by Emmy Ellis
A waft from the Chinese mixed with the detergent, and Michelle felt a bit squiffy and groaned, nosing about, looking for dark shapes that signified a person loitering, watching her, waiting to pounce. A shuffle of footsteps had her whizzing around to face the way she’d come, and a person in black clothing approached, their steps no longer shuffles but cautious taps.
Fuck me, is that a balaclava they’ve got on?
Michelle’s knees weakened. She didn’t like balaclavas. They’d always scared her, signifying ill intent, menace she wanted no part of if she was on the back foot instead of being the one to inspire fear. Being the victim wasn’t something she was prepared to be anymore, not like she’d been with that stupid ex-boss of hers, and face mask or not, she wouldn’t allow this prat to frighten her. She hadn’t expected the person to be in disguise so it had thrown her, but of course they would be, they wouldn’t want her identifying them. Whoever it was wasn’t very tall, a head shorter than her, and their figure, or what she could make of it, denoted a woman.
That was interesting.
“Give me what I want,” her blackmailer said.
Was that a tremble in the voice there?
Michelle wanted to laugh. This silly cow was a novice, she had to be.
“What if I don’t?” Michelle’s heartbeat went all funny, skipping, leaving hollow imprints in her chest. She was whipped back into childhood, where she’d stood up to a bully and had said the exact same thing after being told to piss off away from the cool kids’ area on the playground. She’d earnt a smack in the mouth for it, but at least she’d let the nasty girl know she had some guts, even if it had only lasted a few seconds.
The stranger stamped her foot. “Then the pigs will get my photos of that bloke you’ve got chained in your cellar.”
Shit. I should have known. “And if I hand it over, this is the last I’ll see of you?”
The woman’s brittle laugh cracked the air. “Not likely. I want more of what you’ve got, and you’re going to give it to me.”
On your chuffing bike, missus. “It’s in my backpack. I’ll need to take it off.” Michelle held the knife close to her leg.
“Do it. Quickly. I need to get to B&Q.”
That was a bloody weird thing to say. “Whatever floats your boat…”
Michelle really had intended to get the money out, but the knife jabbed forward, sinking into the woman’s stomach. Michelle pulled it out, the realisation that she’d stabbed someone out in the open, albeit in a dark alley, crowding into her mind.
Oh shit, oh shit…
The extortionist staggered to the side, banging into the fence, and Michelle cursed the noise. She followed her down, crouching in front of her, getting her phone out and accessing the torch app. She at least wanted to see who she’d stabbed before she ended her for good. It was the only way forward now, murder. This bitch could crawl for help, and the police would be involved. They’d come for Michelle, and she couldn’t have that.
Torch on, she pointed it at the woman and, using the knife hand, tugged the balaclava off.
“Dawn?” Michelle’s heart sank. This was one of her old informant’s daughters, for fuck’s sake. Okay, she didn’t know her to talk to, just of her, but she recognised her from pictures said informant had shown her over the years. “What the bloody hell?”
“It was the car,” Dawn said, her words breathy.
“What?”
Dawn struggled to her feet, clutching her belly, and once again she thudded into the fence. One of the panels clattered. The security light came on in the laundrette yard, and footsteps padded on concrete, the soles of the shoes grating over loose grit.
“Who’s there?” Helen.
Just what I need. Piddling heck.
Michelle swiped the blade across Dawn’s throat, and her victim fell over, landing on the ground. Michelle shoved her phone away, plunging her back into darkness, and she stepped back, panting on purpose, forcing tears to come.
“Oh my God, help, I’ve been attacked!”
“You bloody what?” Helen said. The gate opened, and the shadowy figure of the pisshead emerged. She held a torch with a long handle and pointed the beam at Michelle’s face. “Attacked?”
“I was…I was just walking this way to the Jade for my tea, and she…she jumped out at me. A bloody balaclava and everything.” I should have been an actress. Michelle stifled the largest giggle ever, the kind that would burble if she let it out.
