Читать книгу The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4 - Jessie Keane - Страница 61

Ruthie Carter had been at home in Surrey all week and she was fed up to the back teeth. All she had down here for company was the minder on the door, who had just a single brain cell rattling around in his head getting rather lonely – Dave couldn’t be relied on even to string a sentence together.

And as for Miss Arnott, that old cow was forever giving Ruthie dirty looks and thinking what a common little thing she was. Oh, she knew what Miss Arnott thought of her all too well. There was naff-all to do in this place, and the silence out here in the country was deadly.

Ruthie longed for London, for the noise of traffic and voices, for the close proximity of other people going about their daily lives. But she had agreed with Max that they would do this. They had sat down together and he had been straight with her. He knew he had made mistakes. But they could still save this, they could still make it work. That’s what he said. But she had to stop the drinking, get herself busy, bringing this place to life. Ruthie had actually started to think there was some hope.

But that had been two weeks ago. Since that one night – when they hadn’t slept together – Max had barely shown his face in this arsehole of a rural nowhere. He’d been busy up in town. She had phoned him at Queenie’s old house. He had said not now, Ruthie, he was up to his ears in stuff, he’d be down at the weekend.

And here we are, she thought. The weekend. Her great bonus in the long haul that was being married to Max Carter. He showed up at eleven on Saturday night. Half the weekend gone, anyway. She was steaming, and Max hardly had a foot through the door when she let rip.

‘You said we’d spend the weekend together,’ said Ruthie, following him across the hall as he dumped his overnight bag and shrugged off his coat.

‘And I’m here,’ he said.

‘But you don’t want to be,’ yelled Ruthie.

Max glanced around. ‘Is Miss Arnott here?’

‘No, she’s off for the weekend. You don’t have to worry that I’ll show you up in front of your posh housekeeper, shouting about like a fishwife. I told her she could take some time off. I thought we’d be here together. I thought we’d need some privacy.’

‘And Dave?’

‘He’s asleep, so far as I know. Who the hell cares?’

Dave had a flat over the garage. Miss Arnott disdained Dave, too. Margie, the cleaner, had been in his flat and got an attack of the vapours. It was lined floor to ceiling with photos of nude women. Margie complained to Miss Arnott, Miss Arnott complained to Ruthie. But whatever Dave did within his own four walls was fine with her.

She knew she should have protested more, to gain Brownie points with Miss Arnott, to convince her that Ruthie was a lady. But Ruthie couldn’t be arsed. Miss Arnott knew what she was, all right. She knew that Max was ‘in business’ and she knew that Ruthie had married above herself. Ruthie wasn’t going to flog her guts out trying to convince the sour-faced old bag otherwise.

‘Nice welcome,’ said Max.

‘You don’t deserve a nice welcome,’ shouted Ruthie. ‘I had dinner all planned, and where the fuck were you? Up in town with her, were you?’

‘If by her you mean Annie, no, I wasn’t,’ said Max.

He turned his back on her and went through to the drawing room. He poured himself a brandy, and sat down.

Ruthie came and stood over him. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she spat.

Max raised his glass to her. ‘Suit yourself,’ he said, and took a drink. He put his glass aside and stood up to put on some music, but Ruthie came close and glared up at him, standing in his way.

‘You said you’d give her up. It was part of the deal.’

‘Along with you laying off the bottle,’ said Max cruelly. ‘I remember. I kept my half of the deal, Ruthie. Did you keep yours?’

Ruthie’s glance slipped away from his hard gaze. She’d had the odd glass or two. Miss Arnott had probably snitched to Max about it, the snooty cow.

‘No, don’t answer that,’ said Max after a beat. ‘We both know you’d be lying.’

‘We’re both good liars, Max. I think you’re still seeing her.’

‘I’m not.’

‘You’re lying,’ screamed Ruthie. ‘Listen, I’m warning you – if you don’t pack it in, I’ll tell the police you weren’t with me on the night Tory Delaney died. Then you’ll be in the shit.’

Max grabbed her shoulders. His eyes were icy as they glared into hers. ‘A wife can’t testify against her husband, you silly bitch,’ he hissed. ‘But go on. Tell them whatever the fuck you want to. Because I didn’t kill Tory Delaney.’

‘Oh, sure you didn’t. You were off somewhere that night. Eddie said he hid a gun for you.’

Max stiffened. ‘Eddie shouldn’t have said that.’

‘And what are you going to do about that, “discipline” him? Send the boys round? You’ll have a hard job. The poor boy’s dead, isn’t he?’

‘You’ve been drinking,’ said Max with disgust. His eyes had narrowed to slits. His mouth was grim. He leaned in very close and Ruthie started to feel frightened. ‘Listen. You don’t go to the police. You don’t start any trouble. You keep your mouth shut and you do as you’re told, or I get very annoyed. You got that?’

Ruthie nodded dumbly.

‘I didn’t kill Tory Delaney,’ said Max with soft venom. ‘But I’d like to shake the hand of whoever did. Serious. I’d like to buy that fucker a drink and pat him on the back. I wish I’d done it myself, but I didn’t.’

‘Then who the hell did?’ asked Ruthie more quietly. She knew she was in danger of going too far. She could see it in his eyes. Time to tone it down.

‘We’d all like to know the answer to that,’ said Max, letting her go. ‘But it’s done. And, really, who gives a shit? The bastard’s dead. End of story. Now is there anything to eat?’

Ruthie settled down after that. Went and cooked him some bacon and eggs while Max sat on the couch and listened to his favourite Mozart concerto. He thought of the haul from the department store, all used notes and stored away nice and safe for the time being. God bless the January sales. That safe had been stuffed. He thought of the situation he was in, keeping face by remaining married to a woman he detested. He thought of Annie, up in Upper Brook Street. He thought of her dark green, laughing eyes and her thick dark hair spilling over the pillow as she slept.

Fuck it, he thought.

No one ever said life was going to be perfect.