Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2)

by Emmy Ellis

  No messages.

  He thought about that for a moment. She couldn’t have any news—he’d told her to text him if she did. Or had she gone into hiding, waiting it out until The Brothers got hold of him? Was that why his men hadn’t spotted her?

  Nah, his threat regarding her gran would be enough to ensure she stayed on his side. If she didn’t, the old dear would find herself dead faster than the good Lord intended. A pillow over her face via a nurse would do nicely. It was amazing what the offer of money could do, and if that didn’t work, there was always the threat to off the care home woman’s husband or kids. Whatever got the job done.

  He poked at Beth’s name on the screen and held the phone to his ear.

  “Yes?” She sounded tentative, scared, as she should be.

  “Have you managed to get in with them yet? You haven’t been seen at your place, so where are you?”

  “At theirs,” she whispered.

  “Good girl. Not got anything to report then?”

  “I can’t talk.”

  “Why?”

  “Will text you now.”

  The line went dead, and he was a bit put out by that. Not many had the balls to hang up on him. She’d better bloody explain herself or she’d find her slaggy arse right in the shit, her gran, too.

  A message bleeped.

  Beth: Cameras in every room so can’t talk.

  Richie: Ah, sensible. So, what have you got?

  Beth: I overheard them earlier, saying something about coming for you at The Flag.

  Richie’s hackles went up. The cheeky bastards. On his home turf? Did they have a death wish or what?

  Richie: When?

  Beth: Don’t know, they didn’t say.

  Richie: How did you get in at their place?

  Beth: I told them I needed protection because someone was after me.

  Richie: Did they ask who?

  Beth: Yeah, but I said I couldn’t tell them because my gran would be hurt otherwise. They’ve sent some bloke as security outside her room at the home, and they’re paying all her fees.

  Fucking hell. The stupid bitch had muffed up there. Now the threat to the old dear wasn’t as strong.

  Richie: That was a bad move on your part.

  Beth: It was all I could think of. Anyway, what’s the problem? I’m doing what you wanted.

  Richie: True.

  Beth: They’re having a meeting in the morning. I’ll listen outside the door and let you know what’s going on.

  Richie: Make sure you do. A man standing guard at the care home isn’t going to make a blind bit of difference to me, understand?

  Beth: Yes.

  He left it there, the threat still hanging, despite her probably trying to safeguard her gran and thinking she’d succeeded. That would teach her to assume she could call any shots. He was tempted to off the gnarly biddy anyway, to show Beth what it cost to cross him.

  Maybe after he’d got the info from her and the twins were dead.

  He returned to the living room and told Dave the latest.

  Dave laughed. “So they think they can get to us, do they? Tossers.”

  Richie didn’t bother responding. Although he was sure he could tackle The Brothers, a small part of him whispered: What if you can’t? They were a clever pair, had to be to take over The Estate before he’d had the chance to, stomping all over a patch that wasn’t theirs, and they’d learnt from Cardigan so knew all the tricks in the book.

  Richie had to believe he knew more. He couldn’t allow them to best him. That estate was his by right, an unwritten code, and The Brothers would be gunned down in order for him to own it.

  They’d broken the rules and had to pay.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Debbie had showered again at her flat and changed into work-appropriate clothing. She’d styled her hair from the bird’s nest it had been when she’d arrived home into a messy updo, and now resembled Peony, the lady who ran the brothel, someone who, to the outsider, had her shit together and no secrets. A businesswoman who ensured her girls were well looked after. A person with nothing to worry about beyond living her usual day-to-day life.

  Time would tell whether what she’d done would replay in her dreams and nightmares.

  She checked her lipstick in the hallway mirror—Curiously Red—stared at her eyes to see if they looked manic and betrayed her, and reckoned she’d pass for normal.

  The things she did for love.

  Debbie locked her flat and studied the vicinity with the added bonus of being up high. From there, she clocked the girls on the corner to the right and whether a watcher was in place opposite in the mouth of the alley. All was well.

