Revenge (The Cardigan Estate Book 1)

by Emmy Ellis

  Jack and Fiona looked at Leona, aghast.

  “We wouldn’t be able to afford it,” Jack said. “Sorry, love, but we’ll just have to settle for running it.”

  “You don’t know what I mean, do you? I’m giving it to you.”

  “Giving?” Jack’s eyes widened. “No, Leona, it’s too generous an offer. We can’t possibly—”

  “You can. My father thought a lot of you, Jack. Take it as an inheritance from him. Please?”

  Their beaming faces said it all.

  “That’s settled then. It’s yours. I’ll get all the necessary paperwork sorted out. Good luck to you.” Leona swung out of the pub, feeling like a ten-foot goddess.

  The next step in her plan was in place. She’d go to the market, much as it grated her, to buy some secondhand clothes. She’d dress up and follow Jonathan around for the day. Tomorrow would be good.

  Leona found the shabby market situated not far from The Eagle. The air smelt different here, with its distinct cabbage odour. She shuddered as she rounded a corner, confronted by a sight she most abhorred: milling crowds poking around on the stalls.

  She held her breath for as long as she could, and when she found herself bursting to breathe, she did so through her mouth so she wouldn’t smell the disgusting winkles and cockles from the fishmonger’s van.

  She slitted her eyes and stomped straight to the secondhand clothes stall. She rummaged through the piles like someone possessed. What a fool she’d been, agreeing to marry him. At last, she found what she was looking for: an old tan rain mac, belted at the middle, which had definitely seen better days, and a floral scarf, large enough to wrap around her head and tie under the chin. She’d be giving that a good scrub before she let it anywhere near her hair.

  * * * *

  The following morning, in the old clothing, Leona shuddered. As ready as she was ever going to be, she left the house, walking quickly in case any of the neighbours saw her in her get-up. She felt stupid in her disguise, but if a disguise was what it was, no one would know it was her, would they? She took out an old pair of her father’s reading glasses, dark-rimmed and unflattering. She’d removed the lenses, as with them on she saw everything as if it were right in front of her.

  She put her head down, her hands into her pockets, and arrived opposite The Eagle, hiding in a doorway. She held herself rigid when he emerged from his house right on time. She hoped he wouldn’t use the car. It would be silly really, seeing that the brewery was only down the road and round the corner.

  He walked off, much to her relief. She kept a discreet distance, frowning once he turned into the brewery gates. What had she expected? Not to have to wait around in the freezing cold, that was for sure. But wait she would. It was what she needed to do.

  What if he left later and met Rebecca? She’d deal with that if it came to it. No point in getting all het up until you had to, was there.

  But Leona always got het up before she had to.

  Chapter Eighty-Seven

  Jonathan left the brewery at lunchtime. On seeing Sonny enter The Eagle, he went to join his old friend for a quick drink.

  “How’s your head after I saw you last?” Sonny said.

  “It’s all right now, but the next day it was banging.”

  “Serves yourself right. It was self-inflicted. No sympathy for you.”

  “Hark at him, who must have a hangover every bloody day.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Nah, I drink in moderation, see. Never go over the top, that’s my motto. Anyway, my missus wouldn’t be happy seeing me staggering in of a night, pissed as a fart. I’m lucky she lets me out every evening as it is.”

  Jonathan took a long pull on his pint. “I told Leona I wanted shot of her. The annulment’s going through at the moment.”

  “Thank God for that. Let’s have another drink to celebrate.”

  “Just a pint. I’m not drinking whiskey again if I can help it.”

  Chapter Eighty-Eight

  So he spent his lunchtimes getting drunk, did he, while Leona visited poorly people in their hospital beds. Well, he’d be none of her concern soon.

  She still huddled in the doorway, hungry. A car slowly came down the road. The same car that had stopped to let her pass at her father’s funeral.

  Shocked into stillness, she watched Jonathan come out of the pub and make his way towards the car. He opened the driver’s door, and out came the woman who Leona despised more than anyone else in the world.

  Rebecca Lynchwood.

  Wasn’t I right all along? Didn’t I say he’d been having an affair with her? Hadn’t he blatantly denied it?

  Her anger rose as the pair of them went into Jonathan’s house. Just what did they get up to in there?

  As if she needed telling.

  Now she knew the truth, she turned out of the doorway and headed for home, ripping the headscarf off and shoving it in her pocket. She snatched the glasses away from her face, giving the bridge of her nose immediate relief from where they’d been pinching, then she let herself break down. Sobs racked her body, and tears streamed. Passersby looked at her, some bewildered, some with sympathy, but all with the aloofness that said she was nothing to do with them.

  Chapter Eighty-Nine

  Mickey sat in front of Debbie in The Eagle. She’d already told Jack and Fiona her plan, and Jack especially was more than eager to help her out. Everyone on The Cardigan Estate knew who she was—gossip had gone round she was Cardigan’s widow if only in name—and people respected her more now they knew he’d left her The Angel. She had to be special for that to happen, so in his honour, they’d keep their traps shut about seeing her here if they knew what was good for them. One word from her to The Brothers, and they’d be silenced if they blabbed.

