Rankled (The Cardigan Estate Book 8)

by Emmy Ellis

  “All I could see was Mum. I had to get rid of her; like, this rage came down.”

  “But you didn’t seem angry.” In fact, he’d been pretty calm until they’d arrived at the house and he’d punched Amanda in the car.

  He ignored her. “I thought killing her would be good practice for when I stabbed the old dear.”

  Princess’ stomach churned, and goosebumps sprang up on her arms, tightening her skin, her scalp prickling. “So all your chat about killing your mum was true?”

  “Yeah. Are you going to drink that Coke or what?”

  She was taken aback by his shift of subject, how he could so easily move from a topic so hideous to one so meaningless. “No, I’m not thirsty.” She was, her mouth had gone dry, but God knew what he might have done to that Coke, what he’d learnt in prison. He could have injected it with a tiny needle. Stop it. You’re being too paranoid. “When were you going to murder your mother?”

  He shrugged. “When I got the chance. I mean, we had to wait for the heat to die down, didn’t we. I couldn’t do it if we had eyes on us because of Amanda. Then the police pulled me over for speeding, and everything went belly up.”

  He narrowed his eyes, and she knew that switch was on the verge of clicking over. He cocked his head, studying her, and once again she was under the microscope, there for him to inspect for signs of deception.

  “How did that blood get on the boot carpet?” he asked, the tone quiet, deadly.

  He knew. Shit, he knew.

  “I have no bloody idea. Maybe the clothes fell out when we were on the way back to London. Maybe there was some on the outside of the black sacks. I was as shocked as you were when I heard you’d been arrested.”

  “Are you lying to me, Jenny? You said if we were going to start again, we had to deal with the truth. Did you put it there?”

  She let out a long breath. “Do you seriously think I’d do something like that, something that could implicate me? We had everything so perfect, had covered all angles. Why would I fuck that up?”

  He swallowed, his Adam’s apple shivering. “When the forensics came back about the blood, I knew I wasn’t going anywhere but a cell. I sat in that holding room and cursed myself for going over the speed limit, for the coppers sitting there in their stupid fucking unmarked car.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  “Just that if that blood hadn’t been in the boot, I doubt anyone would have noticed the T-shirt thing. Even the screw on my wing said as much. I would have walked free. We could have got married, had kids.”

  He still thinks I’d have married him after he’d killed? “Shit happens. And like I told you in The Flag, you deserved to be in prison for what you did. And you’re blaming the blood when it wasn’t that which got you in the shit. It was your driving, the bloody drugs in the boot. If you hadn’t been stopped, if you hadn’t been off your face, they’d have had no reason to search that car. It was your fault, no one else’s. Why can’t you take responsibility for your actions?”

  “You know you kept the clothes?” He obviously didn’t want to address her question. “Did you keep anything else?”

  She may as well be truthful. It wasn’t like The Brothers would let him hurt her. “Yes. Photos of your clothes on a digital camera. Some blood flecks from inside the jeans pocket—where the knife went at the rave.”

  “Because you thought I’d try to get you implicated years down the line?”

  She nodded.

  “But I didn’t.” He guzzled some Coke.

  “No.”

  “You, on the other hand, you were about ready to spill, weren’t you.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “You lied in The Flag when you said you hadn’t talked. You did. To my mate.” He laughed, lifted a hand in a ‘whatever’ motion. “We’re being honest here, yeah? You told him about the clothes. That you’d been tied up. Said you’d been with a ‘monster’. That hurt me, Jenny. I’m not a monster.”

  Not a monster? What is he then? What’s the name for someone who rips toenails out and slashes a woman to shreds?

  “Your mate?” She feigned confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I had someone watching you. Talking to you. Touching you. He stuck it out all this time to see if you’d crack and tell him about the rave stabbing. I needed to know if you were on the level with that. I reckon a couple more years, and you’d have told him everything.”

  “Who are you on about?”

  “My mate Nige.”

