Revenge (The Cardigan Estate Book 1)

by Emmy Ellis

  Being fucking amicable to butter us up for the job. Wanker.

  Greg had a gut feeling they should refuse before they even knew what it entailed, but George…

  Cardigan clapped. “Right, lads. I’ve got a proposition for you. How about getting Mickey Rook again? I don’t think he got the message last time. Word’s out that he’s planning to have me done over.” He laughed, loud and false. “Now, we all know how silly that is, don’t we, but you can’t take any chances, can you. What d’you say?”

  George looked over at Greg and nodded.

  George took the lead. “What d’you want doing? Then we’ll let you know if we’re prepared to do it.”

  George must have bad vibes, else he would’ve accepted the job there and then, not wanting to know any details until the agreement had been signed and the first instalment paid.

  “That’s unusual for you, George.” Cardigan appeared startled.

  “I just want to know what it entails first. Isn’t a crime, is it?”

  “No, but being rude to me is, but I’ll do you a favour and let it slip.” Cardigan’s brow bunched, and his eyes narrowed.

  Greg had had enough of this sort of lark.

  How big does Cardigan think he is? No one would touch us if he approached them do us in. He’s living in cloud-cuckoo-land, that one.

  “How gracious of you,” George said, rigid shoulders and tight fists indicating his rising anger. “Now, what d’you want doing?”

  “Temper, temper.” Cardigan paused. “Goes without saying I want you to actually finish Rook off. But first, cut off all his fingers, one by one. Just leave him with the thumbs-up on both hands, like he’s in agreement with what’s been done. Then, when he’s really in pain, you can lop off his cock and bollocks and leave him for a few minutes. Once he’s suffered, you can finish him off any way you like. How’s that sound?”

  George glanced at Greg.

  I don’t want anything to do with this job. But, shit, if George gives the nod, I’ll join him whether I like it or not.

  George stared straight at Cardigan. “We’ll do it. For a price.”

  Cardigan smiled. “Name it.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  August. Bloody hot.

  Vinny, uncomfortable in the heat belting into the alley from the vicious sun directly overhead, got angrier by the minute. How come it was taking so long for Peony to decide whether he could go back to the parlour or not? He wasn’t stupid, the answer was no, and Shirley was avoiding telling him—avoiding him. He didn’t need all his GCSEs to work that one out.

  Why didn’t she like him? It seemed she didn’t anyway. How come she said she’d accepted his apology yet managed to stay far enough away that he could never get near her? Except that day on her steps. Sometimes, he didn’t see her leave for The Angel at her usual time, yet when he went there and asked anyone outside at the tables if they’d seen her, the answer was always: “Yep, she’s in.”

  She must be going out the back of the flats.

  Someone in her block hadn’t changed their routine, though. A bloke with floppy hair, who left about seven in the morning, got into his black BMW and drove off. Work. That was for losers, legitimate work. Vinny preferred drifting from building site to building site, cash-in-hand jobs when he felt like it while getting the dole. He was a brickie, and people always needed one of those.

  Floppy Hair would be out in a minute, so Vinny ran over the road and stood on the pavement, waiting for the bloke to come down the stairs—he had the second-floor flat, and Vinny was jealous the fella got to hear Shirley moving about upstairs. There he was, so Vinny walked along, smiling.

  The man opened the door.

  “Hold up,” Vinny said. “Leave that open for me. Want to surprise the missus.”

  “That’s what she calls herself, is it?” The bloke waited for Vinny to get to the top of the steps.

  “What d’you mean by that?”

  “Well, it depends which missus you mean. Both of them are slappers.”

  Vinny wanted to crush this dick’s face, but he needed to keep him amenable. “Those two? Fuck off. I’m with the bird on the fourth floor.”

  “Ah.” He all but skipped off in his poncy way.

  Vinny went inside, up the stairs to the third floor, putting his gloves on. Adrenaline punched through him, and he took a moment to steady himself. This was it. If Shirley didn’t phone Peony and ask her there and then if he could come back, he’d be well arsey.

