Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2)

by Emmy Ellis

  Harry was in pieces. She’d also ignored the advice to chop him into six bits—head, torso, arms, legs—and went one step further, slicing each arm into five-inch-thick circles, the same with his legs. She’d quartered his torso. The saw was indeed brilliant, cutting through bone as easy as wood, the scent unlike anything she’d ever smelt before. She’d have cut his face in half if she hadn’t already wrecked it with her knife, the need to obliterate his features strong, but Greg said time was moving on and they had shit to do after.

  Now it was time to get rid of Harry.

  George took a roll of thick black sacks off the table, tore the label from around it, and ripped a bag off. “Just fill them a third of the way, all right?”

  She nodded, picking up a section of arm, glad she had gloves on. It reminded her of the egg in a McDonald’s breakfast muffin, although the colours were wrong. This one had red flesh for the white, and for the yolk, the cream outer shell of bone with the sponge-like, dark-pink marrow inside, all of it kept together by the outer skin, a ring of yellow-cream fat beneath it. She stuffed it in the bag and added more.

  The three of them worked together, bagging Harry up, and in the end, ten black sacks had been tied at the tops and sat in a cluster, away from the blood spatter on the floor.

  “Where are your clean clothes?” George asked.

  “In my boot.” She cocked her hip to show him the keys were in her pocket. “Best you go out there, isn’t it? If I do it, I risk blood transference.”

  He nodded, the blue of his latex-gloved hand disappearing into her pocket, and he walked across the warehouse, unlocking the door and vanishing outside.

  “You okay?” Greg asked her.

  “Yeah. Never felt so…vindicated.”

  He nodded. “I know what you mean.” He jerked his head to the far corner at another door. “Shower’s through there. Take a black bag to put your dirty shit in. I’ll burn it when I get home. Got a woodstove. There’s a stack of towels. Put the one you use in the bag when you’ve finished with it.”

  She trusted him to get rid of her things. He wouldn’t plant them so she got caught. The Brothers had never given her any reason to doubt them. “When will the cleaners come?” She stared at the blood on the floor.

  “About ten minutes after we’ve gone.”

  “Right.”

  George came in with her holdall and took it into the shower room. Debbie followed, conscious she was tracking blood. She pushed the door open, and George was taking her clean clothes out, placing them on an orange plastic chair.

  “I’ll get you a bag for these.” He pointed at her dirty outfit.

  Christ, she’d forgotten to take one. “Greg explained.”

  “Good. Scrub well—even inside your ears.” He walked out.

  She toed her trainers off, peeled her leggings and knickers down, and tugged her top and sports bra up, the coldness of the bloodstained material brushing her face, reminding her of what she’d done. Gloves tugged inside out on their way off her hands, she shivered and dropped everything into a small pile. Shower on—it was a wet room with no curtain for privacy—she stood beneath the spray and tipped her head back, using the bodywash on a small shelf at head height to clean every part of her, even up her nostrils. She didn’t care that George came in and bagged her clothes and trainers, the gloves. Plenty of men had seen her naked, and he was respectful, keeping his gaze off her.

  He left, and she turned the water off, reaching for a towel from the metal shelving unit beside the chair. She dried herself then took the shower head down to sluice the floor of the blood that had smeared the tiles where she’d left the pile.

  Dressed, she slipped her clean Converse on. Holdall hanging on her shoulder, she took the towel out to George, who held the bag open for her to drop it inside.

  “Sorted.” He smiled.

  She went to run her fingers through her hair to comb it, but he held a hand up.

  “Best not. The cleaning crew are good, but, you know, I’d rather you didn’t leave more bits of you behind.”

  She nodded and glanced around. The black sacks with Harry inside had been removed. “What now?”

  “You can either come with us to dump him in the river or go home,” Greg said.

  She frowned. “How come you’re doing it and not your men?”

