Revenge (The Cardigan Estate Book 1) Read online

  Revenge - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis rev 2020

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020

  All Rights Reserved

  Revenge 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

  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

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Chapter Sixty

  Chapter Sixty-One

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  Chapter Sixty-Three

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Chapter Seventy

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Chapter Seventy-Four

  Chapter Seventy-Five

  Chapter Seventy-Six

  Chapter Seventy-Seven

  Chapter Seventy-Eight

  Chapter Seventy-Nine

  Chapter Eighty

  Chapter Eighty-One

  Chapter Eighty-Two

  Chapter Eighty-Three

  Chapter Eighty-Four

  Chapter Eighty-Five

  Chapter Eighty-Six

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Chapter Ninety

  Chapter Ninety-One

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  Chapter Ninety-Four

  Chapter Ninety-Five

  Chapter Ninety-Six

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Chapter One Hundred

  Chapter One Hundred and One

  Chapter One Hundred and Two

  Chapter One Hundred and Three

  Chapter One Hundred and Four

  Chapter One

  The Cardigan Estate wasn’t its official name, just something the residents called it, and it wasn’t just one estate but many in a section of London. Debbie’s boss, Ronald Cardigan, ran the area, what with him owning all the pubs in these parts. Some said ‘estate’ meant him thinking he was lord of the manor.

  He was, he just didn’t have the official title.

  She smiled in turn at everyone in The Angel, the pub she managed for him, but in reality, she’d roped someone else in to do it. How could she oversee that job plus run the brothel out the back?

  Mindful Massage was a lucrative venture.

  Who’d have thought a prostitute could swan around in luxury? She certainly hadn’t. Years ago, as a wet-behind-the-ears novice standing on the street corner freezing her tits off, she’d been a million miles away from riches, snatching money off punters before the deed began, stuffing it in her cheap little handbag.

  Now, she had a Prada and no need to go out into the darkness and ply her trade in her scuffed high heels, her bare legs cold as fuck, and her teeth chattering. It paid to be nice to Cardigan, and he’d rewarded her.

  Some people were scared of him, and she’d been the same at first, but with his wife dying, he’d wanted a sample of Debbie—or Peony as she was known to the customers as soon as they stepped through the doorway to the brothel—and there was no way she could’ve said no.

  She sipped a Coke, glancing at the massive clock on the wall to the right, one she’d had put up as a joke so customers didn’t have to squint to check the time when they were rat-arsed. She’d have to go to work soon. Just fifteen minutes left until the nightly shenanigans.

  Shirley Richmond walked in and stood beside her, smelling of jasmine and whatever else was in her perfume. Her black hair came from a bottle, different from her original blonde—“Brassy for a brass,” she’d once said, “so I fancy going darker.” Her skinny frame and big tits were the envy of many a woman. She smiled, her teeth recently whitened at the dentist, and the action raised her beauty spot above her top lip. “All right?”

  Debbie nodded. Shirley didn’t have a ‘sex name’, said her own was good enough. If men didn’t like it that she didn’t have something exotic, they could go and do one. She’d knocked around with a fair few fellas, had an on-off relationship with Mickey Rook once upon a time, but it fizzled out after a massive barney because she wouldn’t stick her finger where it wasn’t supposed to go. His mate, Harry Findley, had also sniffed around her, although Mickey had no idea his friend had sampled the goods, too.

  “Ready for work then?” Debbie asked, wondering if she should add some highlights to her auburn hair next time she had a moment to nip to the salon down the road. She felt a bit mousy at the minute.

  “Not really. Can’t say opening my legs after all these years is still appealing, but whatever, I can’t do anything else.”

  “You’re only twenty-six.” Debbie swirled her finger in the little puddle the condensation from her glass had formed on the bar. “You talk like you’re all washed up.”

  “I feel it sometimes.” Shirley took her compact mirror out of her bag to check her face, always mindful of what it looked like.

  “The makeup’s fine,” Debbie said.

  Fuck knows what Shirley had felt like when a man had slid a knife between her lips and
pushed the blade back, giving her a permanent smile. Her skin had parted, blood had gushed, and she still wouldn’t let on who’d done it.

  Debbie reckoned she’d been warned to keep her new mouth shut.

  No surprise around here.

  “I’m just conscious of it, that’s all.” Shirley dropped her mirror back in her bag. “Reckoned my days of prossing were over when he did it, thought no man would want me. Damaged goods an’ all that.”

