by Emmy Ellis
“So you never talked about everything,” he said.
What kind of statement was that? Of course she hadn’t bloody talked. If she had, he’d have been in the nick a damn sight longer for the other crime. Okay, she had chatted a bit with someone, but that didn’t count, and Ollie would never know anyway. So she lied: “I’m not in the habit of admitting I was there when someone got killed, nor for the other thing. Tends to bring all kinds of trouble to your door. You?”
“No.” His eye twitched.
She remembered that from before, the twitch. “Liar. What about that fucker you sent to my job? What did you tell him?” She leant forward to whisper, “He had pictures, for fuck’s sake.”
Ollie smirked. “He doesn’t get paid to ask questions. He does as he’s told and moves on. Head like a sieve, that one. All the info drains out once it isn’t needed.”
Like she’d believe that. “So you trust him then? Those pictures were on his phone.”
Ollie shrugged. “He won’t do anything with them. Knows what’s coming if he does.”
So Ollie was some big man sitting in a withered body now, someone to be afraid of, was that it? She almost let out a bark of laughter. This fella here was no more a hard nut than she was Claudia Winkleman. But there was nothing she could do but believe him—about The Visitor, that was. Nothing she could do but hope the bloke didn’t do anything. “Where do you know him from?”
“The nick.”
“What’s his name—and don’t fob me off.”
“Craig McFadden. Lives on The Cardigan Estate. Feel free to check.”
She filed that away in case she needed it later. “What’s his take on this? Why does he think you had to meet me?”
“It’s none of his ruddy business, is it. I just told him to come and see you.”
“What is he, a private detective? One who’s been in prison?”
Ollie took a swig of his drink, his top lip pulled back. The space where his tooth used to reside seemed massive through the glass. “No, just a bloke with time on his hands, one who needed a bit of cash.”
She laughed, didn’t bother holding it in. He must think she was born yesterday—or that she was the same old Jenny, one who’d accept his bullshit. “When did you get out?”
“Recently.”
“So how have you got that kind of cash to pay him?”
He tapped the side of his new slimline nose. “Never you mind.”
She sighed, irritated, every part of her itching just by being in his presence. “I heard your mum died.”
“Good riddance.”
Maybe she’d left him a pot of gold. Or maybe The Visitor didn’t want paying much and Ollie still had cash in a bank account from before. Princess supposed, if Craig was a lag, depending on what he’d been put away for, he might not have a job. It was all different these days, people being treated fairly if they had a record, but would a manager want a murderer or someone bad on their books? Unlikely.
“My mum and dad are dead, too.” She didn’t know why she’d said that.
“Sorry.”
“Hmm.”
He swigged more lager. Swallowed noisily. “So you have what I want then.”
“If you have what I want. And now I come to think of it, why should I hand it over now this Craig bloke has a phone with my picture on it?”
Ollie chuckled. “To be fair, no one’s going to believe that’s you, in the Polaroid. I mean, look at the state of you now. You’re nothing like you used to be.”
Fuck, that was harsh, but no different to what she’d thought about him, so she couldn’t complain. And it was true. From the glimpse she’d had of the Polaroid, it could be anyone, so she’d got herself all coiled up for nothing. It was the earring she needed.
Ollie dipped a hand in his pocket. Brought a cheap smartphone out. It looked the same as the one The Visitor had. Dare she hope? He prodded in a code, saying what it was out loud—quadruple nine—and handed the mobile over.
“You can see I’ve had it blocked for any outgoing shit by the call and message log. Don’t ask how, I know a bloke who knows a bloke. You’ll see only one number’s on it as incoming—that’s my burner—and the only pictures on there are you back then, the earring, and the one he took of you recently so I’d know what you look like.”
So she’d been right as to why there was one of her as she appeared now. “But he could have taken a picture of the phone with the other pictures on the screen, like you did with the Polaroid—you had it on a table or something.”
Ollie shrugged again. “I doubt he’s that clever up top.”
