by Emmy Ellis
“Right.” Greg sighed. “So what’s the problem with Frank? Has he fucked up somewhere?”
Clarke rubbed the end of his nose. “I could have sworn it was you two, but never mind. He’s dead.”
“Fuck me.” George shook his head. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Hmm. I take it you have alibis, just in case you’re lying to me?” Clarke circled his finger around the rim of the cup. “Or did you genuinely not do anything to him?”
Greg rubbed his chin. “You might want to look at Lime for this. He sent someone to duff Frank up the other night, in the alley opposite The Roxy. Broke his nose, gave him a kicking. Frank was having a few nights off to recover.”
Clarke hmmed. “Yeah, the pathologist did say the nose break and bruises weren’t as recent as the time of death, as in, hours beforehand. Seems he was also burnt with hot liquid—smelt like coffee in his hair. Two cups are missing from a set of six. Don’t think his wife’s noticed that yet. I have a feeling whoever poured the coffee on him took the cups with them.”
Greg took a sip of coffee, thinking about those cups and where he’d dumped them, broken into pieces. “Right, is this conversation over?”
Clarke rose, leaving his cup almost full. “Yep.”
“Good, because we’ve got a breakfast to cook.”
“Thought I could smell something other than bullshit. You couldn’t put my drink in a to-go cup, could you?”
George got up and fetched a thick paper one and dealt with it. “Now bugger off and pin this on someone else, that’s what you’re paid for. Oh, and if there happens to be any evidence at Frank’s, of ours, well, we nipped there for a chat in the morning to see if he was all right after he’d got beaten up.”
Clarke grinned. “I knew a stabbed neck was your work. Fucking hell, you had me thinking I was losing my touch. You can’t say the morning, his missus was there until he took her to the shopping centre. I’ll put it in my notes you went there the day before—his wife was having her hair done at one o’clock, I happened to ask what their previous day was like, wanted to see if they’d had a barney or whatever.”
He walked out.
Greg looked at George, and once the front door closed, they cracked up laughing. Christ, having Clarke in their pocket was a godsend.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Debbie cringed at the stout knocking on her flat door.
It was morning, the part of the day she didn’t usually see.
She climbed out of bed, last night crashing into her head, and thought for a second about what she’d done with the clothes she’d changed into after killing Harry. They were still in the washing machine, as were her Converse, and later, she’d put them in a charity bin in a supermarket car park somewhere once they were dried. She was too paranoid about blood transference from the black bags to keep them.
What if it was a copper at the door? What if they had a warrant? What if someone had seen her dumping the bits of body with the twins? If her flat was searched, they might take the damp clothes.
She dashed into the kitchen, opened the washing machine door, and threw an Ariel pod inside. Cycle set, ON button pushed, she allowed herself to relax a bit while walking to see who’d called round. They’d have to wait for the machine to finish, and there was more chance of any stray blood on the material coming off during the second wash.
Her heart beat so fast it palpitated, and her lungs and chest seemed heavy. The Brothers could only protect her so far—and fuck, she still hadn’t dumped the holdall or had her car valeted. How they did this for a living without going mad she’d never know.
She peered through the peephole, her breathing shallow, her shoulders slumped. Rod Clarke. Bloody hell. He was alone, so that was something. If he had another copper with him, that’d mean she was in the shit.
Chain off, door unlocked, she swung it open and went for her usual grouchy self when she got woken up. “What the fuck do you want?”
He glanced back at the girls’ corner and pointed to the alley opposite The Roxy. “I need to talk about that.”
Christ, had someone blabbed about Sarah and Frank being done over? Or had the CCTV bloke not erased those files and someone else working there had seen them, a complete Jobsworth who’d phoned the police? That was all she needed, Clarke on her tail about her involvement in employing the women and watchers. She preferred to run her business without piggy interference, thank you.
But he’s taking money from The Brothers to look the other way, so stop panicking.
