Revenge (The Cardigan Estate Book 1)

by Emmy Ellis

  Jonathan looked at his reflection in the brass beer pump opposite, his features haggard. “Or when Cardigan carks it. Get real, Sonny. You always were a dopey git. He’d come and find me if I legged it, and that Sam would still keep his ear to the ground, even if I was lucky enough to see Cardigan dead. Nah, I’m stuck with my lot and can’t do a damn thing about it.”

  Sonny shook his head and turned to Jack, who polished glasses a few feet away. “Two more pints, please.”

  Jack strolled over. “Heavy session tonight, lads?”

  “Probably.” Sonny leant his elbows on the bar until Jack brought their fresh pints over, brimming with froth on the top. He waited for him to go to the bottom end to serve one of his cronies. “What’s she like, this Leona? Tasty bit of stuff or what?”

  Jonathan laughed. “You’re taking the piss, aren’t you? She’s anything but tasty. Haven’t you heard about her? Everyone else seems to think it’s highly hilarious I’m marrying Cardigan’s daughter. And I’ve got to marry her, that’s all there is to it.”

  “I haven’t heard anything. What’s all the fuss about?” Sonny sipped his lager.

  “Well, put it this way, she looks old enough to be my mother.”

  Sonny’s eyes widened. “Nah, you’re pulling my leg. Aren’t you?”

  Jonathan took a gulp of beer. “I wish I bloody was.”

  They sipped their pints.

  Sonny, unable to keep quiet for long, piped up again. “Some older women are quite nice-looking. Shame she isn’t one of them, eh?”

  Jonathan clenched his jaw. “Shut up.” He sighed into his pint, and some of the remaining froth splashed up onto his face, sending Sonny into fits of laughter. “That’s it, kick a man when he’s down. I’m going home.” He slipped from the stool and straightened his jacket.

  “It was only a laugh. Don’t be so bleedin’ maudlin.”

  “You’d be bloody maudlin if you had to marry some old bag.”

  “Yeah, I’d have to agree with you there. Cardigan and his mob aren’t to be reckoned with. Still, you could always take a mistress, because if this Leona’s as bad as you say she is, you’ll not be wanting to do anything with her, will you?”

  Jonathan swallowed down bile. “Don’t. I’m off. Cardigan’s ordering a load of barrels tomorrow, so I need to be up bright and early without a headache.”

  “I’ll be seeing you then.” Sonny raised his hand in farewell and sipped his pint, then, “Oi. Can I finish your beer?”

  “Yeah.”

  Much ribald laughter and merry voices followed Jonathan to the door. Totally dejected and beaten, he left The Eagle, shoulders slumped.

  Chapter Eleven

  Leona had stormed up to her room in a frenzy.

  Mind still in a muddle, she sat on her bed. Sorting through the humiliating experience of meeting the man she was going to marry, who thought she had a funny accent, had her annoyed again.

  She’d hidden her feelings and sat beside him as if unaffected. He’d deliberately touched her thigh with his leg, she knew that. Mortified at such close contact, she had to admit she’d been a little scared. She hadn’t been so close to a man since that night with William in the cinema.

  I’m not what he expected.

  It should be William she was marrying. She’d kept the newspaper clipping regarding his death and frequently looked at it, envisaging her name in place of Rebecca’s.

  His heart gave out because he missed me.

  But she had a new section of her life to deal with now. She’d be married to Jonathan in name only, get all the advantages of being a Mrs Somebody without all the palaver that went with it. And if Jonathan thought he could go off and get himself a mistress, he’d have to think again. She’d demand faithfulness and resolved to make his position clear at their next meeting, before any wires became crossed.

  She rose and stretched her stiff muscles, then seated herself in front of her mirror and took off her makeup. She smoothed lotion over her features, dreaming William caressed her face, massaged her eyelids, and stroked her cheeks.

  “I’m going to be getting married,” she whispered to his ghost. “No disrespect to you whatsoever.”

  Her father’s footsteps marched past her room.

  On his way to bed.

