Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  Then she walked back into the dark living room. Grabbed a glass vase. Smashed it on the floor by the mantelpiece.

  And waited for him to come and investigate.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  George stood in the living room doorway at Rosie’s, leaning on the jamb. What the hell had she been thinking? He stared ahead. She’d only gone and put new curtains up, hadn’t she, exposing herself by doing so, giving the author a closer eyeful for however long it had taken her to hang them. He’d keep his mouth shut about it for now, seeing as there were more pressing things to deal with, but bloody hell.

  Greg sat beside her on the sofa, an arm across her shoulders—she was a bit shaky. “Right, we had a chat on the way over. If they broke into yours—and we noticed there was no sign of forced entry—then they could have broken into Shaun’s an’ all. Had a poke about. Got that photo.” He pointed at the frame on the coffee table. “Where else would it have come from, unless it was his family, and what would they have to do with the Aaron business? Nothing.”

  Rosie nodded. She glared at the picture, as if it had got there by itself with a mind of its own, one tuned in to a ‘shit Rosie up’ airwave, fuck-my-life FM: “And on today’s playlist, folks, we have Strangers in the Night, although it’s nothing to do with love…”

  “So,” Greg continued, “me and George will go upstairs and have a nosy. Clarke’s aware we’ll be using our lock pick, and if we find anything, we’ll let him know on the quiet, but there’s not much he can do about it if we’re keeping a lid on things. We don’t need him bringing in crime scene people to check for prints because we’re trying to kill the issue.”

  He sounded like he had when he’d spoken to their mother after Dad had beat the shit out of her. Calming. A tad slow. It’s going to be all right, Mum.

  “Okay.” Rosie’s eyes flicked across slightly to the note. “It’s the same handwriting. And like before, it seems as if they used a red Sharpie.”

  “That’s the bit that’s getting on my tits,” George said, irritation prickling through him—thinking about his father tended to do that. “Whoever it is knows about back then and about now. When did that Heather move in, the one you moaned to Debbie about? The noisy one? Deb mentioned to us we might need to have a word, so I assume this Heather’s stopped causing a racket.”

  “Um, she came just after Shirley was…killed. She’s still noisy, but only every so often. I just put up with it. Earplugs.” She winced.

  What was that all about? “Right, and you don’t recognise her? From then?”

  Rosie shook her head. “No. I can’t think who it is doing this. I haven’t seen anyone I know from back then, not even punters who come in The Angel. This is a different patch, I used to be on Lime’s, don’t forget, but I still expect men I know to come in. Just been lucky so far that they haven’t.”

  “What about the woman today, the one you think followed you? Seen her before now?” Maybe Rosie’s just paranoid, seeing things as she wants to see them.

  “No.”

  “What’s she look like?”

  “Slim, red hair, short—the hair’s short, not her. Big glasses with black frames.”

  “Seen her following you before now?”

  “No.”

  “Do you walk round with your head up your arse or what?” George asked. “What about safety awareness, especially because you’re a sex worker? Plus, Shirley got offed, Lavender was found after disappearing for three sodding years, Beth was bloody kidnapped, and Sarah’s been through the mill. You need to be more careful. You ought to be looking around you all the time, seeing if anything’s iffy. A bad punter could get hold of you.”

  “I realise that now.” Clearly irritated, she closed her eyes for a moment then glared at him. “I thought I was safe, that I’d got away with Aaron. I was just starting to get back to how I used to be. Happy. Relaxed. Not fretting someone would force me to do something. You have no idea what that’s like, someone making you do stuff.”

  Oh, I do, love. We do. George looked at Greg who took a deep breath. He’d probably thought the same they were that in tune.

  “Well, you’re bound to be jittery after killing someone—take it from us, you get used to it the more it happens—but it’s a concern that someone knows about you.” More than a concern, to be fair. “How do they know you killed Shaun? It’s only you, me, Greg, Clarke, and Debbie who’re in on it, and we’re not going to be saying anything.”

