The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4. Jessie Keane

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      ‘There’s been an … incident,’ said Annie. She eased her sore knee by taking the weight off it. It was bandaged – Darren had tended to all their cuts and bruises. Her hands were bandaged too, where the glass had sliced into them. She looked and felt a mess. And now Max was talking to her as if she was a stranger.

      She reminded herself that his coldness to her was a good thing. But she couldn’t get Pat’s words out of her mind. What if Pat really had done Celia, and not one of Max’s mob? No, it was no use thinking like that. She had to think of Ruthie now, and put her first.

      ‘What sort of incident?’ he asked.

      ‘A bad one.’

      ‘Meaning?’

      ‘Max, I’m not kidding around here. Take it from me that I wouldn’t be on this fucking phone asking for your help if I could avoid it.’

      ‘If that’s how you feel …’ said Max. He was going to hang up on her.

      ‘No!’ Annie shouted. ‘Please. Don’t hang up.’ Her voice broke with the strain of it. ‘It’s serious. Pat Delaney’s dead.’

      ‘Tell me,’ said Max, and it all poured out.

      ‘What?’ Max demanded when she told him that Pat had come after her. She could hear his breathing, hard and heavy, could almost taste his anger. But she didn’t need that now, not more violence, not more bloodshed. She needed his help.

      ‘We killed him,’ she finished at last.

      ‘For fuck’s sake. Isn’t there a Delaney man on the door?’ Now Max’s voice had lost its distance. Now he spoke urgently.

      ‘Chris, yes. He vanished when it all started looking like trouble with Pat. It’s okay. He phoned through and said his mum was ill, but I think he’s just keeping out of it because he could see Pat was acting up and he didn’t want to get involved – and I don’t fucking blame him either.’

      ‘Do nothing. I’ll send someone.’

      And he put the phone down on her.

       ‘Max?’

      She couldn’t believe it, the bastard had just put the phone down. No goodbye, no nothing. And maybe that was it. Maybe he was just going to leave her to sweat, to stew in her own juice. Panic gripped her by the throat. Christ, what was she going to do if that was the case?

      But, true to his word, he sent his boys. His best boys, too.

      Next day she put her coat on and went out into the rain for a walk and stopped off at the phone box. She dialled his number.

      ‘Thanks,’ she said, dismayed because her voice shook.

      There was so much more she wanted to say to him and it seemed she was able to say nothing. She wanted to broach the subject of Celia, and what she had thought he’d done, and what Pat Delaney had said, but she couldn’t get into all that. She felt too tired, too dispirited, too confused. She wanted to talk about Ruthie, and how she had found her, and how frightened she had been when she had thought Ruthie was trying to commit suicide. But it had been just a stupid mix-up with sleeping pills. Had Ruthie died, Annie would have forever blamed herself. But she could say nothing because Ruthie would hate her even more than she did already if she started getting grief off Max. Annie felt drained of all emotion. She supposed dully that it was the shock of what had happened last night.

      ‘Are you all right?’ Max demanded. ‘Gary said there’d been damage done.’

      ‘A few cuts. Dolly lost a tooth.’

      ‘Nothing serious?’

      ‘Nothing serious.’

      ‘You saw Ruthie.’

      ‘Oh. Yeah. She’s … okay.’ She couldn’t talk about it. Ruthie would despise her if she did.

      ‘Right. You owe me for this,’ said Max.

      Annie stared at the phone.

      ‘What?’ she asked numbly.

      ‘You still owe me.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘And I will call in the debt.’

      ‘Max, it’s over.’

      ‘I told you. Only when I say so.’

      And he hung up on her again.

      Annie planned to move out of the Limehouse parlour early. She didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary in the same room where Pat Delaney had died. She couldn’t sleep down in the front room on the sofa in case Chris got wind of it and thought it odd. And Max had said she had to behave normally.

      Normally. Like she would ever feel normal again, after she’d been party to murder.

      The others weren’t finding it easy either. All of them looked like death warmed up, their faces white and strained, and why wouldn’t they? It wasn’t every day you saw a Delaney die right in front of your eyes.

      Of course Chris soon noticed that Annie had injured her knee and her hands. He noticed Dolly’s swollen mouth and missing tooth. But they had already thought of this. They had covered all the bases.

      ‘Tell him that Annie and Dolly had a ruck on Friday night over Annie setting up in business,’ suggested Darren to Ellie.

      This was inspired. All of them knew that the two women had been finding it hard to come to terms with their changed circumstances; an imaginary catfight would be perfect cover for what had really happened.

      Ellie obediently told Chris; and Chris seemed to believe her. Dolly gave him a bit of a bollocking for vanishing when things hotted up with Pat, and told him that if he thought she swallowed that load of fanny about his sick mother he had better think again. But thank God, she told him, Pat had buggered off just after he himself had left the premises, so everything was fine – and this time she was not going to tell Redmond Delaney about the fact he’d legged it.

      ‘Thanks, Dolly,’ said Chris humbly.

      Annie and Dolly beefed up the dirty looks and sullen silences between them, egging the pudding like mad. Annie knew it was time for her to go. She dialled around Dolly’s auxiliary brasses and got some names and addresses together. She packed up her belongings within four days of Pat’s death and was all ready to go when Kieron showed up with a huge bunch of flowers.

      Chris let him in, of course. No way could he refuse a Delaney entry. Annie accepted that. But she didn’t need this right now. She had too much on her mind, not least of which, the fact that she had killed this man’s brother.

      She came downstairs when Chris called her. Better to see him, she supposed, better to keep everything smooth and orderly. She went into the front room and there he was, lanky, blond, appealing, holding a bunch of flowers bigger than he was, the clown. She almost smiled to see it.

      ‘Kieron,’ she greeted him formally.

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