Rejects (The Cardigan Estate Book 5)

by Emmy Ellis

  How rude of her to want to get away from crime.

  George reversed, the tyres rolling into divots and over tiny rises, jostling Orchid so she had to grip the edge of the seat. He swung the car round, the motion churning her stomach, and moved off. He turned right, and she imagined going past The Roxy, then gliding by the girls on the corner, each one of them oblivious to the torment Orchid was going through, then they were off to ride the streets of London for a while in case they were tailed.

  Streetlights flickered past, sending their eerie amber fingers through the tinted windows, the sky switching to night instead of the blue of just before seven when she’d turned up for work. She shivered in the in-between darkness until another muted-orange finger came along, which let her know they were still on a residential street and not out in the middle of nowhere.

  “No one following so far,” George said, his eyes and the top of his nose just about visible in the rearview. He squinted, searching the reflection behind his face, eager for the scene to remain without a tailing car in it.

  “No, I’ve got my eye on the wing mirror,” Greg answered. “Better keep going for a bit, just in case.”

  It seemed they were out for ages, the only vista for Orchid, via a section of the windscreen, a blackening sky with even darker clouds, the occasional sighting of a tall building, trees, a set of traffic lights, thankfully on green. Eventually, she recognised a house in her street—difficult not to when it resembled the Addam’s family’s with its morbid-looking façade, the pointy black eaves above an arched, mullioned window that always had a blind drawn, night or day. She’d often wondered what went on behind it. Maybe it was a dark room for the photographer resident—she’d seen him out and about, snapping shots of this or that, at first the falling leaves of autumn or the crisp frost on winter’s grass, then on to spring with its bursts of flower growth, and now to summer, where the other day he’d taken one of a bench, sunlight gleaming off a gold plaque on it: IN MEMORY OF SHARON RICHARDS, BELOVED DAUGHTER.

  “Right, we’re here,” George said and cut the engine.

  “Can I sit up now?” Orchid asked—she thought she’d better check in case he snapped her head off.

  “Yep. Martin’s been keeping an eye out to see if anyone’s lurking, and if they had, he’d have messaged.”

  Orchid pushed herself upright—they must have phoned him when she’d used the en suite loo in Debbie’s room—and she thanked her lucky stars The Brothers had taken over this mess. If they weren’t around, she wouldn’t have the first clue how to handle this except to run again, choosing another large city to hide in.

  As before, a twin in front and behind her, they entered the foyer and got in the lift. The lit floors moved to level three, bright-red triangles, and Orchid thought of danger, of those arrows warning them that above, someone waited, a balaclava shrouding their features and a rifle pointed their way as soon as the doors opened.

  She swallowed, shaking, wishing she was anywhere but there.

  The lift stopped, and Orchid’s stomach lurched along with it. The doors parted slowly, and she held her breath, waiting for the end of a rifle to poke through the gap and, “Oi, step out nice and slow or I’ll shoot!”

  Neither came.

  George inched his head out, looking ahead. “Clear.”

  They all moved into the corridor with its brown solid-wood front doors, two on each side, peepholes and brass numbers above them the only adornments. There were four flats on this level, and she lived in number eleven, but George stood in front of twelve, Martin Galbraith’s place. He knocked, and the door opened quickly, as if Martin had been waiting behind it.

  He stepped back to let them inside, no words spoken, the air itchy with a leaden precursor to what would happen next, that breath-held feeling where you wondered if you’d sink and drown or swim and burst through the surface, sucking in glorious oxygen.

  They ended up in a living room, the dark curtains drawn bar a central slither about an inch wide where Martin must have been staring down into the street, watching, waiting, phone in hand ready to take pictures of whoever he spotted, zooming in using finger and thumb on the screen to get a closer shot.

  “No cars whatsoever,” he said. “No people either, which isn’t unusual around here at this time of night. Even the photographer didn’t come out. He does sometimes.”

  “Photographer?” Greg said, his shoulders rising into a tight line.

