by Emmy Ellis
Reprisal - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020
All Rights Reserved
Reprisal 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 Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter One
Debbie sighed while sitting at the bar in The Angel. Since The Brothers had taken over The Cardigan Estate, things were dealt with more swiftly, slights smoothed over as if they’d never existed. Life was less fraught. She felt guilty for thinking that. After all, Cardigan had not only been her boss but her lover, and she should balk at the twins running this part of London instead of him. But she was a shrewd businesswoman, and it made sense to be grateful to George and Greg Wilkes for the protection they gave her, and acknowledging their speed didn’t mean she thought any less of Cardigan.
He’d given her The Angel just before his murder, knowing full well someone was gunning for him. She’d run it for him previously—well, she’d run the brothel out the back that masqueraded as a massage parlour, leaving the pub and its issues to Lisa, her manager.
Unease settled in Debbie’s bones, the life less fraught threatening to turn into something else. There had been rumours someone wanted to challenge the twins, get them off the patch. As was the way with patch leaders, it was Richie Lime’s turn to step up and take over a vacant spot, but The Brothers had told him to fuck off. Lime’s grass had said he wanted them to fight for it if they wouldn’t give it up willingly. That was a joke, seeing as The Brothers were built like brick shithouses and George had a penchant for killing in hideous ways.
Lime would never win.
“What’s up, Treacle?”
She stiffened at that term. Cardigan used to call her that, and no one else had the right. “Don’t.”
She stared at Harry Findley, a man she couldn’t stand but one she’d saddled herself with on purpose. Another rumour had it that his friend, Mickey Rook, had killed Cardigan, but the twins had told her otherwise. Debbie had already murdered Mickey for it, and Harry was next on her list if it turned out he’d had anything to do with it. Someone had to avenge her lover’s death, and it might as well be her.
Harry had sniffed around, asking if they could get together. She’d put him off at first, but on reflection had changed her mind. While he thought it was for a relationship, she was only playing out a charade. She wanted to get him to trust her so he told her things she needed to know, and if it meant shagging him to get it, she would.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because.” She wasn’t about to let him know why. “I don’t like it. Anyway, what the fuck are you doing here again? You only left an hour ago.”
An hour for her to get showered, wash his disgusting stench off her, and dress ready for her shift in the parlour. She didn’t entertain clients anymore, hadn’t since Cardigan insisted she was his, and her job was to man the reception desk, pandering to the customers while her girls gave them what they wanted.
“A man can have a drink, can’t he?” Harry pushed some of her hair behind her ear.
She winced. He wasn’t Cardigan, and any nice gestures like that set her teeth on edge. She wished he’d fuck off and do one, but that wouldn’t get her the information she needed. The past three months had dragged by with not a peep out of Harry regarding what she needed to know. Just one slip of the tongue, one name, and she’d kill again, but he was tight-lipped in that department.
She felt like stabbing him most of the time, slicing his dick off, slashing his face like she had with Mickey, then ramming her knife deep into his heart. The Brothers had dealt with the body and would do so again if she found Cardigan’s killer, but at the moment, that wasn’t happening.
Maybe she ought to get Harry so pissed up he didn’t know what he was saying. People spilled secrets while drunk.
“I suppose,” she conceded, although she didn’t like letting him win an argument.
They had plenty of those, orchestrated by her so he lost his temper and might let something slip. She’d have to try a different tack, because that one wasn’t fucking working.
“It’s weird coming in here and not seeing Shirley sitting next to you,” he said.
She stiffened again at the mention of her friend’s name. Poor Shirley had been killed by that fat bastard, Vinny, a bloke who’d stalked her, shagged her after he’d killed her, then sliced her back so her spine was on show. Before that, Mickey had cut her face, and while some thought he’d killed Shirley, too, Debbie knew different. Cardigan had disposed of Vinny, and she could only assume the prick had been eaten by the fishes in the Thames by now or was six feet under in some remote location, rotting, creepy-crawlies eating his flesh.
Wherever he was, she didn’t care. So long as he was away from her girls, that was all that mattered.
“I hate her not being here,” Debbie admitted, thinking a bit of vulnerability might go a long way to Harry softening. “I miss her something chronic.”
“Yeah, she was a good lay.”
If Debbie cared for Harry, she’d be sick to her stomach over what he’d said, but she didn’t, so she wasn’t. Rage festered, though, him talking about her mate that way. All right, Shirley had been a sex worker, but she didn’t deserve to be spoken about like that. She’d just done her job and was a good person, not an object.
“You’re disgusting,” Debbie said. “Really disgusting.”
“She wasn’t as good as you, though.” Harry grinned and nudged her.
