by Emmy Ellis
He sat opposite Nigel, eager to know what the fuck was going on. Vaughn stood close by, a few other screws dotted about, but not close enough that they’d hear what was being said. Visiting times were generally okay affairs whenever Ollie attended, the lifers so intent on spending time with their loved ones that they didn’t dare make a scene and risk it getting cut short. No need to lop off your nose to spite your face, was there.
Nigel knew to whisper, so that was good. He darted his eyes left and right, then focused on Ollie. “Don’t ask me what this means, because I don’t know—you never told me this bit.” He paused. “She’s kept the clothes.”
Heartbeat picking up, Ollie had the urge to leg it. To run away from what Nigel had said, as if the words were wasps that could attack and sting. To rewind time to before his ex-cellmate had come here so it wasn’t true—if Ollie didn’t know it, it couldn’t be true, that was how he viewed things now in order to keep sane.
He opened his mouth to say “What?”, but nothing came out.
“Insurance, so she said.” Nigel didn’t glance about this time. It’d only look shifty if he did, especially because he was a former resident. Vaughn might be keeping a special eye on them, thinking they were cooking something up, which was why he was the screw standing nearest to them and not one of the others. Vaughn was the beefiest, the one most likely to take them down to the floor in a rugby tackle then sit on them, starving them of oxygen with his weight on their lungs.
“For what?” Ollie asked, breathless from imagining that scenario.
“In case you change your mind and implicate her.”
The clothes. The ones Ollie had on for the stabbing and murder? It had to be that. She’d bundled them up, taken them out of the bedsit. He’d told her to burn them once they’d informed the police they’d found Cutting, when they’d gone back to London, and she’d said she would because her dad did regular bonfires in the back garden and it wouldn’t look suss to the neighbours.
“Did she say anything to do with…?” Ollie asked.
“No, just that someone had done something and she could also get the blame for it, but she wasn’t going to be nicked for the other thing. Is that what you told me, about the rave?”
Ollie refused to answer. He’d already told Nigel about the first stabbing. If he didn’t twig, that was his problem.
“She didn’t elaborate, even when I prodded her to,” Nigel continued. “Maybe she thinks I’m a copper, a plant to get her to talk.” He laughed. “Me, an undercover pig? Well funny.”
“I don’t find any of this funny,” Ollie said through gritted teeth.
How could Nigel laugh at a time like this? It was all right for him, he hadn’t had to serve much of a sentence, he was on the outside with his freedom intact and his brand-new girlfriend, a flesh-and-blood bird, while Ollie was stuck in here for the foreseeable with only his right hand as a lover.
Nigel at least looked forlorn. “No, don’t s’pose you do. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “What’s the next step?”
That didn’t take long to work out. It was a simple solution as far as Ollie was concerned, especially as Jenny’s parents were out of the picture. “Break into her house to find the things.”
Nigel’s eyes turned into saucers. “You what?”
“You’re not deaf, Nige.”
“I can’t do that. What if I get caught? We’re friends and everything, but fuck me sideways. There’s a limit to what I’m prepared to do. I already risk being picked up for kerb-crawling. Blimey.”
Ollie didn’t give a toss. “You know the hours she works—there’s the added bonus of it being dark. You can be in and out in no time. I’ll pay you extra.”
Nigel contemplated that. Maybe money was the way to his heart, seeing as he’d done time for it. “Oh, cheers for stumping up for the Princess visits, by the way. I didn’t know Mike was handling your finances until he said.”
Ollie shrugged. “I didn’t think you needed to know, seeing as it’s my personal business.”
Nigel appeared upset, like he’d thought Ollie had shared everything with him, and finding out he hadn’t was a hard blow. “Fair enough. He said to tell him every month what I’ve spent, then he’ll ring you to confirm, then pay me.”
“That’s right.”
“So how much for the B and E? I mean, obviously it’s my thing, I did it with the grannies, but it doesn’t mean I want to. There’s my bird to think of now. I don’t want to end up back in a cell, her waiting on the outside—and she would, she seems the type.”
