Rankled (The Cardigan Estate Book 8)

by Emmy Ellis

  Nigel blinked the memory away.

  Princess was at the door with her eyes shut, her hands splayed to the wood, her fingertips white where she pressed it so hard. Some big bastard in a grey suit and red tie stood in front of a room that had a massage table in it. It couldn’t be him, could it? Or one of them at any rate. Shit, Nigel had heard all sorts about those twins. They hurt people, worse than Kingston had ever done, and one of them, the really mad one, gave people wider smiles by slicing their faces, plus there were rumours about knee-cappings and all sorts.

  If he’d popped up on their radar, the future wasn’t looking bright. A violent shitstorm was heading his way, all sunshine eclipsed by dark clouds and acid rain.

  He had to get this smoothed over. There must have been a mistake. What did he need to explain? “Listen, I don’t know what you think I’ve done…”

  “We don’t think, we know. I’m George. Not pleased to meet you.” He stepped closer, his eyebrows like ruddy great beetles, and stared down at Nigel.

  How tall was he, closing in on seven foot or what? Christ, he was big. Like Gone with the Wind in the nick, all brawn and width.

  “And I’m Greg, also not pleased to meet you.”

  Christ on a custard cream, a replica of the first man appeared, an honest-to-goodness mirror image. Seeing one was bad enough, but two? Nigel wanted to look away, but if he did that, they’d think he was guilty. All right, he was when it came to Princess, but he hadn’t just spied on her for Ollie, he’d come to care for her.

  I should have warned her, told her to move away. If I cared for her, I wouldn’t be letting Ollie come for her.

  A woman shut the door of the room behind Greg, leaving the reception area as a closed-off arena, where these two appeared about ready to start a fight, the Gladiator-sized fuckers.

  Nigel needed the loo, his stomach churning, his bowels playing up, and he darted his gaze about, desperate to escape. He didn’t know what he’d done, but it was clear Princess was in on it. She’d asked him here, so she must know. Unless they’d been in that room with a bird and had come out and decided to pick on him for no reason.

  No, they wanted answers, had said he had some explaining to do. Had they got him mixed up with someone else, was that it? Some people mistook him for Dillon Smith at the factory. It was the hair. Jesus, Nigel hoped that was the case.

  “Princess?” He looked at her, needing the woman to reassure him this was all a gigantic error. Needing her to help him because despite it all, they were friends.

  She still had her eyes closed. From guilt? Or was she scared? These men ran the estate, so it wasn’t like she could refuse to do what they wanted, was it. They’d probably told her to stop the next punter from leaving; they fancied a lark, a punch-up, and it just so happened to be him.

  Who am I trying to kid?

  “No point asking her.” George stepped right in front of Nigel, an inch of space between them. “Because she won’t tell you anything. A little bird has told us you’ve been a slimy cunt, haven’t you, touching her up, all the while running back to your poncy mate to tell him what she said.”

  Oh God… She’s found out what I did. I never wanted her to know. I love her.

  “You played her,” Greg said, coming to stand beside his cuckoo brother. “You used her for your own ends. That isn’t a gentlemanly thing to do, considering you know what she went through—there’s no way you wouldn’t have been told. How could you do that when she was forced to sit and watch, when she wanted no part in it? You’ve got to be sick in the head to think it’s normal to befriend her, when in reality you were doing it for your murdering pal, the worm in your boxers waving about while you were at it.”

  “I…” Nigel’s mouth flapped. She’d noticed his hard-ons and told these two about them? Oh God. He needed the floor to swallow him up.

  He was bang to rights. That was exactly what he’d done, and at first it had been a bit of fun, smoothing his hands over her clothes, but after a while, feelings had come into it, growing with each visit as much as his dick had. How could emotions not occur when he’d spent so much time with her? And she’d been so pretty back then, her red hair shining, her smile beautiful.

  He had to make her see it hadn’t all been an act.

  “I was making sure she was okay, that’s all.”

