Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2)

by Emmy Ellis

  “Nice,” Dave said. “Pert tits. You haven’t had any kids, have you.”

  She shook her head. No way would she bring children into her fucked-up life.

  “It shows.” Dave smiled.

  Beth shivered. He was creepier than Shaved Head, somehow threatening just by standing there leering. He licked his lips in that way, and she held back a heave.

  “Don’t even think it,” Shaved Head said to him, a frown striping his forehead. “She’s not to be touched.”

  The insistence in what he’d said meant Beth relaxed, but only a bit—she had to remain on her guard. They could be acting for all she knew, the words part of some sick game they’d devised between them before abducting her. Some punters were off-the-scale weird, and she’d endured a lot on the game—but she did whatever they said.

  She needed the money.

  “Now then.” Shaved Head walked behind her. “Turn around.”

  As she did, she stared at her surroundings. Cardboard boxes stacked high. An old bucket in one corner, the metal kind her gran used to have. A clothes airer. A chest of drawers, the white Formica faded to a sickly yellow, pots of paint on top. An empty hanging basket frame dangling from a rusty hook.

  A storage area? Was she in some kind of warehouse place and this was a side room?

  Then she saw them. Thick black chains attached to the brick wall, manacles on the ends.

  “That’s your home for the foreseeable.” Shaved Head pointed in that direction.

  Panic surged, and she whipped round to bolt past Dave, but he caught her and manhandled her towards the chains. Together, him and his mate shackled her, and she fought them all the way, even though a part of her mind said not to resist, that this could be a sex game. Some whacky fantasy they wanted to play out.

  They stepped back.

  “There.” Dave cocked his head. “You may as well just do what he says. Like he told you, you’re earning money, have done since I snatched you. He’ll see you right.”

  The pair of them walked up the stairs, not even looking back, then the light went off and the door at the top slammed shut. The scrape of a key turning rolled her stomach, and she stood there crying, asking herself how the fuck her life had turned into this.

  Eventually, all cried out, she lowered to the floor, the concrete cold on her bum. And she thought about spiders or rats, woodlice, coming out to have a nibble on her.

  Time didn’t have any meaning. Every so often, Shaved Head came down with water. She’d already pissed herself several times, shit once, the shame of it somehow more demoralising than being kidnapped and chained up—at first. As the hours dragged by—or was that days?—she ceased to care. Hunger gnawed, the water only helping for about twenty minutes after she’d drunk it, then the insistent griping took hold again, ravaging her insides, claws trying to rip their way through her flesh. Shaved Head told her by the time she was allowed out, she’d be ready to do what he wanted. She’d get ten thousand pounds.

  She thought of how much that would help, how many months that would pay for Gran’s care home. Ten months of not worrying about shelling out. Ten months where she could save another wedge so she wouldn’t always be chasing her tail.

  Beth would do whatever the hell he wanted.

  But he was sick in the head, chaining her up, starving her, and now he’d just jetted freezing water over her, which had stung so much, sending her skin numb, and then he’d washed her hair. What? Why kidnap someone and do that? She understood the wash, she stank, but not the hair. It was almost like he’d had a change of heart and cared.

  “On your feet,” he said.

  She struggled to stand while he stared at her, offering no help. What did she expect? She was weak, her body not obeying, the act of pushing herself up from the cold floor a seemingly insurmountable feat. But she managed it in the end, breathless, her head spinning, her stomach so hollow from lack of food she thought she’d faint or throw up bile.

  He came towards her, and she flinched, expecting him to wallop her. Instead, he took a key from his pocket and unlocked the manacles. She clutched the towel to her chest, hiding her naked state, then wondered why she bothered. He’d seen it so much he probably knew every nook and cranny of her body. For warmth then, that was it. The towel was thick like a blanket, and she held on to that feeling.

  Never would she take a shower and soft towel for granted again.

  “Fancy something to eat?” he asked.

