Black Widow (24 page)

Constantine Barolli was at his desk when the call came in.

‘We’ve got a line on something,’ said a male voice.

‘Go on.’

‘The other woman who was there when the kid was snatched. Nasty background she’s got.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Oh yeah. A brother and two sisters, records for GBH, smash and grab, demanding money with menaces. One of them’s called Vita; she was in Palma the day before the hit at the villa with another blonde woman, she bounced a cheque on a pair of shoes, the shop owner was
very
annoyed.’

‘Okay, I want to know all about this family, where they are, what they’re doing,
capisce?
’

‘You got it.’

The line went dead.

Max was knocking on the door. A soft, insistent knocking, wanting to come in, to know what the fuck she was playing at, considering sleeping with another man when she was his, absolutely and completely his. Hadn’t he always told her so? Hadn’t she said she’d loved him forever?

Knock, knock, knock.

But the thing was this. If Max was her husband, her
one true love
, then how could she be lying here now thinking about Constantine Barolli? Thinking about how it had felt to be held by him, how it was to be kissed by him. Thinking that if that little rat Lucco hadn’t interrupted them, then she could have betrayed Max, trashed her wedding vows, right then and there.

Knock, knock, knock.

It was Max at the door. Furious with her, of
course, because he would know, Max always knew everything…but wasn’t Max dead?

A shiver coursed through her body and the erotic images faded. Her and Constantine, twined together like snakes in a broad, warm bed. Suddenly all that was gone, and instead there was a nightmare image in her brain.
The Monkey’s Paw.
One bleak Christmas—all her childhood Christmases had been bleak—her drunken mother Connie had sat Annie and her sister Ruthie down and said she was going to tell them a ghost story.

It was Christmas Eve, it was traditional, she told them. She was a little drunker than usual. It was Christmas, she was alone bringing up two kids, their father had fucked off long since. Times were hard. So she drank a little more, keep the cold out. Medicinal purposes only, ha ha. She sat them down and read them the story.

It was a chilling tale, about a son horribly injured and killed in an accident, and a grieving mother who had a magical monkey’s paw which would grant her three wishes—and she wished to have her son back. Of course she did. In the middle of the night, there came the knocking. Her son was there. He had come back to her, fresh from the grave, mangled, inhuman, rotting…as Max was coming back to Annie now.

Knock, knock, knock.

With a sense of impending doom, she was leaving the bed. She reached for the door, and it swung wide…

Suddenly she was wide awake. Bolt upright in the bed, her hand clamped to her mouth to stifle a scream of horror. She was sweating with terror.
Oh Jesus no
, she thought helplessly, screwing her eyes tight shut and then opening them wide. It was dark. It was…night. She’d fallen asleep at last, and…oh shit…it had only been a dream. A horrible fucking dream.

Knock, knock, knock.

This time she did cry out.

Someone really
was
knocking.

She’d heard it, there, for real—not dreamed, not imagined.

She saw a slit of light appear under the bedroom door. Outside, a car door slammed, and an engine roared away into the night. The landing light went on. Someone else had heard it too. Shaking, Annie threw back the covers and swung her legs to the floor. The cold night air hit her overheated skin, making her shiver. Voices out there now, nervous voices, worried voices. Someone was going downstairs.

Don’t answer it
, thought Annie, the dream still winding its foul tendrils around her brain.

She snatched up Dolly’s robe from the floor, scrabbled around, found the light switch, blinked
against the sudden glare. Looked at the little clock on the dresser. It was two thirty in the morning. Dolly had let her sleep right through. She stood up, slipped the robe on, belted it. Went over to the door and flung it wide.

Dolly was going down the stairs. Darren was watching her from the landing in his pyjama bottoms, no top.

Christ, he’s skinny
, thought Annie.
You could play a sodding tune on those ribs.

Ellie was just coming out of her room, belting her robe around her bulky middle, yawning. She looked at Annie, at Darren, at Dolly descending the stairs.

No Una. The place could be firebombed and Una wouldn’t wake. Too stoned, probably.

‘Dolly!’ Annie hissed it. Dolly froze on the bottom stair and glanced back up at her. Dolly looked pale, worried.

‘Wait,’ said Annie, and went back into Dolly’s room.

She got the gun out of the knicker drawer and went out on to the landing and down the stairs to where Dolly stood.

Dolly looked at the gun, wide-eyed, then at Annie’s face.

‘Who the hell can it be?’ Dolly whispered.

Knock, knock, knock.

They both flinched back, staring at the door.

‘I don’t know,’ whispered Annie. ‘But we’ve got to be careful.’

