The Hassle on Vicar's Gate (DI Morgan Yeoman Book 4) Read online

  The Hassle on Vicar’s Gate - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020

  All Rights Reserved

  The Hassle on Vicar’s Gate is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Prologue

  1989

  “Get yourself into gear, Carol, for God’s sake. Your report card. Really? You can do better than that.”

  Carol hid an eyeroll from Mum. If she saw it, Carol would be in the shit for that an’ all. She couldn’t be doing with it, all this moaning, the pressure to excel at school, as if that was the only thing she’d been born for, a trophy for her parents to hold up, saying, “Didn’t we do well with her?”

  What if she didn’t want to do well? What if she didn’t want a fancy job with high wages? It was her life, wasn’t it? She should be able to choose.

  Anyway, she had more important things to think about at the minute. There was a disco down at the youth centre tonight, and she was going with her mate, Kath. They were dressing like Madonna, their hair blonde and curly, cut to the jaw, and fake leather jackets they’d found cheap on the market. Their black lacy tops needed a vest underneath them, as Mum wouldn’t let Carol out of the house if any flesh was on show, and their patterned jeans were well fashionable, again off the market. It was going to be a right laugh.

  Plus, it was hopefully going to be the night she got Wesley Lemon to notice her. Lemon. Everyone laughed at that, saying he was a right one, and was he sour, and did he like being a slice in his mum’s lemonade? He hated the jokes and scowled, and every time he did, Carol went all funny.

  She fancied him like mad.

  Mum and Dad wouldn’t like him, he wasn’t a ‘good’ kid, the sort who did as he was told, polite and ‘going somewhere’. He was more your bad-boy type, at least that was the impression he gave, likely to laugh in Mum’s face than smile at her nicely.

  Definitely not someone Carol should be with.

  Which was probably why she was drawn to him.

  She left Mum muttering in the kitchen—Dad was busy in the shed making some shelves for the bathroom—and sat on the stairs to phone Kath, make sure she really was arriving soon so they could get dressed together. She picked up the handset of the two-tone grey phone, dragged each number round until she’d dialled them all, then twirled the wiggly cord between her fingers.

  Kath answered by reciting her phone number.

  “It’s me,” Carol said. “Are you still coming?”

  “Of course I bloody am.”

  Carol couldn’t believe she’d sworn at home. What if her mum heard her? “Sorry, it’s just that I’m excited.”

  Later, when the doorbell pealed, Carol all but wet herself. She let her friend in, and after the perfunctory hello to Mum, they dashed upstairs, squealing all the while.

  * * * *

  Back to Life by Soul II Soul greeted them as they swung the main youth club doors open. Their makeup had been applied down the Mulberry alley on the way—Mum and Dad didn’t approve of it, like so many things—and they’d wash it off in the loos before they went home. Kids crowded the foyer, and beyond two double doors, the disco was in full swing. Coloured lights flashed and pulsed through the glass panels, the silhouettes of dancers in the forefront, the disco bloke’s equipment behind them on the stage.

  Excitement pinched Carol’s tummy, and she gripped Kath’s arm. This was well groovy, and she couldn’t wait to get stuck in. She checked her bag strap was still hanging across her body, that her purse was safe inside with the fiver Mum had given her for pop and crisps—“But don’t spend all of it, we’re not made of money!”—then pushed forward to enter the party.

  The next couple of hours flew by with dancing, Cokes, and two bags of Space Raiders. Kath had Snaps, tomato flavour, as usual. Wesley frowned from the sidelines, slouched against the wall—what Carol could see of him anyway—his face lighting up blue, red, and orange in rotation, then a flickering strobe of green. He pushed off and left via the fire exit, which was ajar to let the heat out.

  Ellen Forster followed him out a minute or so later. God, were they seeing each other? Was she going out there to get off with him? A twist of anger was replaced by jealousy, then the all-consuming emotion of defeat, not being good enough for Wesley to take any notice of her. All this effort for nothing, her hair, her clothes, the makeup.

  She danced for a while longer, Kath going mad when the Pet Shop Boys came on, and Carol faked enthusiasm, although deep inside, she was hollow and wanted to go home. Then that anger returned, and she made out to Kath she was going to the loo. Instead, she used the fire exit, Neneh Cherry’s Manchild chasing after her, and the warm night air dried the sweat on her face and arms—she’d abandoned her jacket half an hour into the party.

  The sky was still light enough to see, so she wandered along the side of the building. She’d sit out the back on the swing set, or maybe on the slide, and get herself together. That’s what Mum would bleat on at her to do anyway.

