The Make

Mona was one of the fetish-club dancers. It was true, Mona had a kind face. And a gorgeous arse.

Gordon was mopping up skeins of sticky yolk with his bread and Lefty had to look away.

‘Get her to tell everyone she’s the kid’s mother, shed a few tears, my lost boy, my tragic life, blah, blah, blah. You know the drill.’

‘Yeah.’ Lefty felt slightly better now. It was good advice, and he was going to take it.

‘Another idea,’ said Gordon, talking fast now, waving the dripping bread about in Lefty’s direction. ‘Am I on fire or what? The ideas are comin’ thick and fast. Go to the nearest YMCA, get Mona to do the business: her little boy Alfie ran away from home, is he there? And the tears, don’t forget the tears, man. They pay dividends.’

Lefty was nodding. ‘My man, you are a scholar and a gentleman,’ he congratulated Gordon.

‘Hope it helps.’ Gordon shrugged modestly. ‘Besides all that, I’ll pass the word around, get all the mates to keep ’em peeled. I really hope you find him, Lefty, because if you don’t, seriously, I would take my first piece of advice if I were you. Just throw your arse in the river. Because Deano’s going to do that – and much worse – to you, and then you know what? He’s gonna post you home to your mama in a plastic bag.’

Gracie

DECEMBER

Chapter 10

19 December

Gracie didn’t sleep well the night after the police visit. She had blackout blinds at her bedroom windows and an eye mask to keep out any hint of residual light because working so late she often slept in until gone noon. She was usually an eight-hour girl – anything less and she woke up grouchy and stayed that way for the better part of the day – but things were playing on her mind, despite her best efforts to ignore them. Like her family, for instance. The family she had distanced herself from long ago, and barely gave a thought to any more.

When her parents split, she’d been sixteen years old. George and Harry had been twelve and eleven respectively. As kids they had endured years of furious rows and recriminations, their father cold and withdrawn, their mother shouting and screaming. There was talk of affairs, and it became obvious who’d done the cheating – their mother.

How the hell could she have done that to Dad. To all of them?

Dad had been managing a casino in the West End at the time, working all hours, and Mum had cited that as the reason she had strayed. Gracie had been numb at first, and then coldly enraged at her mother. Of all the trampy, despic able things to do. Dad had worked hard to give them a comfortable home, a decent life, and this was how she repaid him.

Gracie remembered the pain of it all, even now, and how judgemental she had been, as only a teenage girl with her hormones in turmoil could be. Her relationship with her mother had never been an easy one. Gracie was cool, and Suze was a bundle of out-of-control emotions. She made no secret of the fact that she preferred ‘her boys’, and found logical, strong-willed Gracie hard to manage or understand – but after the affair thing blew up in all their faces, Gracie had detested her.

So when Dad decided to go and work in Manchester, Gracie had winged the last school term and abandoned her exams. She knew she wanted to work in the casino business, so what was the point of more school? She’d been blessed with a prodigious natural talent for maths, so she could weigh up odds in an instant, and add up a row of figures at lightning speed. She knew exactly what she wanted in life; she didn’t need any careers adviser to tell her. Coldly, dis passionately, she had announced to her mother that she intended to go with him.

George and Harry had of course sided with Mum, and had been angry, hurt and resentful that Dad and Gracie were choosing to leave them. And although Dad tried to keep in touch with his boys, asked if he could visit them, Suze had said a flat, spiteful no. Gracie knew that he’d sent them presents and cards and letters, but he never heard a thing back from them, not a word. She knew how much it had hurt Dad. She knew too that he could have tried for proper controlled access through the courts, but the split had been so devastating that he had quickly lost heart.

So, time passed.

Contact was lost.

Ancient messes – ones she preferred not to think about now.

But the phone call from the girl – what was her name, Sandy? – had brought it all back, unnerved her, made her go on the defensive. She’d shut down on her emotions, snapped at Brynn. She felt bad that she had lashed out at the one person who had always been solidly supportive of her, helping her through the hideous time after Dad’s death. Brynn had always schooled her in the business, never running out of patience when she was slow to pick up anything. She promised herself that she would apologize to him as soon as she got in to work.