  “Because sometimes we don’t want people to know who copped it.” Greg gave a tight smile. “Like with Mickey. The less people who know about it, what with you being involved…”

  She appreciated his thoughtfulness. “I’ll go with you.”

  George grinned. “Thought you would, just be careful you don’t get any blood on your clean gear. It’s only round the back. Come on.”

  They trooped out of the warehouse, George dealing with the lights and locking up. Debbie assumed his cleaners knew the keycode. She sucked in the fresh air, glad to get the stench of death and blood and cut flesh out of her nose. Greg led them behind the warehouse and down a grassy slope, the river a jostling mass of darkness at the bottom.

  The bags were already there, huddled against a low wall. Greg handed her a pair of latex gloves, and she snapped them on.

  “Here’s what we do. Place a bag on the wall. Open it, hold it at the bottom, then tip it upside down as far from the wall as you can get,” George said. “Keep the bag held over the water and roll it up from there. We don’t want to risk blood getting anywhere, although our cleaners do come down here and scrub the wall. Still, we like to be careful. We’ll take the bags home and dispose of them.”

  They got to it, taking a bag each, and every time the contents splashed onto the surface then disappeared, Debbie smiled, hoping the fish enjoyed the bastard she’d sawed to pieces. She thought of any blood on The Brothers getting in their car and Harry’s when they got rid of it, and supposed they’d have the BMW valeted, their suits professionally cleaned, although they might well burn them along with her stuff. Maybe Harry’s car would be torched.

  Whatever, it wasn’t important. Harry was gone, and right this minute, that was all she gave a shit about.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  At just gone eleven at night, darkness blanketing London, the stars absent owing to the low cloud cover, Beth sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up old car, her eyes closed. Greg wanted to recreate how it was before, where she couldn’t see, although he’d stopped short of putting a bag over her head, saying that was uncalled for, even for him. He was in the back, keeping quiet like she’d asked, as was George in the driver’s seat. They’d begun the journey from where she’d been snatched, and hopefully, they’d end up in the general vicinity of Lime’s place. The old car was so their BMW didn’t get spotted if they managed to locate the house she’d been kept in and someone looked out.

  Lime wouldn’t recognise it unless he’d kept tabs and knew every vehicle The Brothers drove. That was a possibility, but still, it didn’t stand out as much as the posh one.

  One of The Brothers’ men had got back to them about houses with basements in the area, so that narrowed it down, too. If her directions put them in that area, the twins could do what they had to.

  She hoped they wouldn’t do it tonight in front of her, though.

  She told them when to turn, hoping she’d got it right, and at one point there hadn’t been a turning until another minute or so ahead when she’d sworn it should be sooner. Fear had probably played a part the night Dave had bundled her into that car, skewing her perception, her reality so different to what it would be had she been able to see.

  “Go left,” she said.

  “That’s just up ahead. Good.” George sounded hopeful, excited even.

  He went that way, and the rumble of the tarmac sounded different here, louder, bringing her memory into sharp focus—at least she hoped so and it wasn’t playing tricks on her.

  “We’re close. A right, then we’re there.” Her stomach tied itself in knots, her muscles clenching.

  The car swerved in that direction.


  Ten seconds, then, “Stop.”

  “We’re nowhere near houses,” Greg said.

  Beth opened her eyes. The car had halted outside a row of shops on what appeared to be a village thoroughfare. There was a mini-mart called Haydon’s, a hair salon, and a greengrocer’s that also sold baked goods, going by the sign in the window: FRESH FROM STEVENSON’S FARM! A pub stood stoutly on a bend ahead, all old-fashioned and proud of it, its sign swinging in the breeze. The Nag’s Hoof, the image a chestnut horse mid-gallop, shown up by the strip light above it.

  “Fuck it.” She looked at Greg in the back. “I got it wrong, sorry.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” He ferreted in his pocket. “Hang on, let me get the map out, see if the places with basements are near here. We’re in the right direction, I know that much.”

