Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  Later, after she’d had a shower in a bathroom off the main warehouse and dressed in a tracksuit they’d given her from a shelf in there, they took her home in silence. At the kerb, she opened the door and glanced over to where Marla had lived.

  “What…” She jerked a thumb at the alley.

  “Don’t even think about Marla,” Greg said. “We’ll deal with anything.”

  “But George said—”

  “I know what I said.” George sniffed. “But sometimes, people’s acts are the gifts that keep on giving, and we’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open for a while to come if her parents cause a fuss.”

  “I’m sorry. You have no idea how much. I know I keep saying it but…” She swallowed the lump in her throat.

  “Just go on and live the best life you can,” Greg said. “Someone will drop by in the morning with the money we promised. Stay safe, Rosie.”

  She left the car, stumbling across the road in a daze, tears misting her vision. She made it inside, so tired, but needing to hear a friendly voice. On the sofa, she dialled Debbie, hating herself for doing it but needing to all the same.

  “Oh, thank God you’re okay,” Debbie said. “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming in to work? I tried to get hold of the twins, and they weren’t answering. I tried to ring you, too, but it was engaged. What the hell’s been going on?”

  Rosie told her everything, her throat strained when she’d finished. “And I’m sorry, for telling you in the first place, for phoning you now, I just…”

  “I understand. And it’ll be all right, you’ll see. George is a funny sod, he gets iffy sometimes, but he means well deep down.”

  “I have to leave The Cardigan Estate,” Rosie whispered. “The parlour.”

  “Oh, love…”

  Rosie couldn’t take any more. Sobs threatened to ruin her. “I have to put the phone down. But thank you. For everything.”

  She swiped the screen and turned the mobile off. Got up and went into the kitchen. No blood, no brains, once again no sign anyone had been killed there. So she didn’t take it upon herself to go down the dark road, following the black dog of depression, she reminded herself why it had all happened.

  It wasn’t her fault. She’d been the victim.

  But she wouldn’t be one anymore.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “You were a bit mean to her, George,” Greg said.

  They sat at their kitchen island, cups of coffee in hand.

  “Yeah, well, it’ll teach her to think twice before she wraps her hands around someone’s throat again. I didn’t like telling her what we’d been through, reliving it, but it was essential to get it into her head that the woman issue I’ve got isn’t to be trifled with.”

  “I understand why you drew the gun, but we had time to get Marla off Rosie, you know that, don’t you.”

  “Yep, but what were we going to do with her if not kill her? Chain her up somewhere for the rest of her life to prevent her speaking? No, she had to go, and I hate that fact, but it doesn’t make me feel better.”

  “There are women just as evil as men, you know, they aren’t all as nice as our mum. Some of them deserve it as much as their male counterparts. Look at Myra Hindley and Rose West. D’you think they deserve to walk free just because they haven’t got a dick?”

  George stared at his brother, a bit shocked if he were honest. “I thought we didn’t condone it.”

  “No, you don’t, I just went along with it so you didn’t go off on one. Marla was going to kill Rosie—okay, because Rosie had killed her brother—but she was a thorn in all our sides. She’s gone, forget about how.”

  George supposed Greg was right, and if it meant he wouldn’t beat himself up for shooting the mad cow, he’d take his twin’s justification and run with it.

  If he didn’t, he go even madder than he already was. And as for Rod Clarke, he had a kicking coming his way in—George glanced at the clock—two hours, the minute he left for work.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The Following Summer

  Debbie had missed Rosie since she’d left this patch of London with a suitcase and the promise that a removal van would follow, courtesy of The Brothers. She’d found a new flat, one close to the vet’s where she’d be working. Things had turned out okay for her in the end, and they kept in touch via texts. Still, it wasn’t the same as having her at the parlour, seeing her sweet face, but life had a horrible habit of raising the head on its snake-like body and whipping around to bite you.

  This summer was baking, the air thick with heat, and she was glad she’d laid out the expense of having air-conditioning installed in The Angel. It meant people were more inclined to come inside for a bevvy—the tables out the front were still packed with those who worshipped the evening sun, parasols giving them some shade.