“Come in.” She trudged down the hallway, back to the kitchen, pleased the washing machine was half-filled, soapy water sloshing against the glass door. Her Converse clonked with each rotation.
Coffee pod in her machine, she took out two cups—he’d undoubtedly want one, and if she was acting casual, he wouldn’t suspect anything. Like where she’d been last night.
He came in and sat at the breakfast bar as if he owned the place, draping his forearms on top, fingers splayed. One of his nails was black, like he’d whacked it with a hammer doing DIY at the weekend. “I need to speak to you about Frank.”
Thank God he didn’t say Harry.
“What about him?” She kept busy with making the coffee. It was too early for this sort of bullshit, and she’d rather have had a dose of caffeine before he guffed on, but she could hardly tell him to shut up until she’d had a cup, could she.
He cleared his throat. “Just want to clear something up. Does he work for you or The Brothers?”
How much did he already know? She may as well tell the truth and hope for the best. He was dodgy as fuck anyway so would probably conveniently forget what she’d said afterwards if she slipped him a few quid. “Technically, he works for Cardigan, even though he’s dead, as that’s what he wanted, for me to run things. He left a trust fund for whoever watches the girls.”
“A trust fund.” He chuckled, his overly long teeth on display, the tips yellow. “So Frank worked for you then. Are you aware of him being beaten up?”
She watched the coffee finish spurting into the cup then added some milk and a couple of sweeteners. Her Converse smacked about in the machine again, drawing attention to it. “Yep, and I gave him time off. He said one of Lime’s blokes called him from his post the other night and decked him. Why?” She handed his drink over and added another pod to the machine, her favourite mug beneath the spout. Button pressed, she leant against the worktop, arms folded, wishing she’d put her dressing gown on over her pyjamas.
“Well, someone else said Lime was after Frank, too, so I just needed that confirmed really. What’s your take on an employee’s family after something happens to them? Like, are you still paying Frank while he’s off? And would you pay anything to his wife and kids should he, you know, find himself dead?”
She couldn’t work out whether he spoke rhetorically or meant it. She’d go with the former, seeing as he’d spoken about Frank as if he were alive. “I suppose I’d ask the fund manager to see if some money could be taken from the trust to help the family out, but it’s a moot point, isn’t it? He just got his nose broken, had a bit of a kicking. Of course, I’ll pay his wages, no question about that.”
“Where were you yesterday?”
Why was he asking that?
She turned to collect her mug then sat with him at the bar, rubbing her eye. Fuck, why is he asking that? “I sleep until three, so I’d have been here. I don’t leave the flat until around seven, before I start work, unless I need to go to Sainsbury’s or whatever, which I didn’t.”
“Your work at the massage parlour.”
She shook her head at his emphasis to show him it was boring, nothing she hadn’t heard before. “Yes, the massage parlour.”
“So you wouldn’t have gone to visit Frank yesterday afternoon to give him his sick pay or whatever the hell you call it.”
“Nope. I’m paying him when he turns up for work, which will be the week after next, as they watch in seven-day shifts, one on, one off
.”
Clarke pointed at their coffees. “I just had one similar to this with The Brothers.”
Was that supposed to mean something? Put the wind up her? “That’s nice for you.” She took her first sip, and it dawned on her how he’d mentioned the twins, so he’d been there first. What was going on? “Look, can you get to the bloody point here, please? You’ve woken me up early, and I’d like to drink this then go back to bed.” Not to mention get that bloody washing dried and to the clothes bank.
“The point is, Frank’s dead.”
She almost dropped her mug in shock. “What? Did Lime get to him or something?” Her body went cold. Lime was serious, he wanted her corner, was sending a message.
“So I’m being led to believe—or so I’m going to believe, although, of course, I can only warn Lime off, not that he’ll listen. Got any biscuits?”
She waved at the wall cupboard behind her. “In there.”
Clarke got up and had a nose inside, gripping the door handles. “Chocolate digestives. Nice.” He took the packet and sat, making a right old noise opening it. “What the bloody hell is that clonking?”