  “I know you did, love.”

  “If it wasn’t for you, I’d have been out on the streets in a different way, unable to pay my rent.” Shirley smiled at Lisa, the manager Debbie had employed. “Just a lemonade, ta.” She took her leather jacket off. “Bloody sweltering in here. Anyone would think it was July not May. The weather’s off its rocker. Anyway, going back to what we were talking about. Like you always say, that’s behind me now.” Arse on a barstool, she sighed. “If I were a bloke, I wouldn’t touch me with a barge pole.”

  Debbie elbowed her. She hated it when Shirley put herself down. “Pack that in. Your regulars like you for who you are, not what you look like. Besides, you’re good in the sack.”

  “Or up against a wall.”

  They laughed.

  “A car bonnet,” Debbie said.

  “On a grass verge. Cheers, Lisa.” Shirley took a fiver out of her skirt pocket and handed it over. “Keep the change.”

  Lisa smiled her thanks and walked off to serve someone else. The bar was filling up, and Debbie recognised a few men who weren’t really there for the beer. One of Shirley’s regular fellas, Tommy Crocket, nodded at Debbie and tapped his watch.

  “Six minutes, you,” she called over.

  “He’s eager,” Shirley muttered.

  “Always is. What was it you said? Done in sixty seconds?”

  “Poor bastard gets a bit excited. I tell you, I’m knackered.” Shirley took a sip of her drink. “I didn’t get much sleep, what with the bin men coming so early, then those brats in the street thumping up and down the road. Fucking elephants with fog horns, them lot.”

  Debbie felt a bit guilty. She had the luxury of a flat upstairs all to herself, plus she had no trouble sleeping. Once her head hit the pillow, she was out of it. They kept odd hours, working from seven at night until three in the morning, and Debbie’s ‘evening’ was from then until about eight or nine. She slept through until the afternoon. She’d got used to it, though. A small price to pay for having the things she did now. Flash flat, flash car, perfect for someone who flashed her knickers.

  Shirley stiffened.

  “What’s up?” Debbie frowned.

  “Look in the mirror behind the bar.” She nodded at it.

  Debbie took a peek. ‘The Brothers’ had walked in. George and Greg Wilkes, twins who worked for Cardigan. It was clear they were looking for someone who’d probably pissed her boss off.

  She shrugged. “Don’t mind them. They’re nice when you get to know them.”

  Shirley bristled. “They wouldn’t let it lie when they came round about this.” She patted one half of her scar with a cerise fingernail. “On and on, they went, asking who’d done it.”

  “Only because they don’t hold with women getting hurt.”

  “Yeah, well, they ought to just mind their own fucking business.” Shirley checked the clock. “Anyway, time to go, and not a moment too soon.”

  They slipped off their stools, and Debbie waved at Iris and Lily, two blondes who’d just breezed through the double doors. They’d chosen flower names, as she’d suggested, and so long as they did their jobs and behaved themselves, she couldn’t give a toss. Lavender swanned in next, a bit of an uptight sort, maybe with some home-life issues, and they called her Lav just to get a rise out of her. She always complained she wasn’t a toilet and for them to shut their mouths. Her afro had been hidden beneath a red headscarf that matched her dress.

  With the five of them present, Debbie led the way to the door marked PRIVATE round the corner down the corridor next to the loos, the perfect spot so any coppers in here for a pint wouldn’t think twice of men coming in all desperate-looking then leaving with a broad smile. It could be attributed to them taking a leak, the relief on their bladder cheering them up.

  Debbie chuckled to herself and unlocked the door. She walked along another corridor to a second door, which was kept locked. If anyone who didn’t know about Mindful Massage via word of mouth wandered down here, they’d think it was an office. The plaque on the door said so.

  Cardigan had some CCTV installed, and Debbie had a monitor on her reception desk so she could see who’d come through. They had to ring a bell, and she only let them in if she recognised them. If they were new to the game, they had to hold up their ID. It was appointment only, so those who did try to chance their arm got told to ring her. She handed them a business card and sent them on their way once they’d named someone Debbie knew so she could check they were okay.

  She had to keep the girls and herself safe. Like Shirley had said, no one welcomed a slashed face if they could help it.

  Debbie unlocked the door and held it open. The women filed into the waiting area with its expensive red carpet, black leather sofas, a couple of oak coffee tables, and a matching sideboard with a stereo on top, a potted palm in one corner—she kept forgetting to water the bugger—and a fake fern in the other. Men—and sometimes women—waited in comfort for their ‘masseuse’ to become available, and Debbie gave them a complimentary drink from one of the bottles in the sideboard. All very civilised.

