by Jacqui Rose
POISON
Jacqui Rose
Copyright
Published by AVON
A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020
Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2020
Cover design © Claire Ward, HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020
Cover photographs © Alexey Kazantsev / Trevillion Images (woman);
Shutterstock.com (background)
Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008366964
Ebook Edition © February 2020 ISBN: 9780008366957
Version: 2020-01-14
Dedication
To my Family.
Epigraph
‘It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.’
William Blake
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Acknowledgements
Keep Reading …
About the Author
Also by Jacqui Rose
About the Publisher
1
Alfie Jennings opened his eyes and groaned. His head was pounding and his mouth was dry, which he thought was pretty ironic considering how much he’d drunk at the club. Though in truth, he’d lost count after he’d knocked back the tenth double whiskey.
Not that he cared. He was done with caring. The only place caring had ever got him was up shit creek, which was exactly where he was now. Swimming in it, sinking in it and certainly wallowing in it … Fuck.
Rubbing his temples in annoyance, Alfie sighed and turned his head slowly to the side. Next to him, with her head on the pillow, sleeping soundly and letting out the tiniest of snores, was the brass he’d picked up sometime between entering the club and leaving it.
Though for the life of him he couldn’t remember bringing her back to the flat in Soho. In fact, apart from the argument he’d had with Vaughn Sadler, one of his closest friends, he couldn’t remember much, which was exactly what he’d wanted. His motto now was going to be: drink, fuck and forget.
Irritated, he yawned and roughly pushed the naked woman’s leg off him. Then, growling and wincing at the loudness of his own voice, he snapped, ‘Oi! Sleepin’-fucking-beauty, wake the frig up, will ya? I want you out of here, pronto. This ain’t no bed and breakfast.’
The prostitute, who Alfie thought looked no older than twenty-five, stretched and broke wind at the same time. She pushed back her dyed, dried blonde hair and pouted sulkily.
‘Well if I’m sleeping beauty, that would make you the prince, and I’m damn sure you ain’t supposed to wake me up like that. That’s not how the story went, mate.’
Alfie sat up. He picked up his boxers from the floor and pulled them on. His blue eyes darkened as he stared at her. ‘No, darlin’, that’s exactly how it went. I just reckon you must’ve missed that line, like the other line you missed. The one that said … get your fucking clothes on and get the fuck out of here before I throw you out and then we can all live happily ever after.’
Before the woman had a chance to reply there was a loud banging on the front door, followed by a man’s voice calling Alfie’s name. It was Vaughn.
‘Open up, mate. Come on, I ain’t playing with you. We need to talk. You were well out of order last night. I know things have been fucked up lately but you got to sort your shit out.’
Alfie slumped on the bed, lighting up a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke deeply and ran his hand through his thick black hair. The last thing he wanted to do was speak to Vaughn. His head was pounding and he didn’t need the grief.
‘Alf, I know you’re in there, so do yourself a favour and open up … Alf! Alf! Come on, I ain’t got all day … Fine. If that’s the way you’re going to be.’
The next moment Alfie heard a louder banging and then a crash as Vaughn booted open the door, swiftly and easily.
Alfie stood up quickly but the minute he had done he regretted it as a sharp pain rushed through his head. ‘Why the fuck did you do that? I’ll have to get that repaired now.’
Standing in the doorway, Vaughn Sadler shrugged, a smile on his handsome face. ‘What am I supposed to do if you won’t answer?’
‘What most people do, go the fuck away …?’
‘As much as you’d like that, it ain’t going to happen. So how about you make us both a nice cup of Rosie Lee and whilst you’re doing that, you could work on making your face look less like a slapped arse.’
Incensed but too hungover to show it, Alfie snarled, ‘If you’ve just come to take the piss, do yourself a favour and turn back round. I don’t need this.’
Vaughn looked at Alfie, seeing the stress lines etched into his face. He was worried about him. Really worried. He’d seen Alfie spiral before, but this was different. It was clear Alfie had given up caring about everything and anything. He was on a path o
f self-destruction, which seemed to be lined with drugs, drink and women.
Letting out a sigh, Vaughn glanced at the hooker who was busily getting dressed in a pair of pink flimsy hot pants and a gold crop top, which barely hid her ginormous fake breasts. He nodded to her in recognition.
She was one of the women who worked in the club that he and his friend Johnny Taylor owned and ran.
