Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  She didn’t bother giving him an answer, worried she’d snap and he’d bite back, and they’d end up having a blazing row, their first proper one. Instead, she studied the houses to take her mind off things, off her inability to kick him out of her life. They were large three-storey Victorians, the type portioned into flats in the area she lived, although it was evident they were whole homes for one family apiece, the lawns immaculate, and those that had no lawns, block paving was the home to many a flash car. Affluent, these residents, maybe buying the places years ago when prices weren’t so high, now reaping the benefits of growth in the economy, rubbing their hands at how much they could get if they sold up.

  She didn’t belong here.

  Julie had been brought up on a council estate, cookie-cutter houses, all with the same coloured doors, front gardens pockmarked with fallen-over bikes and scooters, maybe a pair of roller skates abandoned, one on its side, one upright. Somewhere, a fridge always resided on the pavement, a stained mattress keeping it company, springs poking out of it. People had chatted out on the street, the inevitable passing over of a cup of sugar, some flour, a cigarette or two, but mainly they traded gossip, the currency of the bored. A community, where everyone knew everyone else and said so. Here, they probably knew everyone but from the secrecy of indoors, observations through panes of glass filed away that so-and-so with the green Fiat lived in number ten, the old woman with the poodle in number six, and, well, would you look at that, the blonde at number five has yet another boyfriend.

  Nerves pinched at Julie, placing all manner of scenarios in her mind with each grip of invisible finger and thumb: they’d know, this family, that she was common. They wouldn’t like her accent, which proved what kind of estate she’d been brought up on. What if they had fancy silverware—Julie had a vague idea of which ones to use from eating out in The Brasserie with Gail when they’d got a bonus that time, but…

  “Here we are,” Aaron said.

  Her stomach rolled over.

  He stopped in front of a home with windows so clean her reflection was crystal sharp. Curtains hung open inside, flawless pleats, a black vase on the windowsill filled with fresh flowers, artfully placed inside by someone with an eye for floral design. Not a speck of dirt on the shiny red-brick path or step, and the grass to the left of it had been mowed to within an inch of its life.

  A home where people had their shit together. Organised. Posh.

  No, Julie definitely didn’t belong here.

  Aaron towed her up the path and opened the door. Dread filled Julie—oh God, they had a cream carpet in a living room to the left. It would be a ‘no shoes’ kind of place, and she hadn’t put socks on. Her feet would be on display, and she hated the idea of people looking at them. There was something vulnerable about showing off your toes.

  “I can’t,” she whispered, struck immobile.

  “You bloody will,” he gritted out. “Get them clod-hoppers off.”

  He pushed her inside onto the prickly mat and, wanting to cry, Julie removed her shoes. She placed them neatly at the skirting board beside an elegant telephone table, scrunching her toes as if that would hide them. Her face grew hot, and she blinked to get rid of stupid tears, one of them breaking out and falling, giving her emotions away. She vaguely registered the scent of roasted lamb, the greasy smell of potatoes in cooking oil, and broccoli or cabbage, she couldn’t discern which.

  “We’re here,” Aaron called.

  At the end of the wide hall, more like a foyer, three people appeared in the doorway. A large blonde-haired woman on the left, around the same age as Aaron—his sister? And did he have a thing about weight because of her? A slim lady on the right, older, but definitely related, an obvious bee in her bonnet. And a tall man behind them in the middle, wiry grey hair in cloudy clumps. ‘The family’. The utterly perfect family Julie didn’t want any part of. They weren’t her kind.

  So how come she was Aaron’s type?

  Then it registered. His accent had changed when he’d called out to them. Clearer, no rough London brogue, more refined.

  What?

  “This is Julie,” he said.

  He gave her a none-too-gentle prod in the back, his fingertip bringing on a spark of pain. She hadn’t expected it and lurched forward, desperate not to fall flat on her face and embarrass herself, and if she embarrassed him, God knew what he’d say to her—and wasn’t that so wrong, to say that to herself? Didn’t it prove this was wrong, to be here when she didn’t want to be, him discarding her feelings and insisting on it anyway?