  The twins had taken over, and good luck to them. The job suited them down to the ground.

  “What do you want?” Mickey glanced about, shifty, as if he sensed a trap.

  She’d have to steer him clear him of that notion.

  Until she wanted to enlighten him.

  She smiled her Peony smile. “With Cardigan and Shirley gone, I got to thinking.”

  He stiffened and looked at her, wary. “What about?”

  “We’re at loose ends, you and me.”

  “Eh?”

  “You used to fuck Shirley, I fucked Cardigan.” She shrugged. “If you’re not interested…” She made to get up and leave.

  He flashed his arm out and gripped her wrist. “Wait. I get what you’re saying now.”

  She smiled again, despite internally cringing at Mickey’s scar. It was worse than Shirley’s. Whoever had sewn it up did a shit job. She leant forward to whisper, all for show. “We can’t do anything at our own places.” She paused. “Or the parlour. People would have my guts for garters if they saw us together. They’d say I was dancing on Cardigan’s grave.”

  Mickey darted his gaze to Jack, who stood behind the bar staring at them.

  “So why meet here then, you daft cow?” Mickey frowned. “Jack’s the last person who ought to cop an eyeful of us.”

  She lowered her sights to his hand around her wrist. “Maybe you shouldn’t be doing that.”

  He took it away.

  “And besides,” she went on, “he thinks I’m here to ask you about killing Cardigan.”

  Mickey reared back, eyes wide. “It fucking wasn’t me.”

  She pretended to believe him. “Do you think I’d offer you a shag or ten if I thought it was?”

  He relaxed. “Suppose.”

  She laughed quietly.

  “What’s so bleedin’ funny?” he asked.

  “It’s just that Jack has no idea how I’m going to play him. How we’re going to play him.”

  “What do you mean? I fucking hate being kept in the dark, so spit it out.”

  “We’re going to fuck in his cellar.”

  “What?” Mickey said that a bit too loudly.

  “Shh. He thinks I’m going to take you down there and
force the truth out of you, but we know better, don’t we.” She gave him another Peony smile, the type she’d only ever reserved for Cardigan—and hated herself for it, but needs must.

  “So what happens when we both come back upstairs? He’ll want to know what I said.”

  “I’ll say I don’t think it was you, that someone else killed Cardigan. Bloody simple really. You get off scot-free, and me and you can be left alone to meet up in secret. I quite fancy an illicit affair, don’t you, something only me and you know about. And don’t go telling Harry either. I don’t want him knowing my business.”

  Mickey grinned, his second smile lifting in a macabre way. “Yeah, I could do with a bit of excitement. Come on then.”

  Debbie could have danced. Mickey was so bloody gullible. Like she’d ever want to shag him. Still, his cock was doing the talking at the minute, so she led the way to the door marked PRIVATE, giving Jack an obvious nod so Mickey would think she was doing what she’d promised the landlord.

  She led the way down a corridor, then opened a door on the left. The smell of the cold cellar seeped out, plus the hum of the machines in there. She moved down the stairs. A glance to the right told her two men hid, crouched behind a stack of silver barrels beneath a tarpaulin so Mickey didn’t clock them. Jack had let them know someone would need disposing of, and they were more than happy to do it.

  What she’d have to do next soured her stomach, but she’d done it before, separating herself from what she was doing with the many men she’d entertained, going to that safe haven inside her head where nothing could touch her, only coming back into the real world once they’d finished pawing her.

  She waited for him at the bottom of the steps, anger rising at his smug grin. The hiss of a mechanism releasing and beer chugging through a pipe into the pump on the bar was a sound she’d forever associate with this moment. She was here, avenging Cardigan’s death, and if it was the last thing she ever did, she’d die a happy woman.

  “What do you like?” she asked when Mickey stood in front of her.

  “A blow job would be nice. Best to do something quick to seal the deal. I don’t fancy getting too engrossed, what with Jack being upstairs. He could come down any minute.”

  “He won’t. I told him to give me time.”

  “Still, just suck me off.”

  Perfect. She lowered to her knees, getting busy, and while Mickey was off wherever he went inside his head when he had sex, she felt in her bag for the knife. Curled her fingers around the handle. Glanced up to make sure he had his eyes closed.

  They were.

  She eased her mouth off him and positioned the blade. Took him in hand instead. And sliced that fucker clean off.

  His screams were the best kind of music, the type that got your bloody pumping, happiness flowing through you. She stood with his piece of flesh in one hand, the knife in the other, and stared at him.

  He covered his groin, crying, gasping, looking down at his hands covered in blood then back up at her in shock. “What…what the fuck, Deb?” Each word came out as separate sobs.

  She stabbed him in the face, again and again, so fast he didn’t have time to raise his hands to stop her. Then he did, and she took that moment to plunge the knife in the area of his heart. He staggered backwards, his shirt turning crimson, his cheeks ribbons of skin and claret, and fell against a barrel. Down he went onto the concrete floor, his blood staining it, pumping out of his chest to cover all the material on show between the fronts of his jacket.

