Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  “Right, let’s recap.” Clarke held one hand out, probably to count off the points as they went along, the twat. “One, you’re dealing with it if another man is taken to Robins’ place. Two, you’re sorting Robins and Black on Thursday. Three, you’re going after Nigel Chambers, whenever that is. And four, I need a place for this Martin fella.”

  Greg nodded. “We’ve got some empty flats, he can have one of those.” He moved to the key cupboard beside the door that led to the garage and took a set off. Going back to Clarke, he said, “The address is on that tag there. He gets it rent free for two months, time enough for the welts to heal, then he needs to pay us.”

  “How will he do that if he can’t get a job quick enough?” Clarke pocketed the keys.

  “Two months to find one now he has a permanent address is enough time.” A thought struck. “Besides, that doesn’t have to be an issue.”

  “Why?” Clarke gave him a shifty look.

  “Because Martin Galbraith can work for us.”

  “Oh, fuck me,” Clarke said. “I can’t wait to tell him.”

  The sarcasm was rife, but Greg didn’t care. Martin could either take the job and the flat or find a different workplace to pay the rent. If he was sensible, he wouldn’t bite the hand that fed him.

  “Let him know the deal, and we’ll visit him at the flat,” Greg said. “We’ll gauge what he’s prepared to do for work—and we’re not total monsters, we do have people working for us who don’t break the law. If he’s iffy about that, he can do something legal, like become our cleaner. Our current woman keeps cutting corners, and she’ll be out on her ear if she carries on. She doesn’t get her brush into the bend on the loo pedestals. Gets on my wick.”

  “Right.” Clarke necked the rest of his coffee. “You’re good men, doing this.”

  Greg laughed. “Most people wouldn’t think so. And anyway, we’re good because you get to close a case and look the hero for helping Martin out, plus Robins, Black, and Chambers are out of your hair.”

  “There is that.” Clarke rose.

  “But you forget, someone else will take over Robins’ patch, so you’ll still have shit to deal with.”

  “I’ll cross that bridge when it comes to it.”

  “Oh, and the next time you turn up here unannounced?” Greg stared at him. “I’ll break your fucking neck.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Martin sat beside Clarke in the car, his wounds screaming from the pressure of the seat. The doctor had given him some salve or other, and the detective had found him a flat and a job, explaining Martin’s new bosses were allowing him two months before he had to start work. From his experience on the street, people didn’t help you, not like those videos on Facebook of randomers taking food and sleeping bags to blokes like him. Before he’d become a statistic, someone to either be ignored or derided, he’d thought those good folks were angels. No angel had come to shine their light on him, preferring to kick him or give him abuse instead.

  Until now.

  “What work is it?” he asked.

  Clarke turned a corner, sticking two fingers up at someone who’d stepped out on the road to cross in front of them. “Got a fucking death wish, you utter plonker?” he shouted, then, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted, “That’s between you and them, but they mentioned needing a new cleaner at their house. If you don’t like what’s on offer, like if you think cleaning’s a woman’s job, you’ll have to find something else. Me personally? I like scrubbing stuff. There’s satisfaction in it, although I’m not talking about cleaning, more wiping out shits in my job. They mentioned two months being rent free.”

  Panic soured Martin’s gut. If he didn’t clean, when would he be sufficiently healed to find work now he had an address? Would he earn enough to pay London rent rates? “How will I pay for the flat after that?”

  “You can always go on the dole, get it paid for you. If it makes you feel better, apply for Jobseekers as soon as.”

  “This is just weird. Are they good Samaritans or something?”

  No one gave you something for free. There had to be a catch. His parents had loads of catches, doing his head in by springing them on him after he’d agreed to do whatever they wanted. Steal from the shop—usually bottles of booze, risking getting caught because they all had those little alarms on them now—or go and collect drugs off that smackhead fella he couldn’t stand, the one with a dripping nose. They’d said they’d give him a tenner for doing it, then when he had, they’d laughed and told him to go and fuck himself. He’d fallen for it time and time again, until he’d reached his limit and walked out.