The beam shifted to Dawn. Blood oozed from the second smile in her throat. She stared at the sky, probably couldn’t see the stars, but that was a good thing. For Michelle anyroad. She was dead, and good riddance.
“Bugger me, it’s Dawn Cottrill,” Helen said.
“I know. Oh God, how can I face her mam now?”
Helen blinded Michelle with the beam again. “You won’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have to tell Cassie.” Helen paused, hiccupping. “And if you don’t, I will. There’s no way I want to naff her off, so it’s the only option.”
Michelle smiled. How wonderful life could be. This was the answer to her prayers. Cassie would get rid of the body, and no one would find out about this. Dawn’s mam would think her daughter had gone missing. Or something.
It didn’t matter, because the boss would fix it.
And Michelle would get to keep the two grand and her whopping great secret.
Tonight was a good night.
Chapter Eighteen
The knock at the door on this Friday evening wasn’t something Francis had expected. Nor had she expected to find Henry Noble standing there, his stupid brown leather work satchel hanging off his spindly shoulder. What was he here for, to get the inside scoop on what she and Lenny got up to? He was a dick if he thought she’d tell him owt, especially as Lenny had The Barrington Life to air his business. Why would they entertain The Moorbury Times?
“Piss off,” she said, incensed at his cheek. “We don’t want the likes of you around here. You’re full of bullshit. You spout lies to sell papers.”
The bespectacled man looked like that killer she’d read about in a book from the library, a genre she and Lenny enjoyed, true crime. It gave them good ideas. She stared at Noble, the murderer’s name on the tip of her sharp tongue. What’s his face, Crippen, that was it, except Noble had more hair at the front, and his moustache was less walrus and more clipped, thinner, a suspicion of hair rather than a blatant bush. It was so straight, each hair pointing downwards, she’d swear he oiled and combed the bloody thing.
He blinked several times behind his thin wire frames, his brown irises flecked with gold, and shuffled from foot to foot enough times to send her into a bubbling rage. Why come here and stare at her like that? What was he trying to do, unsettle her?
She went to close the door so she didn’t shout and wake the kid up. She’d only just gone to sleep, and Francis anticipated a good three hours of peace until the bane of her life woke up again for a bottle.
“You’ll want to listen to me, pet,” he said, his Newcastle accent strong.
“Don’t ‘pet’ me, you fucking weirdo.” She disliked him more than she’d thought. Her skin had crawled when he’d come knocking about Lionel’s murder, wanting her to tell him all about her walk through the woods. What was the point if, as far as everyone else was concerned, she hadn’t seen owt? Had he been that desperate for another story?
“Perhaps I should come in.” The tips of his weak smile stretched towards the hinges of his even weaker jaw.
“What, in my house? Not likely. My answer’s the same as my mam’s when you came calling before: go away.”
He smiled, the creepy fucker, and in the light of the lamp beside the door, his teeth glittered. Or was that his spit? She shuddered.
“I know what you did,” he said.
Normally, she’d have laughed in his boring little face, but there were a couple of things she’d done that Lenny didn’t know about, things she didn
’t want him to know about, so maybe she ought to listen to this fella, see what he had to say. She sighed as though he was the most tedious thing she’d encountered in a long while—she needed him to know he hadn’t rattled her. “Come on then, what did I do?”
He smiled wider, then snapped his lips together, creating a nasty straight line. “The baby.”
Her guts went south, and her scalp prickled, but she maintained control. She was a pro at that after all, had years of acting beneath her belt. A frown, a look of concern, then, “What baby?”
“You know what baby. Janey.”
A harder frown. A drawing back of her head in confusion. “Who?”
He tittered. “You know very well who. The little one who was suffocated at the back of The Donny.”
“What’s that got to do with me?” She’d sounded brasher than she’d wanted, but that couldn’t be helped now. She could only hope he hadn’t picked up on her alarm.
“You may have everyone else fooled, but I know you did it.” He tugged at the lapels of his beige trench coat.
