by Emmy Ellis
Rosie had also matched her features with the redhead, and there wasn’t any point in asking Marla why she’d followed her in the precinct. The answer to that was obvious. Marla suspected Julie of killing Aaron—or had she moved here because she had that weird idea they were sisters and hoped they could pick up where they’d left off, going to town on Sundays, finishing up in Costa?
“Julie, I—”
“I’m Rosie now.”
“Right, yes.” Marla had changed back to her normal voice, the creepy cow. “Um, Rosie, I don’t believe a word you’ve said. Aaron wasn’t like that.”
Rosie laughed. “He was good at playing a role. Obviously had you fooled. A bit like you really. Fooling people into thinking you’re a bloody author. And yes, you had me hoodwinked for a while there.”
“He was nice, wouldn’t force anyone to have sex, not like you’re saying.”
Anger burned inside Rosie. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. I lived that life with him. I was the one having men poking at me. Sometimes, Aaron watched. Your precious brother was disgusting—he even got off on it.” Spite coated her tongue. “If you even know what that means.”
“I don’t under—”
“He played with himself while watching men have sex with me, Marla, does that fill in the blanks? Can you even imagine what that’s like?”
“Oh my God…” She raised a hand to her throat, fingers fluttering. Her pale-moon fingernails from the past were hidden by red varnish.
I’ve riled her. Scared her. Made her think. “There was this room they took me to—sometimes the leader ordered me there, sometimes Aaron. It was in a squat. The walls and ceiling… I’ll never forget them because I stared at them a lot. You do that, stare, because if you concentrate hard enough on something else, you don’t register what’s being done to you. They had mould on them, black, and the walls had peeling paper at the top, the corners drooping down. I recall thinking that word, ‘drooping’.” She shuddered at the memory. “One night—”
“Stop it, you’re lying,” Marla shrieked.
“I’m not.” Rosie took a step back into the hallway so the twins could see she was okay when they came in. They’d probably use their lock pick. “One night, Aaron had arranged what he called a party. I should have known it wasn’t a normal one, you know, where you have a few drinks and a dance, you have fun. It was in the squat, in that room, and outside on the landing, there was a line of men. Seven, I counted.”
“Don’t you even think of telling me he made you do it with all of them.”
“I’ll think of telling you what I fucking well like, thanks.”
“You’ve changed.”
Rosie laughed. What did this woman expect? For her to come out of it smiling and happy? I was getting that way until that dickhead Shaun came home drunk and I had to kill him. “I made a grand that night.” If she concentrated hard enough, she could still feel the cash in her hand, smell the notes. “A grand for eight hours of unwanted attention. Eight hours is a bloody long time when you’re experiencing that. Feels like days.”
“I don’t want to hear any more.”
“I’m sure you don’t, but you’re going to.” Rosie glared at her: shut up and listen. “With their cuts being taken, I walked away with four hundred quid.” Rosie huffed out a laugh. “Walked, that’s a joke. I mean I hobbled. They didn’t just have sex with me, they beat me, slapped me, bit me. Marla, your precious brother was an evil little bastard, and I’m glad he’s dead.”
Marla’s bottom lip quivered. “You…you killed him, didn’t you.”
“Wouldn’t you in that situation?”
Marla blinked for ages, then, “Oh my God, you’re not lying, are you.”
“Why would I?” Rosie couldn’t tell whether Marla was pretending she believed her now, a tactic in order to calm her so Marla could get out and phone the police, or if she knew it was the truth.
She didn’t trust her any more than she’d trusted Aaron come the end.
Gone was the somewhat slow Marla of old, and in her place sat your average woman, what appeared to be a chameleon, well able to hide sides of her Rosie hadn’t a clue existed until now. As the redhead, she’d exuded confidence and class. As the author, she’d been similar, if a bit too bubbly at first. And now? Who was she? Which version had she chosen to show? While she sounded like the slow Marla, she didn’t look nor act like her.
Who even was she? Who was the real version?