  She wiped the excess lotion from her skin and got undressed, thinking William wouldn’t mind that she was marrying someone else.

  He’d understand.

  Chapter Twelve

  Shirley was a bit freaked out by Vinny turning up again. Debbie had told her as soon as Shirley’s current client had left, and that meant she’d spent the rest of the shift worrying about it. She hadn’t paid proper attention to her customers, and one of them had commented on it. She’d told him to shut the fuck up, saying she’d take twenty quid off his payment if it bothered him so much. Considering he’d once said any hole would do and he did all the work, she didn’t know what he was guffing on about.

  She stepped outside The Angel with Lily, Lavender, and Iris. Those three were off down the road to stand near the nightclub, The Roxy, where people milled about outside, reluctant to go home. The girls would catch some extra cash if they were lucky. Shirley didn’t understand why they still touted for business when the parlour pay was more than she’d ever dreamt she’d earn. Maybe they enjoyed going back to their roots.

  She shrugged and walked in the opposite direction towards home. She had a flat round the corner and halfway down the road, not as swanky as Debbie’s, but she didn’t have Cardigan paying her over the odds, did she, so it wasn’t surprising. Still, since working at the parlour, she’d managed to update all her furniture, replacing it with stuff from IKEA, easy for her to put together by herself. No way she’d ask a man to help her.

  Her heels clacked on the pavement along with the drunken shouts from folks outside The Roxy, the latter fading the farther away she got. At last, she turned the corner and let out a sigh of relief. It seemed that corner was a portal between her two worlds, and once she rounded it, she was plain old Shirley, not the woman who spread her legs and opened her mouth for men who either couldn’t get it at home, no one fancied them, or they just liked using prostitutes.

  It was another warm May night, hotter than any she could remember before now, although it had been raining on and off. She’d left her leather jacket at home instead of boiling on the walk to work. The air was muggy, maybe a storm on the way, and if it came before she went to bed, she’d sit at the window and listen to the thunder, watching the rain smack onto the glass and the lightning stagger across the sky, just one more drunk element of her life.

  She’d grown used to men breathing on her with their beer or whiskey breath, stale cigarette smoke seeping off them the sweatier they got. She’d learnt to tune them out, pretend it wasn’t happening, thinking of England sometimes but mainly about what she’d do once she’d saved lots of money. Perhaps a holiday. She could drag Debbie along, and they’d have a wicked time in Ibiza.

  She approached the cemetery on the left that intersected the last house on this side of it and the one after. Sometimes, on a slow night, she looked out of her parlour room and stared at all the gravestones if the moon was bright enough to light them up. The cemetery stretched right behind The Angel, see.

  Shirley took a deep breath, ready to run past the fence with its iron poles, fleur de lis on top, and the gate that was always open because some little shit kept breaking the padlock. It wasn’t pitch-dark but enough to give her the creeps, and she scuttled along, chilled, as always, by the trees either side of the path that led to the cemetery, which hunched over, the branches joining in the middle to form a tunnel.

  She reached the gate.

  Passed it.

  Someone grabbed the back of her neck, and she opened her mouth to scream, but a hand clamped over her mouth. She had the odd thought whoever it was might feel the raised surface of her scar, then it was gone, replaced by the knowledge her chest ached from fear and she was being dragged backwar
ds, into the tree tunnel.

  Her shoes came off, and the gritty tarmac dug into her heels. She snorted through her noise—there’s not enough fucking air—and flailed her arms around in an attempt to scratch him with her nails enough so it hurt him—it had to be a him—and he let her go.

  They stopped, and he threw her onto the grass, her head banging on a tree trunk. She sprang up from her hands and knees and looked around. No one was there. Breaths ragged, terror flouncing through her system, made to run to the gate.

  A figure stepped in front of her, and she bumped into a hard chest.

  She’d know that smell anywhere. Vinny used that aftershave, and she hadn’t smelt it on anyone else.

  “I came to see you tonight,” he said.

  She couldn’t look at his shape without shuddering so instead stared past him. A streetlight by the gate sent its brightness through, spotlighting her abandoned shoes. If someone walked by, they might notice them, come down here and see if she needed help.

