Presumed Dead

by Jessie Keane

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

THE CARTER FAMILY IS BACK...

Annie Carter is burying her sister Ruthie, from who she has long been estranged. There was bad blood between them - Annie stole away Max Carter on the night before his wedding to Ruthie and that destroyed any closeness between the sisters, which Annie now bitterly regrets. But at least she is giving Ruthie a decent send-off. Except, a mystery surrounds Ruthie's death: was it suicide - or murder?

Ruthie left England in the sixties, last seen boarding a train at Waterloo Station. Where was she heading? What, over the intervening years until her death, had she been doing?

Because, since the funeral, it seems that someone or something is playing tricks, trying to make Annie Carter lose her mind. Is she being haunted? Or hounded by an enemy from her past?

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 320

Sample

PROLOGUE

She could hear her attacker yelling obscenities as, bouncing wildly, the car careered off the road.

Then the car hit the grassy verge at frightening speed and shuddered, tilted. In panic, she threw all her weight onto the steering wheel, ignoring his punches and shoves and yelling as he tried to get her off it.

The car bumped and thumped along and then suddenly, shockingly, tilted hard down and was nose-down in the ditch, wheels spinning, engine still roaring.

Then the motor cut out and there was just him, shouting insults at her, saying, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.

Thank God for little miracles, she had time to think, because his side of the car was in the ditch and hers was up in the air.

She scrabbled for the door handle and shoved the door open with a massive effort, gravity working against her, him battering at her with his fists, the wind snatching at her clothes and her hair and lashing at her face as she hauled herself out and fell onto the grass, kicking herself free of his grasping, hurtful hands. Suddenly she could hear the birds, singing up in the thrashing trees – imperfectly, because she heard everything imperfectly these days. She was still alive – but for how long? Once she had wanted to end it all. But now?

Now she wanted to live.

But she couldn’t run back to the house. He would catch her first, stop her.

Instead she scrambled upright and ran away from her husband’s Surrey mansion, away from the certainty of help and into the unknown. Her legs trembling with every step, she ran, stumbling, falling, righting herself then running again.

She could hear him back at the car, swearing, shouting, but no matter about that, he was struggling to get out of the car and for a moment she might be able to get away.

She had to get away.

Was he coming? Was he going to get her? He wasn’t shouting anymore. God, that was a bad sign.

This was a quiet country road and all she could hear above the pounding of her own heartbeat and the shuddering, struggling intake of every breath was the wind, the birds.

She ran.

Focused on that and that alone now.

One foot in front of the other, she focused on escape.

RUTHIE

1

1963

Her name after the wedding, that wedding, was Ruthie Carter: she was the wife of Max. Before that, she was plain old Ruthie Bailey: daughter of Connie; cousin of Kath; niece of Maureen or ‘Mo’, Connie’s sister. Oh, and older sister of Annie.

Ruthie may have seemed like the dull one, the one who wanted to blend into the woodwork, while Annie was the bright shining star who was impossible to ignore; Annie, the immovable object to Max Carter’s unstoppable force. Ruthie was pretty enough but too polite, a touch too nice. That was probably because she caught the tail-end of the fights and the drunken rages between her parents Frank and Connie, and she learned early on that it was best to keep a low profile.

Her younger sister Annie had a different take on things. Any attention, good or bad – and mostly it was bad – fed her need to be noticed. And anyway, most of their parents’ marital battles passed over her head. All Annie knew was that Dad left and that broke her heart because she loved Dad and hated Mum – and then things got a lot quieter.

Ruthie saw the lot and it scarred her. The drinking. The swearing. The shrieks. The blows. She learned to keep her head down, to offend no one, and growing up in a war zone was pretty much normal to her. And finally, there was Dad – leaving, going out through the front door, closing it with a bang behind him. Years later, Ruthie could still picture him, his cheap old leather suitcase in hand, his back to the lot of them, going.