Marla frowned and raised a hand to fiddle with the strands of hair by her temple, wisps that spoke of pixies. “I don’t know what to think. This…I’m confused now. Nothing is like I planned.” She paused to stuff her notebook into her bag. “Actually, I’m going to leave. It was a mistake coming here.” She rose, taking one step forward.
“What, find out too many truths, did you? And no, you’re not going anywhere, so sit the fuck down and answer my questions now.”
Marla let out a startled “Oh!” and lowered to her seat.
“That’s better,” Rosie said.
“You’re breaking the law, keeping me here against my will.”
“I am, but does it look like I give a shit? Because I don’t, you know. I spent all those months with Aaron a changed person. You even told me I’d changed near the end, and don’t go denying it because it doesn’t suit your narrative.”
Marla nodded absently, staring at the cooker opposite. “The clothes, the moods…”
“Exactly.”
“But that could have been your plan all along. You’re a psycho who kills men—I know you killed Shaun Farthingale.”
Rosie let out unbridled laughter, undoubtedly appearing as the psycho Marla had said she was. “Do you? Do you really? Or are you assuming?”
“Well, I—”
“Assuming then. Putting two and two together. Well, guess what, you added it up right, and I don’t give a shit about that either. Yes, I killed Shaun, because he wanted to take what wasn’t his, he had it in mind to force me into doing what he wanted, and I wasn’t going to stand for that, not again. At least at the parlour it’s on my own terms and the men are vetted.”
“What…what did he want you to do?”
“Sex, Marla. A blow job for twenty measly quid. And I’m sick of the ones who use me because they think I’m beneath them. I’m tired of opening my legs and—”
“Stop doing it then! Go back to the vet’s.” Marla’s face flushed as if she was embarrassed about her outburst.
“I think I will. After this.”
“After what?” Marla squeaked.
“After I’ve shut you up. Because, let’s face it, you’re not going to go home and forget about this, are you. There’s a reason you’ve been following me, living opposite, for God’s sake. You wanted to prove it was me who killed Aaron, didn’t you. Just one thing… What did you hope to achieve with that photo stunt? What are you, some kind of weirdo?”
“I wanted you to know that I knew.”
“You did that all right, and look where it’s got you.”
Marla paled. “What do you mean?”
“You’re in the flat of a murderer, you stupid cow. How did you think this was going to go once I realised who you were?”
Marla frowned, as if her mind scrabbled to find a question she wanted to ask but the bloody thing remained elusive. “I… How…how did you recognise me? I don’t look the same at all.”
Rosie shivered. “It was your spooky little teeth, Marla. They gave you away.”
Where the hell were The Brothers? What was taking them so long? Or had only a short time passed, seemingly stretched to give the illusion they’d been talking for an hour instead of minutes? She didn’t dare glance at the clock. Didn’t dare take her attention off the freaky bint in front of her.
She had to go, didn’t she? There was no way The Brothers would kill her, and it was debatable whether they’d help Rosie this time with the disposal and cleaners, but if they wouldn’t, she’d get hold of Clarke, have him deal w
ith the aftermath—she’d shag him if she had to. If he said no, she’d find out where he lived from Debbie and visit his wife, let her in on what he did while she thought he was walking the thin blue line.
Rosie stepped back into the kitchen and placed her phone on the sideboard. If The Brothers were on their way and had her on speakerphone, they were going to hear a lot more than they’d bargained for.
Murder.
She closed the door behind her.
“What…what are you doing?” Marla asked, back to her original self, the one who’d acted thick every Sunday.
Rosie was amazed the woman hadn’t got up to fight her way out of the flat. Didn’t she have a phone in that bag of hers along with those bizarre little notebooks? Didn’t she want to call the police and be saved?
“I’m going to do something for the third and final time,” Rosie said, “and then I’ll put it all behind me once and for all. Leave. Start again elsewhere. Do what you said and go back to doing the job I loved most, not spreading my fucking legs.” God, she was livid it had come to this, her on the verge of killing again. All Aaron’s fault.
