The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

if they were so tight together.

      ‘Hello?’

      It was Annie. Sounded like she’d been dragged out of bed. Well, good. Fuck her.

      ‘Ruthie’s not answering her phone. Kath’s been trying to reach her, and she can’t. I haven’t the time. You can go down and see what she’s up to,’ he said.

      ‘Me?’ Annie sounded aghast. ‘It’s after bloody midnight.’

      ‘Yeah, you. Didn’t you say you were concerned for your sister? Prove it. Put your money where your fucking mouth is. I’ll send the car round and the key.’

      ‘Wait! Just a bloody minute.’ Annie clutched her head and tried to think. Ruthie would be passed out drunk again, that was all. Max was just playing silly buggers, winding her up deliberately. ‘Okay. I’ll go in the morning. Send the car at ten. All right?’

      ‘Deal.’ Max threw the phone back into the cradle. Women! They were a pain in the arse, a bloody torment. Jonjo was right. And why, when he had everything he wanted out of life – money, prestige, respect, all that shit, and he could have any woman in the world he wanted – why then did he only want that one, that fucking Annie Bailey?

      It was a mystery.

      It was beyond him.

       42

      At ten on the dot on Friday morning one of Max’s boys pulled up outside the house. Annie had been watching from the window, waiting. She hadn’t slept a wink all night. As she lay awake in bed she started to think, what if Ruthie wasn’t just arsing about drinking herself into a stupor? What if she was in trouble and needed help? Maybe she should have gone down there last night, or maybe she was just panicking over nothing.

      God, she wasn’t looking forward to this.

      Ruthie hated her, and it hurt like fuck.

      At lunchtime Dolly put one of her favourites on the radiogram in the front room. Brian the barman was lining up bottles and polishing glasses, setting out the food the girls had prepared this morning. Dolly hummed and twirled along to Andy Williams. Smiling, she looked around; the whole room gleamed, the food looked good. Brian poured her a voddy and black, she liked that. Everything was going well.

      She was happy. She was in control.

      ‘Hey, babe, got one of those for me?’ asked Aretha, coming in wearing black PVC thigh boots and a white plastic bikini.

      Brian poured her a shot.

      ‘Everything ready?’ Aretha asked Dolly.

      ‘Yep.’

      ‘What crap’s that you’ve got playing? Girl, ain’t you heard of the Stones? This stuff is just gone, Dolly.’

      ‘It’s a classic, Aretha.’

      And then the bell rang, and they were on.

      It was a good party. There were a few gentlemen from the Horse Guards, nice, fit, muscular men who had been recommended by friends and family. Dolly’s was the place to be for fun. Experienced men loved the diversity of the girls here. Young innocents were brought here by their fond papas to be properly introduced to the arts of love.

      Ellie set to work with two of the Guards upstairs. Darren had one of his regular politicians, and Aretha was doling out severe punishment to a High Court judge. Two of the new girls were going at it like good ’uns with a couple of the older clients in the front room – the stairs were difficult for them, poor old sods – while Dolly circulated and made sure everyone was happy. Chris was on duty at the door. Brian was mixing drinks and keeping a deadpan face on him, as ordered. Annie had cleared off somewhere, Dolly didn’t know where. Everything was fine – until Pat Delaney showed up.

      Dolly didn’t like Pat Delaney. She wondered if anyone did. He was a creep. Annie reckoned he’d been passing stuff around at a couple of the parties. She’d told Redmond about it, apparently, but Redmond hadn’t brought Pat into line. If Redmond couldn’t do it, they sure as fuck couldn’t. You didn’t cross a Delaney. It would be madness.

      So she greeted him politely while he sneered at her and glared at Chris.

      ‘It’s the new Queen of Tarts,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Where’s the old one then? Busy upstairs, is she?’

      ‘If you mean Annie, she’s out,’ said Dolly.

      ‘Shame,’ said Pat. He was swaying on his feet and sweating. His eyes looked odd. He was high as a kite, Dolly realized with a sinking feeling. ‘I like a high-class cunt like her.’

      Suppressing an expression of disgust, Dolly guided him into the front room, throwing a look back at Chris. Watch him, she mouthed. Chris nodded.

      ‘What can we get you to drink, Mr Delaney?’ asked Brian.

      ‘You a poof? You look like one,’ said Pat.

      Brian flushed brick red.

      ‘Mr Delaney likes whisky,’ said Dolly quickly, and Brian poured him a Bell’s.

      Pat reeled away with his drink and collapsed on to the sofa, nearly landing on one of the girls and a frail old gent.

      ‘Watch it!’ complained the girl.

      ‘Fuck off out of the way, you filthy whore,’ said Pat icily.

      The girl took one look in Pat’s eyes and scrabbled up, dragging her old gentleman with her, his trousers still at half-mast. They fell to his ankles and he clawed at them, embarrassed. Pat let out a shout of laughter.

      ‘Everything okay?’ asked Darren, coming down the stairs with his client and seeing Dolly’s face as she stood in the front-room doorway.

      ‘I don’t know,’ she said. And then she noticed that Chris wasn’t in his seat any more.

      Annie let herself into the Surrey place. There was no sign of Ruthie’s minder. She looked around at the great dark barn of a hallway and the big sweep of the staircase and heard only silence.

      Christ, the place was huge. She thought of Ruthie living here, all alone. She must be going out of her head.

      ‘Ruthie!’ Annie called.

      There was no answer.

      She went through to the drawing room; empty, the fire unlit. She wandered through the whole ground floor, checked the kitchens, calling Ruthie’s name with increasing exasperation. Then she traipsed up the stairs and repeated the exercise, feeling more anxious with every step she took.

      ‘Ruthie! Where the hell are you?’

      She pushed open three bedroom doors and found only emptiness beyond. She opened the fourth, and there was Ruthie, slumped fully dressed across the bed, boxes and clothes scattered around her. The nearly empty voddy bottle and the glass were there too.

      ‘Oh Jesus – Ruthie!’

      Annie hurried to her side, her innards twisting with guilt as she saw Ruthie lying there drunk – drunk because she was miserable, and why was she miserable? Because of what she had done to her.

      ‘Oh, Ruthie, no,’ she moaned, snatching up Ruthie’s cold hand. ‘No, don’t do this …’

      And then she saw the pill bottles. Lots of them.

      The clients were leaving like rats from a sinking ship. Not that Dolly blamed them. Pat Delaney was insulting everyone, laughing at their elderly gents, asking the Guards why they had to pay for it, couldn’t they get a woman to look at them, or did they just shag their precious horses?

      ‘You mouthy Irish bastard,’ snarled one, and Dolly had to step in quick.

      ‘Ah, you think you’d like a bit of me, do you,