Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  Rivalry - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020

  All Rights Reserved

  Rivalry is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter One

  Rosie, real name Julie, stared down at the body of her neighbour on the kitchen floor. If she’d ever thought about killing one of them, it would have been Heather, the woman who lived in Shirley’s old place. She was a noisy cow during the day when Rosie had to sleep, despite floors between them, and many a time she’d had the urge to go up there and punch her one, even though she wouldn’t really.

  It wasn’t Heather, though.

  As the rules dictated, if any of the girls working on The Cardigan Estate under Debbie’s and The Brothers’ protection got into a spot of bother, they reported to Debbie first—she was their boss. She hadn’t answered her phone, though, so Rosie had to go straight to The Brothers.

  She’d been nervous, wishing she didn’t have to speak to them but having no choice. Greg and George Wilkes, formidable twins, always sent her uneasy, jittery. They were nice enough, but knowing what they did to people who crossed them meant there was an air of constant menace about them, George especially, who was rumoured to have a screw loose. He could go one way or the other at times, you just had to hope it was in your favour. Still, they were coming to fix the mess she’d made, even though it was a Sunday, when sane people had a day of rest, eating their roast dinners, trifle or whatever for pudding.

  Rosie hated the smell of roast dinners. It brought back memories of an unpleasant time in her life, a relatively recent time she was still coming to terms with. She’d almost come out the other side of that crisis, but now…well, she’d thrown herself right into another.

  The man lying on Rosie’s checked black-and-white lino was an arsehole. His floppy fringe rested over his bulging blue eyes, and the lump on his temple had stopped swelling hours ago.

  Yes, hours.

  Rosie hadn’t been in the right frame of mind to contact anyone until just now. Shock at what she’d done, at having to stand up for herself yet again, had rendered her immobile for a while, and she’d flopped to the floor beside him, waiting for him to breathe. Waiting for him to get angry. Hurt her. Tell her she had to do what he wanted or else.

  It had happened, the murder, close to five a.m., the dark sky fighting to own the early morning as well as the night, greedily straddling that pivotal hour when a new dawn nudged for entry, that darkness finally relenting, letting the sun stretch her inquisitive fingers. Rosie had been looking out of the window, see, a hot chocolate in hand, her pyjamas snug around her freshly washed body.

  She’d had to get the air of death off her, the taint men like him gave her.

  He’d arrived outside the flats in his black BMW, one she sometimes mistook as belonging to The Brothers. As was her way, she’d imagined his life, where he’d been until that time, perhaps at his girlfriend’s place, or maybe he had an affair on the go, turfed out of bed, doing the drive of shame at half four in the morning. No one wanted the husband coming home and catching them, did they. Could get nasty, that.

  At first, before her shower, she’d left the body to go and sit in her living room with the coffee she’d offered him, one he hadn’t got to drink, because he’d assumed, he’d wanted more than she’d been inclined to give. She’d thought about what she’d done and how she could cover it up. In this instance, only Greg and George could do that, along with the copper they had in their pocket. Rod Clarke, was it? The three of them acted as bleach, removing stains. Shame she hadn’t had them in her corner the first time around. The stain of her former life…she’d had to deal with that herself.

  You were resilient if you had to be. Resourceful. And you learnt how to act.

  The clock hands pointed to five past three in the afternoon now, eleven or so hours since she’d spotted the neighbour arriving home. You could get a lot done in eleven hours, couldn’t you. Housework, washing, ironing, cleaning the bend in the toilet pedestal. Seconds, minutes, and hours had fled, and every time she’d wanted a drink, she’d stepped over him, keeping her back to his body, pouring boiled water into her cup—tea, it was good for shock.

  She’d drunk a lot of it.

  The buzzer for her flat jolted her, and she reversed away from the man to the kitchen doorway. Turned. Walked into the living room. She stared through the window at the set of steps to the right, and there they were, The Brothers, in crisp grey suits, white shirts, and red ties.

  Saviours.

  Rosie rushed into her little hallway and pressed the button to release the lock. She levelled her eye at the peephole in her front door, and the twins appeared in the main foyer, George smoothing his lapels, Greg straightening his tie. She’d told them what she’d done on the phone, best to be honest from the start, and they appeared unfazed, their expressions blank.

  She supposed they adopted poker faces a lot in their line of work. They ran The Cardigan Estate, a job she wouldn’t wish on anyone, and showing a weakening of emotion wouldn’t stand them in good stead. Wouldn’t stand her in good stead either. Weak emotions were reserved for the dead of night when no one could see you crying.

