Deadly Sins

by Laura Read

  She thought of when she ended her first and only relationship. After weeks of being ignored, she discovered her boyfriend was cheating on her. She confronted him and he argued she never cared about him anyway, she never tried to get in touch, and he grew tired of trying to get through to her. She hadn’t trusted any man after that day. She didn’t want to feel vulnerable again.

  As the light outside her bedroom window faded, so too did the vague hopes she nurtured about Sean vanish from her mind. She was foolish to think that they shared a connection the day before. She shouldn’t care about someone she’d known for a mere few days; she’d worked herself up over nothing, over nobody. From now on she would think of Sean only as someone she couldn’t trust. She wouldn’t chain herself to a man nor to sadness.

  Rising from bed, she showered and dressed, grabbed a jacket and headed to Febrile, her place of habitual comfort, to distract herself with a stranger for the night. Any man would do, someone who wasn’t a detective and wouldn’t reject her, who accepted her for who she was, or at least the woman she chose to project. As she walked towards the club, she adopted her apathetic armour, a confident disguise hovering like a phantom across her face. She switched off her mind and walked with loneliness in her heart.

  She picked up a man at the bar: a blond in his twenties with an endearing innocence. She fell for his eyes, bright blue eyes, similar to Sean’s but thankfully set in a different face. She helped him lose his inhibitions while she lost hers. They downed glass after glass of vodka, and he could hold his drink. Then his blurry eyes re-evaluated her. Clothed in the darkness of the room they pictured themselves naked and entwined, staring into each other’s eyes. They left for Angela’s apartment.

  The drunken memories flooded back in vivid flashbacks. Tongue, torso, hands holding her so she felt safe and warm. Groping, lips on her collarbone, breath filling the hollow of her neck, the feel of soft skin beneath her fingers. His forehead resting against hers as he smiled down and made her smile back.

  Her thoughts rushed back to reality to take in the mundane world once more. She blushed at the fragmented memories. In the harsh light of day, she couldn’t recall every detail from the night before, his name or what they’d talked about. Her stomach churned and the distant taste of bile and vodka lingered at the back of her throat.

  She parked in the driveway of her childhood home and closed her eyes, telling herself it was over and she couldn’t keep drinking and fucking to forget her problems. How many times had she dreamt about leaving her life behind, starting afresh somewhere new? Sadness clung to her, wrapping its gnarled canes around her heart, like the rose that climbed the walls of her father’s house, its roots embedded in the soil but fecund leaves and crimson flowers reaching towards the sky.

  She stepped out of her car and climbed the thirteen stone steps towards the front door bordered by towering columns. Her father believed he could overcome anything, even bad luck, so he had added a thirteenth step before he moved in several years ago. In her arms she carried a stack of folders, the accounts she kept for her father, which she clutched closely to her chest.

  Arnie opened the door, dressed in a dark suit. ‘Your dad’s in a meeting.’

  She noticed a black Lamborghini parked in the driveway, which she hadn’t seen before, but didn’t comment. ‘I’m just here to do some work.’

  Normally she would be curious about who was visiting her father, but today she didn’t care. She was too tired after everything that had happened recently.

  She headed through the marble hallway into an oak-panelled corridor with rich burgundy carpet underfoot. The panelling continued into her study, bordered by overflowing shelves of books and paperwork. A chaise-long plumped with crimson cushions sat in the corner with a chenille blanket swathed across the arm; gold drapes adorned the window. A leather-bound notebook and pen rested on her desk, and the chairs posed for visitors. Everything in the room was immaculate, positioned as in a showroom. Nothing was moved from its place, such was the control her father wielded over his household.

  Angela dropped her folders on the desk and opened her briefcase to take out more files. Then she turned to look at the framed portrait of her family on the wall. The photograph was taken when Angela was a teenager with shorter hair styled in waves. Her eyes lingered on Joe in the centre of the group with his broad, beaming smile. A knock on the door drew her attention away.