Ross had left at one o’clock, after close of business. No help there. The front door was securely locked, chained; it was solid. But there was a letter box, through which people could put post—or burning rags. She thought of Tony’s words at Jeanette’s equally solid-looking door: ‘I could get that door open with the cheeks of my arse.’ She thought too of Redmond Delaney’s visit, his almost sorrowful face as he told her that something would have to be done about her actions. Something bad.

Knock, knock, knock.

And then they heard a long, spine-chilling, agonized moan.

They froze.

Annie looked at Dolly and Dolly looked at her. Dolly swallowed hard. There was someone out there, someone
hurt.

Or was there?

Was it just a blind, to entice them to throw the door open, to admit whatever trouble was lurking out there in the shadows of the night?

‘Who the hell is it?’ bleated Ellie from the top of the stairs, hugging Darren.

Annie shushed her.

She moved to one side of the door, and hauled Dolly after her. If someone was going to blast the
door with a shotgun, they would have been standing right in line. Not clever.

Knock, knock, knock.

Annie licked her dry lips. Her heart felt as if it was going to burst right out of her chest, it was beating so hard. She flicked off the safety catch and held the gun at the ready.

‘Who is it?’ she shouted at the door.

The moan again. Just that. No answer.

Annie yanked back the bolts, undid the chain, braced herself, held the gun at the ready. She threw the door wide open—and Billy Black fell at her feet.

It was what was left of Billy, anyway. What tumbled into the hall was no longer a human being. It was a tangle of arms and legs and clothes, all bathed in blood. But the face was Billy’s.

‘Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, oh Jesus,’ Dolly was saying over and over again, one hand clutching her midriff, the other half over her mouth. She looked as if she was going to be sick.

Ellie was screaming.

Annie stood, dumbstruck, horrified, at what lay at her feet. She could not believe what had been done to him. Could not take it in.

Because of me.
Her mind seemed to flinch at the thought.

Redmond Delaney, standing in the front room talking to her, full of regret but saying he had to
act, had to be
seen
to act, or there would be trouble and he wouldn’t have that. Cold, efficient Redmond Delaney. Needing to strike at Annie in a decisive way. Needing to hit hardest where it would hurt her the most. Regretting it, naturally. But doing it anyway.

And who was her staunchest ally, the one Carter boy who would walk the streets for her tirelessly, doing her business, fetching and carrying for her? Why, Billy of course. Billy who had for years been allowed safe passage around the Delaney manor because Redmond Delaney had decreed it. Now that decree had been violently revoked.

Billy moaned and rolled over, lying there like a parcel that had come unwrapped. There was a frayed bit of rope still tied around his waist and she thought she knew what they’d done to him. He’d been dragged through the streets behind a car, his clothes dissolving into tatters, his skin flaying from his poor broken body. Annie felt herself starting to gag, but she forced it back when she saw that his eyes were open. They were open and they were looking at her.

She put the gun down and knelt beside Billy. The blood was still seeping from him, very slowly, where once it must have gushed. Blood soaked the hem of Dolly’s robe. His eyes were still open, looking at her but already taking on a milky glaze.

I did this
, she thought, and somewhere inside
her she howled with grief and rage at what had happened to this poor soul who worshipped her. But she smiled down at him, trying desperately to hide the shock.

‘Hello Billy,’ she said, and stroked his bloody cheek. The flesh was cold. Already, it was cold. She felt her smile falter, but pasted it back on.

His lips moved. He was trying to say something. Annie put her head down closer to Billy’s, looked in sorrow at the long, thin, vacant face, the soft brown eyes that only ever wanted to please her.

‘You’re going to be all right, Billy,’ she said. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

Which was a useless lie, but if it gave him some comfort, why not?

His mouth was moving again. The pool of blood was spreading, enveloping Annie’s knees, the robe soaking it up like a sponge, seeping into the long thin rug that ran the length of the hall.

Annie was aware of Dolly moving, stepping towards the phone to get an ambulance, but she looked up and shook her head firmly. Dolly stopped moving. Ellie stopped screaming. They were silent now, watching Billy.

His mouth moved. His eyes never left Annie’s face. He tried again.

‘My…beautiful…Annie,’ he managed to mumble at last.

And then Billy Black quietly died.

Annie called Tony, who picked up the phone, barely able to speak through his tiredness.

‘H’lo?’ he grunted.

‘It’s me. Can you come over? One of the customers is playing up and we need a hand, he’s made a bit of a mess of the place. You might need a van instead of the car, take the rubbish away.’ Her voice broke then and she swallowed hard.
Sorry Billy
, she thought. ‘Um…bring one of the boys with you.’

She didn’t wait for a reply. Tony would come. And if the phone was tapped—as she now firmly believed it was—then nothing out of the ordinary would be recorded. Just an unruly customer. Not a dead body, a body that had been dragged through the London streets behind a Delaney car, then dumped on Dolly’s doorstep.