  She managed to remain upright, so aware of her toes on show, her chipped red varnish on the nails which she’d so far hidden from Aaron by making out her feet were cold all weekend, hence the need for fluffy pink socks.

  “Hello, Julie,” the family chorused, some weird, cult-like vibe about them.

  She was an outsider, and they made that abundantly clear.

  Julie smiled, awkward, wishing she was in the comfort of her dowdy flat—and it was dowdy compared to this place. Funny how she’d thought it was fancy before now, a step up from the home she’d had with Mum, her furniture modern, albeit cheap, her floors laminate. This floor in the hallway had proper boards, a high shine from varnish, the shadows from the three people ahead elongated on its bright surface, light from a window coming in behind them. Oddly, she thought of the scarred table in The Flag and how that must have looked nice once upon a time, anything to not think about the trio in front of her.

  “Come on through,” the older woman said, her tone clipped, and she walked off to the left.

  The man followed, leaving the younger woman stuck to the doorframe, which she held in a firm grip, staring, staring, staring, her eyes small inside recessed sockets.

  “I’m Marla,” she said.

  Another prod to Julie’s back, and a hissed, “Stop being such a prick, will you?” in Aaron’s usual accent.

  Julie swallowed a retort—she so wanted to tell him to go and fuck himself, and she could just about do with walking out. Sod her shoes, she’d leave them there and stomp home without them. It had to be better than…this, here, with these people.

  “Hi.” Julie smiled again, moving closer. Why did it feel as though she wasn’t going fast enough, everything smothered in treacle?

  “You can sit by me.” Marla peeled herself off the frame and grasped Julie’s hand. Her palm was clammy, her nail beds pale.

  Weirdly, Marla linked their fingers, held on tight, and it felt altogether too intimate, too personal, but Julie didn’t dare extricate her hand. She followed behind a waddling Marla, through the fancy steel kitchen to a large mahogany table set up on the other side of an archway. A dining room. The mum and dad were putting the knives and forks either side of delicate china plates, pretty blue flowers around their rims, the spoons across the top, and white napkins, a food warmer, and fat church candles spoke of a Sunday tradition where the delights of the oven had to be consumed properly, in an orderly fashion, not in front of the telly, a plate on your lap and the risk of your stuffing plopping off onto the floor, you wondering about the five-second rule.

  Again, Julie wanted to cry. Overwhelmed, she allowed herself to be pushed down into a grey velvet chair that matched the swagged curtains at the French doors, and Marla flumped beside her, their elbows touching.

  The parents walked out, the mum’s black pleated skirt swishing. Silk.

  Where was Aaron?

  Marla stroked Julie’s arm. “I’ve always wanted a sister, never a brother. You can be it.”

  Aaron’s sibling stared in such a way that the hairs on the back of Julie’s neck stood on end. The woman was searching, probing, and Julie hated the scrutiny, that under-the-microscope feeling. Marla’s fleshy lips spread apart, lifting her Granny-Smith-sized cheeks and revealing tiny teeth, like those of children, the first set prior to them making their way beneath a pillow for the tooth fairy.

  “You feel nice.” Marla continued to stroke.

  Julie
gulped. What the fucking hell had she walked into here?

  Chapter Twelve

  Ada Docklavich paced her London-branch office, her main business address Poland; she lived in her native homeland for six months of the year. Soon, she could return there, become her true self, but for now, she had a client to appease and money to bag.

  For Shaun to mess her about now, when the presentation was due this afternoon, well, he’d be out on his ear if he didn’t show up—he’d lose his job and the place in her bed. She shouldn’t be so uncharitable, especially if he was ill and unable to contact anyone, but the pressure of the coming hours weighed heavy, so she wasn’t feeling particularly bloody charitable.

  Shaun’s laptop was down with IT—they were trying to get into it, find the password or whatever the hell they did in these situations. In future, she’d insist all company laptops had the same password, and under no circumstances should they be changed by the employees.

  Shaun had assured her, Sunday night while they’d been in bed at her penthouse, that he’d finished his proposal and would send it to her Monday when he came to work.