  “I don’t know a Nige.”

  “Nah, you’d know him as Rover.” He sniffed. “Ring any bells?”

  George appeared in the doorway. “Massive bells.”

  Ollie whipped his head that way, the snugness draining from his face.

  George smiled. “All right, sunshine?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jenny stored the things in the locker. She shit herself while doing it, thinking a CCTV camera was trained on her, a hidden creepy eye, people who worked there watching what she was doing. Before leaving home, she’d put the suction bag inside a plain white carrier with the camera, the Ziploc, so they wouldn’t see the contents, but guilt convinced her someone would check her locker after she’d gone, using the spare key: “Let’s see what she wanted to stash away, shall we? See seemed well dodgy when she signed the lease papers, don’t you think?”

  That was the problem with guilt, it got you thinking things that might not happen. Your mind raced with what-ifs that would never come to fruition:

  “Jennifer Lenton, you have the right to remain silent…”

  “Where were you really when Miss Cutting was murdered?”

  “Where’s the other earring?”

  “Did you wipe all your prints in the bathroom?”

  “Did you plan this with Oliver Ford?”

  “Was Miss Cutting murdered before you went to the beach and you used the bonfire party as an alibi?”

  “Are you sure you dropped Miss Cutting off in Main Street? If so, what a coincidence that she just happened to be killed in the bedsit.”

  “What about the car Oliver borrowed. You must know whose it was.”

  She needed to scream, make the voices go away.

  Instead, she slammed the door, secured it, and left the building, her head up when she breezed past the sign-in desk to give the impression she was innocent, yet it felt as though the receptionist could see inside her head and knew what Jenny had to hide. Out on the street, the sun baking down on her, she hurried along and went into Javi’s Groceries to buy some lunch. The bell tinkled, alerting Javi, who waved at her, saying a cheery good morning.

  Too cheery, and it wasn’t a good morning. She’d never have one of those again.

  She picked out a prepacked sandwich, Hula Hoop crisps, and a carton of orange juice. She hadn’t bothered making lunch at home this morning, preferring to leave the house as soon as possible so she could get this done, or more likely, to avoid any questions should Dad have twigged she’d had a bonny while they’d been out. He’d ask why, then Mum would ask why, and they’d spot the lies straight away.

  Jenny paid Javi, who complained about the weather waking him up—“You just can’t get comfortable in the heat, can you…”—and she replied that sleepless nights were horrible, not adding that she should know.

  Glad to be outside, she pushed the carrier bag handles up to the crook of her elbow so she could dip into her handbag, ferret about for the other Ziploc, put a finger and thumb in, and grip the buckles of her shoes. A storm drain was coming up, so she removed her hand and dropped the evidence, then did the same with the rasp file, checking nothing had landed on a metal slat of the grate. Everything had disappeared, and she walked on, the residue from the bonfire slick on her fingertips where it had coated the buckles.

  She shuddered and continued on to work, going straight to the loos so she could wash her hands. At her locker in the staffroom, she placed her handbag and
lunch inside, then moved to the kettle to make her before-work cuppa. It would give her a chance to calm down. Tea sorted, she sat at the table, going through everything in her head to ensure she’d covered all bases. She had. All she needed to do now was hope Ollie got rid of the Polaroid he’d insisted on taking out of the black sack—and put in an anonymous call to the police, using a phone box. She’d tell them about Ollie selling drugs, the day he collected the gear, how big the stash was, and where he picked it up from. He’d bragged about it all to her, and his next pick-up was this coming Friday.

  She could only pray they took her seriously and went out to catch him. She’d insist they check the boot. As the carpet was a light grey, they wouldn’t miss the blood. Maybe they’d radio in to see if he had any priors. Find out about Landerlay in one of their files. Arrest him.

  This was the part of the plan she hadn’t mentioned to him. She needed him caught for what he’d done. He had to pay. Since they’d arrived back in London, her mind had been jam-packed with emotion regarding Amanda’s family. They’d be devastated. They deserved to know who’d taken their daughter’s life.