  And unbeknownst to Ollie, Nigel had got well attached to Princess. He couldn’t very well tell his mate that, and he couldn’t ask her to leave the corner and be his girlfriend, but he’d wanted to. Several times he’d opened his mouth to get her to run away with him, that he’d find a job elsewhere in a sister factory, and they could forget their pasts and start again, except he’d remembered Ollie at the last minute, what he’d done to Cutting, what he could do to them if he found them, and snapped his lips shut. Then Nigel had met his wife, another redhead, hoping she’d erase his need to be with Princess, and she had, to a degree. But he loved Princess, too, and he’d taken to getting off on touching her instead of wishing they could be a couple. He’d never told Ollie that but had worried Princess would when she saw her fella again.

  “Making sure she was okay by paying her to chat, to grope her, when all the while you were getting information?” George cocked his head. “What a nasty piece of work. Come on, we’re going for a little drive.”

  “I have to get back to my job,” Nigel said. He’d have to lie to get them to rethink what they had planned. If they thought someone was waiting for his return, maybe they wouldn’t make him go missing. That was what they did, he’d heard people talking, and he hadn’t properly believed it until now. “I’ve told them my meeting’s an hour long. They’ll be expecting me. My wife will phone around if I don’t come home tonight. She worries.”

  “Does my face look bothered?” George gripped Nigel’s upper arm and tugged him past two sofas to a rear door. “The car’s this way. Where’s yours?”

  “I…I parked it next to a BMW.”

  “Handy. We’ll get someone to take it away and crush it.”

  Nigel’s heart thundered. “What?”

  “So it isn’t found, you dick.” George prodded the keypad, and a buzz blared out.

  It rattled Nigel’s nerves—and his bladder.

  George opened the door and yanked him outside. “Nice day, isn’t it. Take a good look at the sunshine, because it’ll be one of the last times you see it. You can, of course, look out of the car window on the way, although they’re tinted, so it won’t be the same.”

  Oh my fucking God, no.

  George dragged a shit-scared Nigel along an alley to the car park. Nigel thought of ways to get himself out of this. How much did they know? Had they already found Ollie, made him talk?

  Greg met them at the BMW, and George pressed Nigel into the back seat, a hand on his head like some copper after an arrest. Nigel felt like a crim again, his mind zipping back to the day he’d got nabbed for those robberies. If he hadn’t used the fake gun, he wouldn’t have been put in the same prison wing as Ollie because he wouldn’t have been considered dangerous—which meant he wouldn’t have had anything to do with him, wouldn’t have met Princess, wouldn’t be in this position now.

  George put latex gloves on. “Phone.” He held his hand out, blocking the doorway.

  If Nigel had thought he’d get out that way, he was mistaken. The opposite door was a no-go, too—a brick wall prevented him opening the door. There was nothing for it but to do as George asked. Nigel fumbled in his pocket and gave his mobile to him, his hand shaking so much he was embarrassed. George put it in his pocket then got inside with him. Greg plonked himself in the driver’s seat.

  “Where are you taking me?” Nigel asked, his whole body shivering.

  If he went missing, the police would know he’d been here by his phone records, the GPS or whatever, so at least these two wouldn’t get away with it—someone other than Princess and whoever had shut the door in that room would know they’d been there, surely. He gained some satisfaction from that. />
  George pinched Nigel’s cheek and twisted the skin, the monster. “Just a little place where we won’t be disturbed.”

  Greg reversed, and Nigel stared at his car getting smaller and smaller the farther away they went. He hadn’t finished paying for it yet, had about a year left on the lease hire, and his wife wouldn’t be able to afford it just on her wage. Would she be expected to stump up even if these twins got rid of the vehicle? Would the insurance cover it? Why hadn’t he got life insurance like she’d said? If he was missing for long enough, they’d declare him dead and might pay up.