  The streets were preferable to their mind-fucks, the squalid house.

  Clarke chuckled. “Um, in this instance, yes, you could call them good Samaritans. Look, I need to explain a few things so you understand, but it stays between you and me, right?”

  Here it comes… “What does?”

  “What I’m about to tell you. If you repeat it to another copper, I’ll deny we ever spoke about it, do you understand?”

  Martin understood all right. This bloke was bent. “Okay…”

  “Robins is a leader. Do you know what one of those is?”

  Martin had heard about those. People on the streets talked on dark nights when sleep wouldn’t come, like how leaders were meant to protect everyone on their patches, except that clearly didn’t include the homeless. Then there was getting involved with leaders; becoming a gang member, well, it wasn’t his cup of tea. He supposed if he was desperate enough, he’d do anything to survive, but he wouldn’t like it. “Yeah, I know what they are.”

  “Well, by Robins taking you off another leader’s patch—in this patch’s case, the leader comes in the form of a pair—he’s naffed them off. You were nabbed from The Cardigan Estate, which was a massive mistake on Robins’ part.” Clarke stopped at a red light and drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel.

  So I’m piggy in the middle? “Right…”

  “The men, your potential bosses, run The Cardigan Estate. Twins.”

  Panic soured his gut then streamed throughout his body. “Shit, I don’t want anything to do with them. Take me back to my street.” He’d heard about The Brothers in the nighttime tales. One of the other homeless men had told him a story about second smiles, hammers to kneecaps, and it had shit Martin up.

  “Listen to me. They’re good men—okay, they do bad shit, but I’m telling you, they have hearts. You don’t have to do anything illegal by working for them, but if I were you, I’d want to get back at Robins and Black, make them pay for what they did to me.”

  Martin couldn’t deny he was angry, that he could hurt those two if given the chance and a long enough knife. God knew he’d wanted to while being tortured. But he wasn’t strong, had lost a lot of weight, was weak most of the time, bone-tired. Then Robins had entered his life in the form of the Devil and all but broken him, and the unfairness of it, the callous way he’d whipped him then offered him food and drink, as though he was a nice person… The switch in personality confused the hell out of him, and he couldn’t get his head around it. Were The Brothers the same, the ones who were helping him? Would they turn sadistic if he didn’t do what they wanted?

  “The men who own the flat we’re going to…” Clarke drove forward at the green light. “I can’t explain it without sounding fucked in the head. They’re hardmen, ones you don’t want to be on the wrong side of, but if you’re on the right side, they’ll look after you as if you were family. Got any family, have you?”

  Martin shut out their faces, the memories. “Not anymore.”

  “Then you need one. They’ll come to see you, don’t know when, but give them a chance. If you want to help them get Robins and Black, tell me now, and I can arrange for them to see you sooner.”

  Martin thought about it for a moment. Whatever they were doing, it would involve breaking the law. Could he do that? Yes, he’d broken it on several occasions, but the kind of law-breakin
g he assumed The Brothers did was far worse than anything he could dream up. It’d involved a hefty prison sentence.

  Robins popped into his head, the whip in his hand, that weird gleam in his eyes. He remembered the strain in his arm muscles, being hung from the ceiling like that. The lash, striking him, so hot and evil, burrowing through his skin into his marrow. The laughter, the grunting, Robins panting afterwards, a massive smile stretching his sweaty face, him saying he’d made pretty patterns.

  That man needed sorting.

  “I’m in,” Martin said, frightened yet determined, although what good he’d be when he couldn’t even walk properly at the minute was anyone’s guess.

  “Thought you might be. Ah, here we are.” Clarke pulled into an empty space in a tarmac area, each white-lined slot designated to a flat, yellow painted numbers in the middle of each. “Come on, let’s get you settled. No idea if it has furniture and whatever, but knowing them, it’ll be kitted out. They have a few flats, probably used as boltholes.”