Annie was devastated. She’d loved Dad so much, and she was even like him to look at. Dark-haired, green-eyed; striking. Ruthie? She was relieved. No more fights, thank God. That was her take on it all. There was no doubt about it – Dad had abandoned them, left them to struggle. Not to put too fine a point on it, the uncaring bastard had left his family in the shit.

Connie drank more after Frank went, so she couldn’t work at her cleaning jobs. For days she’d lie on the sofa and swig whatever she could get her hands on. There was precious little food in the larder, maybe sometimes a bit of stale cheese, bread so solid you’d kill someone if you hit them over the head with it, rancid butter. Maybe a tomato, blue-whiskered with mould. But there was always, always booze.

Neither Annie nor Ruthie ever bothered much with school. If an inspector called round, they and their mother hid (and usually the inspectors didn’t call at all, because the Baileys lived in a tatty and aggressive little enclave where even the toughest coppers tended to patrol the streets two by two). Any warning letters were chucked in the fireplace. Finally, of course, the inspectors didn’t bother to call at all and the letters stopped coming.

After the girls’ sparse education was done – neither could even remember receiving a final report – they got jobs. Sweeping up in salons. Working on deli counters. Then Ruthie managed to get a place at the Blue Parrot nightclub dodging filthy propositions from greasy tycoons, while Annie got a job at the local corner shop, dodging gropes from Ted the owner. One way or another, they managed.

It was at the Blue Parrot that Ruthie first came into Max Carter’s orbit. He owned the Parrot, and the Shalimar, and the Palermo Lounge; all top-end clubs with famous acts performing live.

Max was at that stage of his life where he could accept the need to settle down. His mother Queenie was getting older and she was prodding him hard in that direction.

So – the stars conjoined. Ruthie and Max met. They talked. He seemed – and remember here that Ruthie had heard all sorts about him, about protection rackets and the endless fights he had with the Delaney lot, all that scary turf-war East End stuff – but he seemed, very much to her surprise, nice. She was charmed by him. At first scared, a bit overwhelmed, actually. But soon he put her at ease. Before very long he moved her on from a junior position at the Blue Parrot to a more senior one at the Palermo Lounge. That sounds good, impressive, but it was just a title. She was still taking people’s coats and smiling, still keeping the punters happy.

Then – and this was crazy, an unbelievable shock to Ruthie at the time – Max asked her out. Took her to a swanky French place to have a meal. No prices on the menu beside the dishes. She sat there feeling a right fool, all these haw-haw types around her, all the furs and the jewels on the women, and the dresses! Ruthie had never seen anything like it. The satins and silks and the colours – vivid emerald, shocking pink, purple, canary yellow. And there was she, wearing a plain little grey Crimplene shift dress, feeling as out of place as it was possible to be.

‘We’ll have to run you up something better,’ said Mum when Ruthie told her how awkward she’d felt. At this point Connie actually hauled herself off the sofa and took a bit of interest. Connie was getting a strong sniff of money in the air and that would call for effort and maybe even some modest investment, if she could scrape together a little cash for ground bait. ‘I’ll get Mo to do it for a couple of quid, she won’t mind,’ said Connie.

Auntie Maureen – or ‘Mo’ as she was more often called – lived next door with her daughter – Cousin Kath – and she had a Singer sewing machine that had fallen off the back of a lorry somewhere. Not wishing to crush Mum’s hopes, Ruthie obligingly went along with Connie to Woollies and they purchased a bolt of cheap but silky-feeling midnight-blue fabric for Mo to run up into an evening dress.

Ruthie didn’t have the heart to tell Mum not to bother – that the dinner date had been a one-off, that she had shown herself up to be woefully ignorant (half of Max’s conversation went straight over her head) and that he wouldn’t bother with her again. Which was probably just as well, because she’d started having girlish fantasies of a life with him. Him holding a chubby little dark-haired baby and smiling adoringly down at her as she lay, exhausted but delighted, in a hospital bed.