  Martin nodded. “Yeah, some bloke who lives in the weird house. I had a chat with him once. Nice fella. He sells his pictures online.”

  “No one we need to worry about then?” George asked.

  “I don’t think so. He said he needs some sort of release thing signed if he takes photos of people, and I’ve never been asked.” Martin smiled. “Have you, Orchid?”

  She shook her head.

  Martin ran a hand through his hair. “Want a coffee?”

  George scratched his chin. “Yeah, we could all do with a cuppa. We’ve been at the parlour for hours.”

  Orchid had the feeling that was a dig but wouldn’t query it.

  Martin walked out, calling, “I’ve only got instant. I still haven’t got around to buying one of those fancy machines.”

  George chuckled—it sounded dark and without humour. “Best you get a shift on then, hadn’t you. It’s not like you haven’t got the money.”

  “Suppose so,” Martin said, his voice fainter.

  George moved to the window and peered through the slit, a shaft of light from a nearby streetlamp giving him an orange stripe down his nose, his eye seeming to glint. “It’s dead out there. Park your arse, Orchid. We’ve got a few more things to go over with Martin. I had an idea on the way here, and I think it’s the best way to go. Better than the plan we made at the parlour. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

  Greg joined him, and they whispered, heads bent, Greg nodding every so often.

  While Orchid was grateful to them, she bristled at someone yet again directing her life, excluding her from the ins and outs when they had everything to do with her. She’d moved to London to stop that sort of thing, to steer her own destiny, but the past had other ideas—the people in it anyway—as did the present, and she had to weather another storm before she came out on the other side, eventually free.

  Would it ever end? What were The Brothers going to do?

  Martin entered—he must have recently boiled the kettle for the drinks to be ready so soon; maybe Greg had messaged him on the way here: Get a brew on, mate—and placed a tray of cups on the little table. The twins came away from the window and sat on the other end of the sofa, George on a seat, Greg on the arm. Martin took a chair and gestured to the cups, a help-yourself lazy wave. They all picked one up, and for a moment it felt as if they were strangers, brought together by her fate, no one knowing what to say.

  “Right, Martin,” George began, scuppering that thought. “We’ve got a job for you—don’t worry, no funny business.” He looked at Orchid. “To be fair, instead of carrying on as usual like we said before, you’d be better off staying here, out of the way, seeing as The Angel’s compromised—so no going back to work. Martin can keep you company.”

  Martin nodded. “Fine by me.”

  “But you will be going out at some point,” George continued. “What we’re going to do is this…”

  He laid out the new plan, and Orchid had to admit, it was a good one, if a little risky. It might not go as they wanted it to, and she’d be vulnerable—she knew all too well how the Birmingham gang operated, and fear played a big part in how you went about things. That fear could be the spoke in their wheel, and she said so, giving her reasons why.

  “I had an idea that might be the case,” George said, “but if we go up to Birmingham, leaving The Cardigan Estate unmonitored except for a few of our men…” He shook his head. “Not happening. So it has to be here. If another leader finds out we left our patch, they could step in and take over, and we haven’t wo
rked our arses off for that to go down. The only way we can help you is on our turf, take it or leave it.”

  How could she leave it? The balaclava trio would find her eventually, add up all the clues and work out she was Orchid, and then what? Back to Birmingham, made to do nasty things to people, all while shadowed by Anthony or Benny, she’d bet. Her eldest brothers were well in with them so they might be sent to babysit, dogging her every move, and she couldn’t stand any of it.

  “Okay, whatever you think.” This had to end, somehow, some bloody way, because running for the rest of her life wasn’t an option. It wasn’t often you got a pair of London’s finest on your side, and she’d be stupid to knock them back.

  “I’ve got an Xbox,” Martin said cheerfully, as though he was delighted at having someone to join him on it. “We can have marathons every day, if you like.”