  Jenny risked being implicated, Ollie telling the police she’d been there, but if he did, she’d wax lyrical about being on the beach, enjoying herself at the party while he must have gone and killed Amanda—she had witnesses, for goodness sake, a lot of them—and he’d lied to her about going for a sleep.

  Gail breezed in, all smiles, drawing Jenny out of her head.

  “Morning!” Gail took a selection of cakes out of a carrier bag and placed them on the side. “Got these on sale from Javi’s. It’s Belinda’s birthday today.” She poked about in the bag again and slapped a newspaper on the table. “Take a look at what’s on the front page while I make a brew. I’m telling you, people of today are so rotten. I mean, who stabs someone like that?”

  Alarm skipped through Jenny, and she reached out a shaking hand to open the paper. The headline screeched at her, telling of an outcome she hadn’t wanted.

  MAN STABBED AT RAVE DIES

  Jason Cuthwick, 27, of Landerlay, passed away last night. After an operation due to a single stab wound, he appeared to be doing well. Unfortunately, he took a turn for the worst and died of a sudden and unexpected cardiac arrest.

  Mr Cuthwick had been to an organised rave on Saturday night where an altercation broke out into a mass fight. Someone stabbed him, and he fell to the ground, where he was trampled underfoot. He recalled the assailant was male, dark-haired, and of average build. No other witnesses have come forward.

  Mr Cuthwick’s family have asked for respect at this time and prefer to mourn in peace. They have asked that instead of flowers, a donation to the NHS is preferable. Mr Cuthwick was a nurse at Landerlay General.

  Were you at the rave that night? Did you see anything? If you did, please contact the news desk or Landerlay police.

  This is the third incident of a stabbing at the Landerlay raves, the first prompting the event to be switched to organised. Is it time to stop them? Is someone attending with the sole intent of harming others? Police have confirmed the knife used in each crime could be the same. Now someone is dead, perhaps measures will be taken to search people before they enter the field. The thought of this person possibly committing the other two stabbings is abhorrent.

  Mr Cuthwick’s funeral will be held at St John the Baptist’s church in Forthard Street, Landerlay. Family and close friends only.

  Jenny wanted to run. Hide. Get her racing mind to calm down, somewhere she was alone so no one spied the signs of culpability on her face. The man was dead. Dead! She’d wondered about him since that night, how could she not, but as nothing had been in the papers, she’d told herself he’d lived.

  Two other people had been stabbed. Had Ollie done it prior to being her boyfriend? Had he used the raves as a place he could sink a knife in without anyone seeing him? Had he lied when he’d said it was his first time? Jenny had seen him, thought he’d punched the bloke—he has a name, and it’s Jason Cuthwick—and she should have done something about it, told security. If she had, Amanda would still be alive.

  This was such a burden, knowing who’d done it, but selfishly, her need to distance herself from the crimes was stronger than doing what was right—her fear of being implicated was stronger.

  She was a bad person, as bad as Ollie.

  Should she also tell the police in her anonymous call that he’d stabbed Jason?

  “Are you okay?” Gail asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She sat at the table and prodded a finger at the photo of Jason. “Poor sod. Can you imagine what his parents are going through? Your kids aren’t meant to die before you. You’re not supposed to suffer that sort of grief.”

  Jenny swallowed. Lifted her cup and sipped to give her time before responding. “It’s awful.”

  “It bloody well is.” Gail shook her head. “I think I’ll donate to the NHS. Maybe we could organise a whip-round, that’d be nice, wouldn’t it. God, a heart attack at his age. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it. I wonder if it was something to do with the anaesthetic. Some folks go funny with those, don’t they.” She paused to catch her breath. “I reckon those raves should be stopped. All those drugged-up people, the mad music, I just don’t get it. Surely they’ll pack them in now someone’s died.”

  Jenny needed Gail to be quiet. Her words were piling on the guilt.