  It took her groggy mind a while to work out whether he was being sarcastic, but no, she didn’t think he was. The question had sounded genuine enough. She managed a nod, although she wondered whether she’d really done it, her mind scattered in all directions, foggy, her head so heavy.

  “Come on then.”

  He led her to the stairs, something she’d imagined in the darkness, her means of escape, and in her delirious times during starvation, they were the harbinger of terror, for either one of the men could come down them and hurt her.

  He helped her climb by cupping her elbow, standing beside her on the wide steps, and at the top, she went giddy, swaying, her stomach lurching.

  “Steady.”

  He guided her into a hallway, more like a foyer, an area the size of her bedroom, and yes, there was the laminate she’d guessed at when she’d arrived, a lovely soft grey. The walls were white, and a long, walnut occasional table, the depth narrow, stood to one side, a black vase on it with wooden swirly things sticking up. A front door. Oh God, a bloody front door. A keypad on the wall beside it. If she managed to get free, would she be able to get out or was there a code that unlocked hidden bolts?

  All of this was tinged with a blur, and she couldn’t look anymore because he tugged her along into a massive kitchen that was bigger than her flat. It had an island in the middle, IKEA-type cabinets with matching black worktops, and across to the right, a large white dining table, too many chairs around it for her to count at the minute, but they were grey velvet with studs.

  He steered her to the island and pushed a pile of clothes towards her, plus a box of cream. “You’ll need to put that on your sores, the ones between your legs and in your arse crack.”

  Like she didn’t know which ones he meant.

  “Get on with it while I make you an omelette, that’s light enough for now. Don’t want you puking on my nice shiny floor, do we.”

  She was past caring if he watched her apply the cream, she just wanted that omelette and to sit on one of those chairs instead of a hard floor.

  And she wanted that money.

  Beth managed to open the box and take the tube of cream out. She had no strength to twist the lid off, though, and he did it for her, tutting, like she was a starved inconvenience, but it was him who’d made her like this, weak and pathetic.

  Cream applied, the smell of the eggs cooking filling her nose, she got dressed in baggy tracksuit bottoms and a soft T-shirt. Were they some other woman’s clothes? They smelt of washing powder so must be. Again, she didn’t care who they belonged to, just that she was covered, the days of being naked far behind her.

  Where were her clothes and shoes? Her little handbag with her phone, money, and keys in it?

  “Wash your hands.” He pointed to the sink.

  It seemed to take her an age to get there, and even longer to soap the cream residue off. She dried her hands on a small towel he threw at her then gingerly sat at the table, the chair heaven, puffy and comfortable. She rested her temple on her folded arms to catch her breath, facing him so she could keep an eye on what he was doing. Seeing the hurt coming before he administered it.

  He plated up the omelette, steam coming off it, and her mouth watered so much she swallowed saliva. He poured tea from a silver pot, adding milk and sugar, then brought the lot over. Food and drink on the table, he cut up the egg then handed her a fork.

  “Think about using that to stab me, and you’ll go back downstairs.”

  She speared some food and put it in her mouth, the urge to scoff i
t all at once taking over.

  “Don’t bolt it down,” he warned. “Chew slowly, let your stomach get used to it.”

  She took her time, and he was right. Slow meant her belly didn’t kick up a fuss, and by the time she’d finished, she seemed even more hungry than before.

  “Drink the tea while I tell you a little story,” he said, leaning back and getting settled. “It begins like this. My name is Richie Lime.”

  And suddenly, it all made sense.

  Chapter Eleven

  George, Greg, and Harry sat in the twins’ living room. George could have insisted they used the office, but Harry had looked a tad manic when he’d turned up on their doorstep—unannounced, for Pete’s sake—so a bit of comfort wouldn’t go amiss. Something was bothering the drip, and they’d found if they didn’t nip it in the bud, he tended to stew and get himself in a state.

  They had a latte each, George and Greg on one sofa, Harry opposite on the other, him twiddling his thumbs like some divvy gimp.