Marla sat glued to the chair. She clutched her bag handle, the veins on the back of her hand standing out. “The third time? Oh God…”
“He won’t help you, sister.”
Rosie grabbed the full kettle and swung it at Marla’s head. It clipped her temple, just like the table had with him. Her red glasses went flying, landing out of sight. She let out a strangled scream and lurched to one side, falling off the chair onto the floor. Rosie acted quickly, diving on her, straddling the struggling woman. She wasn’t quick enough to pin her arms with her knees, and Marla’s hands came up, nails digging into Rosie’s face and dragging down. She ignored the pain and gripped Marla’s throat, all too soon realising it wasn’t going to be as easy as him, the neighbour. Marla had strength in her and bucked, the movement knocking Rosie sideways and off, her hands falling away from the throat she’d so wanted to squeeze until Marla didn’t breathe anymore.
Marla was on top now, firmly in control, and she slapped at Rosie’s face. Rosie reached up and gripped her neck again, pressing hard with her thumbs.
“You’re hurting me,” Marla managed, the words tortured, robot-like.
“That’s the fucking idea,” Rosie ground out.
They tussled, scooting round, ending up side-on to the door, and in her peripheral vision, it seemed so far away. She willed it to open, for The Brothers to come in, but it remained obstinately closed.
Marla raised her hands and clamped on to Rosie’s wrists in an attempt to wrench the hands away from her throat. Rosie squeezed harder, using everything in her to weaken her opponent: the anger, the fear in the past, the shit she’d had to go through, and this bitch on top of her, thinking she could play games and dob her in to the police. That had to be what she’d intended, doing a bit of detective work first.
It gave Rosie the strength to apply more pressure.
Marla’s body lost some of its rigidity, and it was only a matter of time. Rosie needed to be on top, but she didn’t want her arms to bend—they were ramrod-straight, locked in place. Marla gargled spit, which fell out of her mouth and onto Rosie’s face, a warm wet slap that had her wanting to heave. Then, out of nowhere, Marla rallied. She clutched Rosie’s throat, her arms on the outside of Rosie’s, and for a moment, Rosie lost her grip, her hands getting tired.
It was all Marla needed. Gasping, air creeping into her lungs through her mouth, she tightened her hold. Now Rosie couldn’t breathe, her chest stiffening from lack of oxygen, and panic took over. She tried to break Marla’s Adam’s apple, but her efforts seemed ineffectual, hampered by the sudden force Marla applied. Then…
The sound of the kitchen door creaking open.
Rosie’s vision clouding at the edges.
A soft pfft.
The side of Marla’s head exploding.
Blood and brain matter shooting onto the cupboard door.
The loosening of Marla’s hands.
Rosie, sucking air in.
Marla flumping to the side and thudding on the floor, one leg over Rosie.
“Ah, fuck, I killed a woman.” George.
And blessed relief that it was over, the last thread to Aaron snipped.
Gone.
Chapter Thirty-One
At one o’clock in the morning, after sitting listening to The Brothers telling her off time and again for George shooting Marla, hours of it, Rosie stood in The Brothers’ warehouse, shivering not just from the cold but the aftereffects of what she’d done. In her kitchen, she’d been swamped with so much rage that all reason had fled. Then when Marla had choked her, Rosie thought she was going to die, too soon, before she’d got her world in order and moved on to a better life caring for animals. Where she was supposed to be all along until Aaron had swanned into her orbit and ruined everything.
Ruined her.
George pointed to a circular saw. “You’re going to chop her up, I want nothing to do with this.”
Rosie swallowed. She didn’t think she had it in her to do such a thing. Would Marla bleed everywhere? Would her blood splash onto Rosie like Aaron’s had? She took the saw from George, eyes lowered, unable to look him in the eye. Along with berating her for bringing them into yet another mess, he’d told her the story of why they didn’t hurt women, and it had broken her heart.
