Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2) Page 8

  Jack ambled along, skirting round Fiona, and came to stand in front of Harry.

  “Haven’t seen you here in an age, mate.” Jack smiled, although it looked pinched, forced.

  Harry shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Been busy. You know how it is.”

  “So I heard. The Brothers keeping you in work? My old mum used to say something about idle hands and minds, but buggered if I can remember it now. Anyway, the gist of it was to keep busy or you get yourself into trouble.”

  What was that supposed to mean? A veiled message?

  “Yeah, they’re a good pair, the twins. I’ve usually always got something or other to do. Mainly going with them to put the frighteners on people, collecting money, that sort of thing.” He was starting at the bottom and hated it. He wanted to be where they were, in charge. Still, they let him lend a hand while they killed, and that was more than the other blokes got to do.

  Jack chuckled. “Not what some would say, being a good pair. The ones who get on their bad side, that is. Blimey, the things they get up to. I could tell you a fair few stories. They’re mad, but in a good way.”

  Harry hoped Jack wasn’t going to waltz down Memory Lane and bore him to death with tales about Cardigan and the twins, or even that drippy Sam who used to follow Cardigan around like some adoring dog. Harry couldn’t stand the old gang leader when he was alive and hated him just as much after death. He didn’t care that he’d bought all the pubs round here and ran illegal poker games, was a loan shark, pimped out girls, and whatever the fuck else he got up to. At least The Brothers were more decent about what they did—and they never went after people who didn’t deserve it. Okay, they’d sliced Mickey’s face and broken his leg and jaw, but now Harry had had time to think about it, Mickey had that shit coming. He’d been a prick to Shirley.

  Harry didn’t dwell on what he’d done to her.

  “I bet you could.” He smiled at Jack. “But I don’t want to hear about them.” He paused, going for drama, so his next statement packed a punch. “Got any stories about Mickey being murdered?”

  Jack’s face went blank, and he stiffened his back, straightened his shoulders. A cloud seemed to pass over him, swiping the jovial away and replacing it with menace.

  Harry nodded. Yeah, Jack knew the score. “So it’s true then. Debbie said he was offed but she wouldn’t let on who’d done it. Now I wonder how she knows and I don’t. Funny, that. I mean, I was his best friend. You’d think someone would’ve told me.”

  “I wouldn’t know anything about it.” Jack swiped a tea towel up and dried a glass from a few Fiona put beside him.

  “Know anything about what?” A frown creased her brow.

  Jack stared at her as if willing the woman to go away. “Nothing.”

  “Mickey’s murder.” Harry sipped more lager. “There’s word going round he didn’t piss off out of London at all. I thought it was a bit weird at the time that he hadn’t taken any of his clothes and whatnot.”

  Fiona narrowed her eyes and folded her arms. Defensive or acting tough? She’d had a couple of scraps in her time and had a good right hook on her. “You ought not to poke around in that pot. You’ll get burnt.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t I? Like I said, Mickey was my mate.”

  “Because a few people were involved in it, and not all of them are nice, if you see what I’m saying.” She studied him to get her point across.

  A few? “Who?” Harry pushed.

  “Believe me, you really don’t want to get on the wrong side of people. It’s best you don’t know. Ignorance is bliss and all that.” She walked away, peering over her shoulder at him then settling at the end to gas to Stanley.

  Harry eyed Jack. “Do you agree with what she said? I mean, I can’t just let this slide. What sort of friend would I be if I did that?”

  “Best you do.” Jack turned and disappeared through a door marked PRIVATE.

  It sucked shut, and Harry stared at it. What the fuck was going on here? Jack and Fiona knew who’d done it. And what was that she’d said? A few people?

  What the hell had Mickey done? Had he kept secrets from Harry?

  I can’t talk, I kept one from him.

  Like not letting him know he’d sliced Shirley and allowed Mickey to take the blame.

  He was stopped from pondering on the conversation by his phone ringing. He took it out. ‘G’ popped up on the screen, so it could only be one of two people.

  “Yep?” he said. The Brothers probably had some work for him.

