His home.
Well, that was what Barbados was these days. Max lived the life of a wealthy ex-pat, with interests in Barbados, Cuba and the Cayman Islands. He still owned the three London clubs, along with Carter Security, which was now managed by Steve Taylor. The clubs were raking in a fortune and Steve was doing well, pulling in lucrative City contracts and work all the way out to Essex.
Annie sighed. She wouldn’t mind being an ex-pat herself, upping sticks to New York where her work was. But then… you couldn’t really call the club work, not with Sonny running the place so smoothly that she was left with little to do. He was a good manager, honest and diligent. Her occasional flying visits to check up on the place only served to put his nose out of joint; he took it as a lack of trust on her part, an affront to his integrity, when in fact all she was doing was trying to pretend she had a purpose in life.
In London she had nothing to occupy her besides shopping and chewing the fat with her mates. But most of the time they weren’t even free. Dolly and Ellie were both busy women with responsible jobs, so she was often hanging about alone, like a spare part. She would never admit to anyone that she was lonely. And – up until these last few hellish days – she’d been bored witless, too.
It almost came as a relief when Rosa’s knock interrupted her thoughts.
‘Señora Carter?’ The housekeeper’s eyes were wide with worry in the wrinkled folds of her face. ‘Polícia.’
Here we go, thought Annie. Eyes down, look in.
She stood up. ‘Thanks Rosa. Show them in here, will you?’
Rosa nodded. She ushered in two plain-clothes cops, one an older man, tall, dark-haired, grave-faced, with inky-brown eyes that scanned her like a computer.
The other was a young female, with honey-coloured hair scraped back to display knife-sharp cheekbones and hostile eyes. The girl didn’t look like Layla, but something in her buttoned-up manner, her deliberately unflattering choice of hairstyle and strictly unsexy clothes, reminded Annie forcibly of her daughter.
I suppose she’s here in case I faint or something, thought Annie wryly.
She thought she recognized the older detective. Could be an undertaker, a face like that, with that turned-down trap of a mouth. She hadn’t expected CID this fast in the proceedings, though. She’d assumed uniforms would arrive first.
The senior man flashed his badge.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Annie.
‘Mrs Carter,’ he said.
‘DI Hunter! Thought it was you. Long time no see.’
‘I had hoped to continue that absence of contact,’ he said smoothly, taking a seat. ‘And it’s DCI now.’