  It didn’t take long to open the door with the lockpick. Problem was, Shirley had a chain on, so he’d have to kick his way inside. The woman on the top floor might normally come down to investigate, which wasn’t ideal, but her car wasn’t out the front, so maybe she’d stayed away last night.

  That just left the bitch downstairs, and he’d overheard her telling Shirley as they’d walked to The Angel the other night that she used earplugs.

  Fate. He loved it.

  One swift kick had the door flying inwards, and he stepped inside, closing it and double locking it behind him. If she ran and managed to get this far, she’d be stalled by fiddling with the Yale.

  He strode down the narrow hall.

  She appeared around a doorjamb, clutching it, her eyes wide. “Oh God…”

  “You can call me God if you like, but Vinny’ll do.”

  She disappeared inside the room. He followed, cautious in case she had a weapon. Girls like her must fear for their lives. But it was all right, he had a weapon an’ all.

  He filled the doorway. There she was, standing beside her double bed, knife pointing his way.

  “No need for that, is there?” he asked. “You’ll get me ratty if you don’t lose it.”

  She shivered, and he wondered if his ‘voice’, the one he’d used when he’d chatted shit about her face, was the catalyst for it.

  “Put it down,” he said. “No need to get funny. I just thought that if I can’t come to the parlour, I can do you here instead. Doesn’t matter where, so long as I can see you. I like fucking you.”

  She dropped the knife on the bed. “Okay…”

  “There’s a good girl. Now pick it back up again and throw it in the corner. If you lob it at me, I’ll stab you.” He dug into his pocket and took his penknife out. “With this. Bit of a sharp fucker.”

  She did as he’d asked, staring at where her knife had landed on a pile of dirty washing. Filthy cow didn’t even have a basket for it. That annoyed him, but he could fix that, train her up, and she’d be how he wanted her in no time. Compliant. Only his. Truth be told, that scar turned him on. He imagined he’d cut her, not some other lucky bastard, and visualised it every night before he dropped to sleep.

  “Get your clothes off,” he ordered, using the voice.

  She didn’t have much to remove, just a pair of flimsy pyjamas—shorts and a little top with thin straps. Pink. She seemed to like that colour if she wasn’t at work. He stared at her beauty spot above her top lip. That turned him on an’ all. The only thing missing today was her makeup. She usually used thick kohl, and coupled with her black hair, she looked proper slutty, just the way he liked her.

  Shirley folded her arms over her big tits.

  “Now don’t be doing that. I want to see the goods.”

  She lowered them. “Can you at least let me have a shower first?”

  “Nah, I want you dirty.” The idea of her sweating all night in bed… Lovely.

  “It’s the same price as at the parlour.” She stared at him, defiance in her eyes.

  He’d enjoy beating that out of her.

  “I’ve got the money,” he said.

  He didn’t.

  “Right. Get on the bed then.”

  She shouldn’t be bossing him about, she knew that. He’d told her the rules at the parlour. Why was she flouting them?

  Anger surged. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.” He darted at her, shoving her on the bed, landing on top of her. She was so small compared to him, he felt b
loody brilliant. Invincible. “I can see your scar better without makeup on.” He took a glove off and stroked the knobbly line from one side to the other, her lips a softer touch between.

  She went rigid.

  “That’s it, go stiff, I like it,” he whispered, his mouth close to hers. “Play dead.”

  Shirley bucked, turning into a wildcat, and tried to fight him off. Her eyes told him he repulsed her and she wasn’t up for this. She’d asked him to get him on the bed, and now he was there, she’d changed her fucking mind.

  Slags weren’t allowed to do that.

  A red mist descended, like it had with the other tart last year, and he forgot about training her to his standards. He found himself squeezing her neck, gritting his teeth and watching her eyes bulge, the light going out of them second by second. She didn’t get to call the shots. She was supposed to act dead so it he could fuck a corpse. Well, he’d fuck her afterwards all right.