  She thought of playing games with Will on his and smiled. “Yeah, but I might be rusty.” She looked forward to it in a weird way, and it would take her mind off what was going to happen—if the other parties played ball. She didn’t think they would—why would they when they had masked men down here to do the dirty work for them?—but at least The Brothers were willing to give it a try. She had to do the same.

  “What time would Will most likely answer your text?” Greg asked her.

  Orchid swallowed some coffee. “Depends. I’ll give it a go about four a.m.”

  “Right, and let us know what’s what after, because we’ve got a restaurant owner to see in a bit so can’t hang around here.” George stood, cup in hand, and walked to the window again. “Once you’ve had your coffee, we’ll go to yours and pack a bag. You can stay here, so if they do find out where you live, you won’t be there.”

  She frowned. “That bloke said they didn’t know—when they were leaving, he moaned about that.”

  George turned to her and smiled. “We all say things we don’t mean, love. Things we want other people to believe.”

  Chapter Seven

  George and Greg stood down a narrow alley in front of a side door at Leonardo’s, waiting for the owner to answer their knock. The bloke had replied to George’s message that they’d be there shortly, so if he didn’t come and open up, he’d be in the shit.

  Thankfully, he did.

  Sensible fella.

  “Come in.” Leonardo, black hair, grey at the temples, moved aside, his green tie loosened into a baggy knot, a logo at the bottom of the material tongue, a swirly L inside a gold oval. The top two buttons of his white shirt were undone, as if he’d freed them as soon as his busy shift had ended, and curry sauce must have splashed onto him, a blemish of mustard-yellow on his left shoulder. He was about fifty, slim in the way only gym-goers managed, or maybe he rushed around a lot at work.

  “You’d be advised to ask us for ID really,” George said.

  Leonardo shook his head. “I ran my last place on Lime’s estate—not Lime’s now, but you know what I mean. People talk, and when big twins turn up on your doorstep, it isn’t a stretch to work out who they are.”

  George shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Greg went in first, waiting beside a wheeled metal table, stacks of white plates on top, silver holders with green napkins inside on the shelf beneath, again with the logo. George stepped in and closed the door, and Leonardo led the way, his shoes squeaking, to an office on the right containing two small desks against opposing walls, black leather chairs tucked beneath.

  He closed the door, maybe because another staff member might come this way. Would anyone else still be here, considering the place was shut and it was so late?

  “I had a chat with the previous owner so know how it works on this estate,” Leonardo said. “I have to say I’m happy to pay protection, although I understand no one will stand outside and watch the place, just that if anything happens, you’ll fix it.”

  “That’s right.” Greg leant on the wall, arms crossed. The stance parted the bottom fronts of his suit jacket, revealing his gun in a holster, one Leonardo wouldn’t see owing to his position. “We do a bit of scouting if you don’t know who caused you trouble, then we sort them when we find them.”

  “I’ll pay a month in advance, then the same each month after. Can’t be doing with weekly visits from your men.” Leonardo crouched in front of a safe in the corner and spun the dial this way and that. Door open, he laid a hand on a pile of notes. “Same price as the previous man paid?”

  George nodded.

  Leonardo removed two batches of money, held together with beige elastic bands, closed the safe, and stood. He handed over the wedges, and George took them, sliding them in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He’d count them later, and if any notes were missing, this bloke would know all about it.

  “I don’t suppose you issue receipts.” Leonardo smiled. His front teeth overlapped, two drunken white gravestones. “I was joking.” He sighed. “Now I’m protected, I need your help.”

  George frowned. “So soon?”

  “Yes, so soon.”

  “When did whatever happened occur?” Greg asked.

  “Earlier, about eight o’clock—this evening.” Leonardo sat on a desk. “So now you’ll say I wasn’t protected at that time, but that isn’t my fault. You cancelled our meeting. I would have been protected had you turned up.”

  George shrugged off the man’s forthright manner. “So what’s up?”