  A few people queued outside The Roxy, a couple of girls at the front yakking to one of the bouncers. Seemed they were trying to wheedle their way in, one of them sidling close to him, laying the charm on thick. Debbie smiled, remembering herself and Shirley being just the same when they’d first met, out on the razz on their nights off. Time really did fly.

  With no view to the left, what with The Angel being in the way, she walked down the steel steps and along the side, to the rear of her pub. The gravestones from the cemetery beyond gave her the creeps, standing there in the darkness like that, so she turned her back on them and used her keycode to get inside, hoping none of the girls except Lavender were in the reception area—her migraine alibi wouldn’t hold water then.

  Lavender sat behind the reception desk, a bright-pink cup halfway to her mouth. She placed it down and smiled, letting out a sigh, maybe of relief. “I was getting so worried.” She glanced at the clock on the wall, then back to Debbie, her mouth pinched, her eyes wide with some kind of fear—perhaps a build-up of what she’d held inside while Debbie had been gone. “It’s half bloody twelve, woman. What the fuck?”

  Debbie secured the door and approached the desk. “Everything’s fine, so take that look off your face. There’s a bit of a breeze out there, so if the wind changes, you don’t want to stick like that.”

  Lavender laughed. “My mum used to say the same.”

  “There you go then, Mum knows best. Anyone ask any questions? Punters? The girls?”

  “No. Not being rude, but you only let the customers in and out. So long as someone does, what do they care?”

  If Debbie were another person, she might be offended. Good job she wasn’t. “True. They just want to see you girls.”

  Lavender leant forward and whisper-shouted, “What the hell have you been doing?”

  Debbie was tempted to tell her everything but held back—she trusted her, but not quite enough yet. “Just helping The Brothers.” She’d used them as her cover—Lavender wouldn’t push it then.

  “Ah, I see.” Lavender nodded knowingly. “Say no more.”

  “Hmm.”

  “One less scumbag on the streets.”

  “Something like that.”

  What had happened to Lavender for her to switch from law to sex worker and not bat an eyelid at The Brothers’ form of retribution? After all, Lav had sworn to uphold the very law she’d studied, yet here she was, acting like everyone else on The Estate who’d been brought up under Cardigan’s rule. An eye for an eye, turn a blind one, mind your own business instead of poking into things you shouldn’t.

  “I don’t like scum.” Lavender got up and walked around the desk, cup in hand, heading towards her room. “If anyone rings for an appointment, I can take them now you’re back, obviously.”

  “Okay. Thanks for covering for me.”

  “No problem.”

  “I’ll give you a bonus tomorrow when I get hold of some cash, plus what you’ve lost tonight by working reception.”

  Lav nodded and disappeared through the doorway. Debbie scooted behind the desk, making a cuppa at the sideboard beside the main door, her mind drifting to what she’d done to Harry. Adrenaline returned, infusing her with a sense of euphoria that she’d finally killed him. Tears burned. Not for him, never him, but for what could have been had
Cardigan not died.

  She hoped the fishes feasted on Harry until their bellies were fit to burst, then all that would be left were slices of bone, lying on the riverbed like so much discarded rubbish.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  George and Greg sat in the living room, watching the flames devour Debbie’s clothes and trainers behind the glass door of the woodstove. It had been a productive night all told, Harry out of their hair and Lime’s place found.

  “Good thinking on your part to stuff a rag in Harry’s mouth,” Greg said.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t have him talking, could I. He’d have told her we weren’t parked where we said we were outside those flats, that we were going to kill Cardigan, just that he got there first. Now it’s only me and you who know that. Safer that way.”

  Greg nodded. “I’m relieved she got shot of him. One less thing for us to worry about.”

  “Hmm. Now we can concentrate on Lime. I wouldn’t have put it past Harry, if we’d let him live, not to put his foot in it regarding him. Harry was the sort to switch sides if he thought he’d get a better deal. Not a loyal bone in his body.”