Ruthie had always wanted that. A settled life, a secure married family life. But then – could she see that happening, really, with this man? He was scary. All those gangland tales she heard about him. Nasty, frightening stuff. People left bleeding in alleys. Him on the phone, issuing orders, contacting a mob of men who – whenever she saw them – chilled her to the marrow.

Anyway, it didn’t matter. Soon, he wouldn’t bother with her anymore. He’d dump her and all her dreams would be over.

Still, though – it had been sort of nice.

While it lasted.

2

Much to Ruthie’s surprise, Max did bother with her again. This time, he took her dancing down the Palais. Dancing, she could do. Ruthie and Annie had often practised the Jive up in their bedroom, having a great laugh, twirling each other around. Annie was – of course – the better dancer out of the two. She could even do the Twist.

Annie could do anything.

So the midnight blue satin became a lovely dress with a huge swirly skirt and Max and Ruthie danced the night away, and she thought: Well, I’d better make the most of it, because pretty soon he’s going to be bored as fuck with all this. Ruthie knew her own faults, all too well. She was so shy she had little conversation, nothing to keep a man like him interested. He’d find other attractions soon and then she’d be back behind the coat counter.

But no.

Instead, there were more dinners, more dances.

‘Gawd, you’re going to need more dresses,’ said Connie, panicking but loving it. This was amazing.

So Connie and Ruthie bought more fabric. Dearer fabric too. Connie got a loan off one of the local sharks and bought black lace. Red satin. Fabulous, the silken feel of these lovely things, things Ruthie had never experienced before.

And now Connie was talking strategy.

‘Don’t let him feel you up,’ Mum advised as she hoisted Ruthie into one of her own dire knicker-pink corsets and yanked it tight at the back.

‘Fuck, I can’t breathe,’ Ruthie complained.

‘Yes you can. Just breathe shallow, that’s how it’s done,’ Mum said, and slid the newest of Auntie Mo’s creations over Ruthie’s head and down. She zipped it up. It was beautiful, the red edged with the black. Fabulous. Ruthie wondered how she’d ever summon up the nerve to wear such a thing. You couldn’t fail to be noticed in a dress like this.

‘Did you hear what I just said, Ruthie?’

‘Don’t let him feel me up,’ Ruthie repeated dutifully. ‘I heard. But he won’t do that. He’s not like that.’

‘They are all like that,’ Mum said sniffily. ‘Show them a bit of skirt on a plate and what do they do? They reach for a knife and fork.’

‘That’s what Annie says,’ Ruthie smiled.

‘Oh, her.’ Connie sniffed derisively. ‘Always out on the town, ain’t she, hooking her pearly. Look, she don’t know nothing about this, about you and Mr Carter, Ruthie, and make sure you don’t tell her anything about it either, because she’ll only do her best to put the boot in.’

Ruthie didn’t think Annie would put the boot in. She’d always been nice to her. Not only a younger sister but a dear friend. It was only around Mum and her constant jibing that Annie became hostile.

‘What about if she sees all these new frocks?’ Ruthie asked, while Mum started wrenching a brush through her regrettably fine mousy hair.

‘I’ve sorted that. Mo’s keeping them hid round at hers in the spare room. You can get dressed there before you go out. Just keep quiet about everything; okay, Ruthie? A man like Mr Carter wouldn’t appreciate his business being talked about by every Tom, Dick or Harry. Got me?’

‘Got you,’ Ruthie said, but she knew that Mum’s excitement was all going to go to waste, that one of these days Max would kick her straight to the kerb.

This blissful situation could not possibly go on.

And if it didn’t? Well, Mum would be gutted, which was a shame. And her? How would she feel? Sort of relieved?

Yeah, maybe.

Because even though Max Carter seemed like the perfect gent, there was that other side to him, wasn’t there? Sometimes she glimpsed it in him – a glance, a movement, that sudden threatening lift of the scorpion’s tail. There was no doubt in her mind that Max was a very dangerous man. If he was on your side, you were utterly safe, completely secure.