  Martin followed Clarke across the freshly cut grass, shuffling slowly, and they entered the block. In the lift, which didn’t smell of piss like the one at home, Clarke jabbed the third-floor button.

  “A doctor will no doubt come round, even though one’s seen you in the nick,” the detective said. “Rushton, his name is. He works for The Brothers.”

  “I assume he’s on their payroll, that he’s dodgy?” How many other people were? How many lived a seemingly decent life but really danced to the tune of the leaders? Did life go on casually, when beneath that carefully crafted veneer there were bad things occurring, things that didn’t come on the news?

  “Yes, you’d be surprised how many people take backhanders. They’ll look after you if you decide to go in with them. So long as you don’t fuck them about, you’re golden. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah.” Behave, do as I’m told, and I won’t get hurt again.

  The lift lurched to a stop on level three, the doors groaned open, and they stepped out into a corridor lined with four brown wooden front doors, two on each side, no glass in them, just peepholes, brass numbers above.

  “Home sweet home.” Clarke pointed to flat twelve then inserted the key in the lock. He entered, going down a white hallway, vanishing through a doorway on the right.

  Martin remained on the threshold. The lure of going inside was strong—he needed a place to stay, to get better—but he had a feeling if he went in there, his life would change forever. He’d do things he’d never even dreamt of, would have to fight with his conscience, but if The Brothers did decent shit in their corner of London, was that such a bad thing? They had to be all right sorts to give him this flat and offer a job. Okay, Martin wasn’t stupid enough to think it was all for the good of his health, they’d use him to their advantage, but if he didn’t want to get involved in the dodgy shit, he could be their cleaner, like Clarke had said.

  Martin slid one foot inside. Last chance to back out.

  He slid the second one in and moved forward. I can still turn back.

  He closed the door. I just want a place to call home.

  He hobbled down the hallway and found Clarke in a furnished living room, a fancy leather sofa and armchair, a posh sideboard, a flat-screen TV on the wall.

  This could all be his.

  Fate sealed. Martin wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kevin had turned up at the firm, asking for her?

  What the hell did he want? How had he found her?

  Charles stood there, waiting for an answer. It put pressure on Aniyah, she couldn’t think properly. Kevin was a bad lot, a kid from her childhood. Someone she should avoid. She shook. How had she thought she’d get away from that life and people like him?

  “Tell him I’m too busy to take him on.”

  Charles appeared uncomfortable. “He wasn’t pleased when I said he should have made an appointment, said he wanted to speak to you. Now.”

  Aniyah sighed. “Okay, show him in.” She’d deal with him, explain her workload, offer him another solicitor. She’d done it before, and so long as clients had representation, what did it matter who it was?

  Charles left, and moments later, a knock on the door had her jolting, even though she’d been expecting it. Kevin walked in, so different from how she remembered him at the breakfast table all those years ago, yet the same somehow—his face had matured, but it still had that spiteful expression. He was taller, wider, a man—and that was a strange, time-warped shock. He’d remained in her head how she’d last seen him, the teenager with milk on his chin, but of course he’d grown, the same as she had.

  Weirdly, she wondered how he viewed her.

  “All right, Aniyah?” He shut the door and came over to her desk, lowering to the client’s seat, one that had had countless backsides on it belonging to better people than him.

  “I have a full schedule,” she said, foregoing the ‘How are you?’ and ‘It’s been such a long time, hasn’t it?’ and ‘Should we catch up over lunch?’

  “Well, un-fill it then. We’re friends.” He leant back and slotted his fingers together over his flat stomach, two jigsaw pieces. “And you owe me for all the times my mum helped yours out—and you. If it wasn’t for her, you’d have had no clean clothes, you’d have gone around stinking more than you did.”

  The memories hit her, hard and sharp, and her eyes stung, but she was damned if she’d cry.

  Kevin smiled. “And she went round there the day your mother topped herself. Traumatised her, that did. She still has nightmares even now.”