  Except he hadn’t come to work. Hadn’t answered her many texts and calls. His one line of recorded chatter had greeted her on voicemail, asking her to leave a message and he’d get back to her as soon as possible, okay, thanks, bye.

  His sister, Janine, was about as helpful as a bucket of petrol on a fire, apathetic to the point Ada had wanted to shout at the silly cow when she’d phoned her to see if she knew where Shaun was. This was important, not some random phone call to see if her brother was there, hiding from work. She needed to get hold of Shaun within the next two hours or everything would be lost. This account was worth a million in the bank to her, and she would not lose it.

  Janine hadn’t seen Shaun since last month—unhelpful—and as for his mother, she was as blasé as her daughter. The pair of them had no clue where he was and neither did they seem to care. He’d told her he wasn’t close to his family, but bloody hell…

  Ada had phoned the police on Monday evening, stressing that it just wasn’t like Shaun to ignore his phone, the lie tripping off her tongue easily. They’d given her the usual guff about people taking a break and to wait another twenty-four hours, and she’d done that, grudgingly, all the while her anger mounting, her stress levels going through the perfectly slate-tiled roof. Tuesday had arrived, still no word, so she’d got in her car during her lunchbreak and driven to his flat.

  A woman had come to the foyer door, all out of breath from having flown down the stairs to answer, saying Shaun’s internal buzzer had driven her mad, hence why she’d come.

  “I’m Heather,” she’d said. “Are you his girlfriend?”

  Ada wasn’t about to admit to fraternising with her staff, so she’d said, “No, his boss. Have you seen or heard from him since Sunday?”

  “Come to think of it, no. I usually hear him pottering about, especially his loud music of an evening. That’s annoying, considering I have kids who quite like to sleep at night.”

  Ada had ignored the barb—like she could do anything about it anyway, like she cared—and brushed past this Heather and up the stairs.

  Shaun hadn’t opened his door.

  Tuesday night, she’d phoned the police again, and here she was now, pacing like some madwoman, her Wednesday deadline looming so close she could taste the fear of not making it on time. The client she wanted to impress had already grumbled about the months, weeks, days, hours, and fucking milliseconds it had taken for her firm to rig up the proposal—that bloody Shaun dragging his feet—and had said they wanted to see it at three o’clock sharp or not at all.

  She phoned IT. “Any luck?”

  “Just got in,” Mark said.

  “Oh, thank God for that. I’ll be down to collect it in a second.”

  She rushed out of the office and into the lift. How funny that when it came down to it, all she was bothered about was the proposal, not Shaun, the man she supposedly cared about—or so she’d told him in a moment of weakness. As the numbers counted down on the control panel beside the door, she admitted he was just a plaything, someone she’d had sex with in order to chivvy him along with his job, not that it had worked.

  If you were in bed with the boss, you tended to work harder to please her, except it hadn’t happened that way with Shaun. She should have ditched him months ago when he’d asked her to pretend to be a prostitute in bed. Who on earth did he think she was?

  She stepped out of the lift and strutted into the IT office. Went straight to Mark’s desk and swivelled the laptop around. There it was, the file she needed, and inside, that beautiful proposal.

  Who the hell cared where Shaun was now? She certainly didn’t.

  * * * *

  Ada had secured the deal. The client had gone, a smile on his chipmunk face and the money deposited into Ada’s bank, all those wonderful zeros on the end of a one. Now that was over, a smidgen of guilt wormed its way into her mind.

  Shaun wasn’t a bad fella, a bit strange at times, but his proposal had been spot-on, and if he was unable to get to work or answer his phone, something must be wrong. She shouldn’t have been so nonchalant about it, centring her thoughts on the deal over the well-being of an employee. Easy to say now the fire had been put out, so to speak.

  In her office, she poured herself a well-earned whisky in a crystal tumbler and took a moment to decompress. That moment was extremely short-lived, her desk phone buzzing, the red light for reception flashing in time with each ring.

  She snatched the handset from the dock, annoyed. She’d told Sharon she didn’t want to be disturbed. Did she have cloth ears or what?

