The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

police seemed clueless about the shooting, or at least took pains to appear so. It was how the Bill always reacted to gang business. All the boys knew that the police’s attitude to a feud in the East End was, fair enough, so one of them’s dead, so what? Cut down the numbers a bit, that’s a good thing.

      And there were plenty of coppers in the pay of the other major gangs, everyone knew that. Sometimes a blind eye was turned because the payment had been right. A fortnight on the Costas, a cash sum, all helped to obscure the vision of the boys in blue. That was just the way it was. You couldn’t rely on the police to do your work for you.

      All this week the papers had been full of the news of this alleged ‘gangland killing’.

      The public were enthralled.

      The police didn’t give a fuck.

      ‘Let’s get home,’ said Molly from behind her veil. ‘I’m sick of this day. Kieron, you can show me all these paintings you’ve been doing and tell me all about your travels. Cheer me up a bit.’

      Kieron nodded. Padraig looked at him daggers, but Orla was smiling at him. His big sis had often saved him from a beating from the pugnacious Pat. Kieron looked at Redmond, but those strange green eyes gave nothing away at all. Not grief. Not elation. If Tory had been hot-headed, Redmond was unfailingly controlled.

      No, cold was more the word, thought Kieron, suppressing a shudder. Cold as fucking ice. That was Redmond.

       8

      The minute Annie got home from work, she knew something was wrong. Connie was sitting at the kitchen table alone, chain-smoking, an ashtray brimming with stubs in front of her. When Annie came into the kitchen Connie jumped to her feet and gave her youngest daughter a heavy slap around the face.

      ‘What the hell was that for?’ asked Annie, holding a hand to her stinging cheek and watching her mother as if she might go for the carving knife next. Annie’s eyes were watering with pain.

      Connie waved her fag in Annie’s face, ash spilling down her tightly belted trench coat. Fucking English weather, she was tired and drenched through and now this.

      ‘You know what it’s for, you little slag,’ she yelled.

      Annie was about to open her mouth to speak when she saw a suitcase at the foot of the stairs through the open hall door.

      ‘What’s going on?’ she asked, her heart racing.

      ‘What’s going on?’ sneered Connie. ‘What’s going on? Christ, you’ve got some front, I’ll say that for you.’

      ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Annie, beginning to shake with the shock of her mother’s attack.

      ‘Oh you don’t?’ Connie took a deep drag, sucked the nicotine right back into her lungs. Christ, if Connie Bailey lasted until fifty Annie would be amazed. She was used to her mother’s bad temper, and it was even worse since golden-girl Ruthie had got married and flown the nest. It wouldn’t be too long before Connie got herself invited to stay at Max’s posh place in Surrey. Annie knew her mother, she knew that this would be Connie’s master plan. She’d take Queenie’s place at Max’s table, and lord it over all she surveyed. As for Annie, she would have to piss off and fend for herself. If she had Ruthie near at hand, Connie would certainly not want Annie.

      ‘Then why is it I’ve had poor Ruthie in tears to me on the telephone, telling me all about you, you dirty little whore, and her new husband?’

      Annie recoiled as if Connie had struck her again. Her words were a total shock. Annie had never imagined that Ruthie would be so stupid as to tell anyone that she knew Max and Annie had been together. She felt her belly start to crawl with dread.

      ‘Oh that,’ she said, deliberately casual. ‘We had a little fling, that was all. And Ruthie found out. But it was nothing. Just a fling.’

      ‘A fling? Ruthie’s in tatters down there, you selfish little tart,’ roared Connie, her face inches from Annie’s. Annie shut her eyes. Connie’s breath was foul from all the fags, and flecks of saliva spattered Annie’s face with the force of her mother’s shrieking.

      ‘What the hell were you thinking of?’ demanded Connie. ‘We’re talking about your sister’s intended. You should have had the decency to leave him alone, not go spreading your legs for him at the first opportunity.’

      Annie opened her eyes. Something snapped inside her head. ‘I saw him first,’ she said flatly. ‘He should have married me, not her.’

      Connie threw back her raddled head and howled with croaky smokers’ laughter. ‘You?’ she mocked. ‘He didn’t have to marry you to get what he wanted, did he, you bloody little fool. Trust me, no bloke would want to put a wedding band on your finger. You’ve got whore written all over you. Not like Ruthie. Ruthie’s a good girl.’

      ‘Yeah,’ flung back Annie, stung. ‘I bet the wedding night was a barrel of laughs. She’s as frigid as a fucking nun and we both know it. That won’t keep a man like Max happy for long, trust me.’

      Connie flung her fag down on to the scratched lino and stamped it out with a gesture of finality.

      ‘I want you out of here right now,’ she said.

      ‘What?’

      ‘OUT!’ yelled Connie. ‘O. U. T. Out. Out that bloody door. Your stuff’s all packed, pick up your bag and clear off. I’ve had enough of your tarting about. And doing this to your own sister? It’s the final fucking straw, and I’ve had enough.’

      Annie started to speak, but Connie grabbed her with surprising force and pushed her out into the hall. Connie flung open the front door while Annie stood there in a state of shock. Connie snatched up the suitcase and flung it out on to the pavement. She grabbed Annie’s arm and hustled her out after it. Annie found herself out on the pavement in the drizzling rain. People were passing, and they looked curious but carried on by.

      ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she yelled.

      Net curtains were starting to twitch. A couple of doors opened and female heads peered avidly around doorframes.

      ‘Chucking you out, you worthless tart,’ said Connie. ‘And good riddance.’

      The door slammed shut.

      Annie stood there, wondering what had hit her.

      ‘Annie?’ The low male voice broke into her tumbling thoughts. Where would she go? What would she do? She looked around to find a hunched man in a deerstalker hat standing there staring at her with limpid brown eyes. He wore a mac and held a large, brown leather briefcase. It was Billy. He was a bit slow in the head, but he was one of Max’s boys. She knew him of old. He was always wandering around the manor with that vacant look on his face, poor bastard.

      ‘Hello Billy,’ she said absently.

      A car went by, nearly hitting the suitcase which was lying in the road. The horn blared. She went and retrieved it and put it on the pavement. She glared at their next-door neighbour, who was still peering out nervously. ‘Seen enough?’ she demanded loudly, and the door closed. A curtain twitched again across the street. ‘Nosy old bitches,’ shouted Annie, and the curtain fell.

      She snatched up the case and started walking. She didn’t know where she was going or what she was going to do about a roof over her head. She’d think of something – she’d have to. She was deeply irritated to see that Billy had fallen into step beside her. Why didn’t he just bugger off? This was just what she needed, an idiot for company when she was on her uppers.

      ‘Has she chucked you out?’ asked Billy.

      ‘No, I’m off on my holidays. Of course she’s chucked me out. What else did you think when you saw this suitcase flying past your ear?’