Rejects (The Cardigan Estate Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  Will didn’t sell, he kept watch, standing in front of the hut to block the majority of the view. The sides didn’t face the school, so no one indoors could see in if they watched from a window. Those who didn’t know what went on in there must have thought nothing of it except kids going in and out, and those who were aware were too shit scared to tell anyone in case they got into trouble for buying it. Parents didn’t give you a tenner for your weekly school lunches in the canteen for you to spend it on drugs, going hungry so your Friday night had a bit of a buzz to it.

  Earlier, during this Monday lunchtime, she’d sold everything, the money secure in her little zip-top purse, which she’d tucked into an inside pocket of her bag. The satchel had been relegated to a space under her bed—she’d stopped using it after Mrs Didders had died, the bloody thing a nasty reminder of what she’d done. Seven years had passed since then, but still the guilt clung on, a limpet on the hull of her brain.

  The bell rang, signalling the end of school, and she bagged her things and waited for Will on the netball court that doubled as a playground, although no one played on it exactly, just walked around or gathered in youthful clumps. They walked towards home, side by side, Will moaning about lessons being so much harder in secondary school.

  “Are you waffling on so you don’t have to think about tonight?” she asked.

  “Yeah. It’s our first time on a big job.”

  “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

  “Me neither.”

  Rebecca didn’t get Mum, how she could let her kids do what they did, how she forced them to do it. Over the years, Rebecca had had a taste of family life in various friends’ houses when she’d been invited for tea, and it reminded her of the shit on telly, where people actually ate at the table and shared snippets about their days. Not everyone survived on fish fingers and oven chips, although to be fair, Mum had expanded her cooking skills by knocking up a spaghetti bolognaise or a shepherd’s pie recently, lumpy gravy poured on top. They had free school meals, what with Mum being on the social, so at least they got one decent dinner a day during term time.

  But those families, those mums, they were different. No shouting, but that could have been because Rebecca was there and they didn’t fancy showing their flaws, the cracks in their household veneers. Kindness, smiles, all alien, all confusing. Mum was never kind—Rebecca didn’t buy it that the cash her and Will had got from the sale of the golden dog was a kindness, more the purchase of their silence—and more often than not, the only time she smiled was when Benny thought up a new job and the amount of money exceeded what she’d expected.

  Mum lived for the wedges of notes and the things they could buy. Given how nosy people were on Justice Road, you’d think someone would have grassed her up by now for owning fancy things while claiming the dole, but then, those people wouldn’t want to get on Mum’s bad side, nor Benny’s.

  “Do you think we’ll get good enough exam results so we can go to uni?” Will asked.

  She tore herself from her thoughts and sighed. “Do you think she’s going to let us go even if we do? Benny won’t want us learning beyond college. We’ll be adults after that, and like he’s said, we’re all in the gang together and can’t leave.”

  “We should run away. When you’re eighteen and I’m sixteen, we’ll fuck off.”

  She laughed. “Where would we go? He’d find us.”

  Will shrugged. “I don’t know. Just putting it out there. I don’t want to be in the gang for the rest of my life. Do you?”

  “No. Shut up now, we’re home.”

  Home. What a joke that was. The place was more like a prison, her living a life sentence there unless she had the courage to leave.

  “You go in. I’ve got to drop the money at Benny’s.” She hated doing that, he always looked at her funny these days, but if she didn’t, he’d have a go at her.

  She walked farther down the street and up Benny’s path. A knock on the door had him there in an instant, licking his lips and giving her the once-over. He gripped the lapel of her uniform blazer and yanked her inside. She tripped at the rough handling and steadied herself with a hand splayed on the hallway wall, wishing Mum could do this bit so Rebecca didn’t have to. But Benny made the rules, and who was she to question them?

  He closed the door and held his hand out. “I hope you got rid of it all.”

  “Yep.” She pulled her purse from her bag, drew the zip across, and tipped the cash into his large palm.

  “I’ll count it later.” He stuffed it in the pocket of his baggy trackies.

  “It’s all there.”