  His phone screen lit up his face in the darkness, everything else around him deep shadows, and while he accessed the map his man had sent, she twisted to stare ahead. There was another turning two lampposts up, just before the pub. Could she have missed one and that was where they needed to be?

  “Like I thought, we’re in the right place.” Greg pushed his phone through the gap between the front seats. “There are two streets that have basements. The reason I wanted you to go through bringing us here with your eyes shut is because at least then we know we’ve definitely got the right area, because elsewhere, other streets have basements. It’s no good to us having men sitting around watching if they might not be the ones we’re after.”

  She’d gathered that already so nodded. “Okay.”

  “We’ll nip down both and see what’s what.” George pulled away from the kerb and took a right past the lampposts, the engine protesting with an over-rev.

  Beth scanned the gardens. “This isn’t it.”

  “How do you know?” Greg asked.

  “Because none of them have grass, just driveways. I stood on grass before I was taken inside.”

  “Could have been round the rear of the house.”

  She shook her head. “No, I didn’t walk far, so unless they parked close to the back garden… It was like I was out of the car and taken straight to the front door.”

  “Far enough.” George did a U-turn and left the street, moving along to the next one, past The Nag’s Hoof. “This any better?” He stopped near the entrance beneath a large tree with low, overhanging branches that obscured them nicely.

  She nodded. “Yes, although which house it is, I couldn’t tell you.”

  It was a cul-de-sac, same as The Brothers’ street, stretches of land separating each property, the homes themselves belonging to the affluent, large and imposing, shiny windows, the blinds and curtains drawn against the night. Old-fashioned streetlamps stood between each one. She was more interested in what was behind the buildings, though, and wished they were here in daylight so she could see better.

  “Does the map show fields or anything?” she asked.

  “There’s space, so I suppose it could be that,” Greg said.

  “I’m going to have a look.” She got out of the car quickly, so they couldn’t reach out and stop her, and ran down the side of the nearest house, past the left-hand fence of the back garden. At the bottom, she turned right and stared. Fields. Trees in a row. The lights of a housing estate in the distance. Her heart sped up in exhilaration, and a little fear if she were honest, anticipating Lime coming out of his garden and catching her there, or staring from a top window, telling Dave to come and get her.

  A twig cracked behind her, and she gasped, spinning round.

  “Easy,” George whispered.

  Thank fuck it’s him.

  He took her hand and guided her down the bottom of the gardens, and all the while, she scanned the horizon until she viewed it the same way she had in Lime’s kitchen—or as best she could judge in the darkness.

  “Here,” she whispered and looked at the house. “It’s this one.”

  They crept close to the side wall of the building, then George stopped at the front corner and pressed his back to the bricks. A nearby streetlamp cast its burnt-ochre glow on the road, encroaching on the start of the grass near where they hid, threatening to expose his shoes, the hems of his trousers. She just managed to make him out, raising his finger to his lips, then he held that hand up, palm facing her: Stay there.

  George peered around the corner then moved out of sight. Beth’s pulse went haywire, and a lump in her throat did a good job of trying to suffocate her. What if he got caught? He was well able to handle himself, but if Lime saw him, he’d know she’d grassed him up, wouldn’t he? Or would he think the twins had caught a lucky break and had found him by themselves?

  George appeared again and led her along the route they’d previously taken. At the car, the leaves on the tree branches shushing in the stiff breeze, he opened the back door for her, then got in the front. Greg had switched to the driver’s seat in their absence, probably in case they needed to get away fast.

  “Drive,” George ordered.

  Beth buckled up, and Greg reversed out of the cul-de-sac, the engine complaining again. No one spoke, so the barbed silence jarred her nerves, seeming to crawl over her skin, the hairs standing on end. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself, coming to terms with the fact she’d put them all in danger by leaving the car in search of Lime’s house. She’d been stupid. Selfish. Could have ruined everything. Her instinct had screamed, though, and she’d followed its call, heedless of the consequences.

  “He lives in number seven,” George said. “Lucky for some, unlucky for him.”

