. No sweat.’
‘Someone died—’
‘The bastard who was planting the bomb! Good riddance!’ Maybe that would be an end to it. Maybe the bomber was Redmond, and it would all be over now? But deep down Annie wasn’t convinced. Bombs didn’t seem like Redmond’s style.
‘They’ll find it odd that you left the scene, won’t they?’
‘I panicked,’ said Annie.
‘You? I don’t think so.’ Layla folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself as if she were cold.
‘Look, here’s what’ll happen: you’ll stay off work—’
‘No, I—’
‘You’re staying off work,’ repeated Annie more firmly. ‘Until we know what we’re dealing with, you’re going to a safer place with secur—’
‘No!’ said Layla.
‘I don’t want any arguments about this.’
Layla was silent a moment, brooding. Her mother was repeating the same old patterns that had dogged her all through childhood. All Annie had ever done was send her away. She was an adult now, but nothing had changed: she was sending her away
again
.
‘The police will come soon, won’t they?’ said Layla. She doubted her own ability to front this out as her mother could. She was afraid she would crumble and confess everything.
‘You won’t be here when they do. Which is another good reason for placing you elsewhere.’
Annie was right. Layla could see that.
‘Get some stuff together, Tony will drive you, and I’ll get one of the boys to stay with you. And you don’t tell anyone, not even your closest friend, where you’re going. OK?’
‘I don’t
know
where I’m going.’
‘You know what I mean.’
Layla stood up. She didn’t
have
any close friends. All she had were work colleagues. When she’d been a child, it hadn’t taken long before the parents of other kids in her class got wind of the fact that the Carters’ wealth came from disreputable sources. Inevitably the rumours would begin circulate as the respectable parents – doctors, lawyers, academics – dug deeper. The
gang
rumours. The
brothel
rumours. So they’d steer their children away from Layla. This had gone on, all through school, through college, even into work.
‘OK,’ she sighed.
‘Good.’ Annie and Tony stood up.
Layla went to the door, and paused there.
‘I suppose I ought to tell you . . .’ she said.
‘Tell me what?’ asked Annie.
‘I phoned Dad.’
45
‘Hiya, honeybunch,’ said Ellie Brown, throwing her arms wide as Layla came up the stairs to the upper floor of the Shalimar.
‘Hi, Ellie,’ said Layla gloomily, getting to the top stair and being enfolded in Ellie’s cuddlesome perfumed warmth.
She’d seen her cousin Jimmy Junior downstairs behind the bar, where he worked tossing cocktails and flirting with the girls. He’d shot her a puzzled grin, clearly wondering what she was doing here. She was wondering
that,
herself.
‘Your mum told me to expect you,’ said Ellie, kissing Layla’s cheek.
‘Hi, Layla,’ said Chris, Ellie’s big, ugly but good-hearted husband, taking her overnight bag. ‘Come on in. Hey Tone. Keeping OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Tony, bringing up the rear. ‘You?’
‘Yeah, not bad.’
‘Let me show you your room,’ said Ellie, and Layla followed her with a heavy heart along a plainly decorated hallway. She thought how noticeable it was, the difference between the opulence of the tiger-skin-and-gold club downstairs and the austere magnolia neatness of the upper floor. But Annie was right – this place was
thick
with muscle, guarding the door, monitoring the safety of the girls who worked here. The club was
tight
.
‘Here we go,’ said Ellie, opening a door.
They entered a room with a double bed, dressing table, wardrobe and a small TV. Chris placed her bag on the bed, then withdrew.
‘Loo’s just across the hall there,’ said Ellie, flinging back the curtains to let the sun in.
Layla went and peered out of the window. Below, there was a busy road lined with parked cars. Downstairs there was glamour, luxury, champagne on tap. Up here, there were no fancy trimmings. But it was neat and clean. Ellie showed her along the hall to the office, the monitor room, the girls’ dressing room.
‘It’s like bloody Fort Knox, this place,’ said Ellie with a smile. ‘Nice and secure.’
Layla nodded. She knew that Ellie had once run a far more down-market establishment in Limehouse. A knocking-shop, not to put too fine a point on it. Since then she’d gone up in the world.
‘Did Mum tell you what happened?’ asked Layla, when they’d returned from the grand tour and Ellie was bustling around, making sure everything was in order in the bedroom.
Ellie was a big woman, stocky in middle age and comfortable with it. She wore flattering business skirt suits in peacock blue, red and purple, no accessories. It was the red today, and it suited her. She dyed her hair a fetching mid-brown and kept it tucked up neatly in a chignon. Her nails were short and well manicured. Her skin was as clear as a twenty-year-old’s, her manner confident and smiling.
‘Annie told me there’d been a bit of trouble and she wanted you out of it,’ said Ellie. ‘That’s all.’
I am standing in a room over a lap-dancing club,
thought Layla morosely.
I should be at work filling in tax returns, and instead I am standing in a room over a lap-dancing club
.
Grimly she remembered her mother’s parting shot: ‘Don’t go getting all pally with the girls, OK?’
Layla thought that wasn’t OK at all. She thought it was pure snobbery on her mother’s part, imagining the daughter of the great Annie Carter was too good to mix with lap dancers.
‘I won’t be staying long,’ said Layla, praying that would be the case. She was dreading having to phone in sick again tomorrow. No one was ever sick at Bowdler and Etchingham. Anyone foolish enough to take sick leave was liable to return to find their desk had been moved to a less desirable spot, their chances of promotion reduced.