by Emmy Ellis
He followed her into the lounge. “D’you want something to drink?” He went over to the wall unit and took two glasses out.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks.”
He knew she would. Their ritual was always the same, but tonight it’d be slightly different. He took their drinks over to the small coffee table placed in front of his comfortable, worn old sofa and sat next to her.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “You seem on edge.”
“Everything’s fine. It’s just that I’ve got something for you, and I’m worried you won’t like it. You might take my present the wrong way.”
“Ooh! What is it?”
He let the mood take him wherever it wanted and went down on one knee. Bringing the box out and opening it, he turned it to face her, but she didn’t look down at it, she stared straight into his eyes.
“I know we haven’t been seeing each other very long, but I wondered if you’d mind a long engagement so we can change our minds if we wanted, but…
She eyed the ring, cushioned in its velvet bed. “It’s lovely.”
He slipped it on her finger, a damn good fit, and she held her hand up in front of her to admire how it sparkled.
“D’you really like it?”
“I love it.” She cupped his face, leant towards him, and kissed him. “I love you.”
“I love you an’ all.”
She stood, pulled him to his feet, and led him by the hand to the stairs. On the first step, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his bedroom.
Later, Jonathan let Leona creep into his thoughts. He wished she never existed. However hard he tried to completely blot her from his mind, she was always there somehow, tainting what he was doing with Gracie, and he was unable to totally let himself go.
Fucking old cow.
Chapter Forty-Five
The sun shouldn’t be shining, not today. Sun meant happiness, and no one standing around Shirley’s grave looked happy. The police had kept her body for what seemed like ages. ‘Evidence’, they’d said. That was what Shirley had become in the end, nothing more than something for the authorities to pick over, trying to find clues as to who’d killed her.
While the vicar droned on, Debbie thought about what that copper had told her in confidence. Detective Allan. He’d come to see her at the parlour as a courtesy, in case some nutter was going about killing ‘people like her’. He knew massages didn’t happen on the premises, unless you included dicks, but he’d said that wasn’t his concern. Keeping Debbie and her girls safe was.
The sex worker killed last year was his second cousin, and it had hit him. He just wanted to make sure no other family had to go through what his had—his cousin’s and Shirley’s deaths were the same, right down to their exposed spines.
The news was grim—and fucking creepy. Shirley had been washed after she’d died, and the cut to her back had occurred then, too. That was why Debbie hadn’t seen any blood on the bed, but as the copper mentioned, the killer had probably washed it all away, maybe taken the sheets with him, as freshly washed ones and a new quilt were used once he’d finally finished with her.
There was evidence of sexual activity after death, too, something that had churned Debbie’s stomach at the time—and still did when she thought about it. Whoever had done this to Sheila had tidied and cleaned the flat, using bleach, leaving no trace of them behind, not even in the dust catcher of the hoover, or the hose, which had been washed out in Domestos. Lemon scent, apparently.
God, the things they could find out.
What Debbie hadn’t understood was the pose, and she’d said as much.
“There’s a suspicion it’s to do with subservience,” Allan had said. “The victims bowing down to them. Obviously, this information stays between you and me.”
She’d nodded.
“Our profiler reckons the spine thing is the killer showing Sheila’s backbone—as in, she may have resisted his efforts to make her do what he wanted, therefore, the spine on show is telling the police she died because she had a pair of balls on her. If she’d done as she was told, she’d still be alive.”
“That’s fucking sick.” She’d paced her room in the parlour, desperate for Cardigan to come so she could tell him about this. Sod keeping it to herself. If it was Mickey who’d done it and not Vinny, he needed finding.
All in all, it was a nasty affair, and Debbie would forever live with the guilt of not suggesting Shirley came to live with her for a while until Vinny and Mickey had been dealt with. If only she’d done that. If only…
“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
She stared across at Cardigan, who was on the fringes at the back. He nodded at her, and she did the same back. Maybe he was telling her they were closer to finding Mickey. The fucker had gone to ground, hiding away after what he’d done, living, breathing, when it should be Shirley doing that. If Debbie saw him before Cardigan, Sam, or The Brothers, she’d kill him herself.
She blinked. It was over, people walking away, and she joined them, silently saying sorry to Shirley, promising she’d be a better friend to the other girls to make up for her part in this. Shirley would tell her to fuck off, Debbie wasn’t her keeper, and to stop blaming herself, so maybe that was what she’d do.
Cardigan waited for her behind a tree, Sam a few feet away. Allan got into his car, staring over at them, and Debbie waved at him as if to say: It wasn’t Cardigan. Allan returned the wave then drove off.
“Any news?” Debbie whispered.
Cardigan sighed. “Not a fucking dicky bird on where Mickey is, but I made sure word got out that I’m after him and Harry. I’m going to do them for this—whether it was really Vinny or not. The money doesn’t matter now, Shirley does. That poor cow didn’t deserve this.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“I’ve got a problem, though.” He grimaced. “There’s a hit out on me.”
“What?” Her heart tripled its speed. “Who?”
