by Emmy Ellis
Ollie hoped Nigel wasn’t too pushy next time, scaring her off.
And how about her not getting many customers these days. That was a turn-up. What did she look like now? Nigel had never said, other than she’d aged. Was she haggard? Had she lost her prettiness? Did she still have those freckles?
Ollie couldn’t get Nigel to take a picture of her, that would seem odd. Unless he did it from the car while she stood on the corner. That would need one of them lenses, wouldn’t it, the sort that zoomed in, and he doubted Nigel owned anything like that.
But do I want to see her all dressed up for other men?
No. It’d send him doolally. Just knowing what she did was bad enough.
“Got anything?” Craig asked.
“She told him about Cutting tying her up.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
Silence save for Ollie’s breathing. He tapped on the wall.
Craig moved, the bed jostling. “My dad’s died. I don’t know why the screws never said. Maybe Mum hasn’t let them know. My friend’s written and told me. Comes to something when you have to find out this way, via a letter. I remember that fella in the next cell had a visit from the SO and was offered counselling. Maybe I’ll get some if I ask.”
“Shit. Sorry to hear that, mate, but counselling isn’t a good idea. It gets you talking—I had to have it when I first came in, loads of sessions so they could determine whether I was a nutter. You might slip up and tell them about my plan.”
“I’d never do that. I won’t go.” A pause. “I’ll be allowed to the funeral.”
“A day out then.”
“Yeah. But I won’t go there either. My mother wouldn’t like it. I’m an embarrassment now, so to see me in the flesh, she’d… Would you go to your mum’s?”
“Who knows.”
“Can’t say I’d blame you if you didn’t.”
The only reason Ollie would go was to make sure that box was really burnt and she was gone forever. She wanted to be cremated, didn’t like the idea of bugs eating her. If Ollie had his way, he’d ensure she had a burial just to get her back, but she’d more than likely have a funeral plan in place.
Fucking bitch thought of everything.
Chapter Twelve
Princess had been asleep when The Brothers had come back last night, which had surprised her. She thought she’d be awake, staring at the ceiling. They’d bought her a korma, tri-coloured pilau rice, and a plain naan. It sat in the fridge. She’d have it for dinner later in her new flat. Take it to work and store it in the fridge there. It would be weird, not returning to the house she’d lived in all her life, but she didn’t have any reason to now. Greg had said their cleaning crew had gone through it ‘like a dose of Imodium when you’ve got a dodgy belly’, and it was all spick and span for the new owner.
One less thing for her to organise. As the sale was subject to contract, even if it fell through and didn’t sell for months, she didn’t care. She needed this new start on The Cardigan Estate. Maybe being in a different location, albeit still in London, would help to get the memories fading.
This morning, bright and early before her shift at the parlour, she’d sat at the island in their large kitchen and watched Greg expertly cook a fry-up. He’d told her George could even burn something in the microwave he was that shit at cooking, so Greg had the honours. He reckoned he didn’t mind. Food all gone, coffee warming her belly, she waited for what they had to say about McFadden, something George had said could wait until after they’d eaten.
She dreaded it.
“He’s not going to be a problem any longer,” George said from the stool beside her. He laced his wide fingers and rested the sides of his hands on the island. “After we sorted him, I got some of our fellas to go round his house and search it for phones and laptops. There weren’t any, not even in the loft, so unless he’s got the images in the Cloud, you’re safe. And you said the picture doesn’t look like you anymore, so whatever. We’ve got Clarke on standby to take over the fact that McFadden’s missing, if anyone even bothers to report it, and if they do, Clarke will be the one to look into any Cloud uploads and conveniently make sure they disappear. How, I don’t know and don’t care. But for what it’s worth, I think McFadden was telling the truth. He didn’t keep any images, just did what Ollie asked. He seemed a sandwich short.”
Greg finished loading the dishwasher and slung a tablet inside. “He gave us some interesting information, though.”
