by Emmy Ellis
Sam had shouted for the twins, and, getting no response, he’d cursed them. He’d been instructed in what to do if such a thing happened to Cardigan, and, knowing he was already dead, he’d told himself to leave the mourning until later when he was alone. There were more important things to be doing, one of them trying to lift the heavy body into the back of the car.
As Sam worked, he’d sweated and breathed heavily. Hefting Cardigan up by the armpits, he’d propped him against the back wing of the car, opened the back door, and unceremoniously heaved the top half of the body onto the back seat, leaving the legs dangling out. He’d rushed to the other side and dragged Cardigan in.
Now, sitting parked a street away, his boss’s body behind him under a blanket from the boot, he reckoned he’d have to ring Debbie.
Shit.
He took his phone out and sighed. She’d know, with his name coming up on her screen, that things weren’t good. He was only meant to phone her if Cardigan couldn’t.
Sam selected her number and pressed the icon to connect the call.
“No,” she said as soon as she answered.
“I’m sorry, Deb.” He felt a right bastard, but if he hadn’t contacted her, Ron would haunt him. “It went a bit wrong.”
“How much is a bit?”
“He’s dead, love.”
Debbie’s scream hurt his eardrum, but he kept the phone pressed close, her grief entering him and joining with his own. She cried for a while, then calmed and sniffed.
“What am I going to do without him?” she asked.
He’d told Ron Debbie had got too attached, but he hadn’t realised how much. Sam had suspected she’d only shagged him to save herself getting in the shit with Ron if she refused, and maybe that was true at first. But now? Fuck, she loved him.
“Keep going,” Sam said. “It’s all you can do. Enjoy The Angel like he would have wanted.”
Now he fully understood why Ron had given it to her. A reward for loving someone who’d never quite loved her enough back, the ghost of his late wife still flying through his veins. But Ron had done right by Debbie, and she’d see, once the initial shock had worn off, that he’d loved her in his own way, and giving her the pub had shown it.
Much as he felt sorry for the poor cow, he had shit to do, so he gently reminded her of that and ended the call. He’d hidden here for long enough. Any nosy bastards would just see the blood on the ground and shrug it off. He needed to do some damage control in case a copper came by, so he got out and walked back to the flats, looking around. A net curtain twitched, and he went to that house, knocking on the door. Some time passed, then the occupant opened up, chain in place. The woman was in her thirties. A straggle of children hid behind her skirts and peeped at Sam.
“I haven’t seen anything,” she said. “I don’t want anything to do with this.” She made to shut the door.
He put his hand out to prevent it from closing, and she glared at him.
“What d’you want? I told you, you haven’t got to worry about me. I didn’t see a thing.”
Sam held his hand up. “It’s all right, love. All I want is a bucket of hot soapy water to clean the path; otherwise, you’ll be getting questions asked.”
“But I don’t want any involvement.”
Impatient, Sam sighed and glanced from left to right. “The more fuss you make, the more attention you’ll bring to yourself. I promise you, you won’t get any bother from the police. Unless you’ve got any do-good neighbours?”
“You’ve got to be bloody joking. No one does any good around here.” She paused for a moment, hand to chin. “Hold on while I fill the bucket. Will you need a scrubbing brush?”
“If you wouldn’t mind.” Sam felt exposed and unsafe on the doorstep. He glanced about. No one seemed to be around. The gunshot would have seen to that. He turned back to the woman.
“No, I don’t mind,” she said, “but I don’t want it back after you’ve been scrubbing that poor sod’s blood.”
Sam tried to smile understandingly. She appeared tired and worn-out from living in poverty, from what he could tell. She obviously had a hand-to-mouth existence, although she and the children appeared clean and well cared for. “Just hurry up.”
She smiled, cheeks flushed, and bustled off, leaving her three children standing near the door.
They all look like a good dinner would go down a treat. Some new clothes wouldn’t go amiss either.
Sam was reminded of his early childhood, when he and his family had nothing to speak of, and his mother had to go out to work all the hours God sent to feed and clothe him and his brothers.
His heart strings tugged. He reached into his pocket and gave some money to the oldest child. “Make sure you share it out.”
The lad took the cash and continued to stare at Sam. He then gawped down at the money and didn’t seem to comprehend just how much was there. His mother returned, and the boy fisted the cash.
“I’ve filled it with hot water and splashed a bit of disinfectant in it. The brush is in there somewhere, so mind you don’t burn your hands.” She nosed down at her children.
The boy opened his hand and showed her the money.
“Where did you bloody get that lot?” she asked, her cheeks flushing darker.
“That bloke gave it us. Said we had to share it.”
She smiled at Sam, eyes bright and shiny.
He stood, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.
Then she said, “Don’t forget, I don’t want those back.”
“I’ll take it with me, don’t panic. Here, have some money to buy a new bucket and brush.” He thrust some notes at her. “I don’t know how much they cost these days.”
“Fucking Nora, are your minted or something?”
“I’m just grateful you’ve helped me. I won’t forget it.”