Annie sat in the kitchen later and thought of
that, of how he must have suffered, and thought of the Delaneys with a black and bitter hatred in her heart.

Hadn’t Max told her that the Delaneys were vipers, never to be trusted? Yes, he had. And he was right. She had once felt sorry for Orla Delaney, and Redmond her twin had once been Annie’s business partner. But now the battle lines were clearly drawn.

She was a Carter.

They were Delaneys.

It was war.

Time drifted on. Ellie and Darren came gingerly down the stairs and hurried into the kitchen, stepping around the horror in the hallway. Tony arrived with ugly monkey-faced little Jackie Tulliver. They stared in disbelief at what awaited them.

‘What the
fuck?
’ Tony gasped, forgetting his language in front of Annie and going a bit pale around the gills as he stared down at Billy’s corpse.

‘Shit,’ said Jackie Tulliver. He pulled a face as he realized his shoes were sticking to the doorstep—sticking to the blood that had seeped out of Billy.

‘You’ve got to get him out of here,’ said Annie, and she told them where she wanted Billy taken.

Tony was nodding, pulling on his gloves, telling Jackie to do the same.

‘We’ll sort it out, Mrs Carter,’ said Tony.

Dolly went out to the kitchen and Annie went
upstairs to clean up. She had a quick bath, lying there in the hot water and still shaking, still shivering, looking at the gun on the loo seat and thinking that she would like to shoot the bastard who had committed such an act of hideous violence against Billy.

But then she remembered Constantine Barolli’s words of warning.
You pick up a gun, they pick up a grenade…things get out of hand, Mrs Carter. Be careful.

She hadn’t been careful enough. She’d been so busy panicking over Layla’s safety that she had blundered badly and had cost Billy his life. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but she knew she was responsible. Even that fucker Jimmy Bond had warned her.

She put the gun back in Dolly’s drawer, got dressed, and took the ruined dressing gown downstairs with her. She paused on the top stair.

Billy’s body was gone. The front door was closed.

All that showed something hideous had happened was the wet gloss on what could be seen of the hall tiles, where they had cleaned away Billy’s blood. The long strip of carpet down the centre of the hall was pristine clean, too.

Shuddering, she went down into the kitchen. Dolly, Ellie, and Darren were sitting around the table, passing around a half-empty brandy bottle.
Annie stuffed the robe into the washing machine, added powder, switched it on. Then she filled the kettle, got out a mug and the tea caddy.

‘That poor bastard,’ said Dolly.

Annie turned and glared at her.
‘Yes
, Dolly. I know.’

Dolly looked taken aback. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Well don’t, okay. Shit, give me some of that brandy, will you?’

Annie went over to the table, poured brandy into a spare glass and knocked it back in one. Then she went bright red, coughed and clutched at her throat.

‘Jesus, how can you drink this stuff?’ she wheezed, grimacing.

‘Easily, right now,’ snapped Dolly. ‘I don’t know what the hell’s happening, Annie, but I don’t bloody like it. Jesus Christ, I hope never to see anything like that ever again.’

‘Here’s to that,’ said Darren weakly, raising his glass with trembling hands and taking a long swallow.

Ellie still looked deathly pale. Annie thought she had probably been sick. Ellie was staring at Annie. So was Darren. So was Dolly.

‘For Christ’s sake, will you all stop looking at me like that?’ yelled Annie.

‘Guilty conscience?’ asked Dolly.

‘What?’

‘Come on Annie. We didn’t come over on the last banana boat,’ said Dolly. ‘This is gang stuff. Somebody done Billy because he’s your lapdog. Or he was. Poor little sod. I tell you, I don’t like the way all this is going.’

‘And what am I supposed to do about that?’ demanded Annie. ‘I’m floundering here, Doll. Ask me where I am and I’ll tell you: I’m up shit creek without a paddle. My daughter’s in the hands of maniacs and I’m getting bits of her sent to me. Now Billy’s copped it. You think I’m happy with any of this? Think again.’

‘Will the pair of you just stop shouting?’ whined Ellie, clutching her head. ‘It’s bad enough seeing that—that—in the hall, but why argue about it? What good does that do?’

Darren nodded. ‘Ellie’s right. It’s not Annie’s fault.’

‘No? I don’t know so much,’ said Dolly, who had now got up a full head of steam and wasn’t about to be stopped from delivering her opinion. She looked at Annie. ‘Fuck it, Annie, I don’t mind helping out, but when it comes to having people fucking
die
on my doorstep, I have to start drawing the line.’