  She turned the corner and bumped into Wesley, chest to chest, his breaths ragged, as if he’d been running. His cheeks h
ad a red hue, and she reckoned he’d been on one of the trampolines or something.

  “Sorry,” she said automatically, like it was her fault they’d clashed.

  “Yeah, sorry. In a rush. Need a piss.”

  She stepped back, even though she didn’t want to—she’d enjoyed the feel of him close—and fiddled with her hair, all kinds of embarrassed now they were alone. But this was what she’d wanted for ages, wasn’t it?

  “What have you been up to?” she asked, for something to say, to delay him leaving.

  “What do you mean by that?” he snapped.

  Fucking hell, that was a bit rude. Still, she should have expected it from him, the moody git. “Nothing, was only asking, that’s all.”

  “Oh. Right. Nowt, not been up to anything. Was messing on the swings.”

  She glanced over there. Neither of them swayed, like he’d recently got off one. She shrugged internally—why did it matter if he was lying? If he even was. “I was going to get on one myself. You coming?” Her stomach rolled at her being so brave, and she walked off, praying he followed. If he did, that meant he might like her, and if he didn’t, well, she’d lost her chance. But there would be others.

  The rustle of trainers on grass told her he was coming, and she smiled, secretly crapping herself. What would they talk about? Would she seem boring to him? Would he try to kiss her?

  She sat and, how it happened she didn’t know, but they chatted easily, as if they’d been friends for ages. He told her about his shitty mum and dad, how they didn’t seem to like him, and she told him about hers and all their constraints and expectations.

  “We should both tell them to fuck off,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “Although that’s easier said than done. Sometimes, telling an adult to piss off out of it isn’t…well, you have no choice but to do as you’re told.”

  He brought out a packet of cigarettes and lit one using a lighter—that meant he was hardcore. Everyone else had ten p matches.

  “Want one?” He offered her the packet.

  “Never smoked before.”

  “It’s easy, I’ll teach you.”

  She wanted to say no, but impressing him was important to her, and if he was going to teach her, that must mean she was someone worth teaching. Mustn’t it?

  She coughed and spluttered but in the end got the gist of it, and by the time she reached the stub, she fagged it like a pro. Next he took out a bottle, one of those miniatures she’d seen in Wasti’s shop behind the counter. Blimey, it was Bacardi. He took a swig then passed it to her. She drank, the alcohol burning, the heat going up the back of her nose, eyes watering, but afterwards, the nice feeling she got from it meant she finished the bottle while he necked another.

  “You’re all right, you are,” he said.

  Bloody hell! “I’ve fancied you for ages.” That had popped out.

  “I know.”

  A scream tore through the air, and Carol whipped the swing round, the metal chains crossing above her head. Her heart thudded too hard, and the Bacardi threatened to come back up.

  “What was that?” she whispered, frightened.

  Wesley stood and twisted her to face the other way. “Fuck knows, probably someone dicking about. Come on, let’s go and dance.”

  She walked beside him, his arm around her waist like a real boyfriend, and she smiled, soon forgetting the scream. Inside, Kath squealed at them but kept her distance. If You Don’t Know Me by Now by Simply Red came on, and Carol’s chest tightened. Would he slow dance with her to it?

  He did, and her night was complete. She’d snagged him at last.

  Confession

  Life didn’t quite turn out like Mum and Dad hoped it would. They’d had high hopes for me, their little girl doing well at school and passing all her exams, going to college then uni, bagging a decent job, going on exotic holidays and living it large. They didn’t factor in me meeting Ruben’s dad, though, did they, the road they wanted me to travel, paved with the gold of many hopes, turning into a rutted track with so many potholes it wasn’t funny. Still, I’m happy enough. You have to learn to live with your mistakes, don’t you. And other people’s. – Carol Lemon

  Chapter One

  The Silver Mile shopping village catered to the well-to-do, providing top-brand names to those wealthy enough to shell out for them. Carol Lemon wasn’t one of those people, but she could look, couldn’t she? Dream? Pretend she could afford all the posh clothes and shoes, the handbags, the candles that cost a week’s wages? They had fancy names like Queen’s Jewels and Princess’ Perfume, even one called Regal Rose.

  Sigh.

  Mind you, pretending she could have them meant Mum was right, Carol should have done well.

  Carol didn’t want Mum to be right.

  She weave-staggered around a circular rack with skinny jeans hanging on it, the latter made for her legs, which were spindly, stick-thin some would say, what with her having a liquid breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Food was for the times she couldn’t stand up straight—it soaked up the alcohol so she could swig some more after. Food was for when the munchies came—her son, Ruben, provided some pretty decent weed, a sniff or two of coke if she was lucky. He sold it for Terry, the landlord at The Tractor’s, and sometimes cut it with harmless powder so they could nick some and have a sniff. Perks of the job. It saved him going to proper work, didn’t it, and gave him more time at home. Not that he helped her out on that score, the lazy sod.