  In the darkness of the tunnel, she reached into her bag and felt for her phone.

  “Peony wouldn’t let me in,” he rumbled.

  Shirley found her phone. But she couldn’t use it. If she switched it on, it’d light up, and he’d see exactly what she was up to. Might get nasty. Still, she held it anyway. For comfort.

  “I just wanted to say sorry.” His shadow arm reached out, and he cupped her cheek.

  She was glad it wasn’t wet from crying. She’d refused to cry ever since her face had been cut. No man would make her do that again. They weren’t special enough to produce tears. Breath held, she took her mind to that place she went when punters slobbered all over her.

  “Because if you say sorry,” he went on, “then everything’s all right again.” He paused. “Until next time.”

  So he was one of those. She should have known.

  She slowly released air through pursed lips. Scrambled for something to say. Something that would appease him. “I accept your apology.” That had sounded too formal, but it was out now.

  “That’s a good girl.” He took his hand away from her face. “So you’ll tell Peony you’ll see me again?”

  Debbie wouldn’t back down now she’d barred him, but Shirley couldn’t tell him that. It was too much of a risk. He could go even weirder on her, and all she wanted to do was go home. “I’ll ask her, see what she says.”

  “Make sure you do.”

  He ran off down the tunnel, away from the gate, and the thought entered her mind that if The Angel wasn’t closed now, he’d perv through the window if one of the girls hadn’t shut the curtains.

  A tremble ripped through her, and she rushed towards her shoes, scooping them up and legging it out onto her street. She didn’t stop until she got home and, safe behind her locked door, she bit back treacherous tears.

  No, she would not fucking cry.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cardigan decided to make himself scarce for the first few nights of Jonathan’s visits. Let the pair of them get acquainted in peace and quiet. Everything was going according to plan, but the weather had gone to shit. A storm had raged overnight, thunder keeping him awake, as did the rain belting the crap out of his bedroom window like it had one of his scores to settle.

  Sam drove him to his office. Cardigan went inside while Sam dicked about doing something in the boot.

  “Get in, Sam. The bloody wind’s getting in here. This weather’s doing my head in. One minute you think it’s going to be the start of summer, then it starts pissing it down. I tell you, it isn’t doing my bones any good. I feel stiff as a board of a morning.”

  Sam shut the boot and ran over. He closed the office door and locked it, as was the custom. Cardigan didn’t want any unwelcome visitors. An appointment had to be made before access would be given.

  Sam walked over to the teak sideboard, filled the kettle, and flicked it on. Cardigan sat on a swivel chair behind his desk.

  They remained in silence until Sam had sorted the tea.

  “Right, down to business,” Cardigan said. “I’ll brief you on what’s going on, and then we’ll set the wheels in motion. First things first. Mickey Rook needs to be sorted. Get one of The Brothers to pay him a visit. He needs to know I didn’t take kindly to his behaviour at the poker game. A broken leg should suffice for now. Let him know we mean business.”

  “Right, guv.” Sam brought the cups over to Cardigan’s desk. “What’s next on the list?”

  “Pembrooke. He’s met Leona, and I got the distinct impression he was taking the piss. It was a right shock that she was so much older than him, I’ll give him that, but there was no need to be so bloody rude about it. I’m going to let it pass this time. The second thing that needs to be sorted is the order for his beer.”

  Cardigan took a swig of his tea, burning his tongue. “Fuck it.”

  He looked past Sam and out of the window. The rain beat a rhythm against the glass then turned to rivulets. Nice and cosy, he put the thought of going out into the downpour from his mind. It might stop by the time Sam took him to brief The Brothers.

  “I told Pembrooke I’d order beer from him—only while he’s with my Leona. She doesn’t like it, but I told her she’ll have to work for him, or at least get some kind of access to the books. My main objective is to own that brewery myself, just that Pembrooke won’t know it. It might take years to get what I want, but eventually, it’ll be mine.” He smirked. “Once I put the squeeze on, regarding my Leona not living in the style she should be, there’ll be an offer made for the brewery, but not by me, if you get my meaning. Pembrooke’ll have to sell up, and I’ll own all the pubs and a brewery. What d’you think?”