Princess’ heart jolted, and her tongue dried out, sticking to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed, her arid throat painful. God, how many times over the years had fear done that to her? She didn’t dare to count. “What’s that then?” She’d come off as casual, but she was far from it.
“This might sting a bit, but the bloke who’s been keeping an eye on you for Ollie all these years is one of your customers.”
“What?” She scrambled to work out who it was, but her brain wasn’t computing. “Who?”
Greg rubbed an eyebrow. “He gave us a name, so it might ring a bell. Nigel Jones.”
Princess had never heard of him. “They don’t tend to tell me who they are, and I’ve had a fair few regulars over the years, so it could be anyone.”
“It’s easy to narrow it down. Think about it. Who started seeing you after Ollie was put inside, then stayed with you right up until you left the corner?”
Her heart sank. “Rover.”
“Who?” George frowned. “What kind of poncy name is that?”
“That was what I called him. His hands roved.” She felt sick. “It makes sense now.”
“What does?” George asked.
“When I said I was leaving, I told him I was going to the parlour—that had to be how McFadden found me. If so, why did he bother going to the corner to speak to one of the girls and get them to tell him where I’d gone?”
“Fuck knows.” Greg sprayed the worktop with disinfectant, proper domesticated. “Maybe if this Nigel was writing to Ollie, the letter about the parlour didn’t get to him in time—or maybe Ollie was let out early with no warning, so that letter is still at the nick.”
She thought back to what Rover had said when she’d broken the news to him about leaving.
‘I can nip to you in my lunch hour. I won’t have to lie to the wife about where I’m going of an evening.’
‘No, love. I’m packing it in. Hanging up my fancy knickers, so to speak. I’ll just be the receptionist, nothing more.’
‘But you’re my favourite lady other than the missus.’
‘Sorry, I can’t do this any longer, even for you.’
“He tried to get me to still see him.” She hadn’t twigged anything was up because Rover had acted in his usual way—he’d always seemed tense at the thought of her not wanting to see him anymore, had mentioned it a few times. But, now she thought about it, he had seemed panicked, desperate, more so than normal. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time, just that he’d grown attached and didn’t want to see anyone else, but now I’ve remembered what he said, it adds up. He would have needed to make sure he could still have contact—Ollie would have expected him to keep tabs on me whether I worked the corner or not.” She paused, thinking. “Fuck.”
“What’s the matter?” Greg put the spray bottle in the cupboard under the sink. He faced her, folding the pink cloth he’d used to wipe the worktops.
“I opened up to him a bit over the years. Because he was a regular and told me things about himself, I got lax and returned the favour—I stupidly let my guard down. I mentioned no names regarding Ollie, I was careful there, but I did say about keeping the clothes for insurance, plus I said I’d been tied to a chair. I didn’t say why, what Ollie was doing at the time, just…” She sighed. “I don’t know, Rover was a friend, that was how I saw him. I thought he was okay.”
George snorted. “He’s a bit sick in the head if he came to you for his jollies. As far as he’s concerned, you’re his mate’s bit of
stuff.”
“We never had sex. He claimed he just wanted to talk. I felt bad taking money off him for a chat so said he should touch me. Over my clothes. He did. To begin with, he didn’t seem to like it, but as time went by, he felt me up the whole time we talked, didn’t need reminding to do it. Enjoyed it an’ all, going by the tent in his trousers.”
Greg belted out a laugh. “I bet he didn’t tell Ollie that bit of information. ‘Excuse me, mate, I’ve been copping a feel of your missus, and my trouser snake got a bit happy, is that all right?’ What a prick.”
Princess shuddered, something else popping into her head. “Rover must have told him about the tying up thing. One of the lines in Ollie’s note was: Forever tied to me by blood. He was letting me know he knew.”
“So he fancies himself as a bit of a crafty bastard then. Did he mention anything about it when you met him at The Flag?” George asked.
“No.”
“So it can’t have bothered him that much.” George stood and stretched, some of his joints popping.
Greg shook his head and put the cloth on the draining board. “Unless he was saving it for later. He was outside her house, watching. Maybe he’d planned to have a chat with her, then we came along and fucked it up.”