  She sat at the bar, as usual, waiting for the parlour girls to arrive. It was quarter to seven, and the first one to turn up was Sarah, who’d taken Rosie’s place. Sarah was related to The Brothers and had at last decided to take Debbie up on her offer of a safer place to work. She called herself Tulip.

  “All right?” Debbie asked her.

  “Yeah, as it happens. Life’s been pretty good since I started working in here. No more creeps, for one.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  She’d love to say that the next up was Lavender, someone Debbie had a soft spot for, but she’d also left, going back to her former profession as a solicitor. She’d decided to move up north with her dad and stepmum to begin again at a slower pace, away from the horrors she’d endured in London.

  So, the woman who’d taken her parlour room, Orchid, real name Rebecca, had done her stint on the corner for years and could do with a less worrisome experience. The corners weren’t for everyone, and the women had to be strong to endure some of the crap punters dished out, not to mention the worry of being murdered in the back of their car in a remote spot.

  Lily and Iris breezed in next, and Debbie led the way through The Angel, pushing open the double doors that led to the toilets. Through another door on the left marked PRIVATE, down a corridor, and in through yet another door that opened into the parlour. Everyone disappeared into their rooms except Orchid, who stood awkwardly, her newly dyed blonde hair long, her hands clasped in front of her. It was odd not seeing her usual red-purple barnet. The lighter shade had her looking so different.

  “What’s up?” Debbie asked, locking the main door and going to stand beside her. She guided her to one of the sofas and pulled her down to sit beside her.

  That was the thing with her job. Not only did she run the parlour, but caring for the girls and sorting any issues they had came with the privilege of them using the place for business. She’d had a few instances like this where one of them had asked to speak with her, and to be honest, she was dreading what Orchid would say, considering the way things had turned out with the others.

  “Come on then, out with it,” she urged.

  “I need some time off. Like, about a week.”

  “No problem. You know I can shuffle the clients around and the others will take them. Going somewhere nice?”

  “No, just up to Birmingham to see my mum.”

  Debbie raised her eyebrows. “And that isn’t nice?”

  “I like Birmingham, just not my mother.”

  “Oh bugger, sorry to hear that.”

  A loud crash startled Debbie, and she shot to her feet. It sounded as if it had come from the fire exit down the end of the hallway outside the customer loos. Fuck, that was all she needed, someone breaking in.

  “Give me a second to check what’s going on.” Debbie walked to the door and prodded in the code to open the security lock. She checked the peephole, no one there, so swung the door inwards, intending to march down the corridor and give whoever it was what for.

  She was halfway down, and the door at the end flung wide, the handle bashing into the wall. Her heart banged about, and she gasped. It took a
second or two for her to register what was in front of her, then to gauge whether she’d make it back to the parlour door and jab in the code again before they got to her. And shit, she hadn’t had time to activate the CCTV, so now The Brothers couldn’t see what was going on.

  Three men in balaclavas advanced, shotguns raised. Black bomber jackets, blue jeans, heavy dark boots. White skin showing inside the eye and mouth holes. Brown wooden handles on the shotguns. All of it seemed so bright beneath the intermittent spotlights.

  “Oh, fuck me,” she whispered, not bothering to run.

  “We would,” the front one said, “but you’re used goods.” He waved his shotgun. “Now open that fucking door or I’ll blow your head off.”

  Fear sent her legs weak, and her stomach rolled so violently she thought she’d be sick. She couldn’t open that door, the girls were behind there, but if she didn’t, she’d be dead, and they’d get inside there anyway. Shoot the lock off.

  “What do you want?” she asked. “Money? I have plenty.”

  They stopped in front of her, a pace away, the one who’d spoken to her directly ahead, the other two flanking him, slightly behind, a triangle of menace.

  “I’ve got my own money, darling, I don’t need yours.” He cocked his head, his bright-blue eyes reflecting the spotlight right above them. “What I do need is some flowers, or more specifically, just one.”

  Jesus Christ, no.

  She swallowed. “Who?”

  “Orchid, so open that bastard door.” He placed the business end of the shotgun beneath her chin, finger curled around the trigger, and smiled, his teeth crooked, overlapping. “Now.”