  Her employees went off to their respective rooms. They each had an en suite so they could have a quick shower between punters, and the massage beds had a function to higher or lower them, plus a second leather-covered mattress that pulled out from underneath for those customers who liked the illusion of a real double bed. To an outsider, the rooms looked like they were supposed to.

  Debbie didn’t use hers much anymore. It was reserved for Cardigan when he nipped in for a quickie. She was his, no one else’s, and she liked it that way. She was fond of him, even though he was a lot older than her, and she couldn’t fault him for his kindness while he was with her. Before he’d offered her the run of The Angel, he’d taken her to his big posh house, but she didn’t like it there. His daughter was a right snob and always looked down her nose at her.

  Haughty cow.

  Debbie closed the door, and it locked automatically. Behind the desk, she switched on her computer, plugged in the phone, and turned the CCTV on.

  It was time to become Peony.

  Chapter Two

  Sweat dripped down Jonathan Pembrooke’s temples.

  What the bloody hell am I doing here again?

  He looked around at the other people seated at the table and tried to appear calm. Ronald Cardigan’s unnerving gaze rested on him. Jonathan experienced the urge to run home to his mum, despite being over thirty years old. And he would have—if she wasn’t dead.

  Alone in this mess, and with nothing he could do to get out of it, he blew out through dry, pursed lips. He tried to assess the situation with a rational mind, but inside, he was anything but rational.

  I’m going to lose my fucking life let alone my mind…

  If he didn’t come up with anything he could barter with, he’d be a dead man.

  Ronald Cardigan would see to that.

  Cardigan’s near-black eyes unsettled him further. The older man ruled this patch of London, inspiring fear in anyone who crossed him.

  “I’ve bled your coffers dry, haven’t I, Pembrooke?” His wide, muscly bulk barely fitted on the carver chair, and his frame seemed to fill the small back room of the pub. Lucky for him, his games of poker for huge sums of money went undetected. He owned all the boozers in these parts.

  Greedy bald bastard.

  Jonathan’s resolve to stay calm throughout the game cracked. “You’ve already got all my money. What the bloody hell else d’you think I can give you? My business isn’t stable, and if I’m not ca
reful, I’ll go under. What d’you think I’m doing here? I haven’t been playing poker with the likes of you lot for the good of my health.”

  Turning to his business partner, Cardigan said, “Bloody hell’s bells, Sam, I think he’s beginning to shit himself. Took him long enough, didn’t it?”

  “You’re right, guv. He looks scared,” Samuel Hood said, his voice thick.

  All his life—even as a schoolboy—Sam had threatened and menaced people under the instruction of Ronald Cardigan. Sam idolised him and had even gone so far as killing for him.

  On numerous occasions.

  “Shall we let him off? Or shall we slit his throat?” Cardigan toyed with the cards.

  Sam shrugged, noncommittal. “It’s up to you. I’ll go along with whatever you say.”

  He’s fucking with me. Making me sweat.

  The decision to play cards with these ‘gentlemen’ had been a hard one. If Jonathan’s brewery business wasn’t about to fold, he wouldn’t be here at all.

  Cardigan continued to stare at him. Long seconds passed, then, “I think I quite like you, in one way or another, Pembrooke.” He paused, gazed up at the bare light bulb. Cigarette smoke curled beneath it. “I’ve got a proposition for you. Look carefully at your hand of cards before you tell me if you accept.”

  Cardigan glared at him harder; his black irises reflected the light.

  Shuddering, Jonathan stared down at his cards. “What d’you propose?”

  “If you beat me, you can take all that lovely money on the table.”

  Jonathan eyed the bundles of notes. If he won, he could save his floundering business with plenty to spare. But there had to be a catch. There always was with Cardigan.

  “And if I lose?”

  “You get to marry my daughter. Isn’t that nice?” Cardigan smirked at the other players, who were obviously glad it wasn’t them in the hot seat. He picked a player a night to take for all he could.

  Cardigan owned pubs. Jonathan owned a brewery.

  If Jonathan lost, Cardigan won in more ways than one.

  The other participants, all out of cash, glanced from Jonathan to Cardigan and back again. Two men had already left the table, Cardigan and Jonathan the only remaining players. The rest had stayed for the show. If Cardigan didn’t get an audience, he got angry.