Sam took a deep breath and returned to the path. After he cleaned the blood, he got into Cardigan’s car and drove away, mentally reminding himself of the woman’s address.
His mind turned to other matters. He’d have to act fast in order to get Cardigan’s death certificate. No police were to be involved—his boss’ express orders.
There was only one place he could go.
Leona’s.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Debbie sat on the floor in her bedroom and cried until her body felt like it weighed a tonne. All the energy had gone out of her with every tear she’d shed, but they’d dried up, leaving her eyes gritty and sore.
How had she fallen so deeply for Cardigan? It was only now she realised how much she cared about him. People thought it was weird, a younger woman with a much older man, her the possible gold digger only pretending to give a shit about him so he didn’t hurt her. But that wasn’t true.
For the first few times with him, she’d been wary, but his manner around her wasn’t the same as the man she’d previously known. He laughed a lot, was caring, always cuddling her before and after sex, none of this dipping his wick then fucking off until next time. They’d shared late-night phone calls, slowly revealing more of themselves, and when he’d made the switch from her going to his house to her running The Angel, everything had changed.
He’d become more attentive, giving her his full focus, and she’d done the same. Every so often, after her shift, she’d found him waiting at the top of the steel steps outside her flat, a grin on display in the moonlight, and those times she pretended they were a proper couple. He moved around her place as if he belonged there, and more than once she wanted to tell him he did.
Instead, she’d kept her mouth shut, unsure if his feelings for her were the same as hers for him. When he’d told her The Angel was hers, she’d known then. He might not have loved her like he had his wife, but he’d cared deeply.
Life without him wouldn’t be the same, but she’d just have to get on with it like he would’ve wanted. She’d work hard and make the pub an even bigger success. He’d smile from wherever he was, and she’d comfort herself with that.<
br />
The only thing she needed to know was the story of how he’d died. There was no way he’d want anyone knowing he’d got stabbed or shot, losing to Mickey. There’d be some other reason why Cardigan was no longer around.
And as for Mickey, he’d better watch his back.
She was gunning for him.
Chapter Sixty-Five
Leona had another letter.
Seeing the cream envelope lying on the mat as she’d walked down the stairs had her stomach contracting. The writer was telling her a story of some kind, like she’d guessed. The sentences she’d so far received would spell out what the sender really wanted to say. Eventually. Or, the sender would slip up some time, and then Leona would know who ‘d written them.
FROM LITTLE ACORNS, OAK TREES GROW
Now what was that supposed to mean?
She suspected these letters were coming from whoever was out to hurt her father, and if she told him she was getting poisonous rubbish he’d get himself into more of a dangerous mess than he was in already. No, she’d keep quiet. He didn’t need to know.
Puzzled throughout the day, she kept repeating the sentence over in her head, trying to fathom what the clue meant. Finally exhausting all avenues, she sat at her dining room table with a pad and a pen and wrote down all the nasty sentences.
YOU NEED TO WATCH YOURSELF
WHAT GOES AROUND COMES AROUND
I’ll have to make sure I change my routine. There could be people watching me.
Unease slithered through her at the thought of ‘them’ watching her right now. She shivered.
I KNOW SOMETHING YOU DON’T KNOW
Well, that was easy to work out.
JUSTICE WILL BE DONE
This is basically just another threat like the first one.
She wrote the last line from the last note, stumped.
FROM LITTLE ACORNS, OAK TREES GROW
What is that supposed to mean?
Frustrated and angry, she went into the kitchen and drummed the worktop with her fingertips, irritating herself by mimicking her father.
A rustling noise sounded, coming through the open window behind her. The rustle came again, but she dared not turn round. Her chest felt like it was being crushed and squeezed. She struggled to take a deep breath and placed her hands on her throat. Her lungs would only allow so much air in, and her head spun. Someone knocked on the window. She screamed—a piercing one that hurt her ears.
A man called her name.
“Go away,” she shouted, blood pulsing.
“Leona, it’s me.”
Relief. Total and utter relief.
Sam.
Why was he at the back window, in the bushes?
She moved that way. He peered through the net curtains, so she flung them aside. Sam stood in the middle of one of her wonderfully pruned shrubs, dishevelled, his white shirt covered in blood.
Blood! Had the note sender tried to hurt him, too?
Confused and unsure of what to do, she said, “What’s happened?”
“Go to the back door, love. Quickly.”
Sensing the urgency in Sam’s voice, she lost no time in racing there. She unlocked and swung it wide. He came into view and beckoned her out into the garden.
“Come and help me. Leave the door open.”
Puzzled and frightened, she went in Sam’s wake, out to her father’s car parked in her drive, close to the back of the house. He opened one of the rear doors and pulled out a body.
Oh no. I’m not having anything to do with this.
Indignation tightened her chest. She opened her mouth to protest, but no sound emerged.
Sam heaved, grunted, and dragged the body towards her.
She took a sharp intake of breath.
It was her father.
Chapter Sixty-Six
“It’s me, Mickey. I’m back, safe and bloody sound.”