Knowing that Alfie had been in a bad way last night and after the row they’d had about Alf taking it easy with how much coke he was shoving up his nose, he’d ended up paying her to keep an eye on Alfie, and not to let him out of her sight. And if that meant her sleeping with him, so be it. She could do worse than go to bed with Alfie, though, looking at him now, he was hardly anybody’s Prince Charming.
‘None of us need this,’ Vaughn said, by way of response to Alfie’s sarcastic comment. ‘And by the way, you look like shit, Alf.’
Not wanting to make any sudden movements, Alfie stepped in closer to Vaughn. He was hit by the smell of Vaughn’s expensive aftershave. Then without warning, he promptly vomited all over the black silk shirt Vaughn was wearing.
Like an electric shock, Vaughn jumped backwards, fighting against the urge to vomit too. He grabbed the nearest thing next to him – which happened to be a cushion – and began to wipe the vomit off with it as he marched into the en-suite bathroom to get a towel, calling back over his shoulder as he went, ‘Jesus Christ, Alf, what’s wrong with you? You’re like a fucking animal. I don’t know why I bo—’
‘Vaughn? Sorry I was so long – I had to change her nappy again.’ A teenage girl with bright red hair and bright green eyes appeared in the doorway carrying a baby. She grinned an almost toothless smile. ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get used to changing them things. I thought weaning meself off crack was difficult, but facing Mia’s nappies is something else.’ She giggled, stretching out her arms to give the baby to Alfie. ‘Here you go, sweetie, go to Daddy. He looks like he could do with a cuddle from you.’
Alfie’s eyes flashed with anger as Shannon Mulligan held the baby in mid-air. He backed away, pushing himself against the wall, knocking an expensive glass vase off the silver shelf.
As Vaughn came back into the room, Alfie spoke, his voice almost inaudible. ‘I don’t want to see her. Get her out of here. Get her out!’
Not knowing what to do, Shannon glanced at Vaughn then stepped nearer to Alfie. She spoke firmly. ‘She’s your baby. She needs to see her daddy.’
Alfie’s bellow echoed through the flat, giving Mia a fright and causing her to scream loudly.
‘I said get her out of here! Fucking get her out of here now!’
With the prostitute watching with interest, Vaughn’s face hardened, then he gently took Mia from Shannon and rocked her before placing her on the thick, cream carpet, which matched the matt cream walls. Not unkindly, he said, ‘She’s your daughter, Alf, and I reckon it’s time you and her did some bonding. We’ll be back to pick her up in a couple of hours.’ He turned to Shannon, taking the nappy bag off her shoulder as he continued to talk. ‘It’s got everything you need in there: her milk, her dummy, her nappies, her cuddly toy. You’ll be fine.’
‘I don’t know why you’re doing this, Vaughn, but in case it escaped your notice, I ain’t Mary fucking Poppins. So you need to take her.’
‘Sorry Alf, no can do. You might surprise yourself – the other night I found myself singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star”. Though in fairness it does get a bit repetitive, but who’d have fucking thought it, eh? Point is, you’ve got to make an effort – she’s your kid.’
Alfie licked his lips, trying to get some salvia onto his parched, chapped lips. He shook as he spoke. ‘I told you, I don’t want her here.’
‘Alf—’
‘You’re not getting it are you? I can’t even look at her. I don’t want to look at her.’
Vaughn shook his head sadly. ‘Then you’ll just have to learn to.’
Alf stared coldly at Vaughn. ‘I don’t have to do anything. Just take her. You ain’t going to leave her here with me.’
Vaughn gestured to the others to follow him. ‘That’s exactly what I’m going to do because it seems that’s the only way I’m going to get you to spend some time with her … She won’t bite, Alf. Get over yourself. Unfortunately for her, she needs you.’
Alfie ran to the doorway, blocking the entrance. He pushed his face into Vaughn’s and hissed angrily, his voice cracking as he fought back the tears. ‘Don’t you fucking do this to me. You are not going to do this.’
With not much of an effort, Vaughn pushed Alfie out of the way. ‘Looks like I’ve already done it.’
And with that Vaughn and the women walked away, leaving Alfie alone with his screaming daughter.
2
Franny Doyle glanced around the small interview room of the prison, looking at the peeling grey paint and the bars across the windows.
She sat back in the uncomfortable orange chair, feeling the hard, cracked plastic digging into her back. Not that she minded. It was a distraction from the anger, which ran through her veins as she brought her gaze back to stare at the person sitting across the table from her.