  British sayings were so funny.

  “Yes?” Ada managed to sound polite.

  “The police are here, Ms Docklavich.”

  Ada’s stomach rolled over. “Send them in.” She opened her desk drawer and hid the glass inside on top of a teal-coloured diary. No need for them to clock her tipple, was there, not that it was any of their business what she did in her own domain.

  A brief knock on the door, then it opened. A somewhat weather-beaten man walked in, his suit jacket crumpled, the iron line down the middle of his black trousers fading, the material baggy at the knees. He must do a lot of sitting. “DI Rod Clarke.” He held up some form of ID beside his cheek, as though he wanted her to compare the image with his actual face, and smiled.

  Ada didn’t inspect it. Besides, he was too far away.

  “Please take a seat,” she said, not bothering to stand. “I can arrange coffee or tea if you’d like.”

  He eyed the opulent surroundings, seeming to judge her rich enough to have something else on offer, something he shouldn’t drink on duty. “Got anything stronger?”

  His wink annoyed her, but, marvellous, she could get her own glass back out. The little idiosyncrasies of life were simply perfect. “Whisky?”

  “Lovely.” He ambled over and sat on the green chair opposite, his body hiding the leather-covered stud buttons. He hoisted a leg in the air and balanced a shoe on his knee, the treads filled with dried mud.

  Thank heavens for tiled floors and not carpet.

  She smiled, poured his drink, and handed it across, hiding a cringe at his rough-skinned fingers touching hers. She dreaded to think where they’d been, what they’d touched. One finger had a tobacco stain, a livid orange. He drew the glass towards him, and she let it go. While he glanced down to inspect the contents and sniff appreciatively, she took her glass out of the drawer and leant back.

  “How can I help you?” she asked.

  He stopped admiring the whisky and looked up. “I’d have thought that was obvious.”

  She maintained her smile and waited.

  “I’m here about Shaun Farthingale,” he said. “I gather you were the one to report him missing. It was being dealt with by uniforms, but I’ve taken over.” He sipped then let out a prolonged ahh.

  Revolting creature.

  “Yes, I
did call it in. Shaun was working on an important proposal, and as he didn’t turn up for work on Monday, which is when he promised to send it to me, I was a little…concerned.” She wouldn’t add that it wasn’t for his welfare. “It isn’t like him to not phone in sick.”

  “I see. So you’d say him going off isn’t normal.”

  “Oh, he goes off, has done plenty of times, just that I didn’t need it this week.”

  His face lit up as if that pleased him. How odd.

  “Great,” he said. “I mean, okay. Name an instance where he went off.”

  “How long have you got?” She laughed. “I have several stories.” She eyed him over the rim of her glass and took a large swallow. This was taking the shine off the new pounds in her bank, for God’s sake. “Let’s see. There was the time he disappeared for the weekend on a whim—he wanted to canoe in Scotland, some loch or other, even bought a wetsuit. Then there was the visit to Warwick—he wanted to visit the castle, see if a tower there really did have a spooky feel to it; he mentioned something about a ghost dog, too. We won’t forget the rave he went to in Gloucester—at his age… Something about recapturing his youth.” Now she’d had to list a few things, she couldn’t deny the fact that Shaun was flaky.

  “Oh, so he went to those places and didn’t tell anyone?”

  “Yes, all in the past six months.”

  “That’s interesting. Do you think he’s done the same thing here? Only, you mentioned, when you reported him missing”—he took his notebook out and read it—“that it wasn’t like Shaun.”

  “Well, not when he has work to hand in. Saying that, maybe he thought I had his password for his work laptop and it wouldn’t matter. Maybe he did what he said he would and just up and left, creating a new identity.”

  Clarke’s eyebrows shot up. “When did he say that? Recently?”

  She had to think for a moment. “It was around two months ago. He asked me if I ever felt like packing up and starting again as a new person. It was on the back of him trying—once again—to forge some sort of relationship with his mother. She’s not the maternal type and doesn’t seem to want much to do with him, and his efforts to engage with her went wrong. His sister doesn’t seem to care either, unless she’s asking him for money.”