“Well, if and when he comes back, he’ll see an empty house, won’t he, so he’ll be shit out of luck,” George said.
“But with Rover knowing where I work…” Princess bit her bottom lip. “If he phones Ollie, that means he’ll know, too, and anyway, McFadden would have told him.”
George slapped the island. “It’s no good, we’re going to have to sort Ollie. I can’t be doing with waiting to see what he does next.” He sat again and nudged Princess. “Why did you tell us not to bother with him unless he hassled you again? What hold has he got on you?”
She knew the answer to that, and it’d sound mad to these two. Still, she’d try to explain. “I don’t think he’s a bad person underneath it all. Well, he is, because of what he did, but if he didn’t have his mind warped by his mother, maybe he wouldn’t have gone off on one.”
George nodded. “I understand that all too well, but he still did it. He still talked about murder, then went through with it. I’ve done things because of what happened to us in the past, but I don’t go round making out it’s okay because I was fucked in the head. I own it fair and square. I kill, and I enjoy it. He got his victim to tie you to a chair, love. Fitting he likes that, seeing as that’s what we’ll be doing to him.”
“We need you to get hold of this Nigel,” Greg said.
Princess’ heart leapt. “I can’t. I told him I was finished. I don’t have his phone number, never have.”
“We do, his address an’ all.”
“What excuse will I have for knowing his number?”
“Did he tell you anything significant about his life where you’d be able to look him up, ask people questions as to his whereabouts?”
Princess nodded. “He works at the factory.”
“Then if he queries it, you asked someone there, and they gave you the number. I want you to phone him, now, and get him to come to the parlour. We’ll be waiting in one of the rooms. Remind me who’s working days there, apart from you.”
“Freesia, Dahlia, Clover, and Chrysanthemum.”
George smiled. “Perfect. Clover’s a good sort. We’ll use her room. Get this Nigel to come at ten, say you need to talk about your past. That’ll get him running. You can bet he’s still on Ollie’s payroll. Give me a minute.” He walked out, down the hall, and turned into their office.
Princess looked at Greg. “You’re going to kill Rover, aren’t you. That’s what ‘sorting’ means, doesn’t it.”
He shrugged. “Yep. It’s best to. Loose ends—George hates them.”
She was saddened by that. Despite Rover being a mole all this time, she’d grown to care about him. He had a wife and two kids. He’d been promoted to manager at the factory, and the loss of his wages would hurt his family. Could she stand having another death on her conscience? It was bad enough already with Amanda, McFadden, and—
She couldn’t bear to think about that. But if Rover and Ollie were out of the picture, she could breathe again in some respects. Others, not so much. She’d have nightmares about this latest shite along with the ones she already had regarding the past. She no longer needed LSD to see monsters.
George came back and handed her a cheap smartphone. “A burner.” He put a piece of notepaper down with a number on it. “Give him a bell. Let’s get the ball rolling.”
“Here’s hoping he doesn’t piss and shit himself like McFadden,” Greg said.
Princess shut that image out of her head. Christ, he must have been so frightened. She brought the phone to life and jabbed in the numbers. Put it on speaker. Placed it on the island. Cringed at it ringing, at the lump of regret in her throat.
“Hello?” Rover sounded confused, probably because a name hadn’t come up on his screen. “Who is this?”
“It’s Princess.”
The sound of a morning routine at his home filtered through. Dishes clattering, the hum of a washing machine, the shout of a kid: “Mum, where’s my socks?”
“Oh. Shit.” He breathed heavily. “Hang on. Let me just go somewhere I can talk.” Footsteps. A muffled scrunch like he’d pressed the phone to his body. Then silence and, “Are you okay?”
“I need to see you. I thought I’d be able to cut ties with the corner, but I miss you and need to talk. The past… It’s getting to me. I have to get something off my chest. You’re the only proper friend I have.” Fuck, she felt so bad, but should she? He’d been spying on her. Going back to Ollie with what she’d said. Touching her, going so far as to kiss her neck once, sticking his tongue out and tasting her. Had Ollie been paying him money to give to her, or had Rover been willing to shell out himself? “Can you come to the parlour this morning at ten?”