  “It had better be, otherwise, you’ll have to pay for the shortfall yourself, and I don’t mean with your wages from the jobs.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He shot a hand out and grabbed her crotch through her polyester trousers, fingers probing, thumb pressing painfully on her pubic bone. She cried out and stepped back, but he moved with her, hand still in place. His other he raised to her breast and squeezed.

  “Like this,” he said, his rancid whisky breath basting her face. “Only we’ll go further, know what I mean?”

  “Get your hands off me.” She didn’t want to cry in front of him, but tears were close.

  “Or what?” he said. “What will you do?”

  “Go to the police. Report you.”

  He tightened his hold in both places. “And I’ll just tell them you’re lying and you’ve been trouble ever since you killed Mrs Didders.”

  “I didn’t know she’d die.” She bit back a sob.

  “Well, she did.” He let her go. “Now fuck off. I’ve got the final touches to make on tonight’s plan.” He walked into the living room, whistling.

  She bolted from his house, streaking down the path and onto the pavement. Tears fell, hot, dripping from her jawline. She dashed them away and reached home, oddly thankful, even though home was the last place she wanted to be. She glanced up at their bedroom window—she still shared with Will, despite them being too old for that. Len and Trev had no intention of moving out, so they’d said when Mum had asked them to sling their hooks, so a room each was out of the question. Her windowsill had six orchids on it now, all different colours, and Nan had given her a gemstone brooch with one on it yesterday. She was going to wear it tonight, on the job, and on every job after that, her lucky charm.

  Len stood behind the orchids, and she frowned.

  “What’s he fucking doing in there?” She stomped up the path and into the house, racing upstairs. Bursting into the bedroom, she glared at him. “Get out.”

  “Piss off, you little bitch.” Len stared at her, his mean eyes narrowing. “If I want to be in here, I’ll be in here.” He laughed. “Not like you can stop me, is it.”

  “I’ll tell Mum.” A stupid threat. Mum wouldn’t do fuck all, and Len knew it as well as she did.

  “Ooh, I’m scared.” He reached out and pinched an orchid petal between finger and thumb.

  “Don’t touch that.” She moved across the room and stood beside him.

  “I’ll touch what I like. Why are you so into these anyway, you bloody weirdo?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Where did you get them from?”

  “Nan bought the first one, and I got the rest.”

  “Ah, you always were her favourite. It’s because you’re a girl. You know that brooch she gave you only cost something like a fiver, don’t you. The stones aren’t real.”

  “Doesn’t matter how much it was, I like it.”

  “What does it feel like to be singled out as better than your brothers?” He plucked the petal off and let it fall to the floor.

  Rebecca’s heart sank. He was in one of his moods where he wanted to torment her.

  “She loves all of us the same,” she said. “That’s why she sent me home with sweets and socks for Will and a tenner each for you and Trev.”

  “Bollocks.” He picked off two more petals.
<
br />   “If the brooch was a fiver, then you and Trev and Will got more.” She gritted her teeth at him systematically plucking away at her flowers.

  “Whatever.” He swept his arm along the sill, and the flowerpots bashed into one another, the end one dropping to the carpet, then the next, and the next, and—

  “Pack it in!” She grabbed her tennis racquet off the chest of drawers and whacked him on the head with it, the squares of plastic-coated wire doing nothing. She twisted it so the hard rim would hurt him.

  He turned, face a riotous storm of seething emotions, and raised his hand to block the blows, snatching the handle and yanking it off her. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  He used it as a weapon on her, smacking the edge on her face, and pain lanced into her cheekbone. Her eyes watered, and she bowed her head, drawing her forearms up over her face, hands covering her hair. He stopped his brutal attack and turned it to the ceramic flowerpots, walloping them so they cracked down the middle, breaking open, yawning mouths spewing soil.

  She lowered to her knees, crying, all her hate for him swelling inside her, and the desire to get away from him, from her shitty bloody family, was so strong she choked on the need, her throat clogging with sentiments she could never express because she’d always shoved them away. Not all of them, though. Guilt was her constant companion.

