The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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him, but she hadn’t the knack or the patience.
‘I’m off up to get washed up, Celia,’ she said, and made her escape.
She took the remains of her tea and her bags upstairs. Up on the landing she could hear Ellie’s Dansette playing Cliff Richard. Ellie and Darren were carolling away, horribly out of tune. Annie felt herself smiling. Overlying Cliff and Ellie and Darren and the Shadows was the sound of groans and the headboard hitting the wall in Aretha’s room. Annie dumped everything on her bed, kicked off her white PVC boots and was about to shut the door when Dolly appeared looking pleased with herself.
‘I know you,’ said Dolly. ‘Aretha thought she’d seen you somewhere, and she was right. And you know that loony Billy, don’t you, and he’s on the Carter payroll. You’re Ruthie Carter’s sister. Which makes you Max Carter’s sister-in-law.’
‘So what if I am?’ shrugged Annie.
‘You fell out with her and your mother,’ said Dolly.
‘So?’
‘Word was you’d stepped on Ruth’s toes, if you get my meaning.’ Dolly was smirking.
Whatever she’d said or done, there was no way she wanted to be standing here discussing it with this cheap little tart.
‘That’s my business,’ said Annie. ‘Not yours.’
‘No need to get all uppity with me,’ grinned Dolly. She was enjoying this. Annie had been queening it around here, Madam’s niece, too posh to pull punters. ‘Word is you fucked her bridegroom the night before the wedding.’
‘Whatever the “word” is,’ said Annie, ‘I’ve got nothing to say about it.’
‘Oh go on,’ crowed Dolly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’
‘Fuck off,’ said Annie.
‘That isn’t very nice, now is it? I’m only taking an interest.’
‘Who asked you to?’
Dolly’s smug smile dropped from her face. She came and stood directly in front of Annie. Annie was close enough to see enlarged pores clogged with too much make-up, and black roots in Dolly’s blonde frizzy hair. She smelt Dolly’s smoker’s breath and grimaced. Jesus! She pitied the punters. Imagine having to kiss a tart like this – and pay for the privilege!
‘I could tell you things I’ve heard,’ said Dolly.
‘Such as?’ asked Annie.
‘Word is your sister’s not well.’
Annie felt a tug of anxiety but she was careful to keep her face blank. ‘Says who?’
‘Says everyone. You know, you ought to be nicer to me,’ said Dolly. ‘I could get word to Ruth that you’re living in a knocking shop, how would that go down? You wouldn’t be so fancy then, would you, with your sister thinking you were making your living flat on your back.’
Annie slapped that fat, smirking mouth. Dolly stood a moment transfixed with shock and then she launched herself at Annie, knocking her back on to the bed, clawing at her hair. Annie hit her again, harder, and Dolly started screeching and trying to get her nails hooked into Annie’s face. Annie grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. Dolly was small and flabby – Annie was taller and stronger, and mad enough to bite this slapper’s head off and beat her with the soggy end. But all at once Darren and Ellie were pulling Dolly off her. Dolly was still shrieking and spitting. Between them they dragged Dolly back out on to the landing.
‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ screamed Dolly.
‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.
‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, who looked shocked and excited at the same time.
‘Well pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid-gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the place.’
Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he could see a man tied to the bed, face-down. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked buttocks were striped with pink.
‘Nice arse,’ commented Darren, who was a fine judge of such things.
‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back to her room. ‘Keep it down, okay?’
‘Come on love, shake hands and make up,’ said Ellie, a plump little brunette with a sweet face. She gave Dolly an encouraging smile.
Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.
‘That’s a no, then?’ asked Darren.
‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ promised Dolly, and went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
‘Come in and listen to Cliff with us,’ said Ellie to Annie. ‘She’s always getting her knickers in a twist, she’ll calm down.’
‘No, I’ve had enough excitement for one day,’ said Annie. She went back into her room, closed the door and fell on to the bed.
What the hell, she thought. Max didn’t care where she was. So long as she kept out of his way things would be fine, she told herself. She wondered if it was true that Ruthie was ill, or was that little tart Dolly just enjoying winding her up? She didn’t like to think of Ruthie being ill. Maybe Ruthie was pregnant. That thought cut into her like a knife. Ruthie, pregnant with Max’s child? Too restless and unhappy to settle, Annie went downstairs and got the Delaneys’ phone number from Celia.
Eddie Carter often wondered about the night he’d buried the gun for Max. His gut feeling was that Max had shot Tory Delaney dead, but something about the way Max had denied it niggled at him. He knew the police had been round asking questions, but Ruthie had provided an alibi, as any good wife would. It was best not to speculate. Tory was dead and that was an end to it.
Or was it? Because there was still Redmond and Pat Delaney.
Best not to think about that, either.
Eddie was enjoying his life, going round the clubs and pubs with his friends tonight, calling in on the Shalimar and The Grapes and finishing up at the Palermo Lounge. Max and Jonjo were in, the place was buzzing. They had their heavies with them, standing a discreet distance away. Eddie didn’t want a minder and had refused one more than once, even when Max tried to insist. He hated the idea of someone sneering at his sexual tastes, and he knew a lot of Max’s macho hard men did. Then one of the boys whispered that there was the most exquisite boy in a house not too far away, Eddie would adore him, why didn’t they go on over and visit?
‘Really?’ Eddie was intrigued but unsure.
His taste for pretty boys had got him into trouble a couple of times. He knew that Max disapproved. Jonjo despised Eddie for the fact that he liked to bed men instead of women, he knew that too. But Eddie did feel the urge, he was drunk but not incapable, so why not?
‘Is he blond?’ Eddie asked, his words only a little slurred. Max would disapprove of that, too. Drunks annoyed his sainted older brother. Drunks and loose women and men who liked shagging pretty boys … the list just went on and on. Eddie laughed at the thought of it. And there he was, the great Max Carter, sleeping in a separate room from his wife, a fact that must never ever be revealed to the wider world. Eddie liked Ruthie. The poor cow. Ruthie fussed over him like an older sister, and he liked that. He’d never had a sister, only a domineering mother who had frightened the arse off him most of the time, cuffing him around the ear or whopping his backside for stepping out of line.
Ruthie was different, gentler. She never nagged,