Harry breezed into the living room, his face set in the biggest smile Mickey had ever seen on the bloke. Swaggering over to the settee, Harry plonked himself down and then promptly got up again to pour a stiff drink.
“What took you so long?” Mickey had been uneasy the whole time his mate had been out, his nerves shredded.
“I had a chat with the twins before I came home,” Harry said, beaming.
The twins? Christ. “What? Start from the bloody beginning. Did you kill Cardigan?”
“I did. Drink?”
Mickey nodded, his mind going haywire. Fuck me, he’s really pulled it off.
Harry poured another whiskey. He sat and passed Mickey his glass, telling the tale of the last two hours.
Mickey couldn’t get over the news. “What were The Brothers doing wanting to do Cardigan over?”
It didn’t seem possible. You didn’t cut off your nose to spite your face, did you. Where would they get their wages from now? Cardigan must have really got on their nerves for them to want to kill him.
Harry gulped the amber liquid. “They’d had enough of him telling them what to do, I suppose. Dunno really, I didn’t poke into it. They said they’re taking over the patch. They asked me to give them a lift back to their van, and I went and had a look out the front of the flats to see if the pigs had been called.”
Mickey swallowed the rest of his drink in one gulp. “And had they?”
“Not a rasher in sight, mate. I’d say I’m home and dry, and I’ve got rid of one of the biggest wankers around.”
Doubt roiled inside Mickey. “Are you sure The Brothers aren’t just stringing you along? They might come after you later down the line. Or that bloody Sam. He won’t take kindly to what happened.” He rubbed his chin from the worry of it all. “And what about me? We heard they still weren’t happy with just breaking my leg and fucking up my face.”
Harry shrugged. “The twins are all right. And as for Sam, I reckon he’ll think they did it. We’ll be all right, you’ll see. Anyway, if I do see Sam, I’ll tell him I was late coming with the money, and when I turned up, no fucker was there.”
“As long as you’re sure everything’s sewn up. I want to be able to sleep in my bed at night.”
“Sleep away, mate. I’m not going anywhere, least of all prison.”
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Leona came round in her bedroom. Out of sorts and wondering what she was doing in bed at this time of day, she frowned. Then reason the came crashing down on her.
Sam in the bushes.
Going to the car.
Her father’s body.
A bullet wound to the head.
Everything going black.
She gritted her teeth to stave off crying and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. She’d only been asleep for forty-five minutes. Was that someone chatting in the spare room? She got up and went to her bedroom door. Opened it slightly. Sam was talking to someone.
She crept out into the hallway to the spare room door, which was ajar.
“I can take the bullet out and do some sort of job on the forehead, although there’ll be a slight dent even after I’ve finished. I’ll pack out the back of the head. Doing it here isn’t satisfactory either, but there’s not a lot we can do about that,” a man said, his voice educated.
A voice that set Leona’s heart beating faster. Doctor Rushton.
“And the death certificate?” Sam asked. “Can you sort that out?”
Rushton sighed. “I could put it down to a heart attack, I suppose. All that alcohol and cigars can’t have been good for him. You shouldn’t have any problems.”
“I need to check with his daughter. He left some instructions. I knew to contact you, but I haven’t got a clue about anything else.”
“I think you’ll find that the funeral director I was going to suggest is the one Mr Cardigan would have wanted. He came to visit me a couple of days ago, and I’ve been waiting for this to happen. He seemed to know. Told me what to do.” There was a brief pause. “Right, I’ll go and get my bag and tidy him up a bit.”
Leona leant o
n the doorframe. In shock, eyes wide and stomach rolling, she placed her hand over her mouth to stop any noise escaping.
Rushton came out and stopped short, staring at her, his wrinkles prominent beside his eyes. “Leona. I’m sorry about your father. Is there anything I can do for you? Not feeling distraught after you fainted? Need a sedative?”
She ignored his questions. “I didn’t know…I didn’t think you were the type to do this. What would they say at the hospital? I-I won’t be able to visit there anymore.”
“Don’t be silly,” the elderly Rushton said, greying hair smoothed back with gel, handlebar moustache expertly shaped. “Of course you’ll be able to visit the patients. Nobody will know what I’ve done here today. I can’t imagine you’ll be telling anyone, can you?” He rubbed his protruding stomach with both hands.
Leona blushed. How had things come to this? A well-respected doctor at the hospital where she did her charitable duty was really someone who covered up suspicious deaths on the quiet.
“No,” she said. “I won’t be telling anyone. And thank you for taking your time to do this, for someone you hardly know.”
“On the contrary, me and your father are old acquaintances. There’s been many a time when my services were needed where his work was concerned.” He smiled, nudging her, and gave a conspirator’s wink. “It’s just unfortunate that I’m ministering to him in his death instead of ministering to Mr Cardigan’s victims in theirs. But such is life, it’s never as it seems.” Patting her on the arm, he made to go down the stairs. He looked back at her, hand on the newel post. “I must push on now, get my bag before it’s impossible to work on your father. A cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss, though.”