  “Right.” Greg clutched the steering wheel tighter.

  George let out a derisive chuckle. “Dave’s car was out the front. Fucking novices. You’d think they’d use the garage on the other side. Utter dickheads.”

  “We’ll sort a plan.”

  George nodded. “I’m thinking we get Beth to ask them to meet her somewhere remote so she can give him the fake info. We’ll nab him then.”

  “Yep.”

  Beth shivered at the thought of her part in this. What if it went wrong? “When he rings me, what if he picks the meeting place? It’s not like I can argue the toss with him, is it.”

  Lights from outside stretched across Greg’s face in flickers. “Try to talk him out of it if it’s in a built-up area, say you’re more likely to be seen by someone who’d recognise you, and being seen means whatever he’s doing will be known to us—if he wants the upper hand, maybe he’ll listen to you. If he won’t go for that, we’ll be watching anyway, to keep you safe, and now we know where he lives, where he’s likely to take you if he has a mind to chain you up again, we can turn up there with some men and wreak a bit of havoc once we get inside. Leave the details to us.”

  “I’m just glad we finally know where the fucker lives,” George said. “He’s kept that quiet for years with no one knowing apart from his most trusted men.”

  “Hmm.” Greg sighed. “I say we scrap the meeting and just go for it. Send men to watch, and when Lime leaves the house, they follow, then we ambush him.”

  George turned his head and stared at him, mouth sagging open. “And you think I’m mental. Have you lost your marbles an’ all? There’s a reason we won’t do that, just like there’s a reason we haven’t had our blokes follow him from The Flag and getting him that way. Witnesses, CCTV, Lime on alert, watching for us. We need a remote area, like behind our warehouse, except he’ll know about that, no doubt.”

  Beth zoned out. The whys and wherefores were too much for her to handle at the minute, so she prepared herself to meet up with Lime and just had to put her trust in The Brothers. If things went wrong, they’d save her, she was sure of it.

  If they got to her in time.

  They arrived at The Brothers’ place, Greg leaving the car in the garage. She was ushered inside via the back, frowning at a black bag on the patio, showcased by the security light. Greg swiped it up, used the code to let them inside, and disappeared with it into the
living room, closing the door.

  She glanced at George.

  “He’s got a few things to burn in the woodstove.” He smiled and locked up. “Good job really, seeing as it’s chilly. We could do with a boost of heat.”

  She went to bed, telling herself she didn’t want to know what he was burning.

  It was probably safer that way.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Close to midnight, Richie sat in his recliner in the living room, cradling his cut-crystal glass. Dave sprawled on the sofa, head propped up by a mound of red velvet cushions. Despite saying they should keep off the radar, they’d had a busy evening, visiting all the places left on the list, threatening the remaining business owners to come to them now if they knew what was good for them. It wouldn’t be long before he took over The Estate anyway, so what was their problem, holding back?

  The dickheads didn’t know what side their bread was buttered. All those who didn’t comply with his request would be dealt with. A nice little warning wouldn’t go amiss. They’d soon behave once they were minus some fingers. He’d like to see that Simon bloke in the little shop prodding the till buttons then.

  He cracked up laughing at the imagery.

  “Having a moment?” Dave asked.

  “Something like that.”

  The telly played, some action film Dave had put on, but Richie paid it no mind. He had enough action in his life without watching it on the screen an’ all. Dave, though, he was a bloodthirsty bastard, always needing more—more gore, more violence. A bit like George Wilkes used to be when he’d worked for Cardigan, intent on harming people to the max when just a broken arm would do.

  Dave sipped some whiskey, the ice chinking against the glass. “When are we meeting up with Beth?”

  “I need to check if she’s found anything out yet, whether she’s even got herself in with them. It might take time. None of our men have seen her.” He rose and walked out to his office, unlocking the desk drawer and retrieving the phone with a pay-as-you-go SIM. It only had her number saved, so he switched it on.