Buch lesen: «The Make»

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Gracie: December

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

George and Harry: October

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Gracie: December

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

George and Harry: November

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Gracie: December

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

George and Harry: November

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Gracie: December

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

George and Harry: December

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Gracie: December

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Christmas Day

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

After Christmas

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

New Year’s Eve

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Jessie Keane

About the Publisher

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 1

18 December

The instant the police were ushered into her office over the casino, Gracie Doyle knew there was trouble brewing. She was slouching in her chair, with her aching bare feet up on her desk after a long, long day. It was a cold, blustery Friday night, and in precisely a week’s time – seven days! Count ’em – it would be Christmas Day.

She was already sick of all the jingle-bells and fake bonhomie, the endless Wizard and Slade tracks being pumped out of every shopping mall’s sound system, the crazed crush of people wherever you went. Bad things happened at Christmas. For instance, her dad had died just before last Christmas Day. Fatal heart attack, right there in the middle of the casino boulevard. Boom! One minute there, the next – gone. Gracie hated Christmas.

Now she was just sitting, contemplating what she would actually do over the festive break – as usual, she’d made no real plans and also as usual she hadn’t even put up a tree in her flat – fuck that – when there was a knock on the door and two cops, one male, one female, were shown in by Brynn, the manager.

Gracie’s feet slipped from the desk as she sat bolt upright in surprise.

Cops were rarely seen inside the casino, mostly because Gracie Doyle, thirty-year-old daughter of the late Paddy Doyle, ran a very tight ship here in the centre of Manchester. Since she’d been catapulted into the driving seat following her dad’s death, she’d put lots of new security in place, even an ultra-sophisticated ‘eye in the sky’ video surveillance system that recorded every movement, every word, every bet placed, every chip handled. There had been scammers, of course; there always were. But no one had yet beaten Gracie’s system.

So what were the cops doing here?

‘Miss Doyle?’ asked the male uniformed PC.

It was funny how, after all this time, she still half expected to hear her other name, but now she used just plain Gracie Doyle. Head of Doyles. She was proud of her achievements. She’d feared she would sink without her dad at the helm, but she’d swum. Hell, she’d powered through the waters of the casino world, glad now that Dad had insisted she work her way up the ranks; she’d kicked against it sometimes, but he’d been right.

She knew the business inside out. She’d started as a slots trainee, then a dealer; then she’d graduated to box man – or box person, to use the politically correct term. Then she was a floor person, then a pit boss, a shift boss, and finally she was shadowing the casino manager – Brynn. Today she was proprietor, sole owner. The buck stopped, very firmly, with her.

Now, when she walked through the vast sliding double-doors and into reception, moved with her easy, long-legged stride down the sumptuously thick gold carpet of the boulevard of slot machines and into the casino proper, she felt like a queen – and everyone treated her as such.

Gracie loved the late-night casino world; the ping and tinkle of the slots as players, ‘comped’ with free booze and soft drinks, chanced their luck; the intense concentration of the high-stakes punters as the gold-liveried croupiers scooped up their brightly coloured plastic chips and positioned them on this number or that, then spun the roulette wheel. Their howling yells of triumph when they won; their disappointment when they lost – and usually they did lose – but always, always, they came back and tried to beat the house again.

Someone really ought to tell them it was impossible.

This place was Gracie’s life. She loved it all. Let the punters gamble, that was fine; but she played things straight down the line, paid her taxes, ran a good business.

So why the cops?

She quickly slid her feet back into her black high-heeled patent-leather shoes and stood up, rising to her full six feet. She smoothed down her navy narrow pinstriped skirt suit, straightened her open-necked cream shirt, ran a hand briefly over the long dark red plait of hair that hung, thick as knotted rope, down over her shoulder. Assembled herself. Took a breath.

‘I’m Gracie Doyle,’ she said, planting her hands on the desk. ‘How can I help?’

‘I’m afraid there’s bad news, Miss Doyle.’

‘Oh?’ Gracie tensed, thinking. Here we go. The Christmas curse of the Doyles strikes again. ‘This is a legitimate business, officers. Run strictly within legal boundaries.’

It was the truth. Her dad might have bent the rules a time or two – she particularly remembered his habit of only ever paying red bills – but Gracie liked sleeping nights, and if that meant being legit and paying her taxes, so be it.

‘News of a personal nature,’ added the female PC, glancing at her colleague.