  Len’s laughter didn’t leave the room with him. It lingered, echoing in her ears with the sound of her sniffs and crooked sobs. He’d chosen the one thing she loved more than Will and Nan, her precious orchids, which signified a simpler time when she’d believed fairies existed and you’d see them if only you looked hard enough.

  Will came in and crouched beside her. Had he stood on the landing and seen Len breaking the flowerpots, then gone down to collect the mugs he was placing on the carpet now, the old ones packed away in the back of the kitchen cupboard with their rims as chipped as Rebecca’s fragile feelings?

  Together, in silence, they potted the orchids, putting them back on the windowsill, and Will took her little jug into the bathroom to fill it. He returned and poured water into each mug, glancing at her every so often as if to say: See? We fixed it. Everything is okay now. Except it wasn’t. She now knew why Len disliked her, why he’d always treated her with disdain. He thought she was a favourite, and it had clearly upset him, and it would upset Nan if she thought he believed such a load of rubbish.

  Will went downstairs then came back with the hoover. He used the hose to suck up the remaining soil, and Rebecca turned to the mirror on the wall. Her cheekbone throbbed, and a livid bruise and swelling had come out. When Mum saw it, she’d have a fit, but not at Len, at Rebecca, for provoking him just by existing. And anyway, she wouldn’t know it was Len. Rebecca would make up a story—she’d walked into the doorframe or whatever. If she didn’t, he’d damage her some more.

  She caught sight of Trev’s reflection where he stood on the landing and stared at him. He leant his arse on the bannister rails, arms folded, a smirk tweaking his thick lips.

  “Come to laugh it up, have you?” she shouted above the hum of the hoover. The movement of her mouth set off a thudding ache in her face.

  He sighed and shook his head. “Nope, just wondered what the racket was. I was trying to watch the telly.” He flicked his gaze to Will. “Fucking pansy, doing housework. Didn’t you listen to Benny, thicko?” He curled his lip at Will. “Cleaning is women’s work. Why d’you think Rebecca had to do it at Mrs Didders’? Why do you think she does it here?” He strode off, laughing.

  If thoughts could kill, Rebecca’s would knock Trev and Len down dead.

  What a shame they didn’t.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lunchtime, the best part of George’s day, a chance to have a breather—if he didn’t have stuff on his mind. He sat in their kitchen at the centre island, Greg opposite. Greg had made coffee, sandwiches—cheese and pickle, crusty bread, that tiger shit—and they’d eaten in silence, George’s mind too full for him to natter. Now he’d got his thoughts into some semblance of order, he had a better idea of what they should do next. Martin’s phone call had taken the pleasure right out of the Jammie Dodger George had been eating for afters, and he’d almost shouted at the poor bloke, stopping himself in time.

  “Okay, this shooting in Birmingham,” he said, ignoring Greg’s sigh. “Bit of a bloody pest. What d’you reckon about contacting Rod Clarke and asking him to poke about there?”

  Greg scowled. “It’d raise red flags, some London copper asking questions of another division without a proper reason. It’s not like the old days when nothing showed up on a computer. They log everything.”

  “But we need to know if that Len and Trev are on the verge of getting caught—as in, how quickly we need to get them down here before they are. I want them gone.”

  “Fucking risky.”

  “Not when there’s the worry of them blabbing if they’re nicked. I don’t want coppers on Orchid’s doorstep, poking around. It wouldn’t take them long to see she rents off us, and our names will be dragged into it. There’s only so much Clarke can control.”

  “Fair enough.” Greg poked at their work phone screen and connected the call. He did the usual and leant it against the salt and pepper pots so they could both see Rod’s ugly mug when it popped up.

  There it was, filling the screen, and he smiled. Sky filled the background, so he was out and about, and he wouldn’t have answered if he had someone else with him. He must have sent his DS on another fool’s errand. “All right, lads?”