“My washing.”
Debbie wanted to tell him to stop it with crinkling that packet, to be quiet, she couldn’t bloody think. Frank, dead? Had Lime ordered for him to be killed as a warning to The Brothers or to her? Everyone knew she ran this street, the sodding corner, and The Brothers only got involved if she asked them to. Would Lime come for her next?
Clarke dipped a biscuit in his coffee and munched. Swallowed. “Ruddy handsome the way the coffee melts the chocolate.”
She sighed. “You’re seriously talking about biscuits? What about Frank’s wife, his little boys?” God, this was awful. What had seemed The Brothers’ problem because of Sarah’s involvement had far wider ramifications. What if Lime came back for one of the other girls or, God forbid, visited the parlour? She no longer had Cardigan on hand to watch the CCTV footage and come to help her.
She made a mental note to ask the twins if they’d be willing to install it on their phones and laptops.
Clarke eyed her, head cocked. A biscuit crumb sat in the corner of his mouth. “You honestly didn’t know, did you?”
“No! Why would I? Fucking hell, at the very least it means I have to employ another watcher, find someone I can trust, and at the most I might have to worry if Lime’s got it in for me. If I knew, I’d have sorted both those things by now.”
His eyes turned to slits. “Why would Lime have it in for you?”
“Ask those bloody twins.”
“You’d better tell me, or that parlour of yours will be raided.”
While it was probably an empty threat, she didn’t need the hassle, even though every room there apart from hers appeared exactly as advertised—massage beds, oils in sideboards, nothing dodgy about it at all. “It’s pointless doing that, you know you won’t find anything.”
He shrugged. “It was worth a try. What about this then, seeing as you’re not willing to grass. I say what I think, and if you don’t answer me, then I’m on the right track—that way, you haven’t told me anything verbally. I’m paid by The Brothers, don’t forget. I might be able to help them better if I know what’s what.”
She sighed again, giving up fighting a losing battle. “Go on then.”
“Lime is after The Cardigan Estate—by rights, the way those fuckers work it out, it’s his anyway. He’ll be pissing on your territory so you get scared. Offing Frank is the first clue you need to watch your back. He’ll wear you down, maybe going after the girls one by one as well, and in the end, you’ll buckle and let him run the corner, the parlour.”
She wanted to deny it, but that was exactly what she suspected was going on, as well as him sending a warning about taking over The Estate. It had to be that, didn’t it? Did Clarke know about Sarah? Debbie wasn’t going to bring it up in case he didn’t, what with Sarah being related to The Brothers. They might not want family business bandied about.
Clarke crammed a soaked digestive in his mouth and reached out to put a hand over hers. She didn’t flinch, although she had the urge to—his skin was clammy. She knew what was coming next. So many men had made a move like that in the past.
“If you pay me in kind, I’ll help you out an’ all.” He rubbed her skin with his sweaty thumb.
And there it was, what she’d expected.
“At least let me drink this coffee and have a shower.” Yes, she’d fuck him, and if anything came out about Harry, she’d fuck him then, too, opening her legs to keep his mouth shut, any evidence hidden by him in return. If he was willing to include her in his bent behaviour as a copper, she’d do whatever if she got extra protection with Lime sniffing around. She’d have Clarke and the twins on her side.
He smiled. “You know it makes sense.”
First, she had to find out how Frank had died. She’d know what to expect if Lime came for her then, what method he’d use on her. “How…? Frank, I mean.”
“A knife to the neck. He was also burnt, his face and head. Hot coffee thrown on him is the pathologist’s guess. His kitchen was a right old state, lots of blood. The wife found him. She thought he was a bouncer at The Roxy, so you calling round with money, well, let’s just say she might be expecting it now I’ve told her who he may really have worked for. I wasn’t sure if it was you or Greg and George. Frank’s kids are at their aunt’s place, and the wife’s got her in-laws there at the minute, so you might want to be careful how you word things if they’re nosing in on the convo. I was there early his morning, and she didn’t want them knowing her business. I should have spoken to them really, but the crime smelt suspiciously of people I help out of messes, so I didn’t bring them into it.”