Personal?

How could it be personal? All she’d had in the world was her dad, and he was gone.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

The male PC swallowed delicately. ‘It’s your brother, Miss Doyle.’

Brother?

She had to think about that. Her brother? Both her brothers were in London and she hadn’t seen or communicated with them since they were teenagers – nearly fifteen years ago. ‘Which one?’ she asked.

The male PC consulted his notebook. ‘Mr George Doyle. He’s very ill in hospital, Miss.’

Gracie looked at Brynn. Fiftyish, skinny, with the leather skin and wrinkles of the dedicated chain-smoker, Brynn had been a close friend to her father and a great help to her when she’d still been a wet-behind-the-ears beginner in the casino game.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ Brynn asked, seeing that Gracie was flummoxed by the news.

‘He’s been assaulted,’ said the female PC, watching Gracie like she feared she was about to faint away or something. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Doyle, it looks very serious. His mother – your mother – thought you should be contacted.’

What the fuck for? wondered Gracie. Her mother hadn’t thought to get in touch for years. And when Gracie had dutifully notified her mother of her father’s sudden death, she hadn’t even received a reply. Neither her mother nor her brothers had come to the funeral, and they hadn’t even sent a wreath. She would never forget that. Standing there alone, unsupported by her family, in the cold January graveyard.

George was in hospital.

She tried to take it in, but she couldn’t get a handle on her own feelings about it. Was she sorry? Was she concerned? Did she – after all this time – really give a shit? She didn’t know. The last time she’d seen George, she’d been sixteen and he was twelve; still a child. He was a stranger to her now, and really, after all this time, did she want it any other way? She had her life, George had his.

‘Have they got who did it?’ she asked.

‘No,’ said the policeman.

‘And it’s bad? Really bad?’

‘I’m afraid so, Miss.’

Shit, thought Gracie. And it was at that precise moment when she felt, quite distinctly, her cosy, orderly, trouble-free world tilt on its axis. It felt to her like something had ended. Or maybe . . . maybe it had just begun.

Chapter 2

19 December

When Gracie got home to her flat, it was just after midnight. The casino didn’t close until six a.m., but Brynn was covering the graveyard shift this week. Pre-Christmas, the place was full of Eastern bloc playboys, footballers and high rollers, so, even in these recessionary times, they had to work late and hard, pampering their clients exhaustively with lim ousines from their luxury hotels to the door of the casino, complimentary gourmet food, Cristal champagne and Cohiba cigars – anything to keep them at the tables and happy while they handed over their cash.

And it didn’t end there.

The day after play, you had to comp the punters even more, to show your appreciation by sending out the finest cognacs, big tins of caviar and bouquets of flowers – and while she had a team of people making sure that all this happened, still she had to oversee it all, she had to know that it was all done.

And now it was.

And now she was, too.

She kicked off her heels, locked the door behind her, and breathed out a deep sigh of relief. She loved being here at home in her duplex penthouse, with its private terrace and canal views. She’d earned it, and she relished it. She had it all now. The twenty-four-hour concierge, the twenty-metre rooftop pool, the huge open-plan living area, the cutting-edge kitchen, the palatial en suites to the two luxurious bedrooms, the on-site gymnasium, whirlpool bath and spa room.

Ignoring the post on the mat, she was padding barefoot into the bedroom when the phone started ringing.

‘Shit,’ said Gracie succinctly, startled. Who the hell could be calling now?

George, she thought. A tingle of misgiving hit her midsection. Had he taken a turn for the worse? After a moment’s hesitation, she walked on, letting the answerphone pick it up.

‘Oh damn, it’s the machine again,’ said a shaky girl’s voice. Then: ‘I don’t even know if I’ve got the right number. I’m trying to reach Grace Doyle. About her brother.’

Gracie stopped walking. She stood there, staring at the phone like it might bite.

Pick it up, idiot.

But she didn’t want to. She was tired, it was the middle of the damned night, and she was not in the mood to hear more bad news. She slipped off her coat, tossed it on to the couch. Kept staring at the phone.

‘I knew she wouldn’t phone you, so I thought I’d better. I’m Sandy. George is really bad. And it’s only right that you know, in case . . .’ The voice broke as the girl suppressed a sob. ‘Anyway, I just thought you should know. If you want to phone me . . .’ She rattled off the number.

Gracie walked over and picked up the phone. ‘Hello,’ she said.

