The Make. Jessie Keane
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– when there was a knock on the door and two cops, one male, one female, were shown in by Brynn, the manager.
Gracie’s feet slipped from the desk as she sat bolt upright in surprise.
Cops were rarely seen inside the casino, mostly because Gracie Doyle, thirty-year-old daughter of the late Paddy Doyle, ran a very tight ship here in the centre of Manchester. Since she’d been catapulted into the driving seat following her dad’s death, she’d put lots of new security in place, even an ultra-sophisticated ‘eye in the sky’ video surveillance system that recorded every movement, every word, every bet placed, every chip handled. There had been scammers, of course; there always were. But no one had yet beaten Gracie’s system.
So what were the cops doing here?
‘Miss Doyle?’ asked the male uniformed PC.
It was funny how, after all this time, she still half expected to hear her other name, but now she used just plain Gracie Doyle. Head of Doyles. She was proud of her achievements. She’d feared she would sink without her dad at the helm, but she’d swum. Hell, she’d powered through the waters of the casino world, glad now that Dad had insisted she work her way up the ranks; she’d kicked against it sometimes, but he’d been right.
She knew the business inside out. She’d started as a slots trainee, then a dealer; then she’d graduated to box man – or box person, to use the politically correct term. Then she was a floor person, then a pit boss, a shift boss, and finally she was shadowing the casino manager – Brynn. Today she was proprietor, sole owner. The buck stopped, very firmly, with her.
Now, when she walked through the vast sliding double-doors and into reception, moved with her easy, long-legged stride down the sumptuously thick gold carpet of the boulevard of slot machines and into the casino proper, she felt like a queen – and everyone treated her as such.
Gracie loved the late-night casino world; the ping and tinkle of the slots as players, ‘comped’ with free booze and soft drinks, chanced their luck; the intense concentration of the high-stakes punters as the gold-liveried croupiers scooped up their brightly coloured plastic chips and positioned them on this number or that, then spun the roulette wheel. Their howling yells of triumph when they won; their disappointment when they lost – and usually they did lose – but always, always, they came back and tried to beat the house again.
Someone really ought to tell them it was impossible.
This place was Gracie’s life. She loved it all. Let the punters gamble, that was fine; but she played things straight down the line, paid her taxes, ran a good business.
So why the cops?
She quickly slid her feet back into her black high-heeled patent-leather shoes and stood up, rising to her full six feet. She smoothed down her navy narrow pinstriped skirt suit, straightened her open-necked cream shirt, ran a hand briefly over the long dark red plait of hair that hung, thick as knotted rope, down over her shoulder. Assembled herself. Took a breath.
‘I’m Gracie Doyle,’ she said, planting her hands on the desk. ‘How can I help?’
‘I’m afraid there’s bad news, Miss Doyle.’
‘Oh?’ Gracie tensed, thinking. Here we go. The Christmas curse of the Doyles strikes again. ‘This is a legitimate business, officers. Run strictly within legal boundaries.’
It was the truth. Her dad might have bent the rules a time or two – she particularly remembered his habit of only ever paying red bills – but Gracie liked sleeping nights, and if that meant being legit and paying her taxes, so be it.
‘News of a personal nature,’ added the female PC, glancing at her colleague.
Personal?
How could it be personal? All she’d had in the world was her dad, and he was gone.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
The male PC swallowed delicately. ‘It’s your brother, Miss Doyle.’
Brother?
She had to think about that. Her brother? Both her brothers were in London and she hadn’t seen or communicated with them since they were teenagers – nearly fifteen years ago. ‘Which one?’ she asked.
The male PC consulted his notebook. ‘Mr George Doyle. He’s very ill in hospital, Miss.’
Gracie looked at Brynn. Fiftyish, skinny, with the leather skin and wrinkles of the dedicated chain-smoker, Brynn had been a close friend to her father and a great help to her when she’d still been a wet-behind-the-ears beginner in the casino game.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Brynn asked, seeing that Gracie was flummoxed by the news.
‘He’s been assaulted,’ said the female PC, watching Gracie like she feared she was about to faint away or something. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Doyle, it looks very serious. His mother – your mother – thought you should be contacted.’
What the fuck for? wondered Gracie. Her mother hadn’t thought to get in touch for years. And when Gracie had dutifully notified her mother of her father’s sudden death, she hadn’t even received a reply. Neither her mother nor her brothers had come to the funeral, and they hadn’t even sent a wreath. She would never forget that. Standing there alone, unsupported by her family, in the cold January graveyard.
George was in hospital.
She tried to take it in, but she couldn’t get a handle on her own feelings about it. Was she sorry? Was she concerned? Did she – after all this time – really give a shit? She didn’t know. The last time she’d seen George, she’d been sixteen and he was twelve; still a child. He was a stranger to her now, and really, after all this time, did she want it any other way? She had her life, George had his.
‘Have they got who did it?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said the policeman.
‘And it’s bad? Really bad?’
‘I’m afraid so, Miss.’
Shit, thought Gracie. And it was at that precise moment when she felt, quite distinctly, her cosy, orderly, trouble-free world tilt on its axis. It felt to her like something had ended. Or maybe . . . maybe it had just begun.
19 December
When Gracie got home to her flat, it was just after midnight. The casino didn’t close until six a.m., but Brynn was covering the graveyard shift this week. Pre-Christmas, the place was full of Eastern bloc playboys, footballers and high rollers, so, even in these recessionary times, they had to work late and hard, pampering their clients exhaustively with lim ousines from their luxury hotels to the door of the casino, complimentary gourmet food, Cristal champagne and Cohiba cigars – anything to keep them at the tables and happy while they handed over their cash.
And it didn’t end there.
The day after play, you had to comp the punters even more, to show your appreciation by sending out the finest cognacs, big tins of caviar and bouquets of flowers – and while she had a team of people making sure that all this happened, still she had to oversee it all, she had to know that it was all done.
And now it was.
And now she was, too.
She kicked off her heels, locked the door behind her, and breathed out a deep sigh of relief. She loved being here at home in her duplex penthouse, with its private terrace and canal views. She’d earned it, and she relished it. She had it all now. The twenty-four-hour concierge, the twenty-metre rooftop pool, the huge open-plan living area, the cutting-edge kitchen, the palatial en suites to the two luxurious bedrooms, the on-site gymnasium, whirlpool bath and spa room.
Ignoring the post on the mat, she was padding barefoot into the bedroom when the phone started ringing.
‘Shit,’