If not . . .?

She wasn’t sure. Didn’t even want to think about it.

Best not.

3

The next outing was a dinner dance at the Shalimar, then there was more dancing, then the theatre to see The Mousetrap. Ruthie had never, ever been to the theatre before then. She’d hardly known anything like that even existed. They were in the best seats – a box, high up, very posh – and Max bought her an orchid corsage to wear on her dress.

And all the while she was almost – almost – falling for him and trying not to because this all had to come to an end soon, simply had to, plain little Ruthie Bailey and this handsome powerful and rather frightening man with his flashy clothes; he wore a gold ring on his index finger, engraved with what he told her were Egyptian cartouches on either side of a square slab of lapis lazuli. She’d never even heard of lapis lazuli, but it was a rather nice royal blue.

The longer all this went on, the more convinced Ruthie became that it was doomed to be over someday soon. She had a stern word with herself about it whenever she wavered and started to fall under the almost hypnotic spell he cast. Yes, it was all lovely. But it couldn’t last. She had never been lucky; life in the thick of poverty had ground her down, polished off any hopes she might once have possessed. So she braced herself for the inevitable falling-out, the point at which he would say sorry Ruthie, it’s been fun, but . . .

Well, she would take it on the chin. She would smile and say, it had been wonderful. Well, it had been wonderful. No lie there. All the way through it she had been longing to tell Annie, to confide in her just as she always had in the past. But Ruthie went on with the subterfuge, humouring Mum, saying nothing to her sister.

Then one day she got the most unbelievable shock.

They were sitting at Max’s table in the Shalimar – funny that, one of his clubs and the lovely perfume he’d bought her that she now always wore, both having the same name – and they were listening to Millicent Martin singing, accompanied by a jazzy piano player. The place was packed out, everyone was enjoying the show. Millicent and the pianist were up on the little semi-circular stage with the huge, red, gold-trimmed tasselled curtains hanging down behind them and the gold MC at the top where the curtains joined. As Miss Martin’s set finished, and the applause died down, Max turned to Ruthie and said: ‘I’ve got something I want to say.’

‘Oh?’ Her stomach clenched. This was it. The end to all Mum’s elaborate plans. You’re dumped.

‘I want you to come to tea one night. Meet my mother.’

4

Queenie Carter lived in a plain two-up-two-down in Bow, nothing outwardly fancy; but an invitation to tea with the mother of one of London’s leading crime bosses was a very big deal indeed. The notorious Kray brothers had Violet: the equally fearsome Max Carter had Queenie.

‘Christ, what the hell should you wear?’ Connie fluttered around, turning Ruthie this way and that. In the East End, this invitation to tea at Queenie’s was what amounted to a royal summons.

Her fag in one hand and a glass of voddy in the other, Connie gawped at her daughter’s unimpressive figure. She stood thinking, pondering, agonising. She mustn’t get this wrong. ‘Nothing tarty,’ she pronounced. ‘Something wholesome. Make you look like a lady. Yes?’

‘Like what, then?’ Ruthie was at a loss. She’d been wracked with nerves ever since she’d received Max’s invitation, and now Mum’s twittering around was only making her feel worse. Making her see that this was a big, big thing. Huge. Maybe life-changing. Who knew? She thought again of her dreams of a family life with Max. The beautiful dark-haired baby in his arms. God, who was she kidding? It couldn’t happen – could it?

Finally they settled on an appropriate outfit. A simple knee-length black skirt and a high-necked white blouse. When Ruthie first put the blouse on, Connie shrieked in alarm.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Ruthie, startled.

‘The bloody thing’s almost see-through. That’s your bra out on display, right there. Go and put on a full-length petticoat.’

‘I don’t have one.’

‘Take one of mine. Bottom drawer upstairs.’