  He’d just have to find where she kept the condoms first.

  * * * *

  With both gloves on, Vinny carried her from the shower and placed her on the bathroom floor. He dried her, then hung the towel nice on the rail, folded perfectly. Next up was taking her to the bed and arranging her. It took a while to get her in the right position and, so she didn’t fall over, he propped pillows either side of her, plus some throw cushions she must use for decoration. He didn’t see the point of those, but women were weird and liked them.

  He spent the next couple of hours cleaning her flat. In the wardrobe, he found a pop-up washing basket, the stiff linen kind. That annoyed him. Why hadn’t she used the fucking thing? He put her dirty clothes in it then prowled the rooms to make sure everything was exactly as he liked it.

  Then he sat in the living room with a cup of tea to wait out the hours.

  She needed to pass through rigor mortis before he fucked her again.

  He liked his women cold.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Not having her father to moan at in the evenings had affected Leona more than she cared to admit. When she’d lived with him, various women breezing in and out of the house had given her something to do with her mind once her daily duties were over. She’d busied herself with what she’d say to him when they were gone, and if a woman stayed overnight, she’d made things as unpleasant as she could, looking down her nose at them, especially that Debbie.

  Jonathan hardly ever stayed home, and he always seemed chirpy these days. She suspected he was seeing Rebecca. That woman, stealing her man again.

  She resolved to ask Jonathan outright if he was having an affair. She’d judge by his reaction as to whether he was telling the truth. If she thought he was lying, she’d take the necessary steps to ensure he knew his position in their marriage.

  No marriage, no business. It was as simple as that.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jonathan walked into The Eagle. Sonny propped up the bar.

  How does his wife put up with him never being at home and always in the boozer?

  The irony of that wasn’t lost on him.

  “How’s it going, mate?” Sonny asked. “Been in bed? Your hair’s all sticking up.”

  Jonathan smoothed back his hair and ducked to check his reflection in the mirror behind the bar. Appearance suitable, he said, “Yeah, I’ve been in bed. Gracie’s been round. Now keep your bloody voice down. Jack’s earwigging.”

  Sonny looked suitably told off and smirked. “You’re a saucy bugger. So, it’s love, is it?”

  “I told you, it was right from the start. Now then, I think it’s your turn to buy me a beer. I bought the last one yesterday.”

  “Memory like a God knows what, you’ve got. I thought you’d forget, because you were half-cut when you left here.”

  “I wasn’t as pissed as you might think, so get the beers in.”

  After chatting and discussing the latest events, Jonathan deemed it time he was off. A taxi sailed by as he walked out of the door, and he hailed it. Getting in, he said, “Vandelies Road.”

  The cabbie pulled off. “I hear Rook’s got a contract out on Cardigan. Dangerous, isn’t it.”

  “What?” Jonathan leant towards the open Perspex partition. Why hadn’t Sonny heard about this and passed it on? “I think you’ve got it wrong. Cardigan’s got a contract out on Rook.”

  The cabbie nodded sagely, and the journey continued in silence.

  The taxi stopped. Jonathan climbed out and went to the window to pay his fare.

  The driver waved the proffered money away. “No charge to you.”

  “Eh? Why not?”

  “Because you gave me all the information I needed.”

  The taxi sped off, leaving Jonathan reeling. The cabbie was in either Rook’s or Findley’s pay.

  Shit.

  He cast a glance in the direction of Cardigan’s house, wondering if he should tell him what had happened. Nah, best he kept out of it. He wearily went to his own home, though it didn’t feel like it. Home was where he grew up. Home was where The Eagle stood at the end of the road. Home was where Gracie visited.

  He put the key in the lock and stepped inside the hallway.

  Leona bore down on him.

  “Still awake?” he asked. “You’re usually in bed by now.”

  “Come in here. I want some straight answers.”

  With his mind still spinning from the cabbie’s remarks, he followed her into the sitting room, where she’d planted herself, feet apart, on the Indian rug in front of the fireplace.