  “What the fuck is up with you?” George asked, irritated with the little twat. Sometimes, he wondered why they’d taken the bloke on, then reminded himself Harry knew him and his brother had planned to killed Cardigan, too, so he stuffed down the temptation to tell him to fuck right off and not come back.

  It’d be easier to murder him. That’d solve the problem.

  But for now, there were other things to concentrate on, like Sarah’s well-being and finding Lime. Harry being here just added to the workload. He was a distraction.

  “Debbie’s asking questions.” Harry chomped at his finger as if he hadn’t eaten for days.

  “Careful, mate, you’ll bite that off,” George said.

  His joke didn’t seem to register. Harry stared at the floor. Maybe he found the Persian rug interesting. It was a nice pattern, George would give him that.

  “What sort of questions?” Greg asked.

  “About you know who.”

  “Cardigan?” Greg sat forward to take his coffee off the low table between them.

  George liked that table. It’d cost an arm and leg. And as for Debbie seeing Harry, he didn’t know what was wrong with her. Harry was a far cry from Cardigan. Maybe she just wanted a casual affair, someone to fill the big hole Cardigan had left behind.

  “Yeah.” Harry sniffed. “And she told me Mickey’s dead. What the fuck’s that all about?”

  “What?” George shouted, then told himself to calm the hell down. She’d better not have dropped him and Greg in it. What was she playing at?

  “That was my reaction.” Harry nodded absently. “Like, I thought he’d just fucked off, but she said he was dead and she knew who’d done it but couldn’t say. That told me she’s been threatened. ‘Couldn’t’ say, not ‘wouldn’t’.” He chuckled, but it wasn’t from finding anything funny, more derisive. “Same as what I said to her about Cardigan.”

  “Oh, Jesus, you didn’t bloody let on it was you, did you?” An uneasy feeling settled in George’s gut. Harry was a liability, that much was becoming clear.

  “Of course I bleedin’ didn’t. What do you take me for, a thicko?”

  “Well, you have been known for it.” Get info out of him, make him leave. George was regretting Harry knowing where they lived now. The bloke could pop up at any time with bullshit like this. “Right, so she’s asking you what, exactly?”

  “If I know who did it.”

  Greg shrugged, appearing unperturbed by this info. “Big deal. She won’t find out it was you—unless you open your gob. We won’t be saying anything. That was the deal, all three of us remain quiet.”

  “It’s not that I’m bothered about,” Harry said. “But the fact she’s asking, now that does bother me. Why won’t she leave it? He’s been dead ages, yet she’s still harping on.”

  “Because she loved him, you ponce, probably still does.” George shook his head. Christ, sometimes, Harry was a right prat. “She wants to know who killed him so she can get closure.”

  Like she did with Mickey.

  This was dodgy ground. Harry might slip up in temper and blurt it out to her. Then Debbie would go for him. George and Greg would have to clean up the mess, not that they’d mind. She’d be doing them a favour if she stabbed the fucker.

  Actually…

  George glanced at Greg and spoke with his eyes. Greg knew exactly what George wasn’t saying, their bond acting as a message conduit, and Greg nodded imperceptibly.

  “Okay…” George turned to beam at Harry. “Let me and Greg have a chinwag, and we’ll get back to you on the next move.”

  Harry smiled. “Cheers. She needs sorting.”

  “Carry on with her as usual.”

  “I can’t. She finished with me.”

  Who can blame her.

  A bit later, coffeetime over, they ushered Harry out, telling him to go and catch up with their men on the street, see if anyone knew where Lime was, where he lived—the fucker hadn’t been free with his address, apparently.

  Front door closed, George faced Greg.

  “He’s got to go,” he said. “If Debbie finds out we were going to do Cardigan over… I wouldn’t put it past her to go to the pigs.”

  Greg bobbed his head. “Let her do the dirty work, though, eh? She needs it. Plus, we’ll have more on her. Mickey, then Harry. Two murders we can hold over her head.”

  “My thought exactly. We’ll nip to see her now.”

  “She’ll be asleep.”

