The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

help me out with that,’ she said smoothly. ‘There was a very unpleasant incident here not long ago. We pay already to make sure things like that don’t happen.’

      There was a silence. Perhaps she’d overstepped the mark, thought Annie. But what the hell, it was bloody true.

      ‘Sometimes,’ said Redmond, ‘unpleasant incidents are difficult to prevent.’

      Annie swallowed. Talking to Redmond, even at a distance, was like staring into the eyes of a cobra. You felt hypnotized.

      ‘I need your help here,’ said Annie. If he had a better nature, then she was going to try to appeal to it. ‘My Aunt Celia was always straight with you, wasn’t she? Paid up fair and square? Never gave you any trouble?’

      ‘That’s true,’ allowed Redmond.

      ‘I can’t afford to pay for a man on the door. You can. The takings will be well up from the monthly parties.’

      ‘You hope.’

      ‘They will.’

      ‘So you want us to stand the expense of the extra man.’

      ‘Yes, I do.’

      Silence again. ‘No, take his wages out of the party profits. This isn’t a charitable institution.’

      ‘Mr Delaney.’

      ‘Yes, Miss Bailey?’

      ‘Seriously, I don’t want any more trouble here. You let us down before. Badly.’

      This time the silence was deafening. Oh fuck, thought Annie.

      ‘I’ve got a man who’ll be good for the door,’ said Redmond at last. ‘I’ll send him over. But you pay his wages, Miss Bailey, not me.’

      Well, thought Annie, you couldn’t win them all. She quickly dialled Kieron’s number.

      ‘Yep?’

      ‘Can I cry off Monday?’ asked Annie.

      ‘No, you fucking well cannot. Why?’

      ‘They’re burying Eddie Carter on Friday.’

      ‘I thought you’d fallen out with your family? Didn’t get in touch any more?’

      ‘I just don’t think I’ll be in the mood on Monday, that’s all.’

      ‘Ah, come on. I’ll cheer you up.’

      I doubt it, thought Annie. ‘Kieron, I’ll ring you next week. Let you know.’

      Annie put the phone down while he was still protesting. A chill had settled over her with the news of Eddie’s death. She was Celia’s representative, standing in Celia’s shoes, and it had happened here in their normally peaceful little parlour. If Celia was here she would have sent a wreath at the very least, and she would have put in an appearance at the funeral to pay her respects. Annie knew she had to do exactly the same, although she dreaded it.

      She wandered through to the front room and looked at the newly stocked drinks cabinet. She wished she could throw back a stiffener, but drink disgusted her and she hardly ever touched it. It reminded her of her mother. Fuck, she didn’t even smoke.

      Dig deep, she thought. She’d told herself that all her life. When her Dad had left, when her mother was out of it and choking on vomit and she’d had to clear her throat out and turn her on her side after a bad drunken binge. Dig deep. When she’d had to face Max in a rage over what she’d done to Ruthie. Dig deep and stand alone. She’d lived by that rule all her life, and it gave her strength now. She fetched Brasso and rags from the kitchen and gave the ornaments on the front-room fireplace a polish. The first party was to be in two weeks. No time for slacking.

       19

      Jonjo was worried about Max. They were having a meet with all the boys at Queenie’s old place, as usual. They were upstairs in the unused back bedroom, all of them crammed in around the big table. As usual. But there was a difference these days. There was no Queenie coming up the stairs with trays of tea and cakes, laughing with the boys and sending her regards to their mothers. The place was stone-cold and their voices echoed through its empty rooms.

      No wonder Max had pissed off to the stockbroker belt to live, thought Jonjo. Jonjo knew that Max slept here sometimes when he’d had a heavy day, but Jonjo wouldn’t stay a night here if you paid him in gold bits. He had a flat across town where he took all his birds. Fuck this place. They had been in the process of selling it when Queenie died. At that point Max had taken it off the market. He refused to discuss getting rid of the old mausoleum now. It gave Jonjo the creeps to come here. He kept expecting his mum to appear at the door.

      They were all here. Him and Max. Jimmy Bond and Gary Tooley and Steven Taylor. Several other staunch men, all trusted lieutenants. Deaf Derek was down the bottom there, looking sullen since Jonjo had to give him a slapping over the Eddie business. Derek should have looked after Eddie better, thought Jonjo, watching the little bastard with distaste. If it hadn’t been for Max’s intervention, the little fucker would have had a lot more than a slap. Jackie Tulliver was there too, smoking his bloody horrible cigars. All the boys were neatly dressed and wearing black armbands. It was nice that they were showing respect, but Jonjo would have expected no less of them at a time like this.

      But Max. Max was as always immaculately turned out, in a black Savile Row suit, white shirt and black tie. His black vicuna coat, lined with purple silk, was laid over the back of his chair. Max’s eyes looked blank. Granted, Max had taken the brunt of Eddie’s death, he’d been on the spot when it happened. Jonjo felt bad about that, but he’d been carrying on with business while Max stayed down there in Surrey. Someone had to mind the fucking shop, didn’t they?

      And Jonjo knew he’d been doing good. The parlours were all running smoothly, the clubs were fine, all the halls and shops and arcades who paid protection to the Carters were behaving themselves and paying up promptly. There had been no insurrections, no lack of respect that would have had to be instantly cracked down on; no trouble at all. Well, some. The Maltese were always acting heavy and needing a sharp slap, but so what? Same old shit, easily dealt with.

      The dummy fiver and tenner plates he’d bought off Kyle Fox in The Grapes had been sold on to one of the Manchester mobs at a good profit. There were lots of new opportunities opening up in the West End and all the gangs were eager to get their slice of the action. The Barolli family from America had come over recently and there’d been a satisfactory meet. Constantine Barolli’s mob now paid the Carter firm three thousand sovs a quarter to keep any rough elements out of their Knightsbridge businesses.

      Rough elements like the Delaneys, for instance.

      The American mob had been very courteous to Max and Jonjo. The brothers had wined and dined Constantine Barolli and his family, and the Barollis had in turn introduced Max and Jonjo to George Raft and Judy Garland. Big stars. They were mixing with the best these days. Eddie had loved meeting all the stars, he’d been in his element. It pained Jonjo badly to know that Eddie wouldn’t get to do any of that any more.

      Jonjo watched his older brother sitting there, blank-faced. Eddie’s death had hit Max like a fucking pick handle. Max seemed to have lost his hunger for the business, maybe even for life itself. Jonjo hated to see him this way. He’d tried to brace the poor sod up, but no go.

      Now Jonjo knew he had to say something. He wasn’t the type to mess-ass about. Better to spit it out, say what he felt.

      ‘We should do something about what happened to Eddie,’ he said, broaching the subject that everyone else in the room was afraid to bring up. There was a murmur of assent from most of the other boys. Silence, of course, from Deaf Derek. Jonjo shook out one of his Player’s, lit up and kicked back in his chair to look at Max.

      ‘If we don’t, it’ll be seen as weakness,’ he said.

      Max