  “It’s George. We’ve got a job on at the warehouse tonight. Be there about quarter to eight.”

  “The usual thing for nighttime, is it?”

  “Yep, it’ll be a body. Don’t be late.”

  Harry slid his phone away, grinning. A body meant a good lump of cash if he was the one to chop it up. Using the axe was hard going, and he wished they’d let him loose with the electric saw, but he preferred the axe anyway. It gave him a good workout, and he pretended he was killing them all over again instead of The Brothers, their screams shrieking through his head with every cut.

  He thought about what he’d buy with the two grand, the usual fee for that, and all thoughts of Mickey’s killer flew out of his head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Come with us,” Lime said.

  Sarah trotted behind him and Dave, out of The Flag and down the side. She should be more careful really, going off with two strangers, but she wanted the job.

  There was a narrow alley, and they led her down it, the darkness swallowing them up so she felt alone and a little scared. She made them out, turning a left corner, and followed. A security light flashed on. At the back was the pub’s pink-and-yellow crazy-paved yard, the outer edges crowded with stuff, a patio of sorts in the centre. Stacks of plastic crates with empty bottles in them hugged the perimeter. Beer barrels. A large green wheelie bin, industrial size. A bench table, weathered, was skew-whiff in the middle. It was perhaps varnished brown once, but the elements had turned it grey and dusty-looking, some of the wood warping. Whoever sat to the right would be on a weird hump. A drunken black umbrella jutted through a hole in the table, Bacardi advertised on it, the red word faded to a murky peach from the sun.

  She stood there, nervous of what they were going to do or say. Not being in the know about this sort of thing was to her disadvantage.

  “You need to pass muster before you can work the corner.” Lime patted the table with his large hand, fingers as thick as hot dogs, a gold ring with a coin in the centre on the pinkie. “Bend over that.”

  Thus, Sarah’s first customer was Richie Lime, her second, Dave Reynolds.

  And she earnt no money.

  She staggered out of that alley and down the street, pulling up her knickers, thankful they’d at least used condoms. Lime had told her she had to insist on them with the punters otherwise she couldn’t work his corner. As he’d pumped away, the table edge digging into her tummy, Dave watching in front, Lime had reeled off a load of rules.

  Condoms.

  Health checks.

  Pepper spray.

  Rape alarm.

  Handing fifty percent of her wages over every week in The Flag, Friday nights at six.

  While Dave had his turn, she’d taken her first step into learning how to separate herself from what was happening.

  It was difficult.

  She approached the corner, and the woman from before was still there.

  “Any luck?” she asked.

  Sarah nodded. “Yeah, I’m allowed on here now.”

  “Didn’t think they’d turn you down. Tried you out, didn’t they.”

  Sarah nodded, humiliated. “Over the table in the pub yard.”

  “Hmm, the usual place. I saw you go down there and hoped you’d pass the test.” She leant closer. “Don’t have any kids. It makes you baggy down below. Lime and Dave insist they check us every so often, although I’ve got away with it for a few years now. Lime says I’m lo
oking a bit old, but he won’t turf me off the corner. I make too much money. Plenty of younger lads want to shag a granny. You’d be surprised.”

  Sarah wondered whether there’d be a moment when she wasn’t surprised, her time out here jading her so even the most disgusting things didn’t faze her. There probably would be, and she hoped it came quickly, that she got used to this new life she’d chosen for herself, everything sliding off her as if it didn’t matter.

  A car crawled along, and her new friend nudged her.

  “This fella’s about fifty but likes younger girls. Go on, step up to the kerb.”

  Sarah swallowed, fear dominating her until he wound down the window and leant across. He wasn’t bad-looking, and fit for someone his age, going by his muscles. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend it was a lad, maybe Adam who she used to fancy in year nine.

  “How much, love?” he asked.

  Sarah glanced back at the woman for guidance. Prices were whispered in her ear, and Sarah decided then and there she’d up them but not tell Lime. She was worth more than that. She smiled at the man and gave the list of things she’d do and what they’d cost.

