that?
‘Yes, I am,’ Layla insisted, pulling free of Ellie’s embrace. ‘Because no one knows how long this is going to go on for, do they? I’ve been off three days – three days! – and already Etchingham’s spitting blood.’
‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it, is there?’ said Ellie. ‘We just have to sit tight until this resolves itself.’
Layla had her doubts that this would ever resolve itself. Ellie didn’t know the whole story, the full awfulness of what had happened. All Ellie knew was that Annie had a bit of trouble. No one had told her that Layla had killed a woman, shot her dead. Layla shuddered anew to think of it. Couldn’t believe it, even now. She had a terrifying sense of things hurtling beyond her control, and she hated that. She craved normality, neat rows of figures to add up and make sense of.
She craved her job.
‘The police are sniffing around,’ said Annie next morning.
They were in the drawing room, Max on one sofa, she on another. Only a few feet apart, but it seemed like a mile. She didn’t want to talk to him. But all this shit was happening, and Layla was clearly at risk. They were her parents. They had to communicate, even if it was a pain in the arse.
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Max.
‘Meaning?’ she asked.
He stretched lazily in his chair. Annie kept her eyes on his face.
‘Meaning you’re sitting on a pile of Mafia money here, aren’t you.’
Annie felt her jaw clench. ‘This house is mine,’ she said.
‘Yeah, but it was Constantine Barolli’s. Before he cashed in his chips.’
‘What are you driving at, exactly?’
‘The Bill don’t ever rest over Mafia millions. They’ll never let it go.’
Annie thought of standing in the graveyard with Alberto, of the things he’d told her. That he might be forced to make a break for it any time now. She knew Max was right about the cops and their attitude to people profiting from organized crime.
‘And besides, there are other things,’ said Max.
Annie took a calming breath. ‘Can we not talk in riddles please?’
Max shrugged. ‘If I say it straight, you’ll kick off.’
‘Try me.’
‘Come on. You know what people are saying. Same thing they’ve always said.’
‘No. I don’t. Humour me.’
‘OK. They’re saying you’re his mistress. And that you only have to let out one little squeak and he’s over here, hanging out the back of you.’
Annie’s eyes were like chips of ice. ‘Alberto’s my stepson,’ she snapped.
Her heart was pounding hard against her ribs. She felt sick. This was what had broken up their marriage. This was the whole source of all their bitter arguments. Max had