Gracie showered and dressed and ate breakfast in the bright, well-fitted kitchen with its view out over the Manchester ship canal. Yet even the view failed to charm her today. Her flat was in a converted corn mill, its old antecedents clearly visible in its bare, minimalistic brick walls and high ceilings. She’d bought it with a huge mortgage, and had loved it from day one.

Yesterday’s post mocked her from the kitchen table, where she’d left the letters in the small hours of this morning. Divorce papers. So, finally, it had come down to this. Lorcan wanted rid of her, wanted to make it all legal and above board.

Probably – and she felt another little stab of unease, a little niggle of something suspiciously like genuine pain – probably he had found someone else. After all, he was a good-looking man. And there he was, in her mind. Lorcan Connolly. Black, close-cropped hair, bright blue eyes that skewered you where you stood, a mouth like a gin trap. Six feet four inches of Alpha male who looked like he could get physical – in the bedroom or out of it – without any trouble at all.

Stop it, she told herself. You made your choice. You walked away.

Ancient messes.

She wasn’t going to think about them now. She pushed them to the back of her mind and took the lift down to the secure underground car park.

Gracie loved her car. It was a smooth, powerful beast, the silver Mercedes SLK-Class roadster, and she steered it effortlessly through the traffic, watching out for manic cyclists and distracted Christmas-shopping pedestrians with iPods stuck in their ears, meandering across roads strewn with multicoloured Christmas light displays with barely a glance at the traffic. She cut all thoughts of trouble out of her brain and hummed along with ‘Addicted to Love’ on her bass-heavy sound system, safe in her luxurious cocoon. Warm, too. Heated seats. Outside it was frosty-cold, with a pink-tinted sky up ahead. They were forecasting snow and Gracie thought that for once they’d got it right. The sky looked odd.

Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, she thought. Red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning.

A white Christmas. How romantic.

Oh yeah? This from a woman who just got divorce papers?

Shit. Why did she have to keep thinking about that?

She heard a siren long before she saw the fire engine in the rear-view mirror; cars behind her were edging in to the kerb to let it pass. She did the same, nosing the Mercedes in as far as she could. The huge red Dennis, lights flashing, siren blaring, eased past the long line of cars, then whipped through the red light up ahead.

Going the same way as Gracie.

The lights changed, traffic started moving again. The sun was a golden ball hanging low in the crystal-blue sky to her left.

Gracie’s gut tightened.

Hold on. Ahead was where the sky was lit up so peculiarly. Not to the left. That wasn’t the sun that was . . . a pretty big fire. There was a plume of black smoke spiralling up, and now another fire engine was coming through, everyone easing out of the way, Gracie too; and that ominous pink light was still there in the sky. Someone had a real mother-fucker of a fire going on somewhere.

Gracie got closer and closer to her destination, and now she could see the front of Doyles casino. Her heart leapt into her throat and her hands clenched on the steering wheel. She stared in disbelief. The engines were there, firemen were unravelling hoses, shouting at each other. People were running, yelling; others just stood and stared. And the frontage . . . my God, the frontage was on fire.

Later on, Gracie had no memory of actually stopping the car. All she knew was that she was unsnapping her seat belt and throwing herself out of her seat, then running hell-for-leather across the road to where the firemen were milling around, and the only thought in her head was oh my God, where’s Brynn?

Brynn lived in the flat over the casino, alone. She half staggered up the middle of the road, cars honking as they swerved and came to a halt, a policeman there, waving cars back. Gracie just stood there; she could feel the heat from here, could hear the hungry crackling of the flames. The glitzy ‘Doyles’ sign was gone. A gust of wintery air blew a choking veil of spark-spattered smoke back into the road and her breath caught on a wheezing cough.

The policeman turned and looked at her. ‘Move back, miss, will you? Right back.’

‘I own the place,’ she gasped out. ‘Where’s Brynn? The manager? Is he still in there?’

Jesus, not Brynn, she thought in anguish.

‘I don’t know. Just move back, it’s not safe.’

But Gracie charged forward, hearing the policeman let out a shout behind her.