She had the urge to break her Coke glass on the bar and ram it into his face, gouge the fucker’s eyes so he’d never
see again. Best to tamp that down. Going into a rage wouldn’t help her find out what she wanted, and if people saw her lose the plot, they’d see it as a weakness.
He moved closer to whisper in her ear, “When you do that thing with your—”
She pushed his head away. “Don’t.” A shiver trounced up her spine. She only did what she did with him as a means to an end, and him guffing on about it just brought it home how sad her situation was. She’d once been the floozie of a gangland leader, and now look at her, reduced to having jollies with this gimp in order to avenge Cardigan’s death.
Thankfully, one of her girls came in, Iris, followed by Lavender and Lily, and the newest girl, Rosie, real name Julie, Shirley’s old neighbour in the flats around the corner. She’d taken Shirley’s parlour place, and while Debbie was glad she could give the girl a leg up the career ladder, keeping her safer indoors rather than on street corners, she couldn’t help but resent the woman, although she never let that show. Rosie was there in place of someone Debbie would rather see instead, but life was a bitch, and she couldn’t bring her friend back, so she’d best get used to Rosie being around.
They all had flower names, something she’d thought up in case they didn’t want men knowing who they really were, and hers was Peony. Pointless, when everyone knew her as Debbie. Shirley had been stubborn and kept her own.
Debbie smiled at the memory.
While the girls gathered for a drink before their shift, she nosed around the pub. It was packed again, nothing unusual. The disco was due to start soon. People either sat or stood in clusters, friends banding together, laughing and drinking until it was time to head off to The Roxy, the nightclub up the road.
Harry had sloped off to talk to Sid Dempsey, a strange little fucker who set her teeth on edge. Before Harry had started working for The Brothers after Mickey’s murder, Sid had provided hooky gear, Harry and Mickey flogging it to anyone who wanted a stolen bargain. She’d ask Lisa to keep an eye on Sid tonight. If people left The Angel with him, he’d undoubtedly be selling his wares from his car boot outside.
He could knob off if that was his game.
She switched her attention to the mirror behind the bar, her preferred place to watch the goings-on. Harry had moved to stand behind her girls and eyed up Lavender’s arse. Lavender, her dark skin a lovely complement to her slinky gold dress, must have sensed his pervy gaze and turned to glare at him.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” she said. “Get your damn eyes back in your head or pay for the sight, you bloody ponce.”
Harry raised his hands as if he hadn’t been ogling her. “Keep your hair on. Christ, I was only standing here.”
Liar. Debbie gritted her teeth. The sooner she got info from him, the sooner she could shove him out of her life, the gross bastard.
“I saw you in the mirror.” Lavender stared him down. “Don’t treat me like I’m stupid just because I open my legs for a living.”
In another life, Lavender had been a solicitor, and she came in handy if Debbie needed to ask her anything about the legalities of things. Why she’d left that profession Debbie didn’t know—and she wasn’t going to ask. If Lavender had a mind to tell her, she would.
“Fuck me, you’re fierce.” Harry walked off back to Sid, glancing over his shoulder, probably telling the ferret-faced weed all about the altercation.
“You okay, Lav?” Debbie asked and cringed at the nickname slip.
The woman hated being called that.
“I’m not a toilet,” all the girls said, laughing.
Lavender always said that, too.
“Exactly.” Lavender allowed a small smile. “But seeing as you mean well…”
“So can we call you that now?” Iris asked, her long brown hair almost down to her arse, even in a ponytail. “It’s only us being affectionate.”
Lavender sighed. “I suppose.”
She smiled properly then, seemingly pleased she was part of a solid group, and Debbie wondered what Lavender held inside her. There was a lot of pain stored somewhere. She scowled a lot, although her customers didn’t seem to mind. Maybe they liked the moody look.
Rosie came over and sat beside Debbie. “Someone’s finally moved into Shirley’s flat. Noisy fucker an’ all.”
Shirley had lived directly above her. Debbie recalled the smell when she’d gone round to see if Shirley needed anything—Shirley had sent a text saying she was ill. Turned out the stench was her decomposing body, and the texts had been sent by the killer using her phone. That Vinny was a clever bastard, had it all worked out.
“Who are they, d’you know?” Debbie asked.
“Some loud bitch called Heather. I tell you, if she paces up and down one more time when I’m kipping during the day, I’ll swing for her. The floorboards in her place creak. I’ve told her I work nights, but she shrugged. Clearly doesn’t give a shit.”
It was maybe something Debbie could approach The Brothers about. Rosie was under Debbie’s protection, and Debbie was under theirs, so if it wreaked havoc with Rosie’s life, Debbie could have a word. They might send someone round to politely ask this Heather to pack it in. If she didn’t, next time, they wouldn’t be polite. They wouldn’t hurt her, they didn’t do that to women, but some well-placed words in her ear would do the trick.
