Free Black Widow by Jessie Keane Page B

to
kill
people, and she still felt sort of sick to her stomach about that. And most particularly about what Danny had done to the man and the woman in the little villa by the gate. He had seemed to glory in their terror, to get high on it; he had laughed and played in the blood like a kid in a bubble bath. Whenever she thought of it, she felt nauseous and afraid. She’d always known Danny was crazy, but now she thought he was
really
sick in the head, and dangerous.
    ‘Look, no names,’ Danny was saying to her. ‘We never say names in the girl’s hearing, remember? Got that?’
    ‘Yeah, okay,’ said Vita sulkily. ‘Where’s Ph…where’s he gone, anyway?’
    ‘To hire the boat.’
    ‘Jesus, hasn’t he done that yet? I thought this was meant to be a smooth operation.’
    ‘It’s smooth,’ said Danny.
    ‘Oh sure it’s smooth. No boat, and she’s seen my face.’
    ‘Will you for fuck’s sake
drop that?’
roared Danny.
    Vita flinched and fell silent.
    ‘My daddy’s going to kick your arse,’ said a tearful, furious little voice from inside the hen house.

12
    Tony was there at a quarter to two, with Max’s beautiful old Mark X Jag all polished up and gleaming. Which was good. Someone was sitting up and taking notice, thought Annie, and not before time. Kath had obviously passed on the message—grudgingly—and Jimmy had acted upon it.
    All good.
    Not the unqualified support she had hoped for, but the best she was going to get, and that would have to do—for now, at least.
    Annie sat in the back of the car and was suddenly overwhelmed by it all. Max’s car. She had sat in here nearly five years ago, with the scent of leather all around her like a comfort blanket, the heady smell of luxury, of Max’s lemon-scented cologne, with Max right there beside her—a strong, seemingly invincible presence.
    Not so invincible though
, she thought despairingly.
    She looked at the empty space where Max should be. And into her mind, suddenly and starkly, came the image of him being pushed off the side of a mountain: falling, bouncing off rocks, lying crumpled and broken and lifeless at the bottom.
    Annie shut her eyes and swallowed sickness. Had they stood and laughed while they killed him? Had he—
oh God no
—had he lain there, fatally injured, suffering, hurting, for hours on end, perhaps days, before he finally died?
    She opened her eyes, shuddering, and tried to get hold of herself. She could see Tony’s eyes, watching her in the mirror. Max had valued Tony. Tony was built like a fucking outhouse. He was bald and he was ugly and he wore gold hoop earrings with crucifixes dangling off them, but he followed orders to the letter and he was loyal, Max had always said that.
    ‘You all right, Mrs Carter?’
    ‘I’m fine, Tony.’
    ‘Is Mr Carter coming back soon?’ asked Tony.
    ‘I dunno, Tony,’ said Annie.
    So Jimmy had been as good as his word and hadn’t told the boys the truth—that Max wasn’t going to be coming back, not soon, not ever. Jimmy had kept quiet, as they had agreed he should, and that was good.
    All good
, thought Annie tiredly as the car glided smoothly through the rain-drenched streets of London’s East End.
Oh yeah. Fucking wonderful.
Spring was coming, but today it still looked like winter. She looked out at the grimy terraced houses, the people milling around in the sodden grey streets, the shops, the traffic.
    She was back.
    But everything was different. Everything had moved on.
    Ronnie and Reggie Kray had been banged up a year ago for shooting George Cornell, one of the Richardson boys, in the Blind Beggar, and for doing Jack ‘The Hat’ McVitie at Blonde Carol’s.
    Yeah, things had changed.
    The Beatles had split up. And Dolly had told her that all through this last winter the maxi-skirt had been favoured by trendy London girls over the chillier mini.
    Little changes, big changes. Some bad, some good.
    Annie feared that, for her, nothing was ever going to be truly good