  ‘Just a second,’ she shouted, opening the safe behind the portrait to pile the folders on the shelf above several stacks of banknotes. She swung the frame back into place then opened the door, adopting what she hoped was a welcoming smile.

  Vincent stood in the corridor leaning against the wall, his arms folded and face indifferent. The smile left Angela’s lips.

  ‘Your father wants to see you,’ he said, not mentioning what had happened the night before last.

  ‘Who’s he in with?’ she asked.

  ‘Webster,’ he said, smirking because he knew Angela hated him.

  She frowned. ‘Why’s he here?’

  ‘He wants a new partner.’

  ‘Shit.’

  Angela’s father, the unofficial leader of their community, forged his reputation based on respect, treating the elderly, children and his business partners with dignity. He worked as hard as his employees and, while brutal to those who opposed him, was usually fair to those who worked under him if they remained loyal and earned their keep. Damien Webster didn’t have any honour: he earned money for himself, only in want of capital to provide for his lavish yet sick lifestyle. He was known as the Spider because he had a hand in several illegal activities at once. He didn’t care what he did as long as he made money.

  It was rumoured every night he fucked at least one of his whores, the sadism he inflicted upon the girl dependent on what he chose to drink that night or the product he inhaled or injected. He was a gambler who accumulated serious debts, but either he paid up in the end or killed those he owed. He made money from his clubs, which doubled as brothels, located in large cities across the country, as well as loansharking and dealing in drugs and guns. Taking pleasure in torturing those who double-crossed him, he raped the wives, mistresses or daughters of anyone who owed him money or product. He always followed through on his threats, sometimes crippling or killing innocent victims.

  ‘Why us?’ Angela asked.

  ‘It’ll be good for us,’ Vincent reassured her. ‘We’ll be moving more coke and heroin. That’s where we can make more money.’

  ‘Webster’s a psycho. We can’t trust him and we won’t be able to control him.’

  ‘Who cares? If he crosses us I’ll kill him myself.’

  She wasn’t a naïve child any more watching with curiosity as her father’s business morphed. She knew Joe’s death meant that things would change but she’d never imagined her father would want to work with Webster. She didn’t want her father going into business with a man who’d corrupt him further.

  ‘They’re waiting for us, Ange.’

  ‘Fine, let’s go.’

  She followed Vincent through the house, watching the muscles in his back move beneath his shirt. The maroon material brought out the brown tints in his black hair, the nape of his neck pale in comparison. He blended into the panelled walls, a shadow whose tells weren’t apparent; you wouldn’t notice him until it was too late.

  Past a wall of concertinaed glass doors, the pair stepped onto the large terrace. Exotic flowers and trees wove through the garden’s borders, the ocean of lawn covered with copper leaves, and tall oaks and firs guarded the land in the distance. Rays of sun filtered through a cream awning onto the heads of two boastful men sitting face to face. They shook with laughter taking care not to spill their glasses of blood-red wine. Empty plates lay between them as they fought their battle of words for supremacy.

  ‘Angela!’ Leon exclaimed, rising to greet his daughter with open arms, a supposed gesture of love. ‘Arnie told us you’d arrived.’

  ‘Hi, dad,’
muttered Angela, kissing her father on the cheek. ‘Damien.’

  Damien held out his hand. So as not to seem rude, Angela took his proffered, sweaty hand in hers, inwardly recoiling. She didn’t want to be in his company nor enter into an alliance with him. If her father made a deal with Webster, he’d be signing away first his business then his soul.

  ‘Sit down,’ Leon instructed.

  She made herself comfortable on the bench next to Webster, trying to hide her curiosity and reproach, uncertain of what to say in front of him. His thin face was etched with amusement and malice. He had acne-ridden skin, a smirking mouth, and bloodshot, cold blue eyes. A stub of a cigarette hung limply from his chapped lips like a burnt corpse. His matted, black hair was greasy; his fingers yellow from nicotine. Adorning his wrist was a simple tattoo of a spider climbing its web, and he wore only black: three buttons undone at the neck of his shirt, and boots over fitted jeans. His eyes darted between the other faces at the table, addict fingers tapping with impatience. Angela wondered how long it had been since his last fix.

