Rankled (The Cardigan Estate Book 8)

by Emmy Ellis

  Rankled - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2021

  Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2021

  All Rights Reserved

  Rankled is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.

  The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.

  Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thank you to Amanda Cutting and Gail Boulton

  for allowing me to use their names.

  Chapter One

  Princess had only just got away from these stomping grounds, giving up her nights on the corner down the road to work the daytime shift in Debbie’s parlour at The Angel. But she was back again, sooner than she’d thought and through no choice of her own. Not for the first time today, she wished she could have said no, she wouldn’t come, and not for the first time in her life she wished she could have said no to a certain person who’d captivated her.

  Sometimes, life didn’t give you options, though. She knew that more than anyone. Decisions were taken out of your hands, and there was nothing you could do but sit there and watch things unfold. You couldn’t run because your legs were tied, and you couldn’t strike out because your hands were bound behind you.

  She winced at the memory: Red, black, grey…

  She forced her mind elsewhere. Some fella had visited her at the parlour this morning, letting her know what was what, that her life had once again changed for the worst. Almost twenty years had passed with Tickle being in prison, years she’d been safe. But now he was out, and whoever he’d sent to speak to her might well know what she’d done all those years ago. What Tickle had done.

  The Visitor, as she’d named him, had photographic evidence of Princess with blood all over her face, a Polaroid taken when…when terrible things had happened. Though now she thought about it rationally, without panic invading her senses, if anyone else ever saw it, she could make out it was one night on Halloween, at a party: there was no proof who that blood belonged to. You couldn’t get DNA from a picture. There was nothing in the background either to give away her location. No evidence she’d been there. But as it had been in the papers and there had been a trial…maybe people wouldn’t swallow that excuse.

  Tonight, she hadn’t bothered with her usual over-the-top makeup, and she’d put her bright-red hair in a tight bun. Unflattering. Too severe. On purpose. Her wrinkles were fully on show, her skin pale, the freckles she usually covered with foundation standing out. It was better that she looked unattractive, else Tickle might get funny ideas, like she was trying to make him fancy her all over again.

  She wasn’t.

  The idea that he might sickened her.

  It was a warm evening, but even so, she had a lightweight jacket on. It had deep pockets, and inside one was a flick knife. Much as she hated violence—and with good reason—she’d stab this fucker if he tried anything with her, but only after he’d given her what she wanted. A straight swap, then they could go their separate ways. What he needed from her was inside a shrink-wrap bag in an Aldi carrier, which she’d placed into a cheap backpack off the market. She imagined him tormenting himself for many long years about whether she’d disposed of it like he’d asked. It had something on it that proved he’d not only committed the crime he’d been convicted of, but another.

  He must have been shitting himself, but then again, they’d had a deal: she burnt it, and he kept his mouth shut.

  How had he known she’d held on to it? Was her promise to dispose of it an obvious lie? Had he seen right through her? In her eyes, it had been her insurance that he’d remain silent, but as the jury had found him guilty anyway… Maybe she’d retained it as a reminder of who not to be again, or maybe, because of the second lot of evidence on it, she’d kept it in case he decided to tell the authorities she’d been involved. At least if she found out what he was up to before she handed it over, if he expected her to do a repeat performance of the past, she could warn him she’d take the backpack to the police. She’d have to send it anonymously, wipe her prints off the bags, but then again, maybe that copper The Brothers had in their pocket would take it off her hands. Yes, Rod Clarke would sort it.

  If it wasn’t for the earring, the one she’d lost on that night, she could have told The Visitor she wasn’t coming here and Tickle could go and fuck himself. While she’d convinced herself the earring didn’t matter, the fact that Tickle had it in his possession frightened her.

  She’d thought, until The Visitor had shown her a photo proving otherwise, that she’d lost the earring at the scene, worrying throughout the trial whether the prosecution would spring it on the court that she’d also been involved, but they hadn’t, and the police certainly hadn’t said anything.

  She’d told Tickle she’d lost it that night, and for a while afterwards, he’d told her not to worry, that she must have lost it on the way to his coastal digs in Landerlay, maybe at the rave they’d attended.

  If he expected her to have kept the clothes she’d had on as well, he’d get a shock. Why would she when it was evidence that she’d been there when he’d—

  In his mind, she owed him, plain and simple. As far as she knew, not once had he told anyone of her involvement—not anyone important enough to come knocking on her door in a uniform anyway. At the time, she’d been relieved, but now, with hindsight and the benefit of age, she wished she’d come clean, told the police her part.

  But there was a risk they wouldn’t believe me, and I’d have gone to prison, too.

  She stood down the side of The Flag, leaning against the building, and read the note again.