  Rosie opened the door, a great whoosh of it’s going to be okay floating through her, sending her noodle-kneed, her head lightening. She sagged against the primrose-coloured wall, her shoulder nudging one of her picture frames containing Monet’s The Water-Lily Pond, her attempt at having a bit of class in her life after so many years of feeling inferior. She’d grown up with her mother scrimping and saving, of them never having enough and hoping for more, never getting it.

  George stepped inside to take her elbow, gently, as if she were a broken bird.

  She could have been at one time, if she’d allowed herself to crack.

  “Come on then,” he said, guiding her farther inside. “Let’s see what’s what. Where’s the body?”

  “The kitchen,” she whispered.

  Once they all stood in
a line beside the corpse, Rosie sandwiched between the two man-mountains, she let the tears fall, even though it wasn’t the dead of night when she usually did it. Relief, she acknowledged. She didn’t have to go through this alone. They would take care of her.

  “I didn’t mean to do it, it wasn’t planned or anything like that,” she said. Not like before. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

  “Well, it did, so no use pissing and moaning about it,” George said, matter-of-fact, although he didn’t sound unkind, more practical, more: This is what we do, fixing people’s cock-ups. “The order of the day is making it look like it didn’t happen, all right? That’s what we focus on, nothing else at the minute.”

  “What went on?” Greg crouched to inspect the body, one of his knees clicking. His shiny black shoes reflected the front of her washing machine on the toes. “Fuck me, how the hell did you manage to strangle him?” He pointed at the bruises on the neck. Dark blue, purple, black edges. Thumbprints. Evidence of what she’d done.

  “He was drunk.” She shuddered at the recall. The smell of him. The words he’d said to her. She wished she hadn’t done the ‘right’ thing by letting him in. She should have minded her own bloody business and left him to it.

  “Why’s his dick out?” Greg stood, his expression stricken, him perhaps imagining what it must be like to have a mark like that on his. “And that looks nasty.”

  “I bit it.” She went on to tell them everything from start to finish again. Well, not everything. The other part of her past could stay firmly behind her. If she had to relate that little story one day, she would, just not today. There was only so much you could handle at once.

  “Serves himself fucking right then.” George sniffed and stared at the body as if the man it had once been had no soul even before death. “I don’t hold with men forcing themselves on women. No sympathy from me. We’ll arrange for him to be removed when it’s dark, while you’re at work—and you have to go to work. Can’t deviate from your usual pattern else people will get suspicious.”

  “What if someone realises he’s missing?” The ramifications weren’t lost on her. People did come round, asking questions. She should know. “I can’t go through this again.”

  “Again?” Greg raised his eyebrows and looked at his brother: What the fuck have we let ourselves in for?

  She saw that question, clear as anything, and didn’t like the emotions it produced. “Doesn’t matter,” she mumbled, and she felt bad for putting this on them, even though they insisted they were on hand for this sort of thing, protecting people, taking your troubles and making them their own. “That’s not important at the minute.”

  It was more likely incredibly important if she had a tendency to kill people who upset her, but she’d think about that another time. Her head was too full of this now.

  “Is something likely to come back and bite you in the arse?” George placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Because we can make that go away an’ all.”

  She sighed. “I don’t think so. It’s…that’s already been put to bed.” Somehow, she’d pulled it off all by herself and had walked away, scot-free.

  “If it does come back, ring us, because it may cause us grief.” He patted her arm then kicked the neighbour. “Rigor mortis is setting in. Always problematic with removal.” He sighed. “Fucking scummy wankers like him deserve all they get. I’ll enjoy chopping him up.”

  Rosie winced. “I don’t need to know what you’re doing.” Rumour said they used a circular saw and cut people into pieces. The idea of doing that…no, she couldn’t even think about it.

  “You should cover him with a sheet if the sight of him is bothering you.” George pulled a chair out and sat, as if that was what you did when presented with a murdered bloke.

  “It doesn’t bother me,” she said. “I killed him hours ago.”

  “Bloody hell.” Greg frowned and tapped his head. “Are you all there up top?”

  She laughed, releasing some tension. “I doubt it, not anymore.”

  “Ah, someone do a number on you, did they?”

  She nodded. “Something like that.”

  George drummed his fingertips on the table, creating an annoying beat. “Are you going to make us a coffee then or what?”

  She laughed again. “I’d say ‘or what’, but seeing as you’re helping me…”

  Greg sat beside his brother. “Joking aside, will you be all right? Can you carry on with your life knowing what you’ve done?”

  She switched the kettle on. “Yes. Like I said, it happened again.”

  George pinched his chin. “An old hand at it then?”

  “No.” She took cups out of the cupboard. “But I stopped feeling guilty about the likes of him a long time ago.”