Is he rubbing it in that Jenny doesn’t come to see me? “Five hundred nicker. It’s just a case of getting in with your lock pick, poking around, and finding the items. Make sure you go in the loft—and the shed if there is one.”
“Christ. Okay. What clothes am I looking for?”
Ollie laughed. “You’ll know when you see them.”
“How come?”
A smile pulled at Ollie’s lips. “They’re covered in blood.”
Chapter Nine
After Amaryllis had been dispatched to their place, shown to a spare room, and told to make herself at home but not to leave, George had received a message from Clarke with McFadden’s address, plus a snide complaint about having to cover his arse at work—again—with regards to doing it. George couldn’t care less, and if Clarke wanted to get funny about it, George would have a word in the right pig’s ear about the murders Clarke had committed. The stupid little dick must have forgotten about that, the colander-brained arsehole.
A visit to McFadden’s had given them nothing: the house, wedged between two that had been alive with life, had stood in darkness, the windows impassive eyes, but a neighbour coming out to do his bins ready for the morning had been chatty on account of recognising them.
“He’ll be down The Angel, he will,” the old fart had said. “Likes a drink, that one. Comes home legless most nights since he got out. He’s been in the nick, you know. Murdered his poor wife by all accounts. Stuffed her full of pills and booze. Mild-mannered chap. You wouldn’t think he was a killer to look at him. Mind you, you never can tell with people, can you. We all wear masks at some point.”
George parked in the area behind The Angel, smiling to himself at the man’s face when he’d handed him a hundred quid for his trouble and a, “We weren’t here.”
“I never saw no one or nothing, mate.”
George got out of the car and waited for Greg to join him at the back door that led to the reception in the parlour. Twin by his side, he prodded in the security code on the lock, each poke setting off a whine, waited for the release buzz, and pushed the door open.
Debbie sat behind the desk and looked up at their entrance. “Oh, hello, you two.” She stood and walked to the kettle. “Fancy a cuppa?”
“No, ta, we’re just passing through.” George closed the door. “We want to collect someone from the bar.”
Debbie frowned. “Anyone I need to worry about?”
George shook his head. “Nah. We’ll be dealing with him. Did you see the weedy fucker on the CCTV from this morning?”
Debbie shook her head. “I haven’t watched it yet because Amaryllis didn’t report anything off so I didn’t see the need. What’s happened?”
George and Greg approached the high curved desk, and George leant over it, elbows on top.
He lowered his voice. “Something to keep under your hat. Amaryllis needs a bit of help. Like with some of the other girls, her past’s come back to gnaw at her rump.”
“Oh shit. Is she okay? Will it affect my business?” Debbie retook her seat.
“Yep to the first and nope to the second, unless losing a bloke’s custom is a problem—he’s apparently in here a lot. There are two men we’ll be dealing with for now, and once they’re gone, things may well be fine. Amaryllis isn’t to blame. The poor cow knows something, that’s all.”
He wasn’t about to tell Debbie her newest worker was an accessory to murder, had perverted the
course of justice, and committed perjury. While Debbie would understand, and she wouldn’t say anything, it wasn’t George’s story to tell if he didn’t have to. He’d learnt a lot since finding out his mother’s sorry tale. Not everything needed to be broadcasted.
“Good. Be careful then.” Debbie smiled.
“Always. Catch you later.”
George led the way to the other exit, put a code in again, and walked out into the hallway. Greg followed, and they strode along to yet another door. On the other side of it, George glanced up and down a wide corridor. The loos were situated there, and anyone could come by at any second, maybe see them and return to the pub to tip certain people off if they were up to no good. A security guard was stationed at the fire exit, someone they employed because of shit that had happened in the past, gunmen breaking in. George nodded to him.
As they’d already made a plan, all that was left for them to do was enter the pub proper, spy their quarry, then do what had to be done with minimal fuss.