  Dearest Princess,

  On the day this is delivered, meet me at The Flag, eight p.m. Bring the evidence you’ve been holding on to all these years—I assume you still have it, don’t you? If you don’t come, you know what will happen. Remember the torture? I’m sure you do. If you don’t want to suffer the same, do as I say.

  Forever tied to me by blood,

  Yours,

  Tickle

  Yes, she remembered the torture. How could she forget? The scenes returned sometimes, in her dreams, chasing her, scaring her all over again. While he’d been in prison, she’d been safe. Once more, she cursed herself for feeling so safe she hadn’t bothered checking his release date the last few years. If she had, she could have prepared herself better for…this. He’d been let out early. For good behaviour?

  What would she have done if she hadn’t remained in London? Moved up north? Changed her name by Deed Poll? Used the money she’d saved up to start again elsewhere? She should ha
ve done that instead of maintaining London was her home, that she loved it and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  It was obvious he was never going to walk away. She was never going to have a life free of him. The best-case scenario was the exchange of items then they didn’t see each other again. After all, there were other things she knew about him that would get him put back behind bars. The problem was, it would mean implicating herself. She’d lied to save her own skin, withheld evidence, and had kept quiet about the rave incident. What was it they called it? Perverting the course of justice?

  She couldn’t stand to be incarcerated for that, not at her age.

  He must have kept tabs on her while he did his time. How else would he know she’d called herself Princess since the trial? How would he know where she worked? Not only the new gig at the parlour. The Visitor had mentioned the girls on the corner up the road there. Someone had told him where Princess had gone. That hurt. Maybe The Visitor had threatened them into talking or offered cash as an incentive to part their lips and spew Princess’ whereabouts. One of the women had a massive drug problem, and extra money would have given her a bigger hit.

  The Visitor must be a private detective or something. Tickle wasn’t a gang member, nor was he some bloke like The Brothers who could order folks to do his bidding while he lay on his narrow bunk, seething. He was normal in the respect that he didn’t have dodgy men in his pay.

  Normal wasn’t a word she’d use for everything about him, though, but then again, he’d seemed like he was once upon a time.

  Don’t they all. Then they show who they really are, and you’re trapped.

  She peered around the edge of The Flag. A pang of homesickness gripped her at the sight of the girls standing on the corner, ladies she knew well, some she’d consider friends but none she’d tell her secrets to. That speck of London had been her home for years, the place she’d stood and plied her trade, taking younger women under her wing and teaching them how to remain safe from whacko men with murder or whatever in mind. The nights she’d stood there at the start, servicing customer after customer, then the last few years, punters giving her the once-over, deeming her too old for their tastes, passing her by.

  Old meat. Mutton dressed as lamb.

  None of her fellow sex worker colleagues would recognise her like this, and for that she was grateful. Without the thick foundation, the bright eyeshadow, the false lashes, she looked drained, someone’s getting-on-a-bit granny.

  Life sped by, and you didn’t realise it until half of it was gone. She had thirty-something years left at a push, and if the first forty-odd had disappeared in the blink of an eye, she dreaded how quickly the last part would go.

  Someone appeared on the opposite corner. A man. Could be a punter. Nevertheless, Princess held her breath, her chest going tight.

  How would she feel when she saw him again? Sick most likely.

  He crossed the road, giving the girls a nasty sneer, as if he thought they were scum, his muddy-grey hair too long, hands in pockets, his back stooped. His denims hung off his hips, too much fabric and not enough leg to fill it. Whoever he was hadn’t got the memo about the change in fashion, where most people gadded about in skinny jeans. A black T-shirt with faded lips and a tongue on the front…

  And it hit her then, that it was him.

  In her head, he’d forever lived as a younger man each time she’d thought of him. Sometimes the memory was of him in the dock, his hair Rolling Stones long, him never looking her way, and sometimes it was then, when he’d done that thing and—

  He walked closer, the girls behind him now, his sights on The Flag. He licked his lips, perhaps anticipating his first pint, but if she knew him like she used to, he’d have gulped one not long after he’d strutted out of prison, then found a woman, maybe one like her and the girls, just for convenience. Or, as she snidely thought, because he couldn’t pull someone the way he looked now so would have to pay for it.

  He’d once been gorgeous, or he had from behind her rose-coloured specs anyway, but the years had been unkind. To both of them. Did they appear so much older because of the burden they’d had to carry? Had the time inside ravaged him? Life on the outside hadn’t been much better, and Princess reckoned she’d served a sentence alongside him, only she could visit shops and things. The punishment was the same, always coiled up, always feeling guilty.

  I bet he doesn’t feel guilty, though.

  He moved closer, and she ducked back beside the pub, her heart galloping. She just needed a minute to compose herself. Give him time to buy a pint and find a seat. Wonder if she was coming.