  ‘Nice to see you again, Damien,’ Angela lied, breaking the ice.

  Damien laughed, perhaps detecting her dishonesty. ‘Save your shitty small talk,’ he said, turning towards Leon. ‘When do you want to make the exchange?’

  Angela hated him for overlooking her, but they’d already finalised their deal.

  ‘At the warehouse again?’ Leon suggested.

  The warehouse was an old converted barn that her father used when he didn’t fully trust a supplier or dealer. Leon would arm his most loyal men and ask them to survey the area before the meeting, as well as to be wary during the exchange of merchandise and money. At least he was being cautious.

  ‘Like last time?’ Damien asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Leon confirmed.

  ‘Tomorrow night. At ten?’

  ‘That’s fine,’ agreed Vincent.

  Damien ignored Vincent, only focusing on Leon. Leon nodded and the deal was confirmed.

  Angela felt sick and out of place. Normally her father didn’t allow her to attend his meetings, only wanting her to know the facts and figures relating to his money. Larger transactions would take place after this and she was surprised that her father had made a previous deal with Webster, which he’d kept secret from her: he’d never done that before.

  What else would her father do if he was swayed by Webster’s influence? Would he partner with Webster, and overlook both her and Vincent? She needed to protect her father from him.

  ‘I’ll let my men know,’ declared Damien, rising from the table.

  ‘Good to see you again,’ said Leon.

  Leon and Vincent stood to show their guest out. Angela rose behind them, keeping her distance from the three men, dark thoughts clouding her mind. They made their way from the terrace towards the front door.

  ‘I’ve got to say, Leon, I love your house,’ Damien admitted, as they stopped in the hallway. He looked at Angela as he said, ‘There’s always something around each corner that catches your eye.’

  Angela looked down in disgust.

  ‘Until tomorrow night,’ Vincent said, opening the door for Webster.

  Damien nodded and headed down the steps towards his car. ‘Nice to see you again,’ he called over his shoulder, mimicking Angela from earlier.

  He revved his engine before speeding down the driveway, waves of gravel flying into the air. Vincent shut the door, turning to grin at Angela.

  ‘I hate him,’ she muttered.

  The three stood in silence in the cold hallway.

  ‘I’ll make the arrangements for tomorrow,’ said Leon, his clipped footfall fading down the corridor.

  Angela knew he was going to pour himself another drink to celebrate the meeting going well. His thirst for drink was similar to hers.

  Vincent turned to Angela and surprised her by saying, ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘You don’t owe me any more for letting Sean go.’

  Angela frowned at Vincent, her head lost in a storm of emotion. She felt a trace of disappointment but thought she understood why Vincent changed his mind.

  ‘You don’t want to be like Webster,’ she said.

  Vincent nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ she murmured, not sure what else to say.

  Vincent’s tone changed. ‘I hear from the doctor that your detective is recovering well,’ he told her, watching to see how she’d react.

  ‘Good,’ she said, trying to make her face neutral. ‘Listen, I called out the doctor because –’

  ‘You don’t have to explain,’ Vincent interrupted. ‘But have you told me everything about McBride? You and him aren’t –’

  ‘There’s nothing between us,’ she said, perhaps too quickly, wondering why it felt like a lie. ‘I just reacted that night because it was the same day as Joe’s funeral. And I felt guilty about Dom... I didn’t want someone else to die.’

  ‘You couldn’t have done anything for Dom, Ange. Your dad needed someone to blame.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. Perhaps she’d revealed too much to Vincent but she didn’t want him to get the wrong impression about her and Sean.

  ‘Look, forget about Dom,’ he told her. ‘You didn’t care about him. And Joe… We both know he treated Tracy like shit.’