  “So? She’ll want to be woken up for this.”

  Greg frowned. “What’s going on inside your head?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. Come on.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Beth reeled from what Lime expected her to do, and the omelette churned in her stomach. She was to make out she’d just taken a few days away owing to burnout, returning to her corner and acting normal—except for getting close to The Brothers. How she was going to do that she didn’t know. They didn’t exactly make themselves available. If she approached them, they’d most likely think it was off and tell her to get lost.

  But Lime had already given her half the money, handing it over in a white padded envelope, and that made it all so real. She had a job to do. She couldn’t refuse even if she handed the cash back.

  “If you fuck me about, I’ll kill you,” he’d said. “It’s as simple as that really.”

  She’d been thinking of her angle with The Brothers, and it meant fucking Lime around, taking a risk by going against him. The thing was, she’d have the protection of the men who ran The Cardigan Estate, so surely she’d be all right if she did that, wouldn’t she?

  Unless they didn’t get hold of Lime, then Lime got hold of her…

  She’d be running scared, looking over her shoulder all the time, and Lime had said he knew where she lived. Where Gran lived. Of course he’d done his research beforehand, she was stupid to think he hadn’t, but it had come as a shock all the same. Her plan couldn’t go wrong. Too much depended on it.

  Lime smiled at her across the table now, his blue eyes so creepy. “So, tell me what you’re going to do.”

  She had no idea so winged it. “Maybe go to their house and say some weirdo is knocking women about, that I need more protection? I don’t know, say I want to stay with them for a bit? I could listen in then.”

  “As far as they’re aware, there is some weirdo knocking women about, so that could work.” He rubbed his chin and eyed the ceiling.

  What did he mean? “There is?”

  “Yeah. We snatched you, then days later gave Sarah a kicking.” He grimaced as if saying her name was painful.

  “Sarah?” Beth had no idea why they’d do that to her. Sarah was the light of the corner, always smiling, always taking the punters no one else wanted if they could help it.

  “Yeah, it was a business move, not that I need to explain anything to the likes of you.” He glared at her.

  She cowered and threaded her fingers. “She’s related to The Brothers, did yo
u know that?”

  “That’s why she was targeted.” He shook his head. “Did I know. Like I’m stupid and don’t do my homework.”

  “Why was I chosen?” It had slipped out. She hadn’t meant to ask, especially as she sensed she was getting on his nerves.

  “Because you need the money. People who are desperate for cash do desperate things.” He smiled. “And because if you don’t, your dear old gran won’t be alive for much longer.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Debbie could scream. Some inconsiderate twat was knocking the shit out of her flat door. She hadn’t ordered anything, so it couldn’t be Amazon, and those who knew her had been told not to bother her before three in the afternoon. It was just past eleven, for God’s sake. She buried her head under the pillow, drawing the quilt over the top to muffle the racket.

  It continued.

  “Deb? You in there?”

  It was faint but unmistakeably George Wilkes, probably calling through the letterbox. What the fuck did he want that couldn’t wait? Unless something else had happened to Sarah…

  She shot out of bed, thinking of Shirley and how easily the same fate could happen to the other girls, weird punters taking it upon themselves to hurt the women. Whatever nutter had beaten Sarah up could know where she lived, followed her there like Vinny had followed Shirley, watching, lurking in alleys behind wheelie bins.

  She was glad she didn’t stand on the corners anymore.

  Debbie rushed through to open the door, panic screwing with her chest. “What’s the matter? Is it Sarah?”

  George scowled. “Nah, something more serious than that—for you anyway. We need to come in.” He glanced over the stair railing, probably to check if anyone was in the car park behind. Listening.

  The Brothers crowded the large top step, staring in at her, and it never ceased to amaze her just how big they were. Brick shithouses. Menacing.

  “Fucking hell…” Debbie stepped back and resigned herself to starting her day earlier than usual. There was no way she’d get back to sleep anyway, not now he’d implied something bad was going on regarding her. “Suppose you want a cuppa, do you?”