by Emmy Ellis
No one answered.
Cardigan huffed. “What’s this about hearing what he said? Has something been going on that I don’t know about?”
Greg sighed. “As you now, Rook was seeing Shirley once upon a time. They argued about something or other, and that was the end of it. Rook threatened to beat her up, told us about it, then lo and behold, her face gets cut.”
“Get it right, Greg,” George butted in. “Rook said: ‘However long it takes, I’m going to get that slag.’” He balled his hands. “I told you, he’s just been waiting. Took him long enough, but it’s done now.”
“Give me the sodding paper and let me have a read.” Cardigan was getting angrier with regards to Rook. He was initially under the impression Vinny had killed her so had ignored all the rumours about Mickey. Now, more than ever, he wanted to kill the little bastard.
“It could be a one-off attack by a punter,” Greg said.
Cardigan couldn’t have them linking this to Vinny. They’d look for him and find out he was missing. It might reach a pig’s ears.
“One-off, my arse,” George said. “Listen to the facts. One: Rook says he’s going to get Shirley Richmond one day. Two: Rook’s holed up somewhere without the availability of women so he’s bleedin’ desperate, going to see her for a shag. Three: Shirley would’ve let him go with her, regardless of what he said years ago, if he was paying. Four: She’s been sliced down her spine, which is about all Rook could manage, little ponce that he is. Five: I bet her money’s been nicked. Rook hasn’t been able to work. I reckon it’s down to him, no bones about it.”
Cardigan nodded, chuffed George had said what he’d wanted to. “I’m as convinced as you. We’ll have to step up our efforts to flush him out of hiding. Maybe now you’ll get your arse in gear, George, and finally find the wanker.”
George took exception. “Are you saying we haven’t been doing our job properly? We haven’t seen him since we did him the last time.”
Cardigan held back his temper. “Don’t get aerated. Just make sure you find him now. I want that villain dead. Oh, and there’s a change of plan. Get the Shirley Richmond confession out of him before you chop his knackers off. That should be sufficient torture in itself. I’m off. Let me know if you hear anything.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Cardigan stormed out, leaving George and Greg standing feet apart, glaring out of the window, waiting for the door to close and watching until the car drove away.
“I don’t reckon it was Rook, George. It’s not his style.”
George sighed. He could see it clearly; Greg couldn’t. “Well, you wouldn’t, would you. You want to see the best in everyone at the moment. Bar Cardigan, who seems to be the only one that gets your goat. It was Rook, and I’ll prove it when we get our hands on him. That’s if you’re still in business with me?”
“Course I am, but I don’t like going round chopping off innocent men’s nuts, just because my brother thinks they’ve killed a prosser. Wait until we see another report in the paper before we root him out for that. Or better still, go and see that bent copper friend of yours. He’ll be able to give you the lowdown on what’s what.”
“I don’t need to go and see Rod Clarke. He won’t know anything.”
“You just don’t want to see Clarke in case he tells you something you don’t want to hear. You need to go and get your head tested, mate. Like I’ve said before, there’s something seriously wrong with you lately.”
George let the remark slide. If anyone else had said that, he’d kill them on the spot. But his brother was just mentioning something that’d been bothering George lately, too. He reckoned he was losing his mind. He’d been dreaming up a lot of sordid and nasty things to do to people for when Cardigan asked him to sort someone out. If Cardigan wanted a kneecapping done, he’d go one step further and break his leg as well. If Cardigan wanted all the fingers broken, he’d have to break the whole hand and the wrist. Cardigan didn’t seem to mind—he was getting a few freebies thrown in. Greg didn’t have anything to do with the extras, and more often of late, George had been thinking he was going insane from all the carnage he engaged in each day. His mind was turning, and he knew it. But there didn’t seem to be anything he could do to stop it.
Looking at his brother now, the only person he’d ever admit this to, he said, “I know I need to see a shrink, but not just yet. There’re demons in me that won’t go away. I’ll get it sorted, but I want that little shit Rook first. Just let me do that, and I’ll get my head tested.”
Greg stared. “I’ll be with you all the way.”
“I know you will. Right. We need to put the frighteners on some of Rook’s mates. It’s the only way we’re going to get anywhere.”
“So, when do we start?”
“Now.”
Chapter Fifty
“Give him the note personally, and make sure he reads it in front of you. I want an immediate response. No poncing around,” Harry belted out to Sid Dempsey, one of his runarounds.
Sid was an unassuming-looking man, thinning brown hair that was just getting its first streaks of grey. Brushed back from his face, it showed how he was receding, and his ferret-type features had Harry thinking of a slinky, sly animal. Wheeling and dealing for most of his working life, Sid stole the majority of goods that Harry and Mickey sold. He earned commission from providing the nicked stuff, and now they weren’t working as such, Sid needed the cash he’d earn from running this message.
“Right, so I hand him the note and wait for a reply? That right?” Sid asked, dumb as fuck.
Harry nodded. “That’s it. Now go to his office. He’ll only have Sam with him, and if you get any trouble, let me know, however small it may seem to you. It’ll go on the long list I’ve got of all the naughty things Cardigan’s been doing to us over the years.”
