‘No pulse,’ said Annie, feeling her stomach clench and churn.
A stranger had come in the night, armed for murder. That stranger was now dead. But even in her current state of shock she knew there was something about this intruder, something wrong…
Setting the gun carefully aside, Annie started tugging at the woollen hood.
‘What are you doing?’ shrieked Layla. ‘I can’t believe this…’
‘Quiet,’ said Annie sharply. ‘Give me a moment.’
‘Mum, I’ve killed him.’
‘Well, at least he hasn’t killed us,’ snapped Annie, giving the hood a final tug. It came loose, revealing a thick heavy fall of red hair.
Annie Carter slumped to her haunches and stared at the corpse. ‘Holy shit,’ she murmured.
The face of their attacker was revealed. Milk-pale, with green eyes still half-open, frozen in death. Not a man’s face at all.
Layla had shot a woman.
Annie stared at the woman’s face.
Stunned, Layla turned to Annie. ‘Who is it? Mum?’
‘I know her,’ said Annie, dazed with shock. ‘No, this isn’t possible, this isn’t possible.’ Annie was shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It can’t be.’
‘For God’s sake, who is it?’ asked Layla desperately.
Annie took a breath.
‘That’s Orla Delaney,’ she said.
‘Who… who’s Orla Delaney… Oh shit, I’m going to be sick,’ said Layla, turning to dash into the bathroom.
Annie moved away from the body and stood staring, arms wrapped around herself, trying to stop the shaking. Every muscle in her body was trembling with the aftershock. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from that face – a face she’d hoped never to see again: the hated face of Orla Delaney.
There had been a time when a gangland map of London would have shown the Richardsons and the Frasers in control of the South, the Regans the West, the Krays ruled Bethnal Green, the Nashes the Angel, while the Carters had Bow and the Delaney mob ran Battersea, with a foothold in Limehouse down by the docks.
The Delaneys made the mistake of trying to expand their Limehouse territory, which meant stepping on Carter toes. One by one the Delaneys had paid for it, too. Until all that was left were the twins, Orla and Redmond. They had targeted her, made it personal. She’d known she would never be safe while they were alive. And then finally, finally, she’d thought they were gone forever. She had believed that Constantine had finished them. A plane crash. It was in the papers. Their plane had gone down in the Irish Sea. No survivors. That was back in 1970, a year she would never forget. Constantine had told her it was done. The nightmare was over. And she’d believed him.