Like you are. Please. “Clever enough to find me, though. To ask questions, follow the trail. To speak to my friends on the corner by The Flag, then come to The Angel.”
“That wasn’t him. Someone else did that for me.” He smiled, and it was creepy, like he enjoyed knowing who it was and she didn’t.
“Who?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
You childish prick. What did I ever see in you? “Well, I would like to know, that’s why I fucking asked.”
“Mardy cow. You’ve changed.”
“Yep, for the better. I won’t be taken in by the likes of you ever again. You forced me to be this way. You forced me to do the job I do.”
He winced. “Oh, fuck off, will you? There was only one picture of you in the paper at the time of the trial, and no one gave a fuck. It was all about me, how wicked I was. They weren’t interested in some ginger bitch.”
Ouch. Now why did that sting? She didn’t bother analysing it. Best she didn’t know. “You’d be surprised. Gail, my boss if you remember, had to let me go because customers didn’t want to deal with me. They thought I’d helped you…do what you did.”
“Didn’t you, though?”
“Not in that way!” Fucking hell, she hated this. Remembering. Her part in it dredged up. She’d watched, but she’d still be classed as an accessory, no matter that she’d had to stay, to sit on that chair in the bedsit and— “Look, my life went to shit after you got put away.”
“Cry me a pissing river. Mine wasn’t exactly a bed of roses.”
“But you deserved to be there.” She put the burner phone in her jacket pocket, and it clinked against the flick knife. A similar knife to the one— “And you can’t say I should have been put away, too, because it was your idea.”
“We’ve been through all this. I thought you’d be up for it. You told me you wanted to kill Gail, so what was I supposed to think?”
“That was just something I said, you prat. I agreed with you because I was stupid. Young and dumb. I wanted you to like me.”
“So that’s the card you’re playing, is it? Little Miss Innocent. And I see you’re still a miss. Not surprising, given the state of you.”
She laughed through her embarrassment and the cold spear of hatred that niggled her. “And you’re an oil painting? Maybe one of a gargoyle. Oh, and if your mother left you money, get to a fucking dentist.”
His cheeks flared red. “Below the belt, Jenny.”
“And your comments aren’t? Grow up, Ollie. Or should I still call you Tickle?” She paused. “I suspect that’s all you’ll be good for now anyway. People tickling your palms with money, then you hand over drugs. Mind you, if you’re thinking of doing that on The Cardigan Estate, you’d better think again. I don’t know if you’ve heard, but Cardigan’s dead, so he won’t give you a job, and twins called The Brothers have taken over now. I’d say they won’t entertain you.”
“I’ve heard all right. Had someone on the outside telling me the news.” His eye twitched again.
He was lying.
“Oh right.” She flapped her hand around. “Let’s cut the crap. Give me what I want.”
He shook his head. “You give me what I want first.”
“Not happening.” She folded her arms, clasping the backpack handle to her side so if he made to grab it, he wouldn’t be able to get it off her as it would sna
g on her arm.
He chuntered out a splutter. “That’s rich. I kept my gob shut for years, yet you don’t trust me? What do you think I’m going to do, run as soon as you give me the bag, taking the shit you want with me?”
“Sounds about right. Show them to me.” She wanted nothing more than to get up and walk out, fuck the photo and the earring, but she needed that evidence more than space between them. She remained in place.
He sighed. Cocked his arse. Pulled a Ziploc out of his back pocket. Placed it on the table. The Polaroid and earring were inside.
“Show me mine.” He slapped a hand over the goods.
She glanced around. No one was watching. He’d recognise the fabric of his T-shirt, the jeans, so she wouldn’t have to let air into the suction bag and get both garments right out. Keeping the handle over her shoulder, she put the backpack on her lap and undid the zip halfway. Dipped a hand inside and pulled at the carrier bag. Peeled some of it away so he could see.
