Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘So our next move is…?’ asked Alberto.

‘You’re the fucking Golden Boy. No ideas?’ sneered Max.

Alberto stared at Max. Then he smiled, very slightly. ‘Not one,’ he said. ‘I’ll put the word out, see what I can rustle up.’

Annie felt comforted by that. She knew what a word from Alberto involved. The request for information would be passed from mouth to mouth in bars, restaurants, discos, working men’s clubs, at Salvation Army hostels, on taxi ranks in high streets and outside airports; working girls shivering on the streets would pass it on to doormen; truckers in greasy spoon cafés would be notified. Everyone would be keeping an eye out, searching for the information, anticipating a rich pay-off if they passed on anything valuable.

‘Did Layla get a good look at the man who tried to attack her? That could be a help,’ said Alberto.

‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Max.

The phone rang on the side table. Annie snatched it up. Listened. Then put it back down on the cradle. She swore once, loudly.

‘What?’ Max demanded.

‘That was Ellie. About Layla.’

‘What about her? She OK?’

‘She’s gone back to work.’

Rufus was going crazy with worry. Three days had gone by and still there’d been no word from Orla.

He’d called the farm in Limerick. She should have been there by now. She’d told him that if anything went wrong, that was where she’d go. But there was no answer. Even though he’d let the phone ring and ring, no one picked up.

Knowing Orla, she was probably out in the barn, music blasting out of the speakers while she worked on those mad paintings of hers. She’d be livid, knowing that Annie Carter was alive, that her plan had failed. Maybe she was still angry with him, for letting the daughter slip through his hands. Maybe that was it: she was ignoring the phone deliberately, to punish him. Her mother was a bit deaf, so she wouldn’t hear it ringing, and old Davey’s mind was too far gone for him to notice.

Despite the sick dread in the pit of his stomach, he would not let himself consider the possibility that she was dead, that the Carter woman had somehow turned the tables and emerged triumphant.

After the car bomb screw-up, he had driven to the house in Holland Park. There was a burly guy guarding the front door, so he kept to the far side of the square, careful not to attract attention. It was as well he was cautious, because it was soon apparent that he wasn’t the only one keeping an eye on the place. He spotted a couple of men in cars, and there were other men repairing the burglar alarm and replacing the basement window.

I’ll be back by six. If I’m not, stick to the plan… we meet back at the farm.

He remembered how insistent she had been that there must be no deviation from the plan. So that was where she would be: at the farm, waiting for him. And he would join her there.

‘I will. I swear it,’ he muttered under his breath.

It was a promise he intended to keep. But he wasn’t going to show up empty-handed.

First he would kill Annie Carter. Then he would take a little gift for his beloved, something to prove that he had succeeded in his mission – a hand or a foot would do, or perhaps the scalp. Yes, that beautiful long dark hair would make the perfect trophy.

The Holland Park address remained heavily guarded, but Rufus had seen the daughter leave the house on the day of the bomb, he’d followed the car that took her to the Shalimar. He’d been keeping an eye on the place ever since, waiting for an opportunity. And finally he was rewarded for his patience. The girl emerged, minders all around her. And she travelled into the City. An accountancy firm, Bowdler and Etchingham. He went in, timing his entry so that he walked in with another man while the girl on the reception desk was on the phone, busy. Once inside, he took the lift to the second floor.

‘Where’s Layla’s office?’ he asked the first secretary he saw.

She didn’t know. ‘Try the next floor up,’ she told him.

He did. Picked up a few leaflets from a desk and sauntered through with them in his hands. No one stopped him. He asked another girl the same question.

‘Over there,’ she said.

At lunchtime, when Layla Carter went out with her minders, he got one of his little helpers to leave a gift, and a little something extra in her Filofax.

There was an atmosphere so thick in the office that you could cut it with a knife. Resentment festered beneath the surface of every water-cooler conversation. Nobody spoke to Layla. But she was determined to tough it out. They’d mellow. She wasn’t sure Ellie would, though. They’d got into a screaming match as Layla was going out the door.

‘What harm can I come to?’ Layla had demanded. ‘The minute I move, an army of heavies trails behind me. Dad’s boys and the Barolli boys too. They’re watching me like bloody hawks. I’m safe as houses.’

But despite her bold words, she didn’t feel safe. The journey to work was taken in a limo with one of Alberto’s heavies at the wheel. Another one followed her to the door. She saw a muscle-bound suit watching her from across the street as she entered the office building. Everything about the men crowding around her reminded her that she’d stepped sideways into a dark and dangerous world.

However, the minute she got to her desk – the atmosphere notwithstanding – she settled down to work, and was soon absorbed, soon calmer.

So what if all the office banter seemed to be directed towards anyone but her? She was happy enough, making neat columns of figures into perfect sense.

Then Graham Etchingham, her head of department, walked by her desk, and paused.

‘Have you brought in the doctor’s certificate?’ he asked.

Layla shook her head. ‘Couldn’t get an appointment. Sorry.’

‘Make sure you bring it tomorrow.’

‘I will,’ she said, and he moved on.

He didn’t ask if she was better now. Didn’t give a shit, she knew. She was just a number cruncher. Who could be replaced, in an instant, by some other hopeful, job-hungry number cruncher.

Layla knew that Ellie would tell Mum. And Mum would tell Dad, and Alberto, and they would all kick off like crazy. For now, though, she was happy. She could almost – but never quite – forget what had happened, what she had done, how awful it was.

Lunchtime, she had arranged to meet up with Precious in the park. She nipped to the shops for a sandwich and a drink, aware of the minders dogging her footsteps.

‘Hey! Layla! Layla Carter!’

She stopped dead on the pavement. She wasn’t ten paces from her office building. Junior was rushing towards her. Two men immediately moved in and jostled her backward; two more grabbed Junior.

‘Shit!’ complained Layla, dropping her pack of sandwiches.

‘What the fuck?’ bellowed Junior.

People were turning, staring.

‘It’s OK, it’s only Junior,’ she said quickly. ‘My cousin.’

The heavies drew back. The two holding Junior dropped him. He straightened his jacket, glaring at them. ‘Thank you ,’ he said, stalking towards Layla. ‘Jesus, is this all to do with what your mum told us about? What’s going on?’

He really was very good looking, thought Layla. And very aggressive. Very in-your-face. Which was quite attractive, in a man. Layla thought of the contrast between loud, bouncy, bolshy Junior, who always seemed such a child, and Alberto, who was so adult, so smooth, so polished – and yet so deadly. Just thinking of him, she felt her stomach contract with longing.

‘What has Mum told you?’ she asked him cautiously.