  Chapter Two

  Rosie stood at her living room window, staring out into the early morning. Her neighbour had pulled up and left his car. He blipped the locks, the sound loud in the still of the early hours, the flash of yellow from his indicators bright spots, seeming to remain in front of her eyes even after the lights had gone out. He walked up the path, appeared weary, his steps sluggish, and she pondered on whether he’d been drinking. She didn’t hold with alcohol and driving, and a bite of anger gnawed at her innards.

  Maybe he’d been working the night shift and was tired. She’d arrived home around three a.m., getting out of the taxi Debbie always provided, and had half staggered up the path herself, so she could relate to this fella. Then again, he could be drugged up having spent the night smoking spliff after spliff in some mate’s house. He looked like he earnt a fair few quid, so maybe he used cocaine or some other drug high-flyers took.

  Rosie cast assumptions—difficult not to when everything in her life had been a mystery at one point, reasons for a certain person’s behaviour kept from her. They’d got her into trouble in the past, those assumptions, how she’d readily believed he was good and kind, and after…after she’d done what she had, she’d made up stories about people’s lives to keep her sane, keep her mind off what had happened.

  A key scraping in the communal door lock went on for ages, and she gritted her teeth, clenched her fists, memories rushing back. That noise set her nerves alight, a reminder of days gone by, a drunkard inserting the wrong key, unable to fathom why he couldn’t get in, shouting mean words like, “Open up, you stupid fucking cow.”

  She left her flat and strutted to the main door, eyeing her neighbour through the glass.

  He was off his face. He’d driven while pissed.

  A surge of anger flourished, and she yanked the door open. He lurched inside, key now in the lock, his arm up where he held it, and the momentum sent him crashing into her, one of his feet stamping onto her bare toes. Pain came, so swift and spear-like, and she stepped back, glaring at him. He fell into a heap on the foyer floor, on his side, one arm over his eyes, and let out a strange little laugh.

  She was tempted to leave him there, sprawled out, mumbling incoherent drivel as those who imbibed too much were wont to do, but that was a security risk—his feet and lower legs were blocking the doorway. While she didn’t like Heather or speak to the other residents, their safety wasn’t hers to risk.

  Once again, it was up to her to fix things.

  She thought she’d taken herself out of that sort of situation.

  She gave him a soft kick. “Get up, you prat.”

  He grunted and stared up at her, eyes glassy, yet another indication he’d had one too many. She held back from telling him what an inconsiderate prick he was and got down to the business of gripping him beneath his armpits.

  Hot to the touch and slightly damp, they had her retching.

  Rosie dragged him farther into the foyer, dropping him without a care, her tight-of-the-righteous mouth spreading into a smile of satisfaction. She was doing what she should have done before, in her other life, instead of obeying through fear. If she’d stood up for herself back then, before he’d revealed what he had, would things have
gone differently?

  She took the man’s keys out of the Yale and closed the door quietly so it didn’t snap into place. What to do with him now? Leave him there? Let him sleep the drink off on the hard floor? It was no more than he deserved, but she reminded herself he wasn’t Aaron, that bully of a man who’d ruled her days and nights for far too long. He wasn’t going to hurt her, break her.

  “Come on, you.” She managed to sit him up. “Coffee.”

  He seemed to perk up at that and took control of his body, getting to his feet, albeit stumbling in the process. “That’d be nice.” It had come out as ‘nyse’, his tongue probably too heavy to help form the word.

  She slid his keys in his trouser pocket, sighed, and led the way to her flat, waiting in her narrow hallway for him to enter, the cheerful yellow paint on the walls and her Monet prints in silver frames invisible to him—he couldn’t give a monkey’s whether she’d tried to elevate herself in the eyes of others, that much was clear. He brushed past her, reeking of booze, and she almost, almost pushed him out again. Odd, and upsetting, how smells brought back unwanted memories, the faint aroma of lager, the strong whiff of the kebab eaten after a session, laced with garlic mayo, her stomach churning, her wishing he would just fuck off and die.

  Yes, she’d wished that with Aaron, too many times to count.

  She shut them in, asking herself why she was doing this when she didn’t even know him, but the man wouldn’t make it up the stairs to his flat. He’d fall, hurt himself. No, best she get him halfway sobered up. It wasn’t as if she was tired enough for bed yet anyway. She didn’t usually turn in until around nine or ten in the morning, everyone else getting on with their days while she slept it away until the afternoon.

  He’d already gone into her living room—all the flats had the same layout—and she stood at the doorway there, frowning. What was he doing? He’d flopped onto her cream leather sofa and farted about with his pocket, perhaps for his phone, the keys she’d put there, or maybe he smoked and fancied a ciggie.