  But Gail chatted on. “There was that murder the same night, wasn’t there. Did you hear about it? Someone called Amanda Cutting. I saw her picture on the news. Pretty little thing, and only nineteen, too. Killed in a bedsit, I ask you, left all alone. The bloke who rents it came back with his girlfriend and saw the dead girl on his sofa. How terrible.”

  Jenny almost said it was but kept her mouth shut. Drank her tea.

  “Mind you,” Gail burbled, “they’d been to the rave, so maybe he was doped up, off his head, and killed her. Saying that, it said in the article that wasn’t the case, and the police would know, wouldn’t they.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Are you okay, Jen? Are you ill? Do you need to go home? You’re a bit peaky.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, just let me know, and I’ll get someone in to cover your till.” She swigged her tea then put the half-full cup down. “I’d better shift my backside. We open in five minutes.”

  A sea of employees swarmed in then, people going to lockers, chatting, laughing, being so normal. Jenny was the odd one out, the person with the most hideous secret of them all, and she felt alone amongst a crowd.

  “Actually, Gail, I will go home,” she said.

  “That’s fine. Give me a ring tomorrow if you’re going to be off again.” Gail walked out, a few other people following her.

  Jenny waited until everyone had left then took her bags out of her locker and checked her purse for change. She was going to use the payphone at the end of Dane’s Road, a residential street with no CCTV.

  She had to get the police looking at Ollie.

  Someone had to do time for those deaths, and it couldn’t be her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ollie didn’t like having his arm grabbed by that George fella. It reminded him of Kingston, and he flinched in case George took it upon himself to ensure he lost another tooth. He waited for the punch, but it never came.

  “You’re coming with us,” George said.

  Ollie grimaced at the pain from fingertips being pressed into his underarm. If the man’s grip hurt this much, he dreaded to think what a thump would feel like. He slanted his eyes to Jenny. “What’s going on?”

  She appeared apprehensive, and so she should if she’d fitted him up. Once Ollie got himself out of this sticky situation, he’d get hold of Gone with the Wind and have her sorted out. A slap here and there, maybe a slice of a blade on her cheek so no one would want her—because if Ollie couldn’t have her, no other man would. Not even a punter would want to touch her after Wind had
done his magic on her.

  “These are The Brothers, the ones I told you about,” she said. “You know, they took over after Cardigan. It’s not up to me what they’re going to do—they run the estate, it’s their decision, and no one can stop them. I’m just one of their residents, and I do as I’m told in return for their protection.”

  So she’d known they were here. Had she let them in round the back? She had to have done that; Ollie had been out the front for ages and hadn’t seen anyone come by apart from an old granny pushing a tartan shopping trolley. He’d thought of Nigel when he’d caught sight of her and wondered if she had a stash under her mattress. Jenny must have opened the back door then walked round to the front, pretending she was startled when he’d called out to her.

  Fuck, Jenny had become a devious bitch in his absence. Who’d have thought the mainly shy young woman would turn into someone so…spiteful.

  “You’ve double-crossed me,” he said, stating the bloody obvious and hating himself for it.

  “Something like that, and it wouldn’t be the first time.” She smiled sadly, as though she’d never wanted to do anything that went against her personality. “Sometimes, you have to ignore your natural instinct and save yourself. I should have told the police what you’d done, that you’d got Amanda to tie me to that chair and forced me to watch, but I was young, frightened, and as far as you were concerned, I went along with what you wanted—the cover-up, the lies. Except I didn’t, not really.” She paused and looked him straight in the eye. “I grassed you up in a different way.”

  Ollie’s heart pounded, and the rage he’d learnt to control in prison came bounding out of the locked cage he’d put it in, its own version if segregation. “What are you on about?” He held back a whimper at George digging his fingers in harder.

  “You weren’t stopped for speeding,” she said.

  “You what?”

  “I told them about the drug pick-up. They knew to look in the boot.”