The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane
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Rigged out like Sherlock Holmes, for God’s sake. With a sigh the sergeant pulled out a sheet of paper and started taking down the details.
‘Where?’ he asked.
‘Upper Brook Street.’
The copper’s eyebrows raised. ‘That’s a nice area, son,’ he said. ‘Not much disorder around there, I shouldn’t think.’
‘Oh, there is. Posh people, too, going in and out.’
‘Who’s running this disorderly establishment then, son?’ asked the sergeant.
This would give the boys in the back room a laugh, at least. Poor simple sod, probably a figment of his imagination. He looked shot away with his long face and his vacant eyes, his deerstalker pulled down low.
‘Miss Annie Bailey,’ said Billy with a tremble in his voice.
He hated to do this. He’d wrestled long and hard with his conscience about it, but it was for her own good. He reminded himself of that. She couldn’t go on like this, doing bad things with all these men. She really couldn’t.
‘And do you have any evidence to substantiate these claims?’ asked the sergeant with a sigh.
‘I’ve got it all written down,’ said Billy, rummaging in his briefcase. ‘In my book.’
He placed the book on the counter. The sergeant opened it. There was nothing but illegible scrawl in there. Page after page of it.
‘I’ve been keeping watch outside and noting down times and things,’ said Billy. He looked down at the open book and at the sergeant’s face. ‘No, no. Not at the front. At the back.’
The sergeant turned to the back of the book. There, in neat handwriting, were clear legible details of people entering the building, people leaving, times, dates, everything. The sergeant’s mouth dropped open. He was looking at the names of cabinet ministers, bankers, lawyers – even peers of the bloody realm.
‘You see?’ said Billy in triumph.
The desk sergeant took a breath. ‘Have a seat over there, son,’ he said at last. He picked up the book and the sheet of details. ‘I’m just going through to have a word with my superior. Hold on. I’ll be back in a jiff.’
Billy sat down, knees together, his briefcase hugged tight against his chest. This was hard, one of the hardest things Billy had ever done. But you had to protect the ones you loved. His mum had taught him that. Even if what you did seemed harsh, even if they had to suffer for it, their best interests were what counted in the end.
He loved Annie Bailey. He always had. He was doing this for her.
It was April and Annie was trying to put her cares behind her by throwing a special party. Her birthday fell on a Friday that she had scheduled for one of her regular parties, so she decided that she would make it extra-special for all the gents in attendance. There would be six additional girls, friends of Jen and Mira, to entertain the revellers. There would be birthday cake and champagne, and a reduction on the door. Fifty pounds would get you in for an afternoon of bliss.
She was going for a pink theme. She had pinned up pink balloons and streamers, there were pink tablecloths on the bar section and on the buffet. The cake itself was a masterly confection of pinks and white. There were pink flowers in profusion. Even the bloody champagne was pink. Perhaps she had overdone it?
‘No, it looks gorgeous,’ Mira assured her when they were ready for the off. ‘And so do you. Happy birthday, Annie darling.’
Mira air-kissed either side of Annie’s immaculately made-up face and slipped a small carefully wrapped package into her hand. Annie looked at it in surprise.
‘From Jen and Thelma and me,’ said Mira. ‘We hope you like it.’
‘Oh – well, that’s so nice of you,’ said Annie, touched.
She still couldn’t get used to receiving gifts. Max had been lavish with them, and the Limehouse tarts had surprised her once or twice with very small presents, but she was so used to getting the shitty end of the stick when she was growing up that she wondered if she would ever be blasé about such things. As a child, Annie got the knocks – Ruthie got the presents. Funny how she still half-expected it to be that way.
She unwrapped the long slender package and found a ladies’ gold Rolex watch inside. She looked up at Mira.
‘That’s bloody lovely,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Mira.’ She looked over at Jen and Thelma, seated on the Chesterfield, watching with beaming smiles. ‘Thanks, Jen, Thelma. It’s gorgeous.’
‘It’s engraved,’ said Mira. ‘Have a look.’
Annie took out the beautiful thing and turned over the dial.
From the girls to Annie with love.
‘Some of the old boys call you the Mayfair Madam,’ said Jen. ‘We thought about having that put on it, but “Annie” seemed better.’
‘Help me put it on,’ said Annie, delighted, and Mira did so.
‘Okay girls – let’s get ready now,’ said Annie, moving over to the door where Joshua was ready with pink champagne for the drinkers or pink grapefruit juice for the teetotallers.
The bell rang.
The party was on.
‘Any movement?’ asked the sergeant as he joined his young constable outside in the rainy street. Talk about April showers. What a fucking job! He envied the toffs inside having a bloody good time. A fucking sight better than standing out here with the rain dripping off your arse.
‘Fifteen gents gone in there so far,’ said the constable. ‘Look, there goes another one. Looks busier than normal.’
For weeks they had been keeping Annie’s apartment block under surveillance – ever since that weird bloke had come into the station and told them about what was really going on in there. Sergeant McKellan and his three constables had taken it in shifts to watch and record every arrival and departure. They’d noted what time the mail was delivered, when the rubbish was emptied and when the milkman came. They’d noted – with some surprise – that there were people going into the block who seemed of good standing in the community.
As the weeks went past, a pattern had emerged. There was a major shindig once a month, and individual visits during weekdays. Over seven weeks, he and his men had clocked over a hundred men and a regular selection of between three and ten high-class trollops coming and going.
They’d checked the rubbish over and found an awful lot of empty bottles. Malt whisky, champagne, fine wines, exquisite brandies, had all been consumed on the premises. Annie Bailey was running a well-stocked bar up there.
Selling liquor without a licence, thought Sergeant McKellan, shivering in the chilly downpour. Bloody good liquor too. These people were supposing to be setting a good example, not having a fucking good time at a high-class knocking shop.
Jesus, they’d even seen a Cabinet Minister going in there, but they’d have to keep quiet about that. The sergeant curled his lip in disgust. These people were supposed to be his betters. And they behaved like this.
Monitoring the rubbish had turned up a surprising quantity of used condoms and tissues, too. Sergeant McKellan thought that there was no limit to the depravity of the upper classes. He felt badly let down by them.
As the wet, dismal weeks went by, his grievance against the toffs became more intense. He already had a warrant to search the premises because of the illegal liquor sales, but he wanted more than that. He wanted to stop this operation in its tracks, and that meant waiting and watching out in the cold and the wet. They’d gone inside once or twice and