‘Oh! You’re there. Is that Gracie? George’s sister?’

‘Yeah, that’s me. How do you know George?’

‘I’m his fiancée.’

‘Oh.’ She hadn’t known that George had someone in his life. She knew nothing about the family she’d left down in London, her dingbat mother and her two brothers; and that had – until now – suited her just fine.

‘Did the police contact you?’ asked Sandy.

‘They did, yeah,’ said Gracie.

Silence hung between them. A waiting silence, in which the girl was obviously expecting Gracie to make sisterly noises, express concern. Gracie thought about it and realized that she did feel concerned. That annoyed her. She hated Christmas and she hated this; renewing contact with her family was not on her agenda. She was hoping for a quiet time over the festive season, then in early January she planned to take off – alone – for her annual two weeks in Barbados. She’d worked hard all year without a break, and she had been looking forward to a little downtime.

But now, this.

‘Well,’ said Sandy lamely, finally breaking the silence, ‘I just thought you should know. That’s all. And Harry’s just vanished, taken off somewhere, no one knows where.’

Gracie’s attention sharpened. ‘What do you mean, Harry’s vanished?’

‘Well . . . he has. He’s just gone.’

Gone where?

‘Have you . . . have you got your mum’s phone number . . .? Maybe you’d like to call her?’ asked Sandy when Gracie didn’t speak.

Yeah, and maybe not, thought Gracie. ‘I’ve got it here somewhere.’ She didn’t think she had. She thought – hoped – that she’d lost it.

‘I’ll give it to you, just in case,’ said Sandy. ‘You got a pen . . .?’

‘Sure,’ said Gracie, and stared at the wall, not listening, as Sandy gave her the number.

‘I think maybe you ought to call her,’ said Sandy.

And I think maybe you should fuck off.

Too much dirty water had flowed under the bridge for her to even contemplate getting in touch with her mother again, however dire George’s situation might be. Would George’s condition really be helped by her turning up in London to sit by his bedside? Answer: no.

Her dad had been cool and controlled – like her – but her mother Suze had always been almost laughably hyper-emotional, big on pressing panic buttons and beefing up any bad situation. Gracie knew she could bust a gut, get down there, but then guess what? Everything would be fine. And why should she? They’d never given a shit about her.

No.

Fuck them.

But even as she thought that, she could hear her mother’s final words to her. You know your trouble, young Gracie? You’ve got a damned calculator where your heart should be.

And what about Harry? Where the hell had he got to? She thought about that. He was probably upset about George and had taken himself off somewhere to brood. Harry and George had always been close to each other. Once, they had been close to her too.

‘Well . . . I’d better go,’ said Sandy.

‘Yeah. Thanks for calling,’ said Gracie. And don’t for God’s sake call again.

She hung up and stared at the phone for long moments. She felt annoyed and tainted, as if she’d been touched by something unpleasant. Then she dialled out. Brynn picked up straight away.

‘Hello?’

‘Did you give a girl called Sandy my number?’ asked Gracie, breathing hard.

‘She phoned just after you’d left. Said it was urgent family business. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t give out your number, but after the cops called about your brother and—’

‘Never give out my number. Not to anyone. Got that?’

‘But she said she was his fiancée.’

‘I don’t care if she’s Nefertiti, the last of the sodding pharaohs, I don’t want my private number given out.’

‘Okay, if you say so.’ He sounded surprised and hurt. Brynn was her ally, her number one man; she never shot her mouth off at him.

‘I do say so. Remember it.’ Rattled, Gracie slammed the phone down.

Then she went into the bedroom, stripped off, pinned her hair up and headed for the en suite to shower the day away. She stood for a long time under the soothing heat of the needle spray, her mind blank; then she soaped up, rinsed and dried off, pausing before the big slab of mirror to brush out her hair.

Gracie stood there for a moment scrutinizing her reflection. She looked tired, but otherwise not bad. As always, she wished she was half a stone thinner and half a foot shorter, a little less statuesque, but there it was, shit happened. She was more Jessica Rabbit than Kate Moss, but so what? She had the luminous white skin that went with being a redhead, and a thoughtful don’t-fuck-with-me expression in her cool grey eyes. She had long since developed a style all of her own and she knew how to present herself to the world – mostly in neutral-toned crisply fitted shirts and sharply tailored suits. She had large breasts – all her own – a small waist, and richly curving hips. Definitely not Kate Moss.