The blood on the white top was rust-coloured now, and the letter R in black was the start of ‘Rolling’ for the Stones he liked so much, crinkled into a wavy shape from the air being sucked out of the bag. She shifted it so the side of the red tongue logo was visible, then stuffed it all down into the backpack.
“Why did you keep it?” he asked. “When you promised to burn it?”
“Probably for the same reason you kept those things, why you lied about the earring when we talked about it back then.” She turned her nose up at his hand and what it concealed. “Just in case you blabbed. Got pissed off in prison, decided to blame me for it, or at least implicate me.”
“The jeans. I didn’t see them.”
She let out a gust of breath. “They’re in there, believe me.”
“They’d better be, because—”
“Yes, I know, you could go back inside because of the other evidence on them.” She’d yawn to get her point across more if she had to.
He nodded. Assessed her. Seemed to feel he could believe her. He lifted his hand then flicked the Ziploc at her. She caught it before it pinged off the table and placed it in her pocket. Clasped the handle of the flick knife. Had the urge to bring it out, unleash the blade, and jam it into his fucking chicken-skin neck.
“I’ve got a knife,” she said. “So no funny business. I’m going to get up, hand you the backpack, then walk out of here. I don’t want to see you again. There’s no need for us to meet up. We’re square. I’ll never tell—unless you give me reason to.”
He sucked down the rest of his drink then picked hers up. “Suppose you’ll not be wanting this then.” He raised the glass. “Cheers.”
She rose, let the backpack strap fall down into her hand. As she passed him, she dropped the bag into his lap, hoping she’d made the right decision.
Ghosts from the past stood at the bar, watching her, and a shiver went up her spine. Richie Lime, the old patch leader, plus his right-hand man, Dave Reynolds. She didn’t have to see them for real anymore because they were dead, nor did she have to let them paw her body, use her behind this very pub, yet they still loitered, in her memories, her dreams, and her nightmares. And all because of Ollie.
She pushed outside, no one paying her any mind, and breathed in the warm night air. A longing to go to the corner, to the safety of her old colleagues, almost pushed her in that direction. Instead, she turned left, the way Ollie had come years ago in the little Fiat, and promised to put the past behind her. She had what she wanted, he had what he wanted, and that was that.
Worrying over whether that Craig McFadden bloke had taken pictures of the pictures, she had two choices. Trust Ollie and believe Craig wouldn’t have done that, or tell The Brothers so they could pay Craig a visit and let him know what would happen if he opened his mouth about what he’d seen and done.
Then another thought meandered in. Ollie said someone else had done the tracking, someone else had found her. Who? When? How long had he been watching her? And it had to be a ‘he’ if Ollie had asked around in the prison for help. Or was there a woman out there prepared to stalk her? Some crim’s other half?
Fucking hell.
She upped her pace and rounded the corner. She was relocating to The Cardigan Estate next week, renting one of the high-rise flats off The Brothers. Some fella who worked for them had moved out of one of four they owned. She’d live opposite Orchid. Martin and Will, men who worked for the twins, were also on that floor should she need someone.
That day couldn’t come quickly enough.
Footsteps thudded behind her, and she hurried out of habit, forgetting she didn’t look how she usually did, that she didn’t have heels on that would impede her progress if she had to run. But that wouldn’t happen. No one would want to accost her, with her tight bun and no makeup. Bloody hell, even in her work get-up, men hadn’t wanted to know once she’d got older, although Rover had. She laughed at her in-built fears but ignored the alley she usually went down—that was just inviting trouble. People got mugged all the time.
She upped her pace and got to the next street, which was hers. Whoever it was still followed, so she slipped her hand in her pocket and clutched the knife handle, the plastic of the Ziploc cold on the skin of her thumb. The footsteps got louder, as did the bang of her pulse, and she swallowed, readying herself to scream if she had to.
“Wait up, you dopey bitch!”
Relief drenched her, and she stopped, spinning to face Ollie. “What the fuck do you want now?” God, would he just knob off?
“Just an answer to a question.” He held the backpack beside him.
