‘You guess correctly.’
‘Can’t you give Ellie a hand with the accounts?’
And do poor old dried-up Miss Pargeter out of a job she loves? ‘No, I can’t.’
The tetchiness of her tone was starting to penetrate. ‘Something wrong?’ he asked.
‘Nothing.’ Layla folded her arms, looked at the floor. Anything was better than looking at him, he was just too damned handsome.
‘I wanted to see you, to assure you that we’re going to sort this out.’
As if this could be ‘sorted out’. She’d killed someone. Layla shuddered again at the memory.
‘We’re tracking down the twin, Redmond Delaney,’ said Alberto. ‘The woman’s off the scene, but we want to be certain he is too. Until then…’
‘Until then, I’m stuck here,’ Layla finished for him. Off the scene. That was one way of putting it. Very decorous. So much better than dead as a doornail.
‘Yeah. You are. So try not to give your mom a hard time over it. She’s looking out for you, doing what she thinks is best.’
Yeah. By sending me away.
‘Well…’ Alberto paused. Sandor shifted subtly. Layla was still looking at the floor. ‘If you need me for anything, just pass the word along.’
‘OK.’
He was going. She wanted to fling herself at him, to feel his arms holding her. She remembered him lifting her up when she was little, twirling her around the room while she shrieked with laughter. She had never felt so safe, so loved, as she had in those moments with him.
But now she was grown up and her feelings were more complicated. And this was too damned awkward. Because she’d loved him all her life. But not the way he loved her.
‘Layla?’ he said.
Layla lifted her gaze. Alberto was staring at her. He had Constantine’s eyes, she remembered them even now – eyes of a bright, armour-piercing blue. Like his father, he was tanned, strong, authoritative, startlingly good-looking – and probably had about a million women queuing up to date him.
‘What?’ she asked, dry-mouthed.
‘What the fuck have you done to your hair?’
Layla raised a hand self-consciously to her head. ‘Um, nothing. Just primped it up a bit.’
‘Right.’ He was still staring. ‘Well… I’ll see you then. Layla?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It’s… nice,’ he said, staring at her quite oddly. Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.
Layla pulled back as if she’d been burned. ‘OK. Thanks,’ she said, and turned quickly away, went back into her room.
Precious was there, with China and Destiny. They were all grinning.
‘What?’ asked Layla sharply.
‘He noticed the hair!’ they chorused.
But Layla’s expression was gloomy.
‘So he noticed it. He’d be hard put not to, wouldn’t he. Suddenly I’ve got big hair, of course he notices it. So what?’
‘So what?’ Precious was looking at her like she’d gone mad. She pulled Layla into her arms and hugged her. ‘Layla. Honey. This is what is called making progress.’
62
‘It’s a shit-hole,’ said Max succinctly.
They were sitting around the table upstairs in his old mum’s place. For sentimental reasons, he’d never been able to get himself to sell Queenie’s gaff; so it had stood empty over the years, serving only as a quiet, private meeting-place for the boys.
The gang was all here – what was left of it. Max at the head of the table, and that ugly little cigar-smoking goblin Jackie Tulliver on his left, with whip-thin, blond and mean-eyed Gary Tooley on his right, along with bulky dark-haired Steve Taylor.
There were others here too tonight. Alberto Barolli sat at the other end of the table, a couple of his goons close by and Sandor at the door. Annie Carter sat beside Alberto.
‘It’s a crappy little club in Soho. And I do mean crappy. It’s run by one of the Delaney leftovers – a cousin called O’Connor. Pretty tough bastard, by all accounts.’
‘I thought the Delaney clubs were burned out years ago,’ said Alberto.
‘The good ones were,’ said Annie.
Feeling restless, she got up and moved to the window. It was getting dark outside and the rain was pouring down, the streets were slick with it, cars hissing past, headlights flicking on. People were hurrying along under umbrellas.
‘This is just a remnant,’ said Max.
‘The Delaneys were always aware that you did business with my family, covered the doors on our clubs in the West End,’ said Alberto. ‘They hated the Carters. And any of them that are left, I bet they still do.’
‘Yeah, they won’t be laying out the welcome mat,’ said Max.
‘With Dickon missing, this O’Connor could be expecting a visit,’ said Steve.
‘He’s right to expect a visit, because he’s fucking well going to get one,’ said Max. ‘They’ll probably turn the muscle away. Even Jackie.’ Max flashed Jackie Tulliver a conciliatory grin. Jackie might not be muscle, but he was brainy, and he was quick. Then Max’s eyes went to Alberto. ‘Might let you and me in, just us.’
‘And me,’ said Annie.
‘You what?’
‘I’m coming in too,’ said Annie.
‘The fuck you are.’
‘The fuck I am. They were coming after me, remember. Me. And Layla. No way are you shutting me out of this.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s… all right then. But you keep out of the way, let me do the talking. For a change.’
Annie gave him a smile of blinding sweetness. ‘Of course,’ she said.
‘Now I remember why I divorced you. You drive me bloody crazy.’
Annie said nothing.
Max fixed his attention on Alberto. ‘How does that grab you, Golden Boy?’
‘Max!’ Annie objected.
Alberto shrugged, turned his hands up. It was a very Italian – no, Sicilian – gesture. His eyes didn’t blink as they rested on Max. ‘You got a plan?’ he asked Max. His expression hadn’t changed. It was patient, faintly amused.
‘Maybe,’ said Max.
‘OK,’ said Alberto, and stood up. ‘Shall we…?’
The following night at the door to the strip club – neon-lit and boasting the name Debbie’s – a pot-bellied bouncer was trying to collar punters to go inside and drink the overpriced plonk the hostesses were passing off as vintage champagne. When he spotted them coming at him across the pavement, he disappeared inside the club.
The Carter and Barolli contingent moved inside. They handed their coats to the female cloakroom attendant. Two large men joined the pot-bellied bouncer and the three of them stood barring the way into the main body of the club. Music boomed out from within, Spandau Ballet were singing ‘Gold’. There weren’t many customers passing through. The place had a dead, seedy feel to it.
‘You got a problem?’ asked Max, all innocence. ‘We’re only here for a word with Benny O’Connor.’
One of the heavies sneered. ‘We heard about you having conversations with people.’
‘Yeah, and we’re not happy about it,’ added the bouncer.
‘We’re not looking for trouble,’ said Max. ‘We just want to talk. Me and my wife…’
‘Ex-wife,’ said Annie, her heart in her mouth. The atmosphere in the small, crowded lobby was thick with danger. She glanced at Alberto. He was dead calm. Then at Max. He seemed to be enjoying himself, the mad bastard.
‘… and Mr Barolli here, we’d like a word with Benny. Clear it all up.’
A tall man in his fifties with a shock of ginger-grey hair, bushy eyebrows and the brick-red face of the perpetual drinker had emerged from the main body of the club. He was flashily dressed in a double-breasted wide grey pinstripe and an expensive pair of light grey leather shoes that looked Italian. He stood and stared with arrogant assurance at the group.