‘Brynn?’ she yelled at the top of her voice. ‘Brynn, for God’s sake! Are you out here?’

He had to be out here.

The heat was blistering, scorching her skin where she stood, even though she was yards away from it. It was terrifying, the height and spread of the flames. The gouts of water from the hoses seemed to be having no effect at all. She looked at the firemen, and called over to the nearest one.

‘Is the manager out?’ She had to shout to make herself heard above the noise of the flames.

The fireman glanced at her absently, then carried on with what he was doing.

The policeman had followed her. He tapped her shoulder.

‘Miss! Come on now! Out of here!’

‘Fuck off!’ said Gracie, her eyes everywhere, frantic. She could see the front of the upper floor – Brynn’s flat – was well and truly alight. She looked around, her eyes crazy with fear for Brynn, spotted the fireman with the white helmet – the chief, wasn’t that right? She ran over to him, ignoring the policeman who was dogging her footsteps, and, just as she was going to grab the man, roar at him to get Brynn out, for the love of God, he was going to die in there . . . just at that moment she saw him.

Brynn was sitting, slumped over, wrapped in one of those ridiculous silver space-type blankets, at the back of one of the fire engines. There was an oxygen mask clamped over his nose and mouth. His thin face was grimy with soot, and he looked rough, but he was there.

‘Brynn!’ Gracie hollered, and he looked up at her.

The white-helmeted fire officer was standing close by. ‘We’ve got an ambulance coming,’ he told her as she dashed up. ‘Best get him to hospital. Check him over.’

Gracie knelt down beside Brynn and put a hand on his knee. She stared up at him anxiously. ‘You all right?’ she asked.

Brynn nodded. He looked exhausted, hunched there in grubby pyjamas. There was madness all around them, men bellowing orders, the flames roaring, people – for fuck’s sake! – taking pictures of the blaze on their mobiles. The policeman had abandoned Gracie and gone to harangue them instead.

‘What the hell happened?’ she asked Brynn.

Brynn moved the mask away from his face.

‘I came down . . .’ He paused, and coughed hard. ‘. . . I heard something at the front of the building about an hour ago. Woke me up. I came down, and got the shock of my life. The outer door was well alight. It didn’t set off the sprinklers straight away, it wasn’t close enough to the lobby for that.’ He stopped speaking again, coughed, drew in a whooping breath. ‘I got the fire extinguisher out and sprayed it from inside, but it was too fierce, I had . . . had to leave it. Came out the back way.’ He stuck the mask back over his face, shaking his head.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Gracie, patting his knee. His pj’s smelled smoky. Running chillingly through her brain was the thought that if he had not heard that noise at the front door, he would now be upstairs in his flat, asleep and drifting into death as rolling black smoke stole the air from his lungs.

The casino alarms were bellowing, and through the smoke-haze and the orange glow of the flames Gracie could see that the sprinklers were working now inside the building, drenching the lobby, the slots, the tables, everything. She stood up and looked at the wrecked building and felt a spasm of real pain. There was going to be a lot of damage. It was going to take a long time before they could resume business. Thank Christ for insurance.

‘What could have set it off?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Any idea?’

‘Not the bloody foggiest,’ said Brynn. ‘Electrical fault’s my best guess. Something blew. They’ll look into it.’ He coughed again, long and hard.

There was an ambulance nudging its way towards them now down the packed street, siren wailing.

Gracie stood up and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Think that’s our lift,’ she said.

‘You don’t have to come too,’ said Brynn, getting to his feet and standing there swaying like someone caught out in a gale. ‘They’ll want to talk to you here.’

‘Of course I’ll come too,’ said Gracie. ‘I’ll leave my details with the chief fire officer, and he can pass it to anyone else who wants it. And . . . Brynn . . .?’

He swayed and Gracie found herself putting an arm around his thin shoulders, half supporting his slight weight against her.

‘Feel a bit shaky,’ he said, half laughing. He looked very pale.

The ambulance men were opening the back doors of the ambulance, sliding out a stretcher.

‘You’ve got every right to feel shaky – you’ve had one hell of a fright,’ said Gracie. ‘Brynn . . . look, I’m sorry I snapped at you last night on the phone.’