“Shall I go now?”
“Yeah.”
Chapter Fifty-One
“What’s that freaky fairy doing here?” Cardigan asked.
Sam went over to the office window and peered out. “He’s on his own, guv.” He paused. “And he’s come from that Findley. He’s in his car.”
“I can fucking see that,” Cardigan grated out.
“Yeah.”
“Things are looking up. I wonder what the slimebag wants?”
Sam gestured in the direction of the front of the office. “You’ll find out in a minute. He’s just about to knock.”
Sid’s knuckles rapped against the frosted glass.
“Who is it?” Cardigan barked.
“Sid Dempsey,” came the muffled reply.
“What d’you want?”
“I’ve got a message from Findley.”
“But you haven’t got an appointment.” Cardigan smirked at Sam.
“I think you’ll want to read the note, though,” Sid said, his voice whiney. “Findley said I wasn’t to leave without a reply.”
Cardigan held in his laughter, and his body shook. “Oh, he did, did he? Well then, you’d better come in and tell me more.” He nodded to Sam, giving permission for the door to be opened.
Sid walked in, his small face averted.
Cardigan stared at him. “You take the piss out of me today, and you’ll know all about it.”
Sid froze.
Cardigan wanted to punch the little bastard. “Give me the note then, you fucking great prat.”
Sid handed it over, his hand shaking.
Cardigan placed the note on his desk, unopened. “Want a drink? Tea, coffee, or something stronger?”
Sid swallowed. “I’ll have a cuppa, thanks. Two sugars.” He cleared his throat and added, “Please.”
I should think so. “Sam, make our good friend here a drink, will you? He looks parched. Got a dry mouth, have you?”
Sid tried to swallow again, but it appeared there was no saliva. “Yeah, I have as it happens.”
The kettle had not long boiled, so it didn’t take long for Sam to make the brew. They waited in uncomfo
rtable silence—uncomfortable for Sid anyway—then Sam passed him a cup. Taking it, Sid sipped and looked over the rim at Cardigan, who eyed him with a smile.
“Did you poison this?” Sid asked.
“Fuck did I,” Sam said. “You watched me make it, divvo.”
Cardigan bit back a chuckle. “So, Sid, did you have to meet up with Findley or do you know where he is?”
Sid took a deep breath. “I knew where to go from a contact. But I can’t reveal where they are. You know how it is.”
Oh, I know how it is all right.
Cardigan looked sideways at his right-hand man. “Oh, Sam. I forgot. You’ve got to do that phone call for me. Go outside, because me and Sid here are having a private conversation. We don’t want to hear you in the background, do we, Sid?”
Sid shook his head, and Sam left the office, locking the door behind him.
“Now, getting back to our conversation. Yeah, I do know how it is. Your loyalty is a good sign. I admire you for it.” He didn’t.
He chuckled inwardly. Sid looked as though he wondered whether Cardigan was being sincere, trying to gauge what he was up to. Sid had very nearly gulped all his tea down, surely burning his mouth in the process.
Cardigan decided he’d frightened the poor ferret enough. He leant forward and picked up the envelope. “I’d better be reading this then. You can get on with whatever you’ve got to do. I can’t promise a reply, though. It depends on what’s inside this envelope.”
“But—” Sid worked his mouth, panic showing on his face.
“No buts about it. If I don’t want to reply, are you going to make me?”
“No, I’m bloody not,” he blurted.
The key slid in the lock, and Sam came back in, nodding at Cardigan. He went and stood in his usual place to the right, behind his boss.
Cardigan sniffed. “I’ll see you all right, Sid. If I don’t reply to this note, you can give Findley a message from me. How’s that? Then you’ll not go back with nothing to say. You can tell him I was going to beat the crap out of you because you made such a fuss about it. Then you’ll still look good to him, won’t you.”
“I don’t get paid without a reply,” Sid said, dejected.
Cardigan shook his head. “I’ll give you some money. What are you doing working for the likes of him? Don’t get paid without a reply? Findley’s not a very good boss, is he.”
“Well…” Sid shifted from foot to foot. “I took the job on as it was offered. If I don’t do it as the man said, I don’t get paid. Simple as that.”
“I’d best be opening the envelope then, hadn’t I?” Cardigan slit it with his small knife and took out a piece of paper. He read it and roared with laughter. “I’ll put you out of your misery. I’ll write a reply.”
He whipped out a notepad from his desk drawer, and, holding the pad up so Sid couldn’t see, he jotted down a few words. Ripping the top two sheets off, he placed the written one in an envelope and put Findley’s name on it. He tore up the second sheet, which had Sid frowning.
Cardigan said, “This one gets burnt. Don’t want anyone to know what I’ve written, do I? The second page always picks up what you’ve put on the first, see.” He handed over the envelope.
Taking it, Sid made to leave. “Thanks. I’ll be off then.”
“Nice doing business with you. Sam, give the gentleman a hundred quid then see him out.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
The Brothers had their van engine going in readiness for Sid Dempsey’s departure from Cardigan’s office.