“Couldn’t you have asked me in the bloody pub?”
“You walked out before I had the chance! Jesus.”
“Ask it, then fuck off.”
He narrowed his eyes. Glared at her. Did he think she was scared of him? That he’d torture her like he had that woman? Oddly, she wasn’t afraid. Years ago, she’d put some blood flakes from the other crime in a Ziploc of her own, had taken pictures of the jeans and T-shirt. They were still on her old digital camera.
No, she definitely wasn’t afraid.
“Why didn’t you write to me or come and visit? Why did you just cut me out?” He appeared upset by it, but not in an angry way. More like he was confused. Like he thought they’d had more going on than they had.
“Because it was for the best.”
She walked away, rushing towards her house, uncaring whether he clocked where she went. That person he’d sent to spy had probably told him her address anyway. Thank God she’d already made the decision to sell up.
Indoors, she took the Ziploc out and stared at the earring, the Polaroid. She’d burn the picture, but what about the earring? Should she melt it in the barbecue, then dump the whole lot down the tip? She set about doing that then left the heat to do some damage.
In the living room, she stared outside.
Ollie stood beneath a lamppost, smoking.
She shuddered. What was he trying to do, intimidate her? Well, he could have a go, but she refused to let him worry her. She snapped her curtains closed. If he came back again, she’d tell The Brothers and they could deal with him. Next week, once she lived on their estate.
In the meantime, she’d manage.
Chapter Five
SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO - PRISON
Nigel had left, and in his place was a man Ollie would have a pint with if they were on the outside. The kind of fella you could have a laugh with. One who’d keep up with the rounds, dipping his hand in his pocket fair and square, none of that nipping to the loo bollocks in order to skip out of paying his way. Craig, his name was, some fella the same age as Ollie. He’d moved down to London from Oxford for his job and said he’d settled well, until the shit had hit the fan.
Craig was in for manslaughter. He’d accidentally killed his wife, although ‘accidentally’ remained to be seen. As far as Ollie was concerned, the jury was out there. He hadn’t got to know him well enough for Craig to completely open up, bu
t he would one day. Maybe Craig had planned the murder. That’d be a bonus. It meant Ollie could discuss how he felt about killing. He’d have a kindred spirit. If they played their cards right, behaved, didn’t cause any trouble, they might well remain cellmates until Craig was set free. Ollie had a job for Craig once Ollie got out, too.
Getting Jenny to meet him.
Nigel was already on the case, so Ollie’s plan would come to fruition, no bones about it. He’d been writing to Ollie—and yes, it was like Christmas when he received a letter, a feeling Ollie had never expected to experience again—keeping him abreast of what he was up to.
He pulled the bundle of letters out from under his mattress to read them again, picking the one Nigel had sent a month after his release. Ollie knew what it said word for word, but he liked to see the writing on the page just the same.
Dear Ollie,
I’ve found her. In The Flag like you said. I stood by her table where she was sitting with two of her mates, some blonde and another with black hair. Do you know them? She’s lost her job—something about some bird called Gail giving her the sack because of the customers. I couldn’t get the full gist of it, got to the convo a bit late, so maybe you’ll know what that means. Anyway, she’s looking for work, and she says every time she applies, people seem to know who she is and she gets knocked back at the interviews.
Not surprising, she had her freckly mug in all the papers, didn’t she. If the news hadn’t made the nationals, I reckon she’d be all right, but if your face is on the front page of The Sun, you’ve got a fucking problem.
So, get this. She said she’d have to go on the game at this rate. Her friends thought she was joking, they said as much, but I know an expression of truth when I see one, and she meant it. Then some bloke came over with his mate. I tell you, the pair of them, built like brick shithouses. You’d have laughed at what one was wearing. One of those dog-check jackets, I forget the proper name. Black and white. Anyway, he says to her about going on the game and he might be able to help her with that. Of course, she brushed him off, but I saw the look that passed between them, and believe me, she’s up for it.