  “I thought the same. Still, he’s gone now, so we don’t—”

  The door opened, and Beth stood there.

  What the chuff was she still doing awake?

  “He rang me,” she said, holding the burner phone out. “I sent him messages so you’d know what was said. I lied about the cameras so he wouldn’t suspect why I didn’t want to talk.”

  George got up and took it, showing Greg so they could read at the same time. Greg’s heart ticked faster—Lime had made it clear what he thought about Beth’s gran being protected. The bloke didn’t give a shit, he’d kill her if Beth didn’t do what he wanted. Greg and George had done some shitty things in their time, but they wouldn’t harm an old lady. Lime, though, was a law unto himself.

  “Wanker,” he muttered.

  “I just thought the same thing.” George let out a long breath. “Good idea to say the house has cameras. He’ll think twice about coming here now. Do we stay up and decide on what this ‘meeting’ is about, or do we do it in the morning?”

  “Tomorrow.” Greg rubbed his eyes. “I’m tired. We’ll have straighter heads once we’ve had some sleep.”

  George gave Beth the phone back. “Keep it off until you need to message him tomorrow. Meet us in the kitchen at eight. We’ll have a fry-up and discuss what’s next, but first, I’m ringing our man at the care home, let him know if he falls asleep on his perch outside that room and Lime gets in, he’s a dead man.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Sarah woke to sunlight streaming across her face through the bedroom window. She hadn’t closed the curtains last night, preferring to see straight outside every time she got restless, checking for whether Lime’s car was parked at the kerb. There was no doubt in her mind that The Brothers would sort that nasty man out, but when? Okay, they’d have to play it safe, catch Lime unawares, but that could take a lot of time and planning.

  She didn’t have time. Soon, she’d be healed and could go back to work. She missed it, the attention, mattering to someone, and staying off indefinitely didn’t sit well.

  Did Lime know where she lived? She’d been careful the whole time she’d worked for him, ensuring no one watched her come and go, not letting on where her place was to anyone, not even Princess. It was far enough away from his patch to steer clear of him when she wasn’t on the job, but now, with his visit to the little shop? She could get seen. He’d warned her if she let anyone know about what had happened to Drippy, she’d be next.

  She’d kept her mouth shut, would be stupid not to, although at a pinch, she could tell The Brothers what Lime had forced her to do, that’d fire them up even more, and they’d realise the importance of her being free from the now-unspoken threat. Those two getting rid of him was exactly what she needed. While Lime and Dave lived, so did her secret. It wasn’t just buried in her head, it was in theirs, too, and in coppers’ heads. With them dead, she could pretend it never happened to a degree, although that policeman still looked at her funny, the one who’d asked questions that night.

  Why was the past so vibrant in her head? Why wouldn’t it just go away? Guilt, that was it, churning it all up, regurgitating the scene, showing her what she’d done as if it were on telly, someone filming it. Maybe her seeing it like that was her brain’s way of disassociating her with it.

  Maybe she should leave London, never look back. Live in Manchester or somewhere else just as big, a place to get lost in. A place where she was a nobody. She’d have to learn the ways there, who was in charge and who was just a girl, but she’d done it twice now, once on Lime’s patch, then working on Debbie’s corner. She could do it again.

  If The Brothers hadn’t got rid of Lime and Dave by the time her bruises had gone and she went back to work, she’d definitely consider a move.

  Chapter Thirty

  Dave smacked Drippy again, the butt of the gun whacking into the poor bloke’s temple. Sarah screamed, she couldn’t help it, and Lime clamped a hand over her mouth.

  “Shut the fuck up, you stupid cow.”

  “No one will hear her.” Dave planted his feet either side of Drippy, who cowered on the grass.

  “They might not hear her, but what about some nosy traffic copper on the dual carriageway, eh? What about them spotting these headlights here and coming to poke their hooters in?”