  Most of the time, the house was a tip, although she did try to tidy it a bit first thing, before her usual hair of the dog. Kicking a sock under the sofa here, closing the curtains to hide the crisp packets on the sill there. Maybe she’d hire a cleaner to get it all spick and span. She used to be a cleaner herself once upon on time, not that you could tell.

  Ruben was one of those Goths, the sort she didn’t understand, all moody and mysterious lately, like his father, but he was a laugh when he was doped up. Black eye makeup and kohl on his lips. Long hair, always greasy—God, the times she’d told him to get some of that Vosene stuff on it, that’d dry it out, not to mention get it smelling nice.

  He rarely listened to practical things like that. She didn’t either.

  The manager of Felicity’s Emporium watched Carol from her perch on the stairs. They led to the super-expensive items, so perhaps the woman was guarding the entrance to more pleasurable purchases than Carol could imagine. She wouldn’t know exactly what was up there, she’d been stopped from climbing the stairs before. The cow said she stank of booze, and that was a lie, because Carol had had a shower that particular morning.

  Bloody cheek.

  Carol ignored the beady, blue-eyed glare surrounded by perfect makeup, maybe done in that shop down the way, where pretty types used the products on you, hoping you’d buy it afterwards. Carol hadn’t the day she’d asked for a freebie makeover, she’d swanned out, feeling all kinds of passable in the face department, young again, less haggard. If she remembered rightly, Roger Watson had copped a feel of her arse that night in the pub and she’d snogged him down the Mulberry alley on their way home. Amazing what a bit of lippy did for you.

  Roger had a bad leg, all the kids round the estate called him Gammy, but he was about all she could pull these days—lucky for her, he didn’t worry about touching people without a barge pole and got off with her even when she didn’t have makeup on.

  She’d let herself go if he was her only option, and in her lucid moments, she told herself off for squandering her life on drink and drugs, gossip, you name it. Lucid times were few and far between, though, so it saved her beating herself up too much, thank heavens. God knew she had other, more revolting things to keep hidden inside her pissed-up head.

  She moved towards the handbags on the right-hand wall, their straps looped over hooks with snazzy diamonds on the ends, all designed, she suspected, to lure you in, giving the impression of luxury. Still, what would she use a big bag for anyway—this was what she chatted to herself about whenever she c
ontemplated having one. She only had her phone, her fags, lighter, purse, and her bottle of vodka, the only things she needed to carry around.

  Getting her focus back—she couldn’t afford to lose it—she sighed again and made a beeline for the stairs to the upper riches. The manager’s face morphed from disgusted disdain to outright horror at Carol’s approach, her features screwing up, cheeks going all manner of red, from rose blush to scarlet tomato. Carol held in laughter—she couldn’t wait to tell Ruben about this—and placed one scuffed shoe on the bottom step. There may or may not be dog poo on the bottom of one, there to create extra drama. She’d purposely trodden in it but hadn’t checked to see if the treads were full.

  “Uh, no.” The lady held her hand up, palm facing Carol, the universal stop sign, as if that would stop her. A wedding band glittered on the appropriate finger, the overhead light above her beaming directly down. She was in the spotlight, this one, and probably reveled in it.

  Carol plonked her hands on her hips. “How do you know I haven’t got a load of cash in my pocket?” She cocked her head to stare and wished she hadn’t. This morning’s dose of voddy on the bus made itself known in her system.

  No, vertigo, that was what it was.

  Spotlight Sally curled her lip. “I doubt that very much. Please leave the shop.”

  Carol frowned as if she didn’t get why she had to. “Why? Because I don’t look the part? Because I don’t already seem fancy? What if I’ve won the lottery—that could happen, you know. I could be in here to kit myself out ready to go to the car showroom later. If I was sat at home, ordering online, you wouldn’t be any the wiser.”

  “But I am wiser because you’re here. I’m asking you to leave because you smell and appear to be drunk. You’re upsetting our clientele.”

  The poo-shoe idea had worked. Carol silently congratulated herself. “Ooh, get you, using posh words. Make you feel better, does it? All superior and shit?” She’d shouted that last word, her throat straining from the effort and too many Benson and Hedges over the years, gaining the attention of not only the ‘clientele’ but the other staff members. “This bitch here said I smell and I’m pissed. What do you think of that, eh?”