George shoved through double doors and into the bar. Punters chatted, and music came from the speakers in the ceiling, some bint wailing about having a good time, baby. The place was busy, as usual, and Lisa, Debbie’s bar manager, flitted back and forth, helping the other staff with serving. Seemed the world and his wife wanted to spend their money tonight.
With McFadden’s face firmly imprinted in his mind from the CCTV footage, George had no trouble spotting him. Their target stood at the bar supping a pint of lager. He seemed to have a whisky chaser and ice on the go, too, the bloody lush. Prison must have you craving for the taste of a drink. George hoped he’d never find out.
“Come on,” he said.
He didn’t have to push through the crowd. People stepped back when they saw who they were, and he had a clear path to his destination, Moses parting the Red Sea. McFadden didn’t seem to have the same decency or respect for them and ignored George when he planted himself on one side of him, Greg on the other. Saying that, he didn’t even look their way, so engrossed was he in his pint. What was he doing, staring into it hoping he’d get the meaning of fucking life?
“A little bird tells me you’ve been bothering an employee here, Craig,” George said quietly.
McFadden whipped his head round to stare at him. “What?”
“You heard. Princess.”
McFadden paled. “Look, I just delivered a message, all right?”
“Along with stalking her for fuck knows how long?” Greg asked.
McFadden swivelled his head that way, then back to George, and it must have dawned on him they were identical. “Oh shit. Oh fuck. You’re…” He swallowed, put his pint on a mat, and grabbed the chaser. Slung it down his throat. Winced at the burn.
“Yeah, we’re them.” George leant closer and didn’t enjoy the smell the man gave off. Mould. “Double trouble. See, the thing is, we don’t take kindly to people doing things like that on our patch, and especially not to someone who works here. We’d like a chat somewhere less public, so you’re coming with us.”
McFadden stepped backwards, hands up, palms out. He bumped into a couple of men having a chinwag, nudging one so his beer slopped over his glass and onto his hand. One winked at George and pressed McFadden forward, who staggered. Greg gripped the weasel’s upper arm and steered him towards the door that led to the toilets.
George looked at his little helper. “Tell Lisa the rest of your drinks tonight are on me.” He wasn’t fussed about the cost. It’d be closing time soon. He followed Greg, stating to everyone else, “Nothing to see here. Mind your own poxy business, as per.”
Through the doors they went, and Greg dragged a protesting McFadden to the fire exit at the bottom. The guard poked in a code and held the door open for them. Greg yanked a whimpering McFadden through, and George laughed, stepping out into the night air.
“What are you going to do to me?” McFadden said, trying to dig his feet into the tarmac of the alley that branched out to the small car park.
Greg tugged him hard. “Pack it in. You’re getting on my man tits.”
George spluttered. “Man tits? They’re pecs, you prat.”
“Whatever.”
“What you’re doing isn’t right,” McFadden blustered. “I did nothing but make sure she lived where she used to, asked some tarts on a street corner where she worked now, then I came and showed her some photos and gave her a postcard. It’s hardly a bloody crime, is it?”
“Look.” Greg pushed him against the BMW, gripping him up by his top. “Why don’t you shut the fuck up. Your voice is annoying, and you really don’t want to annoy me.”
McFadden turned on the waterworks, and not only in his eyes.
The filthy bark had pissed himself.
George smiled at Greg getting back in the game, and at the urine stain on their quarry’s trousers, just about visible in the gloom back here. “And you won’t want to annoy me either. Now get yourself into our nice motor and sit still, there’s a dear.” He stopped beside Greg and punched McFadden in the face. “There, that’s given you something to cry for.”
It was one of Richard’s sayings, and George had said it before he’d had a chance to form his own words. Ah, well, couldn’t be helped now.
“Hang on,” he said. “Let me get a black bag out of the boot. I don’t want a piss stain on the lovely upholstery.” George did that, McFadden blubbing in the background, then spread the bag out on the seat. George got in from the other side, ready to hold McFadden once Greg forced him in.