“Let me know if it continues.” Debbie smiled.
“Will do.” Rosie jabbed Debbie with her elbow. “Look who’s just walked in.”
It was just like Debbie and Shirley used to be, watching in the mirror and warning one another if someone they didn’t like appeared as a reflection. Debbie bit back tears. She’d never get over losing Shirley, nor would she forgive herself for not going round to her flat sooner. But like The Brothers had said, she’d have been too late anyway.
Shirley was already dead.
Debbie looked in the mirror. Tommy Toes had walked in, one of Shirley’s old regulars, and he rushed up to them, a massive frown in place. Debbie always shivered when he was around, seeing as he liked the girls to play This Little Piggy during sex.
She hid it well and turned to him. “It’s fifteen minutes before we open, so if you want to book an appointment, you’ll have to wait.”
Tommy shook his head. “No, one of the girls has been beaten up. I just saw her on the ground as I passed. You might want to get down there before the pigs arrive.”
Debbie stood from the barstool, her heart racing. “Which girl?” They were her responsibility now Cardigan wasn’t here. He’d left a trust fund for her to see to their protection, the money used to pay heavies who stood on the corner by the alley and kept watch.
Where was tonight’s heavy? It was a new fella, he hadn’t been with her long, but he’d come recommended by some bloke who used The Angel.
Tommy shrugged. “Dunno. Didn’t recognise her. Face is all bruised.”
“Bloody hell.” She faced the girls. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Keys handed to Lavender, she whispered, “If I’m not back in time, open up for me.”
She flew out of the pub with Tommy leading the way, tottering after him in her ridiculously high heels, wishing she didn’t have to wear them for work. She took them off when she sat behind the reception desk these days, only putting them on to let customers in or out.
A huddle of women stood on the corner, one of them down and out, and a few people on their way to The Angel stopped and stared. Debbie recognised the clothing of the beaten-up woman—the fake pink leather skirt, the black boob tube, and the knee-high patent black boots.
Sarah.
Shit, The Brothers were going to go spare about this.
Chapter Two
“What the fuck does he think we’re going to do, just hand over The Estate? I don’t care that they had measures in place. We got there first, end of. Lime didn’t get in fast enough—tough shit.” George Wilkes sat back in his office chair, swinging it from side to side, a finger across his chin. He was sick of Richie Lime making threats via his men. The prat didn
’t know who he was taking on—or if he did, he had an overinflated ego if he thought he’d get away with it.
“He means business.” Greg paced in front of the mahogany desk. “And we knew someone would try to take it from us—we stepped on toes by taking the patch. He’s gone to ground at the minute so we can’t find him.”
“Yeah, he’ll send his lackeys to get us. Do you see me shaking?”
Greg laughed. “Best we find out where he lives. We’ll roll up and blow his head off.”
George raised an eyebrow—Greg wasn’t usually so violent. “Sounds good to me.”
He let his mind wander. Life had been fine while they’d worked for Cardigan, getting paid big money to sort people the bloke didn’t like or who needed teaching a lesson. They’d lived well, but now, while in control of The Estate, they lived a damn sight better. Money for old rope, running things. A move to a bigger house, umpteen bedrooms, two lounges, an office, where they were now, done out in wood panelling, bookshelves lining the wall to the right, full of stuff he’d never read, but Greg would.
His phone rang, and he reached for it on the desk. “What does Debbie want then.” He swiped to answer, wondering if she’d had a bit of trouble down The Angel and needed their presence to calm things. “Yep?”
“It’s Sarah.”
George bolted upright, his heart banging. “What about her?”
Sarah was their cousin’s kid, and while what she did for a living didn’t sit well with the family, it was ultimately her choice. She was watched over as much as possible, like the other girls.
“She’s had a kicking,” Debbie said. “I’ve got her here in the parlour.”
“Give us five minutes.” He stood and shoved the phone in his pocket, anger burning a wicked path through him. “It’s got to be Lime.”
“What has?” Greg stopped pacing and frowned.
“Sarah’s had a pasting.”
“That fucking—”
“Yep.”
George drove them to The Angel in their newly acquired black BMW, a far better vehicle than their old white van, parking round the back beside Debbie’s latest acquisition, a red convertible, plus there was a familiar dark-blue Renault. They stood at the rear door to the parlour and knocked. Debbie had CCTV, a monitor on the reception desk, so she’d see it was them well enough, especially as a security light splashed on, bathing the area in a weird blue-grey glow. Over the way behind the pub, the cemetery where Cardigan and Shirley rested gave an ominous feel, headstones dark teeth sticking out of the earth, trees with their cauliflower heads dark against the skyline.