  At the parlour, The Visitor had taken a picture of her with his phone, something she’d thought odd, but now… It was obvious he’d done it so Tickle knew what she was like these days. Well, he’d get a shock. She’d had full makeup on at the time, her hair done nice.

  She poked her head back out. He stood at the door, arm up to push it, but paused. Did he see her out of the corner of his eye? Had the hairs on the back of his neck gone up, him sensing she was there? Prison must teach you how to know when you were being observed. You’d have to watch your back when you were out of your cell, wouldn’t you.

  He turned his head her way.

  Faint reminders of who he used to be still lived on his face. The eyes were the same, if a little faded in colour, plus they had crows’ feet either side, some so deep they spoke of either many tears or many scowls. His nose was thinner, the space below his cheekbones sunken, but that could be the crap food and a devious soul giving him that appearance. But his mouth, that was what got her the most. Gone were the perfect-shaped lips, the deep Cupid’s bow. Now they were thin, downturned, brackets either side, like his skin had decided to give up the fight against ageing and fold.

  He laughed, throwing his head back, the sound sinister and mad. One of his front teeth was missing, perhaps from a prison fight, and his neck had a saggy quality to it, the same kind as on a pair of bollocks. Weird to think that at a time like this, but she did, and she didn’t find it funny. Just creepy.

  Tickle regained control of himself and took five steps towards her. She remained frozen in place. He cocked his head, studying her face much like she’d done to his, and she knew he found her lacking. Maybe he’d remembered her as the young twenty-something she’d once been, the woman he’d taken a fancy to, and he couldn’t fathom the change, couldn’t marry the photo The Visitor had taken to the person he was seeing now.

  “All right, Jenny? Christ, life hasn’t been kind to you, has it.”

  The Jenny of old would have cried at that. But she wasn’t Jenny anymore. “It hasn’t been kind to you either.”

  She’d never have snapped at him like that once upon a time, but she’d learnt to stand up for herself on the streets, and the words had just popped out, even though, with the state of him, he still scared her. There was something about him that set off her danger radar. Shame she hadn’t noticed it when they’d first met. Back then, she’d taken it for something else. Fancying him. Falling in lust. Wanting him because everyone else did.

  How stupid she’d been.

  “No need to go inside now, is there?” he said. “We can go down the side there and exchange gifts.”

  Gifts.

  She swallowed. Going down there meant she’d be away from safety. Plus, the yard at the back of The Flag wasn’t somewhere she’d choose to go. The amount of times the old patch leader had pushed her over the wooden bench table and taken her for free… And she wouldn’t have had to do it if it wasn’t for Tickle—and what a stupid nickname that was.

  “No,” she said. “We’re going into the pub.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve changed, more than just in the face.”

  “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” She stepped out from the alley and avoided going near him, pushing into the pub and heading straight to a table. She didn’t want a drink, just needed to get his measure, switch the evidence, and leave.

&n
bsp; The sooner she got away from him the better.

  Chapter Two

  EIGHTEEN YEARS AGO - PRISON

  ‘You have been found guilty…’

  Those words still reverberated inside Ollie’s head, even months after his conviction. It should never have happened this way. They’d planned it right down to the last little thing: their alibi, the statement they’d give to the police at the scene, his first interview if he got arrested afterwards, what he should say and, more importantly, what Jenny should say.

  She’d been good at her role in court, he’d give her that. Quite the actress. Convincing. No one would know she’d witnessed what he’d done, as calm as she was, and apparently confused as to why anyone would think her ‘lovely’ boyfriend would do such a thing. She’d actually said that, lovely. She’d furrowed her forehead and everything, her mouth in a sad pout. Her scrunching a tissue had gone down a treat. At the time, he’d taken it that she was doing it for him, the lying, because she loved him, couldn’t be without him—and if he was locked up, she’d be alone, so she was playing a role to ensure he walked away scot-free.

  Once the verdict had come in, he’d been floored, had almost plunked back down into his seat with the shock. How had this happened? How had they believed Jenny was innocent and not him? Ollie had listened to all the evidence—okay, he’d zoned out a couple of times—but he didn’t understand how the jury had come to that conclusion. They’d been so careful. Then he’d recalled the evidence found, and he’d cursed them for being so bloody blasé about those bags…

  After his sentence was announced a couple of weeks later, him in his new digs, and she hadn’t come to visit every week like she’d promised (nor had she answered his letters or phone calls), he’d come to the biting realisation that she’d lied for herself. She was saving her own arse, not his, even though he’d been saving hers all along. All right, he’d concede that was a white lie; he was just as bad—to save hers, he was also saving his by saying they were somewhere else that night, but whatever, his fantasy that she’d lied because he was the love of her life had been shattered, and now he had nothing else to cling to. Nothing to pin his future hopes on.