  Rosie sighed. “His boss came earlier.”

  “Whose, Shaun’s?” Give me strength… Wasn’t she going to tell us?

  “Yes.”

  “What did she want?”

  “To see if I’d seen him lately or something, can’t really remember. I was spooked by that bloody woman in the precinct, my mind off elsewhere.”

  George made eye contact with Greg again: We’ve got a fucking nosy cow on our hands. Thought Clarke sorted that? Greg frowned.

  George massaged his temples, needing the circular movements to stop him losing his rag. “So it sounds like she’s not going to mind her own fucking business after all.”

  “I’ll message Clarke.” Greg took his phone out of his pocket.

  “Do it on the way upstairs.” He glanced at Rosie and sniffed. “Smells like something’s burning. Your dinner by any chance?”

  “Oh fuck!”

  George stomped out of the flat and up the steps to Shaun’s floor, Greg tailing him. The lock didn’t look tampered with, but anyone could buy a pick these days and learn how to use it. George slid his into the Yale, wiggled, turned, and opened the door. Greg’s face, lit by his phone, appeared to float in the darkness of the landing.

  Inside, George checked all the rooms, using his torch app, ending in the lounge. He flashed it about, and the beam picked up something on an armchair.

  “Fucking hell,” he whispered and moved closer to it. His eyes hadn’t deceived him—it was a picture of Rosie in what looked like Costa, a bag beside her on the table, a cup of coffee in front of her, the back of someone’s head behind her. “She was right.”

  “What’s that?” Greg asked quietly. He came over to stand beside George and stared down. “Oh fuck. She was followed. I thought she’d gone paranoid on us.”

  “So did I. Right then, we’re looking for a short-haired skinny redhead with big fuck-off black glasses. She could be anywhere.”

  “Hmm. She needs finding, though.”

  “We’ll get on to our CCTV bloke at the precinct. He can find her so we know what she looks like, and which direction she went in after she left. It might give us an idea where she lives. Could get lucky if she got on a bus—there’s a couple of cameras at the station.”

  “We need to have a word with her,” Greg said.

  “We do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Janice hadn’t slept well, tossing and turning, getting herself all sweaty. Something Shaun’s boss said to her had played on her mind, rattling around inside her head and bringing on patches of insomnia. That thing about the loan. It was true, with Shaun out of the picture, she couldn’t tap him for more money. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Maybe because he’d pissed off in the past for weekends away, switching his phone off, but it was more than a weekend now…

  She was supposed to pay him back previous loans before he gave her another, but that rule had gone out of the window the moment she’d reminded him he had more cash than her and wouldn’t miss a couple of thousand in the grand scheme of things. He earnt more than she could ever dream of, and, as they say, sharing is caring.

  He’d tried to fight it, make her ‘see reason’, giving her options on how to get her own money. Like getting a job. She’d supplied explanations as to why she couldn’t. He’d counteracted them. She’d volleyed back, an imaginary game of tennis, money the prize instead of a shitty metal trophy.

  Guilt had won the day, as well as her tears and the wringing of hands, and of course, he’d gone to the bank and withdrawn it, bringing i
t round afterwards, saying he wanted a couple of hundred a month to pay it back. That was a fucking joke and not something she’d agreed to, although he’d taken it that she had—a nod could mean anything, couldn’t it? Wasn’t her fault he’d perceived it differently. Her benefits didn’t stretch to that amount, and besides, she had other things to buy with that.

  She got out of bed and moved to the window—blimey, her bones ached, she must have been resting funny. Shaun would say it was all the sitting she did, those bones seizing up or whatever, and she ought to go to the gym like Mum, do something with herself.

  He said a lot of useless crap. She didn’t want to go to the gym and she liked sitting there watching daytime telly, so he could keep his opinions to himself. If he didn’t, next time she’d shove them up his arse.