  “Shall we go into the restaurant and have a drink?” Leonardo swiped at his brow using the back of his hand. “I bloody need one. I’ve been thinking about this all night and getting myself worked up.”

  “If you’re playing silly buggers…” George’s suspicion gene flared, bright and hot. Anyone could be in the bar, waiting to ambush them. “Greg’s got a gun on him.”

  “I should sodding well hope he does,” Leonardo said. “Not much of a protector without one.” He opened the door. “Go first, see for yourself. The place is empty apart from us.” He held a hand out and gave directions.

  Greg left the room while George stayed with the owner. He remained silent on purpose, to up the menace and let this fella know they weren’t into fucking about—or being fucked about. Leonardo sat and got on with something or other on a laptop, clearly unperturbed by George’s presence. Funny how most people shit themselves yet this one wasn’t batting an eyelid. George found himself warming to him because of it.

  Greg came back, nodded, then led them to the bar area set in the corner of the restaurant. Nice square-legged tables, white cloths on top, red velvet chairs. Laminate floor, wooden venetian blinds, glimpses of the street still showing between the not-quite-shut slats. Double doors to the outside stood opposite a curved reception-cum-greeting desk. All very nice. All worth protecting.

  Leonardo went behind the bar and lifted a hand to indicate the spirits in optics. “What do you fancy?”

  Greg chose a vodka and tonic, George an elderflower gin. One drink wouldn’t hurt, he’d be safe to drive. Leonardo had a whisky crammed with translucent balls of ice he took out of a fancy machine.

  George and Greg sat on stools, and Leonardo remained where he was, one elbow on the bar.

  “So what’s got your goat?” Greg asked.

  Leonardo bared his teeth and hissed, shaking his head. “See, it might be nothing for me to worry about, but it is something for someone to worry about, and as it’s on your patch, I thought you should know.”

  “Get on with it,” George said.

  “All right, keep your hair on. I was at the reception desk, as I said about eight, and a car pulled up over the road. Inside, three men—two in the front, one in the back. I wouldn’t have taken any notice, except they all had balaclavas on.”

  George jolted, his gin sploshing over the rim of the glass and onto his hand. “You what?”

  Leonardo nodded. “I know. So I came out from behind the desk to lock the doors as a safety precaution—I had customers in here, didn’t want them in any danger. And I watched. They took their balacl
avas off and got out.”

  “Where did they go?” Greg asked.

  “Come over here and see.” Leonardo skirted the bar and walked to one of the windows facing the street. He opened the blind. “In there, the blue door.”

  George peered out. The door was set in a recess beside a sweet shop, the metal shutters down but the sign above lit by two spotlights, black wording on a light-pink wooden background: CAROL’S CANDY. Above, big sash windows, maybe to a flat or the shop’s storage and staff area. One light was on, a small lamp in a multi-paned window, its stem question-mark curved, the shade a red cone, positioned to point down at the sill. Shadows played on the ceiling, round, perhaps heads, five of them, all attached to skewed, elongated shoulders that disappeared into tapering bodies. They must be standing, maybe talking.

  “They’re still up there?” he asked.

  “Their car hasn’t moved, look.” Leonardo gestured to a grey Mazda. “I’ve been watching periodically. Saw you turn up in the BMW parked behind it.”

  George thought about it. Five men against two when they went over there. Not a problem. “Did they have shotguns by any chance?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “What were they wearing, other than the balaclavas?” Greg queried.

  “That was the weird thing. All the same.” Leonardo stepped away from the window and dragged one of the velvet chairs out to sit on it. “Black bomber jackets, light-blue jeans, and heavy boots.”

  It was the same description Orchid had given them. Couldn’t be a coincidence.

  “Right, come on, Greg,” George said. “Let’s earn this protection money.” He turned to Leonardo. “You might be better off staying away from the windows in case bullets go haywire. If they do, we can fix your windows, but we can’t guarantee fixing you. We have a doctor on our books, but there’s only so much he can sort, know what I mean?”