‘Ah, forget it.’ He waved a limp hand, dismissing it.

‘When I drove up I thought you’d got fried in your bed,’ said Gracie with a trembly laugh. She felt pretty damned shaken herself. She’d lost Dad, and for a horror-filled few minutes she seriously believed she had lost Brynn too.

‘Can’t keep a good man down,’ said Brynn. His eyes turned up in his head. His legs folded just as the ambulance guys reached them. If they hadn’t grabbed him right then, he would have collapsed on to the road, unconscious.

Chapter 11

20 December

Gracie stood looking at the wrecked frontage of Doyles the next day. She felt drained to the point of exhaustion by all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Going to the hospital with Brynn, making sure he was all right, phoning his sister because he had no wife – Brynn had never been married. The job was his life. Angie was anxious, asking, ‘Is he all right? How did it happen?’

Good question, thought Gracie grimly.

They released Brynn later in the day, not even keeping him in overnight. His swift exit from the building had saved his lungs from the worst of it. Angie pitched up at the hospital in double-quick time and said he was coming back to stay with her, and she wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

To Gracie’s surprise, Brynn was so shaken by the whole thing that he didn’t even raise a murmur in protest. Sometimes, she guessed, all a person wanted was a safe haven, a friendly hug.

She wasn’t about to get one of those, she knew that. She rang round all the staff, told them what had happened and that she or Brynn would be in touch when Doyles was operational again. By the time the fire officer had finished questioning her at the scene next day, asking her if she had any money worries, any enemies (she answered no to both), and she had contacted the insurance people and the building had been secured, she was worn out.

She drove home, looking at all the twinkling Christmas lights, the shoppers in search of that perfect last-minute present. A giant inflated blow-up Santa bobbed past on the back of a flatbed truck. It was three thirty in the afternoon and already beginning to get dark. There’d been more talk of snow on the forecasts, but she thought it was too cold for that. She parked up underneath her building, and with relief took the lift up to her flat.

There was more post on the mat. She picked it up and took it through to the kitchen, with that other thing niggling at her again – the divorce papers. Talk about ‘it never rained but it bloody well poured’! She leaned on the kitchen counter, weary to the bone, and thought about her short-lived marriage to Lorcan Connolly.

There had been something wild, almost indecent, about the passion that had flared up between them. Gracie liked to be in control. But with him . . . she had lost that. Found her inhibitions being thrown to the wind, and it had made her feel too vulnerable. Like she couldn’t steer the good ship Gracie any more; as if she was being buffeted by some force stronger than herself. She was cool and logical, whereas Lorcan was fiery and impulsive. They attracted and repelled each other, like powerful magnets.

Lorcan had worked for Gracie’s father when he had managed a casino in London’s West End. Then, when Paddy had taken off for Manchester with Gracie after his divorce, he had head-hunted Lorcan and installed him as manager of his new casino up there. Inevitably, Lorcan and Gracie had met. She’d been learning the business, working her way up the greasy pole as Dad insisted she should. She and Lorcan had fallen in love, then married on Gracie’s twentieth birthday.

It should have been happy-ever-after. But Lorcan hadn’t been content in Manchester. He was a Londoner, and he wanted to return there, to open and run his own place. Gracie, however, was settled in Manchester. Her dad was there, she loved Doyles and was thrusting ahead with her own career. So Lorcan went off down to London to get started up, expecting her to join him – but by then she had his old job, managing the entire casino, and she was happy.

There had followed weekends together, arguments, endless wearying debates. And all it boiled down to was this: he was settled in London. She was settled in Manchester.

Gracie heaved a sigh that shuddered through her frame. She’d loved him. But she had loved her career too, her burgeoning, swiftly growing career up here in Manchester with Dad.

Never one to mince his words, Lorcan had told her flat out that something was going to have to give, but it seemed he was sure it wouldn’t be his career to go, it would be hers. Then he had said he wanted children, but Gracie had been so busy forging a career that she didn’t want children, not yet anyway. Why couldn’t he understand that?

He didn’t.

During one bitter, final phone call he’d laid down an ulti -m atum: either she moved back down to London, or it was over.