  ‘I guess,’ she said. She wanted to change the subject. ‘When did my father make a deal with Webster? I didn’t know anything about it.’

  Vincent looked at her, wondering whether to reveal his doubts about working with Webster. Very rarely did he confide in her, but he knew their relationship had changed after what happened the other night, and they were on the same page about Webster. ‘A few days ago. I don’t know why he didn’t mention it, but he’s been distracted with losing Joe and arranging the funeral, so maybe he just forgot.’

  ‘That’s not like him.’

  Vincent shrugged. ‘Things have changed. Yes, we’ve got to watch our backs with Webster, but your dad thinks working with him is a risk that might pay off.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘It’s not my call.’

  ‘Come on! You know he’s not thinking clearly. We need to convince him not to work with that bastard!’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do, Ange. Stop going on about it.’

  He walked off and Angela clenched her fists in frustration. She turned and walked towards her study, closing the door to sink back against it. She didn’t know what she wanted any more. Webster was dangerous and she wanted to protect her father, but the only way she could think to defend him was to kill their threat.

  She started when someone knocked on the door. Her father stood in the hallway nursing another glass of wine.

  ‘So what do you think?’ he asked, walking in and sitting down on the chair next to her desk.

  It surprised her that he asked what she thought about something for once.

  ‘About what?’ she said, sitting down next to him.

  ‘Working with Webster. The cops were sniffing around one of his clubs a few months ago, which scared a few people off, but things have quietened down now and we got a good deal.’

  Angela sighed. ‘Even if you got a good deal, Webster’s crazy. You shouldn’t trust him.’

  ‘I know that. I’ve got someone watching him,’ Leon told her. ‘I had to offer him a lot of money before he agreed though.’

  ‘And you trust the guy?’

  ‘He has a family. He’d be stupid to try something or confess to Webster.’

  Perhaps her father was being cautious.

  ‘Look, why are you working with him anyway?’ she asked. ‘I thought that business was good. I know that now Joe’s gone –’

  ‘This has nothing to do with that,’ he snapped at her. ‘We need to expand, bring in new people. You might grow to like Webster. Although maybe not in the same way as Dominic…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I found out about you and him,’
he said angrily. ‘You never told me anything. I thought that you’d be upset about what happened, but maybe you’re more like me than I thought… Angie, you need to start thinking about settling down – with a decent man, not one of the stupid fuckers you pick up at the club.’

  Angela felt uncomfortable; she never spoke with her father about her sex life. She changed the topic. ‘Well, Webster isn’t a “decent man”. You’re an idiot for wanting to work with him and I’m not going to grow to like him. He’s disgusting! He rapes and kills women.’

  ‘He works with prostitutes, yes, but the rest of it… It’s lies. Rumours people have made up over the years.’

  ‘They’re not rumours! Girls go missing because he’s taken them and they never turn up alive.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want the same to happen to you one night because you chose to go home with the wrong man. Especially now, after what happened with Joe.’

  She sighed. ‘I’ll be more careful. But you need to be careful with Webster.’

  ‘Alright! You’ve made your point… Look, I know you’re not my little girl any more but I’m just trying to look out for you.’

  Angela didn’t know what to say. This was one of the few moments she could remember when her father showed any kind of affection towards her.

  Leon drifted out of the room, a ghost of his former self, and she realised that Joe’s death had affected him more than she thought.

  It wasn’t just a rumour that Webster maimed women and it worried her that her father didn’t think of working with him as dangerous. Years ago he used to warn her about going to Webster’s club on the other side of town and about his drugs. One summer two teenagers died after taking pills sold by Webster’s men, and no one knew what they’d been laced with. Her father never let her forget that Webster didn’t care what he dealt or who his customers were.

  She wished she could change her father’s mind about working with him. She thought about slipping evidence to the police, but that might bring her family down with him, especially if Webster learned that she was the one who tipped them off. She didn’t want to be a rat.