  For a moment he just stared at her, mouth working as if he had so much to say but his tongue wasn’t helping him out to speak the words. Good, she didn’t want to hear anything from him except the death rattle.

  “That’s for killing Cardigan,” she said. “An eye for an eye, isn’t that what he used to say?”

  “It…” A red arc spurted from his mouth, staining his teeth, his chin.

  “Save it. I’m not fucking interested.”

  “Wasn’t…”

  Then he took a shuddery breath, and it came back out twice as shaky, a wheeze accompanying it. She moved closer, knelt in front of him, and leant forward so his final breath went right in her ear. He took a sip of air, but it didn’t make a return journey.

  She smiled, imagined Cardigan saying, “Thanks, Treacle”, and let the tears fall.

  Debbie sat like that for maybe a minute, then stood and retreated a few steps.

  “You can come out now,” she said, turning in the direction of the barrels where the men hid.

  The tarpaulin rustled, and The Brothers appeared, coming over to stand beside her. They stared over at Mickey.

  “Oh, fuck me,” George said.

  “Bollocks,” Greg muttered.

  “What?” Debbie looked from one to the other.

  “I heard you say to him this was for killing Cardigan.” George scrubbed at his chin.

  “Yes…” She stood tall, proud of what she’d done.

  “Slight problem,” George said.

  Debbie frowned and shoved her hands on her hips. “Why?”

  Greg and George peered at each other, as if reading what the other was thinking. “It wasn’t him,” they said together.

  And Debbie’s rage exploded. “You fucking what? Everyone’s saying it was him.”

  “It wasn’t.” George shook his head. “Still, we’ll clear up the mess, per the plan.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t Mickey?” she asked.

  “We just do.” Greg patted her shoulder.

  George walked over and kicked Mickey’s leg. “You could look at it this way. You got him back for Shirley.”

  There was that, but now there was someone else out there she had to find.

  And she would. However long it took.

  Chapter Ninety

  In Jonathan’s house, Rebecca clasped her hands in her lap. She sat in the old battered armchair by the fire as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I would’ve thought you’d have been to our house long before now, but I’m wondering if you love Gracie like you say you do. After her guessing you were married, and you not coming round to make the peace, she and I were…well, I don’t know what we were thinking.”

  “I was going to come and see you today to explain,” he said. “I didn’t intend for her to find out, but I didn’t have the heart to lie anymore.”

  “You could have told a little white lie, just to save her getting hurt. She’s in a right mess,” Rebecca said. “She’s keeping the baby, but as for seeing you, I think you’d have to go a long way to make her forgive you. You don’t know how hard it’s been for me not to jump to your defence in telling her that Leona is an old hag you hate, and you only married her because of the circumstances. As I told you, I’ve kept my mouth well and truly shut on the subject of knowing about your marriage. I won’t become involved in that. I’ll lose my daughter’s trust, if not lose her altogether.”

  “Do you think she’ll see me, to let me at least try to explain?”

  “Look, what I’ll do is see how the land lies. I’ll tell her I bumped into you today, and you explained all about your marriage. What is going to happen, though, Jonathan?”

  This was at least something he could say which might tip the scales in his favour. “I’ve been and arranged an annulment. She’s signed it, but it might be a while.”

  A look of horror passed over her face. “A while?”

  “Hmm.” He changed the subject. “It’s funny, but since I moved back here, I’ve found out more about Leona than I did when I lived there. She’s been left all the pubs but one, and a little bird told me she’s selling them, bar The Eagle.”

  “She’s selling?”

  She gave him a weird smile, but he didn’t question it. There were more important things to do. Like getting back with Gracie.

  Chapter Ninety-One

  The letterbox clattered, and Leona winced at the sound of the post plopping on the mat. Out in the hallway, she scooped the letters up and went
back to her seat in the living room. There it was, the cream envelope, peeping out at her from between the other smaller ones. Did she really need to read it? Contemplating putting it into the fire, she changed her mind. Curiosity got the better of her. She took out the bumpy note. Lots of glue again.

  NON-CONSUMMATION? IT DOESN’T SURPRISE ME.

  WHO’D WANT TO TOUCH YOU?

  That hurt. It really hurt.

  She threw the paper into the fire, determined not to be upset by the malicious notes any longer. She pressed on with sorting out the other letters. By the time she’d read the last one, she’d had enough. Life was really throwing its worst at her.

  It was from a solicitor, informing her that dear, dense Sam was dead.

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  After months of being apart from Gracie and putting off collecting the last of his belongings from the marital home, Jonathan bit the bullet and returned.

  “How about taking me to a Christmas ball,” Leona asked. “For old time’s sake. The least we could do is become friends.”

  What was up with her, suggesting that? “I’ve only dropped in to pick up some of my things. And no, I won’t take you.”

  “Am I allowed to know why not?”

  Irritation surged inside him. “Because I’ve left you and don’t want to be seen out with you in public. Good enough reason for you?”