Ruthie put on a petticoat.

‘Better,’ said Connie, then Annie came in.

‘Going somewhere special?’ she asked, smiling at Ruthie.

Don’t tell her, Mum’s eyes told Ruthie.

‘Dancing class,’ said Ruthie.

‘Gawd, what a drag,’ said Annie, and went off upstairs.

‘We’ll have to tell her sooner or later,’ said Ruthie, hating keeping things from Annie. All their lives they’d shared a bedroom, whispered secrets in the dark. Keeping this massive news from her just felt wrong. But then – she didn’t want to set off one of Mum’s spectacular drunken rages; she had to keep quiet.

‘Later, maybe. We’ll see how it goes,’ said Connie. She grabbed Ruthie’s shoulders. ‘Ruthie, do you realise how important this could be? You don’t do you. Well I’ll tell you. You could end up Mrs Max Carter. What do you think of that?’

The idea was terrifying. But Ruthie nodded. She’d never seen her mother so enthusiastic about anything, ever. And she didn’t want to piss on Connie’s parade and destroy her mood, not when she seemed so happy.

‘We’ll see,’ she said, thinking that Connie was kidding herself. Max Carter, married to her?

Yes, she might have dreamed of it – but for that dream to become a reality?

No.

No way could she see that ever happening.

5

When Ruthie entered the Carter family home, she was even more convinced that Connie was deluded. The little house was immaculately kept, a fitting little palace for one of the ruling queens of gangland.

And the queen herself?

Queenie Carter was warm as an icicle. A neatly dressed matron, she sat there and watched Ruthie enter her lounge with cold assessing eyes.

‘One of the Baileys, ain’t that right?’ she snapped out.

‘Yes.’

‘Seen another one about. Darker than you. That your sister?’

‘Yes. That’d be Annie.’

Queenie turned her head and said in a loud whisper to Max, who was sitting right there: ‘Tarty piece, yeah? You seen her?’

Max only smiled.

It was as if Ruthie wasn’t even there.

Straight away Ruthie decided that she hated the older woman and that Queenie would probably hate her right back.

Tea was a miserable long-drawn-out affair, with Ruthie half-choking on inedible meringue cakes and tea as weak as gnat’s piss. Finally, she and Max were able to say goodbye and she made her escape, only drawing breath when she was outside.

Oh thank God.

Well, she wouldn’t be having to go through that again, would she.

The meeting had been a disaster.

Ruthie was a little sad, but only for Mum’s sake really. She’d had such high hopes for this.

Max saw her into the back of his Jaguar Mark X. There was a big bald man sitting silent behind the wheel.

‘Just a minute, Tone,’ Max said to him, and closed the door after Ruthie and went back into the house.

Tone and Ruthie sat there in silence.

What the hell was Max doing?

Ruthie just wanted to get home, kick off the new shoes which were pinching like mad, and somehow – with some relief – break the news to Connie that it was all off.

Minutes passed. Long, silent minutes.

Finally, Max came back out of the house and got into the back of the car beside Ruthie.

‘Take a walk, will you, Tone?’ Max said to their driver.

Tone obligingly got out of the car and strolled off, up the road.

‘Ruthie,’ said Max.

Here it comes. The kiss-off. Sorry but fuck off, will you? It’s all done, all over.

‘Yes?’ Ruthie asked.

‘Will you marry me?’

6

Of course Ruthie said yes. She still could not believe her luck. Here was this fabulous man, asking her – of all bloody people – to marry him. So she said yes, what the hell else was she going to say? And suddenly they were engaged, and if it all seemed too quick and too overwhelming – too bloody terrifying really – then she just ignored that. It would be fine. For once, she was going to be lucky, to live the dream. She was dazzled by Max’s attention. And he loved her. She knew that. Well, he’d never actually said so, but he did. He must.