  She opened the blackout curtains, blinked at the light offending her retinas, and peered into the weather-battered street. Slim-trunked trees bent to snapping point from the whoosh of the gale, their branches more than shivering, leaves giggling. The wind shouted instead of its usual whisper, that ghostly moo that always gave her the creeps. Someone was having a fight with the air, pushing against it in an attempt to walk up the street, coat fronts flapping at the bottom, corners turned over like quilts on a bed, a pea-green scarf flung out behind her, tassel fingers waving. It was Mrs Carter from two doors down, probably off to get her usual twenty Superkings. Another shove from the wind had her stumbling backwards.

  Good job she didn’t have a hat on really else it would have blown off.

  It didn’t look like Janice would be going out in that today. Well, that copper was coming to her, so she wouldn’t have to. She’d stay inside, snug and warm, and give old Mervin from down the end a ring to nip to the shop for her, collect some bits and bobs. He had a wooden walking stick, so that would help the elderly bastard battle the gale, and he’d be going out anyway for his daily trot, and she’d mention that to nip any protests in the bud.

  She’d phoned Clarke around three a.m.—well, he had said ‘any time at all’ if she had information, which she didn’t, but whatever—and asked him to be here for nine. Not bothering to shower or even wash—too much hassle—she slung yesterday’s clothes on and sucked on some toothpaste to freshen her mouth. Using the toothbrush equalled effort.

  Downstairs, coffee sorted, she curled up on the sofa under a throw and gave Mum a ring, the usual breakfast show on TV, muted.

  “All right, our Janice?” Mum sounded bright today. She must have already done her daily exercise. She said it gave her more energy, a ‘zest for life’, whatever the chuff that meant. She said such old-people things.

  How was that possible that running your arse off on a treadmill gave you more oomph? It didn’t make sense.

  Janice yawned at the thought of all those daily steps everyone banged on about. “Yeah, a bit sleepy, though. You?”

  “Not too bad. What’s this call in aid of then? I’ve got Hattie coming round for a brew in a bit so need to clean the house.”

  Hattie got on Janice’s nerves. She was a busybody who had far too many opinions, ones she foisted on Janice every chance she got: “If you just made more of an effort, you’d get a man to take care of everything,” and “If you just worked for sixteen hours a week you’d feel better.” She’d also taken to coming to bingo with them lately, which was annoying. Janice saw her as a rival. Silly, but you couldn’t help your feelings, could you.

  I wish she’d just fuck off and die. “I’ve asked that copper to come here,” she said to take her mind off Hattie, “because Shaun’s boss turned up and reminded me of something.”

  It sounded like Mum was eating cereal. Probably that rabbity granola stuff with the mega-dried bits of raspberry in it that went soggy and bloated from the milk. “What’s that then?”

  “If he’s gone missing, like if someone’s kidnapped him because he’s loaded, what about our money?”

  Mum must have choked, going by the noise. “Fuck, yeah. I’m behind on my leccy again, they’re after another two hundred quid, the shysters, so you need to ask him for more.”

  It was Janice’s job to do that because Shaun wouldn’t give it to Mum on account of the alcohol she enjoyed too much. Reckoned he was enabling her if he handed over the cash to buy it. He was always spouting crap.

  Janice sighed. “That’s the whole point, how can I if he isn’t here? Did you overspend on vodka again?”

  Mum sniffed. “Might have done.”

  That was their problem, they liked the booze and ciggies, going to bingo three nights a week, and that wasn’t cheap, the amount of cards they liked to play—more chance of winning then, see. They didn’t have much in life, so Shaun paying Janice to do what they wanted was the answer. And why not? He went off having fancy meals in fancy places, drove a bloody BMW, for God’s sake, while they didn’t own a car and had to get the bus—or taxis once he’d dished out a loan.

  Another thing was, she owed her weed dealer a few quid—Shaun didn’t know about that particular habit, and she wasn’t about to let him in on it—and she only had one hundred left of the last lot he’d given her. She had her next benefit payment down for one of those Alexa things so she had some bint to talk to when Mum wasn’t here for a visit, plus a year’s subscription to Amazon Prime. She liked ordering shit from there. Some programme on the telly said shopping therapy was good for the soul.