He laughed. “He won’t get anywhere near me, not with Sam around. But listen, in case shit goes down and I don’t come out of this—”
“Don’t say that, I—”
“I do bad things, Treacle, and expect this in my line of work. So I’ve got things in motion. The Angel’s yours now, got it?”
It took a second or two for that to sink in. “Wh…?”
“Someone’ll drop the papers round for you to sign. Did you know you bought it off me for a pound?” He laughed again, quietly. “You’ve been good to me and deserve the best.”
Tears misted her eyes. Cardigan appeared as a hazy grey blob. “Nothing will happen to you.” She had to tell herself that. She’d got too damn attached to him, and the thought of something happening wasn’t allowed. “You’ll find whoever it is first.”
“That’s the plan. Now, bugger off home. There’s been enough tears for one day.”
She smiled as he walked away to his car, and she went to where Lily, Lavender, and Iris waited. They walked to The Angel where the wake was being held. Shirley didn’t have any family except them, and Debbie was buggered if her mate would go to the next world without a good send-off. The parlour would be closed tonight, and they’d drink the evening away instead, taxis for her girls later in case Mickey had a mind to kill them, too. That was what everyone thought, that he’d murdered Shirley, but she was conflicted, what with Vinny acting weird.
Fuck. Debbie couldn’t live on her nerves like this for much longer.
Chapter Forty-Six
Leona picked the mail up from the mat and dropped the letters on the kitchen table. She opened a cream envelope first and pulled out a plain piece of white paper, large and folded in half. Stared at the page, her heart hammering too fast and tears stinging her wide eyes. Instead of being written or typed, the words were made of newspaper clippings, carefully cut out and pasted on.
YOU NEED TO WATCH YOURSELF, LEONA
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
Stomach lurching, she d
ropped the note and gripped the table edge. Her head spun, and the words swam. Sick to her stomach, she took in deep breaths.
Who on earth would want to send her that? And what did the cryptic message mean? She frantically tried to sort out the thoughts racing through her head, her hand held to her chest and her mouth hanging open.
A knock sounded at the front door, pushing her heart to beat faster.
Should I answer it? What if it’s the letter sender?
Leona shoved her chair back, rose on wobbly legs, and walked cautiously into the hallway. The silhouette of a large frame stood on her doorstep.
“Open up, I know you’re in there.”
She let out her breath in relief. Her father. Composing herself, she opened the door. He walked in carrying some letters.
“There’s a bit of mail here for you. It came to mine last week, but I didn’t get the chance to pop them over. I’ve been a bit busy.” He handed her the slim bundle.
Leona’s stomach contracted again. Amongst the pile was another cream envelope, her name and address typed on the front.
“What’s up with you? You look a bit off colour. Aren’t pregnant, are you?” He laughed.
Leona swallowed excess spittle. “No, I am not pregnant. Jonathan and I do not have that sort of relationship, thank you very much.” She stalked into the kitchen and snatched up the letter she’d left there. She didn’t want him to see it. He’d find out who it was and… No, she’d go through the proper channels with this, if that was what she decided. She needed to think about it.
Shoving the letter into the nearest drawer, she turned round. Her father filled the kitchen doorway.
“What’s up with you, eh?” he growled. “Make your old man a cup of tea. I’m bloody gasping.”
The chore took her mind off her problem a little, but she itched to open the cream envelope he’d brought, at the same time loath to in case it contained worse than the first. Pouring out tea, the pot still hot from when she’d filled it for her breakfast, she passed the cup to her father, who’d plonked himself wearily on one of the kitchen chairs.
She casually sorted through the mail. The postmark on this new letter indicated it was the first one she was supposed to have received. Maybe they’d tell a story. Perhaps the one she’d already opened would make sense once she read the first. She put it on the side. It had been addressed in her maiden name. Had the letter she just opened been addressed the same? She couldn’t remember. So, it was from someone who didn’t know she’d got married.
That narrows it down.
Her father drummed his fingertips on the tabletop.
Annoyed at the sound, she said, “Was there any particular reason for your visit other than dropping off my post?”
He stared at her in surprise. “Well, I did want to discuss something with you, but if you’re not in the mood, I’ll drink my tea and bugger off. I know when I’m not wanted.”
“No, no, it’s all right.” She felt the complete opposite. “I’ll have to be going out by ten, though. I have various hospital visits to do today.”
“What I’ve got to say won’t take more than two minutes.” His face took on a grave look. “I’ve got my insurance details all up to date, and my will’s in the safe, same combination number as I’ve always had.”
“What on earth are you telling me that for?”
“Someone’s after me.”
Leona readied herself to launch into one of her tirades.
He lifted a hand to stop her. “Don’t go on. I know my lifestyle isn’t what you’d like, but there you have it. I wanted you to know I’ve left mostly everything to you: this house, my house, and all the pubs except one. I don’t want The Eagle going to strangers, so bear that in mind if you sell. The Angel now belongs to someone else.”
He rose to take his leave.
“Who?” she asked.
“None of your business.”
It’ll be that bloody Debbie.
Worried by this turn of events, she ignored The Angel thing. “What do you mean, someone’s after you? What have you been up to?”