Pervert vibes. He’d flash it open in a second and expose himself, the dirty bastard.
She laughed, couldn’t stop it from tumbling out. Nerves. For the first time in ages, she was anxious, a similar feeling to when she’d been due to meet up with Lionel. She should let Noble in so no neighbours heard what else he had to say, but if she did that, tongues would wag. Best to keep him on the doorstep and talk quietly.
“You know nowt,” she said.
“I do. The police might not be able to get people around here to talk because they fear who you are, but I can. A bit of cash goes a long way for people who don’t have much. I promise to keep their names out of it, and they spill the beans every time.”
“Then they’re liars, just after making money, same as you with your newspaper.”
“You were seen going out the back, Francis. Can I call you Francis? Returning. Rushing out of the pub like your backside was on fire. That’s what they said, those exact words.”
Francis had had enough. This cretin was encroaching on her happiness, such as it was these days with Cassie around, and she wouldn’t stand for it. No one stood on her doorstep and spouted bullshit. “Say it was me. What are you going to do about it?”
His eyes lit up. “Put it in the paper.”
She folded her arms, praying he took it as her way of saying she was in control, not that she was hugging herself. “Are you off your bloody rocker? You know who I’m married to, right? Of course you do. Yet you come here, threatening me—”
“I’m not threatening. And I doubt your maniac of a husband knows owt about your disgusting antics. If he did, he’d be mad to leave you alone with his daughter.”
He wasn’t wrong there. Several times Francis had almost suffocated Cassie, then she’d contemplated wedging the kid down the side of the cot mattress, her face trapped against a blanket, so it’d look like she’d learnt to roll and got stuck, couldn’t breathe because of the wool. But Francis had thought of the post-mortem—Janey had had one—and couldn’t be doing with the shite if it was proved it had been done on purpose. She had a good life here, despite the child: all the money she could spend, the notoriety even though she currently sat simmering on the back burner, and people took notice of her.
She was someone, not just an abuse victim.
“What do you want?” she asked, her tone more clipped than his moustache.
“Your side of the story. I won’t print your name, obviously, just say you answered my questions anonymously.”
Francis sniffed, pretending to think about it, but already her plan was set in stone. “All right. We can’t do it here. I’ll have to come to your place. Where do you live?”
He rattled off his address, clearly pleased with himself for reeling her in. “Half an hour, then I’ll be sending what I’ve already written to go to press.”
What a prat. Did he think he could scare her? He had, but only for a few seconds until her brain had kicked in and saved her.
“Fine. I just need to get Mam over to watch the baby.”
Noble turned on his fancy heels and stalked down the path on twig-like legs, glancing over his shoulder at her as he reached his car. He got in and drove away. Francis shut the door on the night and phoned Mam who was more than happy to nip over. Lenny was at The Donny with Glen and Joe discussing tactics, so he’d be none the wiser, and Mam wouldn’t admit she’d been here if Francis told her not to.
Soon, with Mam sitting on the sofa gazing adoringly into the Moses basket, Francis left the house with a coil of rope and her gun in her handbag, amongst other things. She sat in her car, taking a moment to think while the engine heated. She knew exactly what to do, and there was nowt Noble could say that would change her mind. He’d just stepped on a landmine, only he didn’t know it yet. Soon, his whole world was going to blow up in his Crippen-ish face.
She arrived at his house, a large detached thing on the outskirts in a cul-de-sac, each home with a posh car on the drive. Francis would live in a big place like this one day, once Lenny had stashed enough money away. She’d be lady of the manor.
Barely any lights were on anywhere, and the streetlamps were the kind that did sod all, that weird, low orange shine, and despite thinking she’d be safe to get out, she put one of her wigs on, a pair of oversized sunglasses, and some gloves. Noble could think what he liked about that—probably that she was disguising herself so no one knew she’d been there. That was exactly the reason, but not quite in the way he’d assume.
She wouldn’t be walking away from this house alone.