  Out on the street, Greg zoomed past The Roxy and the corner where a couple of sex worker women stood. It reminded Nigel of the corner on the other estate, where he’d picked Princess up and driven to a secluded spot, spending so many hours talking to her, touching her, wishing she were his. What had happened for her to get these two beefcakes on his back? How had she found out who he was and what he’d really been doing? Because she had, otherwise George wouldn’t have said about Nigel running back to Ollie.

  Ollie was out now, had plans to get the bloodied clothes and see if he could make a go of it with Princess, get her to like him again—that’s what he’d told Nigel at the last prison visit anyway. Nigel had to admit that burnt a bit, seeing as he had feelings for her, ones that went beyond friendship. His wife would be devastated if she knew he’d fantasised about Princess throughout their marriage, even so far as pretending his missus was Princess while they had sex.

  Shit. Shit.

  “Please, I only did what I was asked,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm. I was looking after her for him, that’s all. I swear to you, she’s become important to me. I’ve been talking to her for years. It’s hard not to have feelings.”

  George stared at him. “Nah, you and McFadden were sealing her death warrant, that’s what you were doing. The talk was just a front, the gropes a seedy bonus.”

  How does he know about Craig? Did he let it slip to Princess who he was? What an absolute prick.

  “If you think Ollie was coming out of the nick to see her, all smiles, you’re wrong,” George said. “He was loitering outside her house in the dark—fucking weirdo—and that isn’t normal. You and McFadden have been duped, mate. Used. Still, you spied on our Princess for years, ratted her out to Ollie, and for that, sunshine, you’ve got a date with a circular saw.”

  Nigel held back his breakfast that was asking, not so nicely, to come back up. “What?”

  George laughed, the fucking sinister bastard. “You’ll see. Now sit there quietly and fill your head with nice thoughts, like that wife of yours, that son and daughter you love so much. Because it won’t be long before the nasty thoughts come when the blade munches on your leg, so you may as well take a pleasant breather now. You’ll be dead within the hour.”

  Nigel’s breakfast escaped.

  George walloped him on the back of the head. “You filthy fucking pig. Good job I’ve got a valet on the payroll.” He opened the window and lobbed Nigel’s phone onto the grass verge. “There. It’ll look like you came this way. Not that it matters what the police think.” He took the gloves off. “We’ve got one of them on the books. He’ll make sure no one cares about where you’ve gone. No one but your missus and kids anyway.”

  There went Nigel’s insurance.

  These two thugs were going to get away with it after all.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jenny had stuffed their bloodied clothes and shoes into black sacks before her shower; two, so hers didn’t contaminate his, for reasons only known to her. The Polaroid camera and the photo he’d taken was in hers. He might twig and take them out, but she hoped he wouldn’t.

  While under the spray, after cleaning her body and hair, she’d bleached the cubicle, the tiles, and studied the area for any remaining blood. She wasn’t silly, she knew the police would find something, a tiny speck, even going as far as checking the plughole and drain, but it would have to do. If all went as she hoped it would, they’d blame it on Ollie anyway.

  Cruel, in a way, that she was prepared to put her survival before his, her needs, but hadn’t he done the same to her when he’d made the decision to kill? He hadn’t thought about how it would affect her if they got caught, how she could go to prison for something he’d done.

  Who the hell would believe she’d allowed the victim to tie her up? Although that was what had happened, even though she hadn’t been aware at the time—thanks, LSD—would any jury swallow that? Surely, even two people on an acid trip would still have to pay for murder.

  Jenny wasn’t prepared to go down.

  She got out of the shower, dried herself, dressed, and used her towel to wipe everything she’d touched to get rid of finger, hands, and feet prints. If Ollie did the same after her, she didn’t care. So long as nothing of her remained, that was all she was bothered about. Yes, there would be evidence she’d used this bathroom at some point, the same with the other one, but she’d stayed here plenty of times, and it would be weird if the police found nothing. Still, the need to remove her recent prints had been important for her peace of mind.