  “You do it up the back hole?” he said, surprised.

  “I’ll do anything if you pay me,” she said.

  And she would. Anything so she could have someone wanting her exactly for who she was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isla stood in front of the mirror in Next and admired herself in a slinky black dress. It was lush and suited her, hanging just right. To be honest, she was surprised it wasn’t more expensive. It looked like it should have a two hundred quid price tag, not seventy-five. Well, she wasn’t complaining. It meant she could buy something else as well. Maybe those black shoes she’d spied on her way to the changing rooms.

  If she could get Frank to stop working for just one night and take her out, she’d wear this beauty. Maybe they could rekindle things, as their relationship was a bit stale. He’d gone off the boil recently, claiming he was too tired. It was more likely all those young women in The Roxy catching his eye, giving him thoughts of being with a newer model. Or maybe it was because he worked one week on, one off, and the early hours were messing with this sleep pattern.

  Oh well, he’d have to suck it up. She’d made it clear right from when they’d first met what she expected—the husband worked, the wife stayed at home. That was what her parents had done, and their relationship had turned out fine.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the dress and a night out. She’d get him to take her to The Roxy to meet his colleagues, then she could see for herself what the competition was. It’d been ages since she’d gone clubbing, well before the kids had been born, and she deserved to let her hair down. She toiled hard watching the kids.

  Before he’d got the bouncer job, things were tight, his hours reduced at the factory so he hadn’t been earning enough in her opinion. Frustration had set up home inside her, and she’d nagged him until he’d given in and found a new job. The old one was enough for the rent and to feed them, pay the electric and everything, but it wasn’t anything like what she needed for the life she wanted to live. She dreamt of fancy furniture, gleaming chandeliers, and endless amounts of clothes.

  Frank had promised her those things. The world, he’d said, and all the stars and the moon.

  Isla had plans. The next step up the society ladder was moving out of the council house and buying one of their own, although Frank had no idea she’d been entertaining that. She’d always hated living on The Cardigan Estate, the man himself’s criminal umbrella hovering over them, tainting everyone who resided there. When she’d been a teenager, she’d detested going out at night in case someone rough was around, and walking past The Eagle used to shit the life out of her, especially if Cardigan was in there. Okay, she’d pulled back from having anything to do with the likes of her neighbours, apart from Brenda, who had a habit of knocking, no care with regards to privacy, but still, Isla must be looked upon as the same as the other scabby people. She felt she was a cut above, had been born into the wrong family, but she still lived there in that poky three-bedroom, and she didn’t want her sons living on that estate by the time they were teenagers.

  She swivelled from side to side, checking the dress didn’t show any unsightly lumps—it was difficult to tell with black. She worked hard on her body, going to the gym every morning at six, doing twenty lengths in the pool afterwards, getting home by eight so she could chivvy the kids along. Frank said it was an expenditure they maybe shouldn’t pay out, a luxury. Frank said she bought too many clothes. Frank said a lot of things, but she ignored him. He’d promised her she could have whatever she wanted, and by God, she was going to get it.

  Thinking of him had her digging in her bag for her phone to check the time, seeing as he wouldn’t let her buy that five hundred quid watch she had her eye on. No amount of pleading had worked either, and because he didn’t seem interested in sex, she couldn’t even open her legs then get him to agree to shell out for it when he was all loved up. It had diamonds around the face and everything, a proper posh piece.

  She’d have to resort to other tactics.

  It was quarter to four, so he’d have picked the kids up and be home by now. She’d loitered so she wouldn’t have to do it. She couldn’t stand being near all those other mums. Most of them liked Stella with their strawberry Pop Tarts for breakfast and a canned cocktail with their cheese sandwich lunch. Dinner was almost certainly accompanied by cheap bubbly, two quid a bottle. Isla had seen them with the evidence, walking down the street laughing, waving the booze around. She always felt dirty near them and tended to stand apart from their crowd on the playground. They gave her filthy looks, like she was stuck-up, as if she hadn’t gone to school with them all, but she didn’t care. If she could get Frank to agree to buying a home, they could move to a better estate where the mothers had some class about them. She wouldn’t mind mingling then.