Out she got and walked to his door, knocking on it with her gloved fist. The hallway light popped on, and his shape came closer, the edges wavering from the dapples in the glass panel. He opened up, stepped aside, and smirked. What was he thinking, that he’d won the battle? He had to be joking. The war hadn’t even started yet, and she’d be the victor, not him.
“Come in.” He eyed her face and wig, letting out a scoffing sound. “I see you don’t want to be recognised.”
“You’re so clever.” She wanted to punch his smug grin but refrained. Inside the house, she waited for him to shut the door and lead the way to wherever he wanted to talk.
He strode down the hallway to a room at the end, his wimpy tartan slippers whispering on the parquet. “My wife’s here. For my protection, you understand. In case you decide to get funny.”
Funny? She’d be more than that. She thought of the gun in her bag and almost laughed. “Good for you. It’s always best to be prepared, I find. When you’re not, things can go terribly wrong.”
He didn’t appear to have clocked her veiled warning.
She stepped into a lovely living room, all cream furniture and proper wooden floorboards polished to a shine. Expensive ornaments sat just so on thick-shelved units, costing a pretty penny or two, she’d bet. How much did a chief editor earn at a local rag, for fuck’s sake? Then she recalled his wife was some councillor or other, taking a wage from the taxpayers’ pockets—an overinflated wage at that. The pay likely didn’t match the amount of work she did.
This would be a riot when she ended up dead, found where Francis planned to leave her.
Francis checked the windows. The curtains were closed, nice and neat, so that saved her ordering Noble to do it. He sat beside his prim and proper wife on the puffy sofa. She resembled Dolly Parton, minus the chest. She stared at Francis as though she were shit on her shoe, a constituent she’d rather not be involved with if she could help it. That was okay, she’d change her tune in about two minutes.
“Won’t you take a seat?” Noble asked. Good manners, but really, he was taking the mick.
“No.” Francis dipped a hand into her bag and took the rope out, then the gun, which she pointed at Mrs Noble. What was her name again? Beatrice, something plummy like that. Born with a silver spoon in her mouth if Francis was any judge. “Now then, if you thought you called the shots, pardon the pun, see
ing as it’s me with the gun, you were wrong, you nasty little cunt.” She smiled. “What’s going to happen now is a massive lesson, one you’ll never forget.”
“Henry!” Beatrice pushed back into the seat, her Dolly hair wobbling. “Do something!”
“Shut up, you whingeing cow.” Francis waved the gun. “Your voice has the tendency to get on my tits.”
“Now hold on a second.” Noble went to stand.
“Sit your skinny arse still and listen to me.” Francis glared at him, the gun still trained on his wife. She held it steady, like Lenny had taught her: Never show anyone your fear. “You’re going to tie your dear woman’s wrists behind her back. Now.”
Noble spluttered, his face going red, and glanced at Beatrice. “I’m sorry, I thought—”
“You said this was in the bag,” Beatrice said, all but spitting the words at him. “You said this was the story you could sell to the nationals. What the hell have you done?”
Francis chuckled darkly. “He’s fucked up, love, that’s what he’s done. Messed with the wrong person.” She swung her gaze back to Noble. “Do as you’re told, or I’ll shoot this bitch in the leg.” She cocked the trigger.
“No, no, please.” Noble held both hands up and bounded to his feet. He reached out and took the rope, urging his wife to stand. Hands shaking, he tied her wrists, all the while mumbling, telling her it would be all right, pet.
No, it fucking wouldn’t. Pet.
Francis took a dishcloth from her bag and threw it at him. It landed on his pathetic excuse for a head, one corner draping over the rim of his glasses. “Put that in her gob.”
Beatrice turned around, her face streaked with tears, but Francis would give the woman her due, she didn’t make a sound. Her eyes said a million things, though, the chief one being: I hate you.
Francis loved it.
Noble placed the cloth in her mouth, his eyes darting from side to side. What was he up to? Surely he wasn’t…