“I’ll be there. I’ll make out to work I’ve gone to a meeting off the premises.”
“Thank you.”
“Just hold it together until I get there, okay?”
“I will. Bye.” She swiped the screen, shame filling her, and glanced between The Brothers. “What if he was forced to spy on me? What if he had no choice?”
George shrugged. “Makes no odds. He did it, end of. And he needs shutting up. Permanently.”
* * * *
With George and Greg in Clover’s room and all the girls being told to keep out of sight, their customers put off for half an hour, Princess waited in reception, pacing. It was a wicked thing, knowing you were luring someone to their death, and she didn’t know if she could handle it again. Yes, again, because deep down, she’d known damn well what Ollie was going to do to Amanda. He’d hinted enough, and the stuff he’d said to her in the car was a good indication he wasn’t asking her in for a nightcap.
Princess had long since admitted she’d convinced herself she’d hallucinated everything, when she knew she hadn’t. Well, she had with the maggots and the elephant trumpeting, but the rest, that had been all too real because Ollie had recounted it time and again afterwards, reliving it like some freak of nature. She was culpable in some ways, despite being tied to the chair and forced to sit there while he’d—
The toenails. She couldn’t get over the toenails.
She should have gone to prison, too, for not hitting him with that vase and making sure Amanda escaped. Instead, she’d lived her life helping other girls, desperate to atone for her sins. She’d thought if she did some good, it would negate her part in it.
It hadn’t. She’d never forget Amanda Cutting and what he’d done to her. She’d never forget that “Mmm, mmm,” which Jenny was convinced was a muffled, “Mum, mum!”
God, she must have been terrified.
The second hand of the clock did a few more rotations, then the big hand clicked over to the twelve, and she moved behind the desk to watch the CCTV. The empty hallway looked eerie and grey, like one o
f those videos where ghost activity was about to take place. She shivered then jumped at the far door opening. Rover came through, walking up to the second door. The buzzer sounded, and she took her time going to answer. Like it would stop the inevitable.
She unlocked the door and swung it open. “Hi.” She stepped back.
Rover walked in, having a good look around. “Nice in here, isn’t it.”
She closed the door and leant on it. Panted out short breaths. Clocked movement in her peripheral.
“Yeah, it is nice,” George said from Clover’s doorway.
Princess closed her eyes. She didn’t want to see this, the hurt in Rover’s eyes.
“What’s going on?” Rover asked.
“You, my old son, are coming with us.” George again.
“What for?”
“You’ve got some explaining to do.”
Chapter Thirteen
Nigel didn’t have a clue what was going on, but it wasn’t good, that much was a dead cert. He didn’t need any GCSE’s in deception to work it out. Even someone with limited brains could tell he’d been fitted up. Something like this had happened at the nick once, and Nigel had been the one to get a lag on his own, ready for others to beat the shit out of him. It didn’t feel so good when the shoe was on the other foot, him the one they were after. Now he understood why the lag had cried at the sight of three massive fellas coming into the showers, one holding a toothbrush shiv, getting ready to shove it up his arse.
There had been a lot of blood.
Nigel had stood there, shocked, a witness to it all when he was supposed to bog off once the victim had entered the showers. Kingston, the meanest fucker Nigel had ever met, had warned him that if he said anything, he’d be the one with a shiv up his arse next time he went to wash his dangly bits.
Nigel had fled and avoided Kingston from there on out.
Ollie hadn’t avoided him, though. On one of the visits, he’d told Nigel that Kingston had knocked his front tooth out because one of his sheets had a stain on it. Kingston had blamed Ollie, seeing as he was the head of the laundry at the time. Kingston had found himself in segregation for that, and Ollie had shit himself in case a similar incident happened again. Said he had to watch his back all the time, even though Vaughn kept an extra eye out.