  Basically, she needed dosh, therefore, she needed her brother found.

  They chatted for a while longer, planning their next move, then Janice spied Clarke parking outside. He got out of his car, the wind slapping at him, jostling him sideways, and he gripped the roof of the car.

  Janice laughed. What a dickhead. “Got to go, he’s here.”

  “Okay, love. So like we said, tell him we want one of them TV appeal things,” Mum said. “Get the word out that Shaun’s gone.”

  “Will do.” Janice docked the house phone and stood. Her bones protested again, but not as much as earlier. Maybe she had something wrong with her. That would be handy. She could get more benefits. A visit to the doctor was in order.

  At the front door, she swung it open and smiled. “Come in.”

  Clarke seemed pissed off. Maybe it was the gale attacking him. “Just tell me the issue here.”

  “It’s too bloody windy, look.” She gestured to her hair flying around, the weather racing into the hallway.

  He glared at her but came inside, hands in pockets. She closed the door and led the way to the kitchen. He didn’t sit like last time, instead remaining by the doorway, as though he couldn’t wait to leave again.

  Rude.

  “What have you got for me then?” he asked. No notebook out. No little pen. Seemed he wasn’t bothered about what she wanted to say at all.

  What a wanker.

  “Me and Mum want an appeal,” she said, straight to the point. “Like them other missing people get. You know, when they all sit behind a table with a copper and stare into the camera, crying and shit.”

  His cheeks flared red, and a tic flickered in his cheek. Was he going to be sick? If he was, he could bloody well clean it up himself.

  “Um, that’s not possible.” He cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe he’s left of his own accord. A witness has said he’s mentioned starting again—I’m sure I told you this before and you were okay with it.”

  “I was, but now I’m not.” All that money in Shaun’s bank spurred her on. “I lied before. It isn’t like him to just bugger off. Not for more than a weekend anyway.”

  Clarke shrugged. “Well, we’ve got our eye out, and his case isn’t closed, so if we hear anything, I’ll get back to you. He’s just come off the back of a long project at work. He might need a few days to decompress.”

  “If he doesn’t come back, how long before we can declare him dead?” She didn’t know where that thought had come from, but if he was dead, Mum would get his money. Unless he’d left one of those horrible wills that said she wouldn’t.
<
br />   “Seven years if we don’t have a body.”

  “You what? How am I meant to manage in the meantime?”

  He frowned. “In what way?”

  “Money!”

  He glared at her, shaking his head. “No one can touch that until we find out what happened to him, I’m afraid.”

  “So then we do an appeal, like I said. Someone will have seen him, surely. They just need their memories jogged, that’s all. And if you don’t do one, I’ll contact the newspaper myself.” That wasn’t a bad idea actually. She’d get paid for the article. And what about writing to Take a Break and other magazines. She could see it now: MOTHER AND SISTER BEREFT AT FAMILY MEMBER MISSING. They could have a photographer round and everything, taking sad photos.

  There, that’d do it, that’d force his hand. He’d do what she wanted now.

  Threats came in handy sometimes.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Clarke’s panic button was well and truly pressed, and alarm bells wailed in his head. This stupid minger had the potential to ruin him. An appeal meant more officers coming in on Shaun’s disappearance, more questions asked, and that he didn’t need, not when he’d zipped it up nicely.

  He punched Janice in the face.

  She staggered back against the sink unit, a hand up to her cheek, one of her feet slipping forward, a threat to send her down to the floor on her arse. “What the fuck was that for? Are you mental or something?”

  She looked like a cowering animal, but her accusing glare said otherwise. It unnerved him. She was a fighter and might give him trouble. He hadn’t thought, just reacted, and now it was too late to go back. The only option was to go forward, so he advanced on her, all the while knowing The Brothers were going to go apeshit on him, tear him off a strip or two. They didn’t hurt women, and he had no idea if they’d dispose of this one for him, but if they said they wouldn’t, he’d remind them of everything he had on them.