He treated her very respectfully, maybe too respectfully she sometimes thought. The odd peck on the cheek, a squeeze of her hand. But . . . shouldn’t there have been more, if he truly loved her? Hot, hungry kissing, the sort she dreamed of but never seemed to get?

No. It was okay. He was restraining himself, saving all that for the wedding night. He must be. And she had passed inspection by Queenie, his terrifying mother. Max Carter was going to marry her.

So they were engaged. Connie was ecstatic! She couldn’t get over it. The thought of their small struggling household having access to all Max Carter’s money was as intoxicating as gin to her. When Ruthie told her about the proposal she danced Ruthie all around their dingy, mouldy, threadbare little front room, croakily laughing and singing and praising her, telling her what a clever girl she was.

‘A ring!’ Connie shrieked. ‘You’ve got to choose a ring, yes?’

Ruthie thought: Yes. It was exciting. Crazy. A ring to say that she was engaged to Max Carter! Still, it was like a dream. They would trawl the shops, and she would – yes – choose a ring. A modest one, of course. She wouldn’t be bloody cheeky and ask for the earth, not when she had already gained so much.

But it didn’t work out that way.

Max, Ruthie soon discovered, did not – ever – trawl shops.

A discreet and smiling young man appeared one day at the Palermo with a large suitcase. He was accompanied by a bulky minder. With a theatrical flourish, the young man opened the case.

Ruthie gasped at the sight that was presented to her. The suitcase was packed with twenty padded purple velvet display beds, each one of them glittering with dozens of rings. Diamonds, opals, rubies, emeralds, sapphires; it was stunning. Like nothing she had ever seen before.

‘Choose whichever one you like,’ Max told her.

It was unbelievable.

Like the menus at the restaurant dinners they’d attended, there were no prices on display. She went to choose a modest diamond – quite small – but Max said no.

‘What about that one,’ he said.

‘Excellent choice sir,’ said the young man.

Ruthie tried it on. The diamond was big; the ring felt heavy.

She never found out the price.

Truthfully, she was scared to even ask.

When she got home, she insisted to Mum that it was time: they were going to have to tell Annie what was going on. It was only fair.

‘Oh, we can wait a bit longer,’ said Connie.

‘No,’ said Ruthie, putting her foot down for once. ‘Now. Today. It don’t feel right, keeping this from her.’

‘What’s going on then?’ asked Annie, coming in looking – as always – weary and fed up after another day avoiding Ted’s wandering hands at the corner shop. ‘What’s up with you two?’

Connie’s face was wreathed in a gloatingly triumphant smile as she stepped behind Ruthie. She caught hold of her daughter’s shoulders and made her face Annie. ‘Right! Shall we tell her?’ she asked, hissing the words against Ruthie’s ear. ‘Shall we, Ruthie? Hm?’

‘Oh come on,’ said Annie tiredly, slumping down in a chair and kicking off her shoes. ‘What is it?’

‘Your sister’s getting married,’ said Mum.

‘Good God!’ Annie stiffened in surprise. Then she gave Ruthie a delighted smile. ‘You kept that quiet.’

Ruthie felt bad about that. Of course she did.

‘I know,’ Ruthie said. But—’

‘She had to. Didn’t want to say too much in case it all fell through,’ jumped in Connie. ‘Didn’t want you putting the kybosh on it, did she.’

‘I wouldn’t do that,’ said Annie, her face hardening. Ruthie wished Mum would shut the fuck up. ‘Why the hell would I do that?’

‘Dunno.’ Ruthie felt Mum shrug. ‘You don’t like her having anything you don’t have, I know that.’

‘That’s bollocks,’ said Annie, standing up, snatching up her shoes. She looked at her sister. ‘Well – congratulations, Ruthie.’ Ignoring Mum, she came to Ruthie and, smiling, hugged her tight. ‘You never said anything was going on.’

‘It’s all been so sudden,’ Ruthie said, blushing at the lie.

‘Well it’s wonderful news. Well done. Who’s t. . .