Hands on the steering wheel, George said, “He’s on the move. Get going.”
Greg put the van in gear and sped off to catch up with Sid who was in Findley’s car—a fucking novice mistake. Keeping at a slight distance, they followed him to where Sid slowed and parked in a side road outside a small house.
“What’s he doing? Why isn’t he getting out?” George said.
“Perhaps he’s rolling a fag or something. I don’t bleedin’ know.” Greg scrubbed at his chin.
George leant forward. “Hold up, he’s getting out.”
They sat in silence, George anticipating Sid entering the house he’d stopped outside. Sid left the car and walked a few paces down the street.
Greg slapped the dashboard. “The little sod’s put it in the bloody postbox. Fuck me, Cardigan isn’t going to be pleased. Findley’s more cunning than he’s been given credit for.”
Sid got back into Findley’s car, and George drove off, following him down the backstreets. Sid parked in a space provided for the customers outside The Grapes. He entered the pub.
Van engine off, George settled down for the wait for Sid to come back out. “Go and look through the window and see who that sod’s talking to. Findley or Rook might be in there.”
Greg sighed and made his way towards the pub window. He peered through one of the squares of glass then walked back, shaking his head.
Getting in, he said, “He’s on his own. We’ve got a long wait.”
George smacked the steering wheel, pain going up his arm. “Cardigan said however late it was, we’re to contact him with any news. I’m prepared to wait. We’re so bleedin’ close to finding that shit Rook, I can almost taste it.”
Greg made himself comfortable. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m having a kip.”
“Do what you bloody like. I’ll keep watch all night if I have to.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Sid was following his instructions to the letter. After driving the short distance from Cardigan’s office to the postbox, he’d parked and got out his pen, putting Findley’s hideout address under Cardigan’s scrawl. He’d licked a stamp and popped the letter in the postbox. He’d let out a sigh of relief and went to The Grapes.
He waited at the bar.
An unobtrusive-looking bloke approached him. “Name?”
“Sid Dempsey.”
“Done it?”
“Yeah.”
The fella held out an envelope. Sid took it and ripped it open. The amount in there had him verging on a faint. Fucking hell. Findley must mean business to be paying him that much. Sid reflected on this little job. It’d been worth shitting himself in Cardigan’s office, getting a hundred quid there, too. He wouldn’t have to work for a month.
He caught the attention of a barmaid, ordered a pint of bitter, and glanced over at the man who’d given him his wages. He was on the phone. He looked round at Sid and gave him the thumbs-up. Sid received his pint with proper gratitude, offering the barmaid one for herself out of the tenner he gave her.
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, thanks, darlin’,” she said.
“You can have what you bloody like.” Sid beamed. “I’m flush.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
Harry received the call then slid his phone in his pocket. “We’ll get the letter tomorrow, Mickey. Things are on the move.”
“Don’t count your chickens. You don’t know what the reply says yet.” Mickey sounded unsure.
“He’ll do it. He won’t be able to resist,” Harry said, all smug.
“Let’s hope he bloody does, or we’re fucked.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
Gracie and Jonathan had eaten lunch at The Jack of Hearts. Gracie had taken the day off. The weather was hot, and they left the pub to go to their special field.
The cows had got used to them now.
Thank fuck.
Tartan blanket on the grass, they spread themselves out on it.
While Gracie sunbathed, He thought about the recent events. The customers he’d hoped would come to buy his beer, from as far afield as twenty miles away, hadn’t materialised, leaving Cardigan as the sole buyer of his stock.
There must be something else I can do to get away from Leona.
He came up with blank after blank. Cardigan would have more than his guts for garters should he tell him he could no longer stand being married to his daughter. It might sound better coming from Leona herself, b
ut she seemed content with the way things were.
She’d been in a weird mood lately, always jumpy and asking him where he was going and what time he’d be in. She’d never been that bothered before, and he was jumpy himself, wondering if she suspected, yet again, he was seeing another woman. It wouldn’t be from his behaviour this time. He acted weary when around her so she’d think he was unhappy.
Gracie snapped him out of his reverie. “I’m pregnant.”
Stunned—this was the last thing he fucking needed—he said, “What?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Mixed emotions surged through him. He’d have to put his plans into action faster than he’d thought. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Tell her all about Leona and hope for the best? Or go through the charade of being a bigamist and marry her? No, someone would find out, and the lid would be blown off the shitty can of worms his life had become.
“What are we going to do?” he asked carefully.
“What do you want to do? I could go and get rid of it.”
“Get rid of it? No. You can’t do that.”
“I can if it’s too soon for you to want his sort of thing. I’m wondering if I want it myself.”
“What d’you mean?” he asked.
“Just what I said. I’m not sure if I can cope with the idea of being a mother just yet.” She sighed.
A short and awkward silence followed.
Then Jonathan said, “How long have you known?”
“I found out yesterday afternoon.”
“Shall we think about it for a week or two and then decide?”
She looked down at her hands and fiddled with the ruby ring.
“Shall we go home?” Jonathan suggested.
“Yours or mine?”