‘Ah, you’ll do,’ she told her reflection, and slipped on a cosy grey cashmere vest and pants before heading for the kitchen to stare in the fridge.

She hadn’t eaten since early afternoon and now she was hungry. There was some pasta there, and a little tomato sauce. She’d heat it up, eat in front of the TV with a glass of wine, and she wouldn’t think about her estranged family, not for an instant. She put the pasta and sauce in a pan and a plate in the oven to warm, then went over to the door and picked up the post. She took it back into the kitchen and put it on her tray with a knife and fork, a bottle of wine and a glass, salt and pepper.

When the pasta was done, she took the tray into the sitting room and aimed the remote at the TV, settling down with a sigh. She ate her meal watching the latest disasters in the world on the twenty-four-hour news channel, sipped the wine, and began to feel almost human again.

She reached for the post and started to sort through the junk mail and the bills. She spotted something that looked vaguely official – and then the name jumped out at her. Her stomach clenched, the pasta swirling in her guts, and for an uneasy moment she felt as if she might throw it all back up again. It was from a county court, and there was the name, the one she always half expected to see or hear but rarely did, these days. She had stopped using that name soon after the separation.

Connolly.

And there was his name too. Lorcan.

Shit. They were divorce papers.

Happy Christmas, Gracie, she thought, and she stared at the papers and fought down a most un-Gracie-like urge to cry.

George and Harry

OCTOBER

Chapter 3

It had all started out so easily. Harry and George were chilling in their rented flat. They had ordered in pizza, they had beer, they were sorted. They’d watched the match and then a cheesy old Richard Gere film had come on. As the action unfolded they were paying it scant attention. They were busy moaning on about how they were always skint.

George was bored with working as a dealer at Lorcan’s place, but what else could he do? And Harry was Job Seeking, only not really. They had few qualifications between them, and it was George’s firm opinion that they were screwed from now until they fell off the twig at ninety. Well, sixty more likely. But it would feel like ninety years had crawled by, because the whole damned circus was going to be such a long dull pain in the arse. And there was Richard Gere, being a gigolo on the screen. Humping beautiful girls and – for God’s sakes! – getting paid for the privilege. George liked the ‘getting paid’ bit. As for humping the girls, well, he could do it. He wasn’t crazy for it like Harry was, but as Tina Turner so rightly said, Keep your mind on the money.

‘We could go for that,’ said George idly.

‘For what?’ Harry was yawning, nearly ready to turn in. He had to go and sign on again tomorrow – what a fucking treat.

‘Being a thingy. You know. A gigolo. Boffing the birds for money.’

Harry burst out laughing. ‘You what?’

‘Look, the girls do it, don’t they? Escort work? Guys do it too. And it’s safer for guys. They make major money.’

‘Oh sure.’

‘Damn right I’m sure.’ Now George was sitting up straight, and there was that mad light in his eyes that he always got when he had a bright idea. George’s bright ideas had landed Harry in a lot of trouble over the years, involving him in gang fights, territorial disputes, all sorts of shit, so Harry was starting to feel a little nervous. He’d come this close to getting a knife shoved between his ribs once, and he wasn’t eager to repeat the experience.

But still . . . escort work.

Maybe George did have something there.

‘I could set up a website,’ said George. ‘We could get some cards printed.’

‘Maybe,’ said Harry.

‘Oh come the fuck on, Harry, it’ll be a laugh,’ said George, grinning. ‘You got anything else going on?’

Harry shook his head. ‘No, but . . .’

‘Well then.’

‘I don’t want any trouble, George.’

‘Trouble?’ George was wide-eyed and innocent. ‘This’ll be like taking candy from a baby. No trouble involved.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well . . .’

‘Oh come on. Let’s do it. Okay?’

Harry started to smile.

‘Okay,’ said Harry, and they high-fived. Harry was con fident that George would forget all about this conversation by the morning. He was drunk as a skunk. They both were.

But George didn’t. Morning rolled around and George was still talking about his escorting idea. He was on a roll.

By the end of that week, their website was no longer a drunken dream in George’s head: it was fact. And before long they had booked their first client, and then, in quick succession, came their second, their third, their fourth . . .

‘Christ!’ laughed George, his eyes dancing as he playfully waltzed his younger brother around the room. Their tenth client had just booked. ‘Look at this, boy. We’re going to be minted!’