‘Okay then!’ Gracie had screamed down the phone at him. ‘Okay, you bastard! Enough! It’s over!’

She had slammed the phone down. After five years of trying – and failing – to reconcile their differences, they gave up. They never spoke again.

She poked the papers with one finger. Divorce. Horrible word. An admission of failure. She looked down at her long, pale hands, bare of ornamentation. She hadn’t worn her wedding or her cabochon-cut, beautiful emerald engagement ring in years. Why the hell did he have to choose now, when she felt so stressed, when bad memories of her father’s death and new disasters were besetting her, to start proceedings?

Irritably she turned away, shrugging off her coat and throwing it aside. Time for the other post. Bank letters, those blank credit-card cheques that she never used and were a bugger to dispose of. A jiffy bag. She tore open the fastenings and tipped the contents out on the table. A bundle of mid-length dark red hair fell out, and a note.

She literally leapt back, away from it, her hands flying to her mouth.

It was a dead animal.

What the fuck?

Her heart started stampeding around in her chest as she stared wildly at it. She felt a hot sour surge of sickness building in the back of her throat. Oh Jesus. Had some sick bastard posted a dead thing to her? Then she noticed that the hair was exactly the same colour as her own.

Gulping hard, she reached out and tentatively touched it. There was no substance, no form, no small dead body. It was just hair, a lot of it – and it was just like hers. She looked at the folded note. Her hand shook with shock and fear as she picked it up, unfolded it, and read the typed words.

Smoke getting in your eyes?

Blame your scumbag brother.

I’m watching you, Red.

Call the filth on this and you’re all dead.

Gracie sat down hard on one of her bar stools. Her brain felt hot-wired suddenly, the blood singing in her ears. She couldn’t get her breath. She wondered for a moment if she was actually going to pass out. Smoke getting in your eyes. The fire at Doyles. Blame your scumbag brother. George in hospital. The tearful call from the girl, Sandy. Harry . . . Harry was missing.

George had always been trouble, and Harry had always followed his lead. What had they been getting into this time? And even more frightening than any of that, which was terrifying enough, the final line. I’m watching you, Red.

Gracie snatched up the jiffy bag. The label was neatly typed, like the note, and postmarked London. Whoever had sent this, they knew where she lived. They knew where she worked. They could be watching her right now.

Gracie glanced at the window. Outside, night had fallen, and there were stars starting to twinkle in the sky. There was no wind; the air was still, clear and cold. There would be frost tonight. Lights were winking cheerily down there on the narrow boats moored all along this stretch of the canal. There were buildings right opposite this one, with windows that faced right on to her kitchen. She got up, crossed quickly to the kitchen window and slammed shut the blinds with a shaking hand.

She looked again at the hair. It was the same texture and colour as her father’s had been before it became peppered with grey; the same colour as her own. Was that George’s? Harry’s? It wasn’t her mother’s; mum had been bottle-blonde just about forever.

Suddenly she didn’t want to be here alone in this big, echoing apartment with its lovely views. She went through to the sitting room and shut the blinds in there too, then went to the front door. She checked it was locked, and put the chain on.

After that she began to unwind, just a bit. Aware that she had been holding her breath, she told herself breathe, you idiot. No wonder you thought you were going to faint, you have to breathe.

She wished someone was here with her, someone who was a bit of a bruiser, an action-man type. Oh, you mean like Lorcan Connolly? shot into her brain. The one who caused you tears and heartache, and turned out to be the rottenest, most chauvinistic bastard you’d ever met?

Come on, she told herself. Get a grip, okay?

She went back into the kitchen. The hair still lay there on her table. Gracie stared at it and shuddered. Then she hurried back into the sitting room and went to the answering machine. She hadn’t wiped the messages. She replayed them, five al together, two about business, and three from the girl called Sandy, each one more distraught than the last.

She listened to Sandy’s messages again, tuning in this time, paying close attention. George was in hospital, Harry was fuck-knew-where. Sandy gave her phone number – a mobile, not a landline. Gracie wrote it down on the pad, cleared the messages, and dialled.

No answer.