It was a story she’d never repeat, one of rivalry, their father competing for their mother’s attention, wanting it all for himself, like Marla had. Rosie would keep it to herself, but she now understood why George was so angry. He’d had to shoot Marla, he admitted that—it was the gun or trying to wrench Marla off her before Rosie was dead. His instinct, he’d said, had been to draw the gun and pull the trigger and deal with his emotions later, and God, he’d dealt with them by reaming Rosie a new arsehole.
But she understood why he wouldn’t chop her up, why she had to also dump her in the river. What she didn’t understand was why three other dead women were laid out on the floor beside a man. Marla included, they all formed a neat row, half or metre or so between them, enough space for a person to stand in the gaps as they sawed their bodies into pieces.
“You’re also going to cut them up an’ all,” George said. “They’re collateral damage to do with your cock-up, so it’s only fair you clean up the extra shite you created.”
“What?” The saw pulled her arm down it was that heavy. Would she have the energy to use it? All the strength had gone out of her as soon as Marla’s head had burst open.
George moved to the top end of the line. “This one here is Shaun’s sister, Janice. Now, I won’t tell you who killed this little lot, because that’s by the by, but she’s dead because she was asking for more than the killer could allow.”
“I don’t get what you mean.”
“She wanted a TV appeal to go out about Shaun.”
Oh. Shit. “Okay…”
George moved to the next woman. “This is Shaun’s mum, and she’s dead because Janice is dead. Noreen, this bird’s called. She would have kicked up a fuss about her daughter going missing, and we couldn’t have that.” He stepped along. “This lady is Noreen’s neighbour, Hattie, and she had a coffee date with Noreen. She let herself into the house and found dead bodies, so you can understand why she was eliminated. And this poor fucker, he has nothing to do with anything. He copped it because he saw the killer, noticed Noreen’s blood on him, and that was that.”
Rosie felt awful. “Shit, I am so sorry.”
Like Debbie had said, guilt was a hard taskmaster.
“You should be bloody sorry. What I want you to do once this is done and dusted, is fuck off. Leave The Cardigan Estate. I said to you before, there’s only so much crap we’ll clean up for one person.” He gestured to the dead. “This is a few steps too far. Plus, I’ll never forgive you for me killing Marla, will never forgive myself, so while we protect those on our patch, we don’t tolerate this level of bollocks, u
nderstand?”
Tears filled her eyes. While she’d planned to do what he’d said anyway, bugger off and never return, to be told to leave was a different matter. But he was right. She’d brought a lot of trouble to their door, and Marla was the last straw.
“I really am sorry,” she whispered.
“I don’t doubt it, but it doesn’t change anything. Your flat will be clean by the time you get back. I suggest you get some sleep later and look for new digs. I’m not that much of a bastard and will give you a month’s deposit and a couple of months’ rent so you can spend time applying for jobs—I don’t want to hear of you being a sex worker anymore. Use the qualifications you’ve got and go back to your old profession. Fucking waste of an education, doing what you’ve been doing.”
Greg stepped away from the table—she’d forgotten he was there.
“He’s right,” he said. “Now get to work.”
She got on with the gruesome job, heaving, crying, disgusted by how much a human torso contained, innards spilling out onto the floor, cosying up to those of the corpse beside them. By the time she’d finished, it resembled an expanse of offal and slices of legs, arms, torsos, and five heads.
George handed her a roll of heavy-duty black bags.
He wanted her to touch the parts? Put them in the bags?
“I have got a heart,” he said. “Open the bags and hold them out while Greg fills them.”
It took a while, each scoop in the bag dragging her arms down by their weight. They found a rhythm, and she tied the tops then started with a new one. All in all, countless bags, filled a quarter of the way, were dark huddles grouped together.
She helped Greg carry them out the back, and they placed them beside the river wall. In and out they went, trip after trip, and he explained what would happen next.
“You hold a bag over the water. Reach out and break the bottom. The shit will fall out. Roll the bag up, still over the water, and put it inside this empty clean bag here.” He pointed to it. “You’ll be knackered by the end of it, but it’s a lesson well-learnt. Don’t kill anyone else. You won’t have us on hand to save you next time.”