  George smiled back, although he wasn’t feeling it. The bloke trod all over his last nerve every time they had to deal with him, and since George had beaten him up for killing people and bringing trouble to their door, the man had been overly friendly. Too friendly for George’s liking. Punch-him-in-the-face-again friendly. “That shooting in Birmingham. Heard about it?”

  Clarke cleared his throat, as usual, an irritating nervous tic. “Yeah. Some blokes in balaclavas waylaid the security firm, gunned down the one carrying the money. Fifty bloody K stolen, although I’d like to see them opening it without getting dye or whatever on them. Unless they have someone in the know who can unlock those cases. Witnesses saw four people legging it to a van, a fifth fella was the driver—who, incidentally, knocked some poor bastard over in the road. Broken hip, by all accounts. Why?”

  George hadn’t expected any info, let alone all that. “It’s related to something we’re dealing with. How easy is it for you to find out if the Brummie police have any leads?”

  “Simple, because I’m working on the same bollocks down here, have been for about a month, albeit being on the back burner because things have gone quiet. A casino in Soho—the one you got Martin to watch that time—and another have both had the same thing happen this week, except no one got shot. With the Birmingham job, we’re of a mind it’s a gang who travel the country to commit the crimes.”

  George glanced at Greg. If they thought it was a roaming gang, did they know where they originated? Or had Anthony found out about the London casino jobs in passing and let Benny in on the details? It was a coincidence, otherwise, money being stolen from security guards, and this coincidence stretched the limits of his imagination.

  “Right,” George said. “So you don’t have anyone in particular in mind?”

  “Yeah, but they’ve gone missing.” Clarke sniffed. “Or they’ve gone into hiding, what with that David Buchanan dying. We’ve had our eye on them since the Soho place got done over, although we can’t watch them twenty-four seven, budgets and all that, hence the Birmingham one being done over. Can’t go gadding about arresting people unless we have hard evidence, and all we have are whispers and suspicions.”

  “Where do they operate from?” Greg asked.

  “Some dive above a sweet shop,” Clarke said.

  Fantastic. So if the police thought a London mob had done the jobs, they wouldn’t suspect Benny’s gang. Exactly the kind of thing George wanted t
o hear. If Benny’s lot weren’t in the frame, it meant Orchid and Will were safe—unless Len or Trev got an attack of the guilts and handed themselves in, confessing all. Not likely.

  “They’re not missing,” George said.

  “How do you bloody know?” Clarke frowned and picked at a spot on his cheek.

  “Because they’ve been dealt with. If you go to the rooms above the sweet shop, you’ll find the place is clean as a whistle. But if you dredged the Thames…”

  “Ah, I get you. What were you after them for?”

  “They operated on our patch but didn’t pay protection, and they worried someone who does pay protection. That’s all you need to know.” George wasn’t about to drop Leonardo’s name into it, nor Orchid’s. Sometimes, the less Clarke knew, the better it was for all of them.

  “I’ll get the ball rolling on a warrant for the rooms then.” Clarke grinned. “Make out I got an anonymous tipoff. It won’t seem suss, as someone rang in about the fella who rents above the shop. Old boy, skinny moustache, has a penchant for wearing loud blouses—well, they can hardly be called shirts, can they. He’s got these blokes he pays to threaten and whatever. Last we heard, they’re fond of shotguns.”

  The paedo fella. What are the odds, eh?

  “Right, you get on with that then.” George picked the phone up and ended the call, thankful Clarke’s face disappeared. He couldn’t be arsed with saying goodbye. “That’s handy.”

  Greg took their plates and cups to the dishwasher. “Yeah. But we’re still sorting Len and Trev, yes?”

  George nodded. “Yep. We finish this job properly. I don’t want shit coming back to bite us on the arse later. Who knows whether Len and Trev will come looking for Orchid, especially now Will’s buggered off an’ all. And we don’t know whether Benny and the mum will keep it to themselves as to why they’re visiting London. It’s all a bit messy, know what I mean? I want it clean, packed up in a box secured with duct tape come the end.”

  “And a nice shiny bow,” Greg said.

  “Yeah.”