  Aniyah went for confident over emotional. “I can’t thank Willa enough, she was good to me, but honestly, I really do have a full schedule.”

  Kevin glared at her. “You remember what I told you years ago? What I told all the kids in the street? I was going to run London. Well, I run part of it, got myself a patch through hard work and playing savvy, and I need someone to get me out of a pickle. That someone is you.”

  He ran a patch? Christ. And a pickle…that meant it was illegal. He still scared her, the way he stared her up and down, and she fought to remain professional.

  “What have you been doing?” she asked.

  “Money laundering with the Chinese.” He grinned as though it was something to be proud of, a great big tick on his dubious resumé. Look at me, I’m well clever.

  “Bloody hell, Kevin! I’m supposed to act like you didn’t do it, to fight your corner based on that.” She didn’t tell him that her lying in court for a client was the way of things, that she’d done it umpteen times before to get someone off, much as it disgusted her. She wasn’t in the position at the moment to bin off the bad ones and only represent the innocent.

  “You’re all Billy Bullshitters, you solicitors,” he said. “What’s one more time?”

  “I can’t do it. We know each other. It’s unethical.”

  He narrowed his eyes, tightening the jigsaw resting on his belly. “But who’s aware of that, eh? I’ve done my homework. If no one knows, we’re fine.”

  “The prosecution may look into whether we’ve been previously acquainted.”

  “Then you’ll make out you barely knew me as a kid. Get around it. Book me a slot to tell you all about it, and we’ll go from there. The thing is, if you don’t… Let’s just say I know where your dad lives.”

  Aniyah went cold, fear for Dad soaking into her blood. Kevin never made threats he didn’t carry through. Even as a teenager he’d kept to his menacing promises. She knew him from old, imagined he’d only got worse once she’d moved out of Mum’s, and she was stuck in his web, just waiting for him to spin the gossamer strands around her, holding her in place for when he wanted to eat her.

  And so it had begun. She’d pored over the information he’d provided, and it was clear he’d been in with the Chinese. She’d have to make it look like he hadn’t. The only thing the prosecution wouldn’t prove was where he’d put the money. Whatever
bank accounts he’d opened weren’t associated with his private or business ones—they were the only ones in his name. She wasn’t stupid, he’d have a fake identity or two which had enabled him to open off-shore accounts, but the Chinese hadn’t been so careful. She almost felt sorry for them.

  Regardless of any worries she had, he walked free, but the Chinese didn’t. When she left the court building an hour after the trial had ended, going to her car, Robins followed her.

  “Dinner,” he said, a hand on the driver’s-side door, preventing her from opening it. “To thank you.”

  “I don’t need any thanks.” She couldn’t look at him. It was over. As far as she was concerned, she’d done her bit and could now disassociate herself from him.

  “I assure you, coming to dinner is to your advantage.”

  She glared at him. “I don’t want anything to do with you. I did what you wanted, you’re free, so please, take your hand off the door.”

  “I got off because of that technicality, not because of your hard work.”

  That was true, but still. “Kevin…”

  “Dinner. I’ll pick you up. Not taking no for an answer. Your dad would be safer if you just do…as you’re…fucking…told.”

  Chills sped up her spine. He stepped away, staring at her, and she fumbled with opening the door, her fear showing. Cursing herself for letting him see her vulnerability, she sat in the driver’s seat and made a play of looking inside her briefcase until he’d walked from sight.

  Then she locked herself in, dipped her head, and rested it on the steering wheel, taking deep breaths. She’d go to dinner, act professional, and end it there.

  Later, in a black dress, suitably sombre for the wretched occasion, she waited outside her house for him to arrive. Thoughts of him knowing where she lived, him being a leader, gave her body goosebumps, even more so when his car coasted to a stop in front of her. She opened the passenger door and peered inside. He was alone, so that was something. His cohort, Johnny, gave her the creeps with his scarred earlobe, and she’d half expected him to be there as some sort of menacing escort.