‘So come on, Francesca. Let’s go over it again, shall we? Because so far the only part of your story that seems anywhere near the truth was the part where you got up in the morning and went for a piss.’
Franny sat forward, leaning her body on the table. Her face contorted with hatred. ‘Is that how you get your kicks, Detective, imagining me with me knickers around me ankles … Go fuck yourself!’
‘Temper, temper, Francesca.’
Even though Franny knew she shouldn’t, she seethed openly, snarling out her words as she pushed back her long chestnut brown hair. ‘First off, my name’s Franny – as well you know – and secondly, don’t push me, Detective. Don’t play games because that would be a really stupid thing for you to do. I won’t be in here forever.’
Detective Balantyne roared with laughter, his round, acne-scarred face lighting up. He stared at her, his hazel eyes twinkling with delight. ‘There you are. That’s the Francesca I know and love – full of threats and anger. Is that why you killed Bree Dwyer? Did she say something you didn’t like? Did she wind you up the wrong way? Is that what happened, Francesca?’
The light touch on Franny’s arm from her solicitor was all that was needed for Franny to get herself back under control. She took a deep breath and a small smile appeared at the corners of her lips. ‘No. As much as you’d like that, that’s not what happened, Detective – not even close, darlin’. We’ve already been over this a hundred times.’
Detective Balantyne glared at her. Over the years he’d always been struck by three things when it came to Franny Doyle. Her brains. Her beauty. But, above all else, her ruthlessness. Her father – a notorious Irish gangster – had been the same and, by God, that man had certainly taught her well. Franny Doyle was a hard bastard. No more. No less.
Breaking his own thoughts, Balantyne opened the thin grey file in front of him. ‘Then explain to me why forensics found some of your DNA on the plastic sheeting Bree’s body was wrapped up in?’
‘Is that the best you can do? It’s obvious, ain’t it? Like I already told you, I’d visited her plenty of times. I always gave her a hug when I saw her—’ Franny answered, matter-of-factly.
Balantyne interrupted. ‘Out of everything I’ve heard, that’s the hardest thing to get my head around.’
For a moment, Franny looked puzzled. She spoke suspiciously. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘That the ice queen shows affection. I can’t picture it myself, can’t quite see you giving anyone a hug … But anyway, carry on.’
Franny had to take another deep breath; she could feel her temper rising again. What she wouldn’t do to take down this man.
For as long as she could remember, Balantyne had been sniffing around – wanting to bang first her father up then her – and now, after all these years,
he might’ve finally got her, and God wasn’t he just delighting in it.
She spoke snootily. ‘The point is, Detective: what that bunch of muppets down at forensics found on Bree’s clothes had obviously been transferred from me. You know, from me to her clothes then onto the plastic sheet. It’s a no-brainer that one.’
Balantyne pulled some photos out of his file and slid them across to Franny. She glanced down at them then looked up. She shrugged, not giving anything away of her emotions.
‘What? What about them?’
Balantyne shook his head. Even he had recoiled at the sight of Bree’s body – decomposing and broken – yet here was Franny Doyle not even taking an extra blink when she looked at the graphic photographs.
He snatched up one of the photos and pushed it into Franny’s eye line. ‘What? Is that all you can say? She was found in a shallow grave, wrapped up in plastic. Most of the bones in her legs were broken. Snapped. Like she was a stick of wood. Her shoulders were dislocated; her neck was twisted around the wrong way. What sort of an animal does that to another human being?’
Franny continued to stare coldly. ‘You tell me, you’re the detective.’
‘You know what I think? I think I’m looking at the animal right now, and I’m going to prove it. And then, Francesca, you are going to spend the rest of your days looking at four walls, with nothing else to do than think about what you’ve done.’
Franny sneered then smiled. ‘In your dreams, Detective. You haven’t got a chance in hell of pinning Bree’s death on me. Both you and I know you’ll have to prove it beyond a reasonable doubt to get a conviction, and let’s face it, under scrutiny, your evidence will never stand up.’
Detective Balantyne nodded his head slowly. This time it was his turn to smile. ‘Perhaps if it was this evidence alone you might have a point, but unfortunately for you, I’ve got a little bit of help …’
‘What are you talking about?’
Balantyne laughed. ‘Oh nothing, I just like to see you sweat and it’s been a long time coming.’
‘This won’t stick, however much you want it to.’
Balantyne leant across the table and smirked. ‘Then let the games begin.’