“Don’t go fretting yourself. Has anyone ever got the better of me?”
“No.”
“Well, then, don’t worry about it. I needed to make sure you knew what I wanted, just in case.”
Leona looked at him. She hadn’t realised how much she’d relied on him since her mother’s death. Even though she most certainly didn’t agree with his lifestyle, he was there to protect her if things went wrong.
“Have you got everything under control?” she asked.
“Just about. One or two minor details, and the one who’s after me’ll be sorted himself. Keep your chin up and get off to the hospital.”
He walked from the kitchen and made his way to the front door. Leona followed.
Turning to her, he said, “I’m not one to make a fuss, never have been, but I never told your mother what I should have, and it was too late. I love you, and don’t you forget it.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she dashed them away. Unable to make such a show of affection herself, she said briskly, “Good.”
She closed the door on him and rushed to the kitchen, more pressing things on her mind. Snatching up the cream envelope, she ripped it open. Her breath caught in her throat.
I KNOW SOMETHING YOU DON’T KNOW
Chapter Forty-Seven
Harry and Mickey were keeping their heads down at a safe house. Word had spread and reached their ears. Cardigan was out for their blood. At first, Harry had taken the news that came through their contact, Bill Haynes, a cabbie, with a pinch of salt. But when Harry had been assured that the word had come from Cardigan’s son-in-law, he reckoned the outlook was bleak to say the least. He’d wanted to get Cardigan long ago, but Mickey had stalled him, saying it’d look too much like their doing should the police get involved. A revenge attack didn’t go down too well with the local filth.
With time on their hands, they idled the hours away until Harry sent out the message that he wanted to meet Cardigan. He’d had the weapon delivered—a shotgun that’d hit his target spot-on. He’d planned for every eventuality, and all his options had been schemed and worked out. They had enough time to do it.
The question was, when?
The letterbox clattered, indicating the arrival of two local papers. Confined as they were, this out-of-the-way place with no internet, they’d originally fought over who’d read it first. Harry then had the foresight to order two, especially after the last fiasco, which had nearly come to blows.
Getting up to retrieve the papers, Harry slouched into the hallway and picked them up off the mat. He walked into the sitting room and casually tossed one at Mickey.
Harry sat in an armchair to read his from cover to cover. If boredom reigned supreme he’d read it again, just to make sure he hadn’t missed anything.
Tonight’s headlines screamed at him from the page. There’d been a murder, and a cold-blooded one at that. Reading the details, Harry was shocked. “Fucking hell. Some tart’s been offed.”
He continued to read, as Mickey, too, was engrossed in the saga splashed across the front page.
Harry then blurted out, “Jesus Christ. It’s only Shirley bloody Richmond. I can’t bleedin’ believe it. A while ago, it was. Why are they only reporting it now?” He shook his head and chanced a look across at Mickey.
He’d gone white and didn’t look well.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Harry said.
“It isn’t my bloody day. You know what’s going to happen now, don’t you? Those bloody brothers will think it was my doing. I said I’d see her sorted.”
“Fucking hell, Mickey. What did you have to go and say a thing like that for?”
“I didn’t bloody well mean it. She knew I was only letting off steam. I’d have done it ages ago if I really meant it.”
“Not necessarily, you wanker. Look how long it took the twins to sort you out. And that was because you threatene
d her an’ all. What a mess we’re in. I’ll just have to kill Cardigan quicker than I intended, that’s all. Shit.”
“And The Brothers? What about them? They’ll still be searching for me, even when Cardigan’s dead and buried.”
“You should think of these things when you tell a Brother you’re going to get a woman done over. You know they don’t hold with that sort of thing. It’s a good job I’m your mate. Most blokes wouldn’t save your arse after this. Poor Shirley. I’ve been with her myself. Tasty in the sack. What a waste.”
“You slimy git.” Mickey crumpled the paper on his lap. “You didn’t tell me you’d slept with one of my girlfriends.”
“I didn’t think I’d have to. She’s a bloody prosser. That’s what they’re there for.” Harry frowned. “Was a prosser.”
They sat in silence while reading the rest of the article.
Then Mickey said, “Whoever it was sliced her back up an’ all. Filthy bastard.”
“She isn’t going to need it where she’s gone,” Harry said quietly.
“I know, but it isn’t the point.”
“Shall we put the feelers out and find out who did it?” Harry asked.
“Yeah. We’ll do it for old time’s sake.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“That bloody Mickey’s got a lot to answer for,” George barked.
Cardigan had come to visit George and Greg, as per usual, and they were discussing Shirley Richmond’s murder.
“But we don’t even know if it was him who did it,” Greg said.
“You heard him,” George sniped. “He said he was going to get her once and for all. He just bided his bloody time so we’d think it wasn’t him.”
“Hold up, hold up. You reckon that slimy ponce, Mickey Rook, had Shirley bloody Richmond offed?” Cardigan asked.
He stared around menacingly at the group. George scowled, and Greg seemed ashamed, as if what George had said was ludicrous. Sam had his usual noncommittal look about him.