Читать книгу The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4 - Jessie Keane - Страница 48

Jonjo Carter was with yet another blonde, shagging away on the big bed at his place.

‘Oh come on, sweetness,’ she whined, because she was tired and she wanted to get this over, and Mr Stiffy kept turning into Mr Bendy, at this fucking rate she’d be panting and gasping all night, and she was ready for a kip.

It had been a long day for Jonjo. Not a bad one, really. Cara worked in the bedding section of a department store the firm was taking an interest in. It always paid to have an insider to call on, should you need one. And it looked as if they might need one. So Jonjo had gone to look around, and had pitched up in bedding where he was naturally attracted to blonde pretty Cara. She seemed ideal. She had the face of an innocent angel and the soul of a greedy harpy. She was perfect.

Jonjo had taken her to the dogs and doled out cash for her to bet a fortune at the track, winning some but losing more. Which had put him in a bad mood, but he’d hid it because he was trying to keep the grasping cow sweet.

They had moved on to the Shalimar, where he had drunk too much to show off to his mates and their girlfriends, and now look at the result. Cara sighed. Mr Bendy was back in the saddle again.

Jonjo rolled off her. ‘Fuck it,’ he said. ‘Not in the mood.’

Maybe the blonde thing was getting to be a problem. He liked blondes, as a rule. He liked them dim and big-busted. Cara was all of that – fantastic tits and a brain bypass. Perfect. Maybe he ought to ring the changes, though, swear off blondes for a bit, try a brunette.

But then, look at what had happened to Max with that fucking Bailey slag. Jonjo was pleased that was all over, but Max was still fuming over the whole thing. It was making him edgy and eager for a ruck. Not a bad thing, really. There was this big heist in the offing now, and Jonjo was made up that Max was back.

So maybe not a brunette. Big thinkers, brunettes. They always seemed to have a plan and a way of squeezing your balls until they squeaked. No, the last thing he needed was pussy-whipping.

Maybe a redhead. He’d never had one of those. He thought of Orla Delaney – mad Irish bitch she might be from a long line of mad Irish bitches, but she was a corker. Apparently as frigid as fuck, though, if the rumours were to be believed. Which was a bit of a drawback.

Maybe he’d stick to blondes. Like Cara. If they used her on the heist he would have to lay out the rules. Pay her well, that went without saying. But maybe also give her a light slapping and explain to her that the police might be scary but the firm was scarier. That they must never be mentioned, that if they could pin anything on her at all and it came to doing time, then she did it and was well looked after when she came out. Inside or out, though, she kept quiet. Because inside or out, they would know and they could get to her whenever they wanted. Or to her family, of course. There was always that.

He turned back to Cara, who was pouting prettily because he hadn’t come. Women. They always liked you to come. Took it as a deliberate affront if you didn’t. Christ, it must be nice to be a tart. Just lie there and let it happen, no worries about getting it up, no worries at all. He was trying, but he couldn’t get his mind off the job that was coming up. It was exciting. You couldn’t concentrate on your oats with a job like this on your mind, unless you were made of stone. Which reminded him. He was running late.

He reached over to his trouser pocket and pulled out a few sovs. He tossed them at Cara.

‘Get yourself a taxi home, there’s a love,’ he said, and got out of bed.

Cara sat up, indignant. ‘Is that it, then?’ she demanded.

And that was the other thing, they always wanted to talk after sex. If it went badly they wanted to pull it apart and find out why. If it went well – which usually thank God it did – they wanted you to stay awake for hours whispering sweet nothings in their little ears when all you wanted was to peg out for the night.

‘What do you want, “God Save the Queen” or something?’ asked Jonjo, covering his limp dick with his pants. ‘The evening’s over. I’ve got a meet to get to. Now shift your arse. I’ll phone you, okay?’ He dropped a kiss on to her rumpled hair. Keep her sweet. Maybe she’d be needed, maybe not. Hedge your bets.

‘And they say romance is dead,’ she grumbled, crawling out of bed and retrieving her undies from the floor.

Jonjo’s mind was already over at Queenie’s old place. The boys would be assembling there again, Max at the head of the table.

He hoped that sour-faced wife of Max’s wouldn’t be there. If there was one thing Jonjo hated it was a woman with a face like a smacked arse on her. He thought Max was far too soft with Ruthie. If she was his woman, Jonjo would have kicked her straight up the puss by now. His sister-in-law didn’t seem able to make up her mind where she wanted to be. Sometimes she was at the old house, sometimes she was down in Surrey at the big posh place that was now on the market, talking to the estate agent and packing up all their belongings. Jesus, what a pain in the backside she was.

Max had confided to Jonjo that Ruthie was a bit too keen on the bottle. She was a loose cannon, Jonjo thought, rattling about the place, skinny as hell and ugly as fuck. At least Annie Bailey had a good set of knockers and a great arse on her.

Even if she was a brunette.

Ruthie Carter was at the Surrey house and, despite the lateness of the hour, she was still up, wrapping things in paper and packing them into tea chests. Max had told her not to bother about the annexe, of course. He would see to that. Ruthie sneered to herself and took another pull of her voddy and tonic.

Blimey, this place was a size. She’d already completed the packing up downstairs, helped by Miss Arnott; now she was working her way through the bedrooms. This particular room had been Eddie’s. She didn’t mind being up here in Eddie’s room late at night on her own, with the Surrey night so still and dark all around her. Ruthie didn’t believe in ghosts. The dead wouldn’t hurt you, she was sure of that. It was the bloody living you had to watch out for.

It was a bit sad to be sifting through his things, though. Eddie had been such a snappy dresser. His clothes were designer, and immaculately clean and cared for. Now what the hell would become of them? She piled all his shirts and trousers and stuff to one side ready for disposal. Unless Max wanted to keep them, but she couldn’t really see that happening. Of course he’d kept Queenie’s annexe just as it was on the night she’d died, maybe he’d want to build a shrine to his dead brother, too.

She shivered.

Clutching her drink, she went over to the dressing table where Eddie’s silver-backed brushes looked forlorn as if they were waiting for him to come back. Well, they’d have a bloody long wait. She pulled out the bottom drawer and yanked out the piles of vests and pants laid neatly in there, then moved on to the next large drawer up and found jumpers and a couple of waistcoats.

All that remained of a life, she thought.

God, she was low today. Lower than usual, and that was saying something. She moved on to the smaller drawers at the top and opened the left-hand drawer to reveal a stack of brown bottles, every one full of the pills they had given Eddie before he died. Pills to ease the pain. Pills to clear infection. A fat lot of use they’d been. And pills to make him sleep. Jesus, how she would love to sleep! Ruthie laughed and the sound was loud in the room. She jumped a bit and looked around, suddenly feeling nervous.

Maybe spirits did linger. Who knew? Maybe Eddie was right here with her now, showing her the way to go. She picked up one of the bottles of sleeping pills. It was full to the brim. She unscrewed the cap and shook a few into the palm of her hand. She raised her hand to her mouth. The taste on her tongue was slightly bitter, but the voddy and tonic washed it away.