  The smell of Lime’s finger beneath her nose had Sarah feeling sick. He’d eaten crisps or something earlier. Maybe salt and vinegar. She wished she had the courage to bite his palm, get away from him, grab the gun off Dave, and shoot the pair of them.

  “We need to see what we’re fucking doing,” Dave said. “They’re on low beams anyway, so it’s all right. This ponce here, he’s getting on my nerves. He’s trying to get up, look.”

  “Please,” Drippy pleaded. “I won’t say anything. Just let me go. I’ve got kids…”

  Oh my God…

  Sarah hadn’t known that, he’d never discussed them with her, just his wife and job. How old were they? Adults or little nippers? Christ, that would be awful for them to lose their father, all because she’d egged him on to go past the boundary, one he didn’t know existed. She should have realised something like this would happen. Fuck, why hadn’t she just shagged him by the warehouse? Those two watching her was preferable now to what she had to do next—if Lime meant what he’d said.

  How could she drown a punter, one who’d been nothing but kind to her? How could she drown anyone, for God’s sake?

  She couldn’t, but she’d have to.

  “Get the payment out of your pocket, dopey bollocks.” Dave glared down at Drippy, waggling the gun. “Double the fee, don’t forget. You stuck your sausage in the fireplace twice, got yourself a right old hot dog, didn’t you.” He smirked at Sarah as if she were the dog.

  Drippy whimpered and patted around for his pocket in search of his wallet, hitting his thigh instead.

  “Gordon Bennett. Let me help you with that. We’ll be here all night if I leave it to you.” Dave kicked him in the head, the sound of boot meeting bone sickening.

  Drippy wailed and rolled over, clutching his ears, and Dave ferreted for the wallet. He drew it out, removed a wedge of notes, and handed them to Lime. Thank God he’d taken the lot. Lime wouldn’t be able to work out she charged higher prices than the other girls now. She’d kept that to herself and only gave him a cut based on what he wanted them to charge.

  Lime put his lips to her ear. “Now then, I’m going to take my hand away in a minute. One word out of you that’s too loud, and you’ll be in the river with that silly bastard, got it?”

  She nodded, snorting in her attempt to breathe through the panic.

  He removed his hand slowly, as if he waited for her to disobey and scream. “Good girl.”

  She shivered at his leery tone.

  “Right, I was going to give you the option of drowning him whi
le he was awake or when he’s sparko, but I don’t reckon you’re strong enough to hold him still, even if you’re sitting on him. You’re seven stone dripping wet. So I’ll go easy on you, and Dave can knock him out. It’s your first time, so there’s that, and if you fuck up again, it won’t be your last. Follow. The. Rules. If you don’t, well, you can see where we are now. What a situation.” He shook his head and peered at Drippy. “Deary me, you’re a sorry sight, aren’t you. Looks like you’ve pissed your pants.”

  Dave laughed. “Dirty bleeder.”

  Drippy openly sobbed, covering his face with his hands, probably from shame. Sarah stared at his knuckle mole, disgusted with herself for wishing she could just get it over and done with, kill him and go back to the corner. She had the urge to be with Princess, safe, watched over. There was no question Lime wouldn’t send her back there. She’d have to work with a new name to her belt, albeit a secret one.

  Murderer.

  “Put him out of his misery, for Christ’s sake,” Lime said.

  Dave stamped on Drippy’s head, over and over until he blacked out, the poor man’s face splitting, his nose wrecked, so much blood pouring from his nostrils and a cut above his eye.

  “That was easy.” Dave grinned. “He must have been tired to need a nap that quick.”

  Sarah’s stomach revolted, and she gritted her teeth, trembling. If Drippy’s body was found, the police would know he’d been beaten up. It wouldn’t look like an accident, him falling into the stream, or a suicide, him coming here to die in peace. There’d be an investigation. Questions. She could get caught.

  “Which way did you come here after the dual carriageway?” she asked.

  Lime frowned at her. “What’s it got to do with you?”

  She’d play to his ego and make out she was on his side, that she gave a shit. “CCTV. What if they spot you?”