  Isla went to pop her phone away when it rang. SCHOOL came up on the screen, and she frowned. God, if Frank had fallen asleep from the painkillers for his stupid nose and had forgotten to collect the boys, she’d be livid.

  “Hello?” She smiled at herself in the mirror, pretending whoever was calling stood in front of her. She’d bet they were jealous of the dress and her figure, and how pretty she was. Frank was punching above his weight.

  “Hello, it’s Mrs Sanchez,” the caller said.

  “Oh, hello.”

  “No one has come to collect your children. Will you be long?”

  That bloody Frank… “Oh, my husband was supposed to do it today. I’ll give him a ring and see where he is. I’ll get back to you.”

  “I’ve already phoned him, and there’s no answer on either the house phone or his mobile.”

  He’s asleep. I knew it. She sighed, resigned to having to do the job. At least she wouldn’t see the mothers, they’d be long gone. “I’ll come. I’ll have to get a taxi, though. I’m shopping. Can you hold on for another fifteen minutes? I’m so sorry about this.”

  “Yes, that’s fine. I’ve popped them in the after-school club, so you’ll have to pay the fee when you get here.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  Seething she’d have to fork out because of her incompetent husband, and she wouldn’t have time to try on the shoes, Isla slung her phone in her bag then whipped the dress off. She’d still buy it. If she was paying for after-school club, she may as well get her money’s worth and wait in the queue.

  Dressed in her own clothes, she gathered her multiple bags from other shops and joined the line, her excitement over the dress gone now Frank had been such a dickhead. She paid and walked out, leaving the shopping centre, hailing a taxi from the rank across the road, and by the time she got to the school, only the club people’s vehicles were in the staff car park, so even the headmistress who’d rung had gone home.

  How wonderfully embarrassing.

  She hefted her bags and entered the grounds, h
eading for the Portakabin to the right. Through the windows, people milled around, some adult height, others child-sized, and she picked out her sons’ heads immediately. White-blond was so easy to spot. Someone had been ridiculous once and asked her if she dyed it for them, like they’d dyed their dog’s fur purple. Really…

  Isla breezed into the Portakabin as though she’d meant to leave her boys at after-school club, smiling away, nodding at one of the helpers, although she didn’t like her. She was one of those mothers. Isla approached the leader, Miss Smythe, and handed over a tenner.

  “Sorry I’m late,” she whispered.

  “Oh, that’s no problem. Let me just get your change.”

  Isla held up a hand. “No, no, you keep it towards this place.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  “Boys, come on now,” Isla called and darted around a lad some scabby mum had popped out into the world. His nose was streaming, and her stomach rolled over.

  Good grief.

  She ushered her children home along the chilled streets, listening to their chatter about their day. Mr Kent was a meanie-head because he’d told one of them off for whispering when they were supposed to be reading, and Mrs Dagenham got her skirt caught in her knickers when she came back from the toilet, showing off most of her leg. Her sons howled at this, and she caught herself smiling.

  By the time they entered the house, Isla was exhausted from their constant talking and just wanted a cup of coffee—and peace.

  “Now then, off upstairs to get out of those uniforms, please.” She shooed them away, wanting them as far from herself and Frank as possible when she woke him up and shouted in his ridiculous, broken-nose face. She walked into the living room, but he wasn’t on the sofa. Frowning, she turned and marched up the hallway to the closed kitchen door.

  She flung it open.

  And screamed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Beth had wandered the length and breadth of The Brothers’ house, admiring all their nice furniture and knick-knacks. She didn’t poke about in their private stuff—who knew whether they had hidden cameras, but it wouldn’t surprise her at all. The bedroom she’d chosen was minimalist, a double bed in the centre, the sheets and quilt cover various shades of grey. The curtains, black and long, would keep the sunlight out if she slept in tomorrow. She planned to, but whether her brain would allow that was a different matter. She kept thinking of Lime and how much shit she’d be in if he twigged what she was doing.