  She went out onto the landing, taking the towel with her, and jumped. Ollie stood there, naked, parts of his skin spattered in red—face, arms, hands. She couldn’t stand being near him, not with that grin of his splitting his smug face, so she went down into the foyer where she’d placed the black sacks by the door, their clean flip-flops, and a fresh set of clothing for them both. Ollie had left the bedsit door ajar. They’d agreed to leave their overnight bags in there as it gelled with the plan she’d hatched—or the part of the plan he needed to know about.

  It was past three a.m. by the time he came down and slipped his clothes and flip-flops on. She took his towel and stuffed both inside another black bag; they might have faint, unseen traces of blood on them. While in the shower, she’d made a plan of her own. She’d burn his and her murder shoes, her clothes, their underwear, and the towels while Mum and Dad were at The Flag for their usual Monday date-night dinner, but his jeans and T-shirt, she’d keep. The knife was in with Ollie’s clothes but wouldn’t be there for long.

  Jenny slid her flip-flops on, lucid now, her mind sharp. What she had to do next was for her own benefit, but Ollie would never know why she’d suggested what she had.

  They exited the house, Jenny clutching the black bags, Ollie using a piece of kitchen roll to open the lock—he’d already cleaned the back door handle from when they’d come in earlier so it’d look like an intruder had done it—and he left the front door ajar, ready to fit the story. A quick scout around outside showed no one about, so they ran across the road and immediately took a set of steps down to the beach, away from any neighbours who might be awake at this time.

  The walk to the cave took about five minutes because the sand underfoot slowed them down, and Jenny stashed the bags inside at the back behind a pile of kelp-covered stones, maybe placed there by some kid creating a den.

  Did that mean the bags would be discovered before they came back to collect them? Shit, she hadn’t thought of that.

  When they left for London, after they’d spoken to the police, which would probably take hours, Ollie would drive this way, park, and Jenny would run down the sloping path and collect the bags.

  “Get it out,” she said.

  Ollie moved the bag with the knife in it, shaking it until the weapon fell out. He picked it up—she made no mention of his fingerprints being on it should it get washed up on the beach, but then again, would the water wash them off? She didn’t have a clue.

  Jenny led the way back. Halfway there, they veered onto the long pier, the amusements, arcades, and shops all closed. They didn’t speak, making it to the end and hiding behind the candyfloss shack. Jenny gazed around. Not one car going along the coastal road.

  “Check if anyone’s watching from the other way,” Ollie said.

  She peered round the shack. A bonfire raged on the beach in the distance, people-shaped silh
ouettes prancing around it, but it was far enough away that no one would see Ollie in the moonlight, dropping the knife into the sea, not if he was behind the shack when he did it.

  “Clear.” She pulled her head back in and faced the railings.

  He dropped the knife into the water.

  Jenny would never forget the sound of that plop.

  They moved out onto the pier and headed to the other end and across the beach towards the bonfire.

  “You’d better burn those clothes,” he said. “This is a fucking big deal, and we can’t afford to mess up.”

  Anger soured her heart as she remembered the frantic scrabble to get her bloodied clothes off afterwards, her top snagging on her ear, which was sore now, as if her earring had ripped the tiny hole. “Why wouldn’t I? Fucking hell, Ollie, I don’t want us getting caught any more than you do. Of course I’m going to bloody burn them!” She reached up to her earlobe to scratch it and— “Oh God. Oh no.” She went cold, so cold.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’ve got an earring missing.”

  Ollie stopped walking. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She jutted her face close to his, her teeth clenched. “Does it look like I’m pissing laughing?”

  He sighed. “I’ll go back. Find it.”

  “What if you get blood on you?”

  “I’ll be careful. You go to the bonfire party and make sure you’re seen.”

  He stormed off to the nearest steps and disappeared up them. Jenny, glad he’d gone, but frightened he wouldn’t find the earring, ran to the party, letting the crowd swallow her up, much like the rave had done. She accepted a bottle of beer from someone and danced to the music coming from a beatbox, the heat of the fire warming her chills, the flames mesmerising.