‘Sort of,’ said Max.
‘Anything I should know about?’ she asked, looking around at the three of them and seeing that something had changed.
Now, Steve looked directly at her, not avoiding her eyes. And Chris, who hadn’t addressed a single civil word to her in a fortnight, was smiling ruefully.
‘Hunter’s just phoned,’ said Max.
‘Oh?’ Annie held her breath.
‘They’ve picked up Pete Jones. He was getting on a ferry in Portsmouth when they collared him.’
‘Shit,’ said Annie. Yes, she could almost feel some sympathy for the little bastard. His life had been so wrecked by the fallout from Sam Farrell’s sins and Dolly’s revenge that he had been driven to murder. But she hadn’t wanted the Bill to get him. His arse belonged to her. She didn’t want prison, rehabilitation and release for him. She wanted this closed up, done with.
Chris and Steve stood up and came to the door. Annie stepped aside.
‘Mrs Carter,’ said Steve, passing her with a polite nod.
‘Mrs Carter,’ said Chris, and winked at her.
Annie closed the door on them both, heard them go off across the hallway and out the front door.
‘Blimey, what did you say to them?’ she asked.
‘Not a lot,’ said Max, standing up and coming around the desk.
‘Bit different to the treatment I’ve been getting.’
‘They thought you’d screwed me over.’
‘I know.’ Annie stepped further into the room. ‘And now, knowing the full story, what do you think?’
Max stared at her.
‘God’s sake, say something,’ moaned Annie, wishing he’d come to her, hold her, take the fear away, the awful fear that she might be losing him.
‘I think that you kept an oath you swore to keep. You honoured that oath, even when it came back and bit you in the arse. Even then, you kept it. When a lot of others would have given it up.’
‘It sure didn’t do me any favours,’ said Annie.
‘Even so. You kept it.’
‘You say that as if it’s good.’
‘Loyalty’s a good thing.’
‘Max, I’m sorry,’ Annie burst out suddenly. ‘I wish I could have told you. I wanted to. I couldn’t do it. Not just because of the oath. I was too afraid of what your reaction would be.’
Max moved closer until he was within touching distance.
‘I was mad as hell at you,’ he said. ‘When I left Gina Barolli’s place, I wanted to wring your bloody neck.’ His eyes dropped to the bruises at her throat. ‘I nearly bloody did it too, didn’t I. Sorry.’
‘What changed your mind?’ She couldn’t believe it; he’d apologized.
‘You did. Being so tough, so bloody-minded, so certain you were in the right.’
‘I was in the right.’
Max stepped closer. He let out a breath and gripped her waist with both hands and pulled her in, very gently, so that their bodies touched.
‘One thing,’ he said.
‘Oh? What’s that?’ Annie linked her arms around his neck. She kissed his chin, then his cheek, then his mouth, nuzzling in against him, inhaling his scent.
Max eased her back a bit, grasped her chin, stared her straight in the eye. ‘No more fucking secrets. Not now, not ever. Are we agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ said Annie.
‘Swear?’
‘I swear. I really do.’
‘Good.’ He pulled her back in and kissed her, hard. ‘Time for bed, then,’ said Max.
‘It’s two in the afternoon,’ said Annie, starting to smile.
‘Shut up,’ said Max with a grin, and lifted her into his arms.
‘Ow! Watch the damned rib,’ she said.
‘I said, shut it.’
EPILOGUE
1995
Pete Jones was just going out into the prison exercise yard, lined up with a load of other cons, all jostling each other, talking, telling jokes, taking the piss, all of them waiting for the gates to be opened.
He’d been handed down a twelve-year stretch for doing Dolly Farrell, but he reckoned he’d be out in eight and it was worth it because he’d done it, he’d got even with that bitch for what she’d done to his family. He’d loved his mum, couldn’t ever get over losing her. And Grandpa, his death had been for what? Just so some vicious cow could get her revenge on someone. None of it should ever have touched his family, but it had, and he was glad he’d made her pay the price for that.
The sun was shining. He couldn’t wait to get out in the yard, kick a ball about, stretch his legs. Stir wasn’t so bad, once you got used to it. Bit rough, and you had to watch out for the queers after a slice of your arse in the showers, but not too bad. No cats, though. He missed Benj, but Benj was all right, Dad was looking after him. He was sorry about this prison business for Dad’s sake. But he’d get out, make it up to him. Put all this shit behind the both of them.
Then someone shoved him from behind. He turned.
‘Easy,’ he complained, seeing a hard, dark-eyed face close to his own.
‘This is for Dolly Farrell,’ said the man, and plunged a knife straight into Pete Jones’s heart.
He died instantly, collapsing to the ground, an image of Benj the last thing he thought of before he kissed goodbye to this world and headed for the next. His murderer moved on, and was quickly lost in the crowd of other cons.
Later that day, one of the cons made a call out to a mate.
‘It’s sorted,’ he said, and put the phone down.
The man he’d phoned went out, down the pub, saw another man. ‘It’s sorted,’ he said.
Next day, Steve Taylor made a call to Barbados. When Annie Carter came on the line, he said: ‘Hiya, Mrs C. Tell Max that business he wanted seeing to? It’s done.’
Annie was silent for a moment. Then she said: ‘I’ll tell him.’
She put the phone down, looked out of the big picture window of the villa at the crystal-blue Caribbean and the azure of the cloudless sky above it, and thought, There you go, Doll. Hope you’re safe in heaven now, babe, with the angels.
Then with a light step she walked out on to the sunlit terrace to join Max.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks go to Jane Gregory of Gregory & Co and to the Pan Macmillan team. A special mention here for my editor, Wayne Brookes, whose skill and patience has helped catapult my books into the Sunday Times Top 10 bestseller list.
Thanks to White & Co who helped me move vast piles of books and waterlogged belongings this year, and to James Colville who guided me through the whole process of (finally) moving home while writing this book at the same time.
Last but never least, thanks to all the supermarkets and stores and bookshops who stock and sell my books – and all my readers, bless you! Big thanks too to all my Facebook and Twitter friends, followers and fans. It really wouldn’t be the same without you.
Jessie Keane
Jessie Keane is a Sunday Times top ten bestselling author. She’s lived both ends of the social spectrum, and her fascination with London’s underworld led her to write Dirty Game, followed by bestsellers Black Widow, Scarlet Women, Jail Bird, The Make, Playing Dead, Nameless, Ruthless (the fifth book to feature Annie Carter), Lawless and Dangerous. Jessie’s books have sold more than 750,000 copies.
She now lives in Hampshire. You can reach Jessie on her website JESSIE-KEANE.COM.
Or find her on Facebook WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/JESSIEKEANE or Twitter @REALJESSIEKEANE