  “Brilliant, guv. When do we start?”

  “Right away. Cancel my order at the other gaff. Place a new one with Pembrooke. That’ll keep him sweet. I’m going to be such a model father-in-law that he won’t suspect a thing when it comes to him selling his business. I can see it all now. What a wanker he’ll feel when he knows it’s me who’s bought him out.”

  “Yeah, a right wanker.” Sam laughed and nodded.

  “Get on that blower and sort out the beer. I’ll just go for a Jimmy Riddle, and then we’ll visit The Brothers. Let’s hope they’re not too busy to do what I want, or they’ll unfortunately get up my nose an’ all. Ah, anything for a quiet life.”

  “That’s a load of bullshit, and you know it. You love the way your life is. You wouldn’t change a thing, would you?”

  “I’d give it all up if I could have Katherine back, you know that. But, as it isn’t likely, I do what I have to.”

  “Then we’ll make a start,” Sam said, smiling.

  * * * *

  Cardigan got wet on the way to his car, but not as much as he would have if Sam hadn’t covered him with a big black umbrella. He sat on the back seat holding a handwritten and signed piece of paper for Jonathan Pembrooke.

  “Nip round to Pembrooke’s office first. You can get out and give him this. Saves me being drenched again.”

  “Yeah, like I don’t mind getting wet.”

  “It’s what you get paid for, isn’t it? Doing my dirty work.”

  “Not dirty enough, rain. I’m looking forward to sorting Rook myself if The Brothers don’t warn him right. Get myself really dirty then.”

  Cardigan didn’t tell him he was a bit long in the tooth now for that kind of behaviour. “One thing at a time. You’ve got to hope he ignores the warning. If he does, then you can do what you like to him. On the other hand, if the leg being broken makes him sit up and listen, I’ll be that much better off, because he’ll pay me back all the money he grabbed off my card table.”

  “He won that money fair and square, Ron.”

  Only Sam was permitted to point out any such thing. Being old friends from childhood had earned him that right.

  “Of course he bleedin’ did, but that’s not the point. He was on the verge of being wiped out when he produced that wad of cash. He didn’t declare he h
ad that much money on him at the start of the game, and in my book that says he set out to con me, which he did. I don’t hold with that sort of shit.”

  Sam looked in the rearview mirror and smiled. “No, guv.”

  “Right, park up and deliver this little note. That should give Pembrooke something to smile about.”

  “I’ll get the umbrella then.”

  “No you don’t. You like doing dirty work, you said it yourself, so hop it. And if you run quick enough, you shouldn’t get too soaked.”

  * * * *

  Taking the note from Cardigan and racing across the yard, Sam barged into Jonathan’s office and handed it over without a word. He chuckled, showing the gaps in his teeth from numerous fights years ago, and Pembrooke looked startled by it. Sam had been sneering at the thought of the rise and fall of Jonathan Pembrooke. What a laugh that’d be.

  He left the office and reflected on his working life. His pay more than made up for what he did, and he’d do it for free just to be near his employer. Cardigan was good to him and always had been, seeming not to notice Sam was a little dense in the brain department. For that, Sam loved him.

  He’d always do his bidding, however grotesque or mundane it was.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Creeped out by the eerie way Sam had smiled when handing over the much-awaited confirmation of Cardigan’s order, Jonathan shivered involuntarily. A rash of goosebumps spread out over his arms, and he moved to the window to look out.

  Sam sped away, Cardigan sitting in the back seat, the pair of them laughing, their heads thrown back. Jonathan shook his and opened the envelope.

  Inside, a note.

  He smiled. The smile turned into a wide grin. When the phone had rung earlier, with Sam on the other end requesting the beer order, Jonathan had been unsure as to whether this was one of Cardigan’s jokes. The amount of barrels Sam had asked for exceeded his estimation of how much was needed. The pubs were obviously busier than he’d imagined. Had Cardigan ordered two weeks’ worth?