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of the Atlantic Ocean, Annie’s heart was beating quickly too. She grabbed her robe, threw it on. Ran through to the living room and snatched up the
phone. ‘Yes?’ she said.
    It couldn’t be good news. Not at this hour. Or maybe she was just panicking over nothing, coming out of that stupid damned recurring Constantine dream all hyped-up with worry when there
was no reason to be. Maybe it was Max phoning home, forgetting the time differential. Time was a flexible thing in Max’s world. He was late for everything. It was a standing joke between
them.
    Her husband was powerful, tough, independent. He was still essentially the man he had been back in the sixties, when he had run a lucrative protection racket around the East End. He’d made
a fortune, and he’d been bright enough to never get caught doing it.
    That was it. This was Max, calling home. Suddenly she felt hopeful.
    ‘Max?’ she asked. She could hear breathing on the line. ‘That you?’
    ‘Mrs C?’ asked a male voice.
    Not
Max then. Annie felt her spirits droop. ‘Who’s this?’
    ‘It’s Tony.’
    She clutched a hand to her brow and closed her eyes. She had
hoped
it would be Max, even if he had ballsed up the times. When he’d left, he’d been . . . well, so
odd.
Removed from her. She didn’t like that. It made her very anxious.
    ‘Tone?’ Into Annie’s mind flashed an image: big eighteen-stone bruiser Tony, bald, besuited and with two gold crucifixes, one in each cauliflower ear.
    Tony had driven Max around the London streets for a long time, and then her; he was a dedicated member of the Carter team, which had evolved over the years so that now it was almost entirely
legitimate. Once, things had been different: in the sixties, Max Carter and his boys had rivalled the Krays for sheer honest-to-God fear factor. Back then, big gangs had owned the streets –
the Frasers and the Richardsons from South London, the Regans from the west, the Foremans from Battersea, the Nashes from the Angel, while the Krays held Bethnal Green and the Carter boys had Bow
and a bit of Limehouse.
    Slowly, things had changed, though; now the Carter operation was clubs and security, and nearly 100 per cent straight.
Nearly.
But Max was still the boss, and Max was always a wild card;
unpredictable. This latest departure was a classic example; she didn’t know what the hell he was up to.
    He’s having an affair, you silly bitch. Because he knows. He’s found you out and he’s having a revenge fuck. He’s sticking it to someone new and – oh yeah
– someone younger.
    ‘What you phoning for at this hour? It’s two o’clock here,’ she asked Tony.
    ‘Mrs C . . .’ Tony started, then hesitated. ‘Is Mr Carter there?’
    ‘No, he’s not.’ Annie frowned. ‘What’s up, Tone? What is it?’
    ‘I got bad news for you, I’m sorry.’
    Annie slumped down on to the sofa. Outside, she could hear the faint dull rhythmic roar of the ocean, pounding up on to the warm white sands of the beach below the villa. Her heart clenched with
fear.
Max?
she thought.
    ‘Tell me,’ she said.
    ‘It’s Dolly, Mrs C.’
    ‘Doll? What about her?’
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘She’s dead.’

11
    Max watched as the man – who was short but powerful-looking, dark-skinned and wearing a cream Panama hat – unloaded the woman from the car.
    Unload
was the word. Max had expected that she might be frail, but there was this whole business going on, the man taking the wheelchair out of the back of the car, bringing it to the
front passenger door, nearly
hauling
the woman into it. Then he backed the chair up, closed the door, fussed over her, settled her comfortably, draped a pale-blue blanket over her lap to
cover her bony knees and her bright red pleated skirt; then he pushed the wheelchair containing the bent old woman toward the arena where Max stood waiting.
    Max watched them coming, watched the dust-devils whirl around them, the man and the woman in the