With that sorted, Greg in the driving seat, George clamped his hand around McFadden’s arm and dug his fingertips into the soft underside, because he could.
“Ow, ow, ow,” McFadden wailed, his nose bleeding.
“For fuck’s sake, sunshine, shut up or you’ll get another punch.” George grinned at McFadden going quiet. “That’s better. Now, our chauffeur is going to take us somewhere nice and private, and we’re all going to have a little natter. On you go, driver.”
“Watch it, bruv,” Greg said and reversed down the side of The Angel and out onto the road.
George laughed, long and loud, the rush of an upcoming murder speeding through his veins, McFadden shivering so much his teeth chattered.
“Gets a bit cold when you piss yourself, doesn’t it,” George said nonchalantly. “I know the feeling well. There was a bloke we used to live with. Richard, his name was. Did all manner of stuff to us, and as you can see, it sent us a bit loopy. I’ll tell you a secret, seeing as you won’t be passing it on to anybody. I used to wet myself when he scared me. I was only little, and he made me stay in the damp clothes as a punishment. The pants and trousers dried, and he’d force me to put them on for school the next day. Of course, they didn’t smell too good, and I got called names. That was when I had to start defending myself, making a name for myself, even at five years old. In normal circumstances, I’d feel for anyone in your predicament, but the thing is, I don’t, because you’re a scurvy piece of scum who deserves no pity. So yes, you’ll be staying in your pissy little drawers until your dying second.”
“Oh God…”
“Like I tell everyone who says that: He won’t help you. Now shut your fucking north and south and have a think on whether you’re going to tell us what we want to know regarding Princess. Either way, it doesn’t much matter. I’ve decided we’re going to get rid of you anyway, but you talking will mean less torture.”
“Torture?” McFadden squeaked.
“Yeah. You’re going to wish you’d never met Oliver Ford.”
“Please, he made me do it. I had no choice.” The light from streetlamps flickered over McFadden’s face, displaying his expression: fear.
“Everyone’s got a choice, mate. Well, most of the time. You, here with us? That isn’t a choice. That’s one of the times you can use that phrase, because, my old son, you’re going to meet your Maker.”
Cardigan’s saying had also slipped out, but George didn’t mind as it only served to b
oil his anger. My old son. Fuck.
While McFadden sobbed and sniffled, George admired the streets of their estate as Greg took them closer to the warehouse. They’d set a rack up on the wall in there, something used recently, but previously it had been stored in their garage. George didn’t reckon he’d need to resort to that, being tied to the torture chair would be enough to get McFadden squealing. Whether he’d taken images of the photos or not, whether he knew all about Amaryllis’ role in the past or not, it made no odds. George had one thing only on his mind now, and that was murder.
Greg pulled up to the gates at their warehouse and nipped out to unlock them.
“Where are we?” McFadden darted his head about, probably checking for an escape route, the cockwomble. “Those gates. I don’t like them. It’s prison. It’s… I can’t go back there. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to kill her.”
George sighed. “What the hell are you guffing on about?”
“The gates. I can’t stand the gates.”
“Not my problem, McDickhead. Be quiet.”
Greg got back in and drove through to their parking spot, then got out again to lock the gates. That done, he returned to the car and opened the back door on McFadden’s side. Grasped a fistful of the prat’s hair and dragged him out of the vehicle.
“Ow! Please, stop! Ow!” McFadden was bent double; Greg held his head down by his side.
“Will you shut your bleedin’ trap?” Greg muttered and marched to the warehouse door, towing a scuttling, crying McFadden behind him.
George chuckled and left the car, reminding himself to dispose of the pissy bag later. Greg had put the PIN in the keypad and pulled their man inside, so George followed, closing the door behind them. In the main room, the torture chair sat all lonely with its back to the table which held their tools, but not for long. Greg let go of McFadden’s hair and pushed him down onto the seat, keeping his hands on his shoulders from behind.