  “Are you having an affair with Rebecca Lynchwood?” Her cheeks turned red.

  The question caught him off guard. He burst out laughing. “Me? Having an affair with Rebecca? Don’t be mental. Why would I want to saddle myself with another old bird?” The words were out before he’d had the chance to think about what he was saying.

  “Old bird? Is that what you think of me? You think it’s funny I’m upset? Well, I don’t find it in the slightest bit funny.” Her face took on a scheming look—eyes narrowed, lips pursed. “If you’re not careful who you keep company with, then you’d better suffer the consequences. If I so much as get a whiff of you being with another woman, I’ll tell my father to retract his orders for your precious beer. From what I hear, you’d be bankrupt then.”

  Jonathan stopped laughing.

  She smiled. “You don’t find it so funny now, do you, when your business is on the line. Maybe you’ll think a little more seriously before you try to put one over on me. Remember, I’m a Cardigan, and nobody messes with us.” She stormed out.

  Jonathan chuckled, regardless of her tirade. What he’d heard from the cabbie meant he’d sell his beer to other people once Cardigan was dead, his warning not to buy from him meaning nothing to them then. And as for Jonathan being remotely interested in Rebecca, it was a complete joke.

  He went to the kitchen for a glass of water.

  Seriously now, he had a think. He’d better watch himself. His happy-go-lucky attitude had been noticed by his wife, and she’d suspected an affair from that. Being that she was so paranoid about Rebecca anyway, and he’d shared Rebecca’s box at the theatre, obviously Leona had put two and two together and come up with a lot more than four.

  He almost felt sorry for her.

  Her threats about the beer orders were just that, threats. She wouldn’t risk losing him. She’d said once that she felt a different woman now she was married, and people seemed to treat her differently. No, Leona wouldn’t do any such thing, he was sure of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Vinny had waited all day for Shirley to go slack again. He’d contemplated doing her while she was stiff, but that wouldn’t work. He probably wouldn’t be able to get it up. Eleven and a half hours had passed since he’d killed her, and she’d be due at The Angel now, ready to please all the men except him.

  He used Shirley’s phone—dopey cow didn’t have a PIN—and opened the messaging app. Scrolled to Peony’s name, although she had her dow
n as Peony/Debbie. He tapped out a message, pleased with himself. If he kept this up for long enough, he could shag Shirley for a day or so—not much longer, though. She’d smell after a while like that other tart.

  He stared at the message.

  Shirley: Got some kind of bug. Sorry to leave it to the last minute, but I won’t be in for a while. Can one of the other girls take over my customers?

  He hit SEND.

  One came back.

  Peony/Debbie: Yeah. If you need anything, let me know.

  Shirley: I’ll be all right.

  Debbie must be busy, because she didn’t send another. He’d bought time before the nosy cow came snooping, maybe arriving with some bloody soup or Lucozade like his mum used to buy him as a kid when he was ill.

  Vinny switched the phone off and went into the bedroom. He gave Shirley a prod or two—she was still a bit rigid. The internet had told him it could be longer than twelve hours, and while he was antsy to get going with her, this development was to his advantage. He could play with her a bit later, until the slag from the bottom flat came home. Floppy Hair kept normal hours, so he’d be asleep when Vinny left, and the woman on the top floor still hadn’t come back.

  He was safe as houses.

  “I know I said I like you rigid, Shirl, but this is taking the piss.”

  He laughed and walked out. She had some microwave meals in the fridge. He’d have one of those to pass the time. A nice lasagne and some of those potato wedges. It beat the Super Noodles he had at his place.

  Then he had to nip out, make a nuisance of himself.

  Alibis were important.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Debbie sat behind the reception desk, shifting clients about. Shirley had messaged to say she was ill, and while Debbie felt sorry for her, the late notice meant she had to scrabble to reassign the men. Luckily, it wasn’t a night where a customer had specified Shirley, so there wouldn’t be any sad faces with her giving them to one of the others.