‘So what are you saying? You want me to leave?’ asked Annie.

Dolly drew a breath and blew out hard.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘That’s the truth, I don’t
bloody know. But we were getting along just fine until you showed up, and now it’s all starting again. The Delaneys always left us alone before. Took their protection money and kept the fuck out of it. Which was fine. But now this! Redmond Delaney was in here a few days ago talking to you and when he’d finished you looked like he’d scared the crap out of you good and proper. I don’t mind jokes but I don’t like sodding pantomimes Annie. I’m not a fool. Not by a long shot.’

Annie sat down at the table, her tea forgotten. If Dolly was turning against her, she was sunk. She’d lost Billy. A shudder heaved through her. She’d lost Max. Lost Layla. Now was she going to lose Dolly too? Dolly, her dearest friend?

‘What do you want me to do, Doll?’ she asked more quietly. ‘You want me to go?’

Dolly hesitated, looking at Annie’s face. Darren and Ellie were watching anxiously.

‘No,’ said Dolly at last. ‘Christ, what sort of friend would I be if I turfed you out of here when you’re in this much trouble? No, I don’t want you to go. And anyway, how the hell could you—those rotten bastards reach you here, don’t they? You can’t go, and you shouldn’t go either. I want you to stay.’

And Dolly reached out and patted Annie’s hand.

No hearts and flowers, not from Dolly. But Annie felt reassured. It was a small thing, but it
was something precious, to have Dolly’s support even when Dolly wasn’t sure about the wisdom of giving it.

Next day they heard about it on the radio. A dead body had been dumped outside the local hospital and the police had no comment to make until they had traced the victim’s relatives, but it looked like a gangland killing, they said, and beyond that they had no further comment to make.

Poor old Billy.

Annie was tormented by the thought of his miserable life. She knew his mother was a rough, dirty old cow because Max had told her so. She knew about Billy’s succession of live-in ‘uncles’. Knew that his mother knocked him about, despised him because he was a bit simple. Which was nothing more than the truth. Billy had been a bit odd, but he had been loyal to Max all his life, and to Annie too.

Rest in peace, Billy love
, she thought, and felt choked up all over again, and wondered where the hell she went from here.

She sat in the kitchen staring at the wall while Dolly and the ‘girls’ got on with the business of the day. It was Friday again. And in a week’s time, exactly a week, the kidnappers would phone again; and if she hadn’t found Layla by then, or secured the money by then, Layla was as good as dead.

What to do?

She sank her head into her hands and tried to think straight, but her brain was darting here and there and getting nowhere. She felt trapped.

All around her, again, there were the sounds of sex. Laughter, whisperings, hangings, cries of pleasure and cries of pain.

What scared her was this: there were times when she tried to call Max’s face to mind and she couldn’t do it. Black hair, dark skin, a hook of a nose, fierce eyes that could become gentler, smokier, when he held her and loved her.

Which he never would again. She mourned him bitterly, mourned their lost love.

Now she was in trouble and having the worst time of her life, feeling adrift, needing someone to lean on because she had become used to having a man making decisions, taking control:
that
was why she was feeling a tug of attraction to Constantine Barolli; that was the only reason.

She told herself that, over and over. Trouble was, she didn’t really believe it.

Someone was having an orgasm upstairs.

She stood up, went through to the hallway, past the open door of the front room wherein the revellers waltzed semi-nude to Dana’s sugar-sweet voice singing the Eurovision winner,
All Kinds of Everything.
Ross looked up at her expectantly as she took her coat off the rack and quickly put it on.

‘Going out,’ she said, and scribbled her name in the book. Everyone had to sign in and out, for security. Christ knows they needed it. Now, more than ever.

‘Fine,’ said Ross.

Annie gratefully left the building. As she walked down the path she saw how thorough a job Tony and Jackie had done of cleaning up during the small hours. Not a speck of blood anywhere. But Annie could still smell it; it seemed to have permeated her soul, the scent of Billy’s blood pooling around her as he lay dying.

She quickened her step. The spring sun was shining, glinting off the highly polished bonnet of the black Jag parked at the pavement. The trees were budding. Nature was renewing herself all over again. She tapped on the window and Tony lowered his paper and wound down the window.

‘Going over to Kath’s,’ she said, and got in the back and felt momentarily safe as she sank back on plush polished leather upholstery. The big engine purred into life. Tony, without fuss, steered the car out into the traffic.

Safe!

Annie sneered at the very thought.

She wasn’t safe. She wasn’t safe to be let out on her own. She had made bad—
disastrous
—decisions and she loathed herself for that. But she
had to quash that feeling. Had to get over it, keep functioning, keep the faith. For Layla, if for nothing else.

After all, what else was left to her now?