Jessie Keane - The Make

Jessie Keane is the bestselling author of Dirty Game and Black Widow. Scarlet Women , the third in the Annie Carter trilogy, shot straight into the Sunday Times bestseller list. Her most recent novel is Jail Bird . Jessie lives in Hampshire.

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A whole host of people helped me in many ways to complete this book if Ive missed you out, forgive me you know what Im like. Thanks to old friends and new to Lynne and Steve for just being there; to Karen and Paul; and to Albert and Rosie for teaching me, for the first time, to love dogs. To Louise Marley for endless email encouragement, and Sue Kemish for the laugh-out-loud doorstep chats. To Sarah Ritherdon for her kindness, incisive editing and that lovely sunlit lunch at the River Cafe, and to Judith Murdoch for... oh, just about everything, really.

Dirty Game

Black Widow

Scarlet Women

Jail Bird

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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 weeks 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 malls 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, shed made no real plans and also as usual she hadnt 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.

Gracies 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 shed been catapulted into the driving seat following her dads death, shed 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 Gracies 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. Shed feared she would sink without her dad at the helm, but shed swum. Hell, shed powered through the waters of the casino world, glad now that Dad had insisted she work her way up the ranks; shed kicked against it sometimes, but hed been right.

She knew the business inside out. Shed started as a slots trainee, then a dealer; then shed 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 Gracies 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.

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

Im afraid theres 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 shed had in the world was her dad, and he was gone.

What is it? she asked.

The male PC swallowed delicately. Its your brother, Miss Doyle.

Brother?

She had to think about that. Her brother? Both her brothers were in London and she hadnt 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. Hes 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 shed still been a wet-behind-the-ears beginner in the casino game.

Whats wrong with him? Brynn asked, seeing that Gracie was flummoxed by the news.

Hes been assaulted, said the female PC, watching Gracie like she feared she was about to faint away or something. Im sorry, Miss Doyle, it looks very serious. His mother your mother thought you should be contacted.

What the fuck for? wondered Gracie. Her mother hadnt thought to get in touch for years. And when Gracie had dutifully notified her mother of her fathers sudden death, she hadnt even received a reply. Neither her mother nor her brothers had come to the funeral, and they hadnt even sent a wreath. She would never forget that. Standing there alone, unsupported by her family, in the cold January graveyard.