“I don’t even know where he lives to give her any compensation.” Debbie hadn’t got around to that sort of thing, and besides, the work was cash in hand, no questions asked so long as they did the job they were paid for.
He took his notepad and pen out, tore a piece of paper off, and wrote down the address. “There you go. If you give her money, she might go quietly, as in, not hound me to find the killer, as so many of them do. She strikes me as the sort to be pissed off with Frank for getting himself killed and leaving her in debt, so maybe she won’t bother pressing me for answers anyway. Still, you paying her will help me out.”
She stared at the paper. They lived in the heart of The Cardigan Estate, a council house, going by the address. “How much would she expect?”
“You’re better off asking The Brothers that one.” He peered into her mug. “Drink up, I haven’t got all day. Oh, and put on some nice knickers after your shower. I’ll enjoy ripping them off.”
She shuddered and hid her grimace behind her mug, taking a hefty sip. She wasn’t stupid, she’d opened a big can of worms here. Clarke would come back again and again, and she’d be back to her old ways, having sex with men she didn’t like. “Remember I sleep until three, and I want a couple of hours before you show up—if this is going to be a regular thing, that is.”
“Oh yes, it’ll be regular. My wife’s not into sport in the sack anymore. Shame, because she was a right goer when she was younger. Remember, Debbie, you have to pay handsomely for blind eyes, for me to turn the other way. Five-thirty whenever the fancy takes me?”
She nodded. “And you need to be out by half six. I have to get ready to work in the parlour.”
“Yep.”
She took her time drinking the remainder of her coffee while he scoffed more biscuits like they were going out of bloody fashion. She’d just got Harry out of her bed, and now it was being filled by someone else she didn’t want there.
When would she catch a break?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Isla stared at Frank’s mate, irritation bubbling beneath the surface, just about ready to pop. He had thin black hair, the scalp showing between greasy combed lines, and eyebrows resembling bushes he hadn’t bothered to shave or pluck. Some strands curled, ly
ing flat against his brow, filigree that looked like tattoos at first glance. His Metallica T-shirt had been washed to death, once black but now a muddy grey, the image on the front peeling so she couldn’t work out what it had been. Some dust speckled it.
He hefted his dirty-boot-encased feet up and plonked them on the desk, some dried cement or whatever cracking off and landing on the wood, leaving a clean patch in one sole’s tread. He leant back in his massive desk chair, hands behind his head. That revealed sweat patches under his armpits.
She swallowed a bite of disgust.
They were in a Portakabin on a building site. The mate, Barry, was the manager who oversaw things, and she asked herself if he also worked for The Brothers, or at least had an in with them if he’d put Frank’s name forward for a job as a watcher. That was what Frank had said, Barry had got him the job, unless he’d lied about that, too.
She wouldn’t be surprised about that anymore.
She shuddered at him being a watcher. Was that why their marriage had gone stale? Had he been too busy leering at the young women on the corner? Had he been with them? She thought of the black dress she’d bought in Next, how she’d planned to get him to take her to The Roxy, introduce her to his colleagues. Bloody hell, she’d had the wool well and truly pulled over her eyes, hadn’t she.
The burn of embarrassment seared her cheeks, and she wondered whether that was what her stupid husband had felt when he’d had coffee poured on him.
“What can I do for you?” Barry lowered his arms and picked up a Bic pen, casually fiddling with it, the blue cap chewed so it was almost white, teeth marks in it like one of those dog chews.
“Did you get Frank the job as a watcher?” She crossed her arms over her chest, remaining standing so she could glare down on him and feel as though she had some form of control. Seated, she’d feel cowed if he got bolshy with her.
Barry had the grace to look sheepish, biting his lower lip and darting his dark eyes away for a moment. Shifty, buying himself time to figure out an answer, one that wouldn’t get his friend in the shit, no doubt.