Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  Charles sighed and got out of his classic red Jaguar. He walked up the path that cut a strip out of the green on either side. Was she at a window, watching him? Or was she still in bed if she serviced men for a living until the wretched hours?

  He took the stairs to the first floor and walked along the balcony, nose turned up at the…lower-classness of the place, how people packed inside most likely, women with too many kids and not enough benefits. He’d represented plenty—“I didn’t mean to steal the nappies, but I had to…”—and hadn’t enjoyed it. Scum like that, who couldn’t pay their own way, well, they were the dregs of society. Some said he ought to have compassion, that because he’d been brought up with money, he couldn’t possibly understand going without, where even the basics weren’t within your grasp.

  Well, some could mind their own business, couldn’t they. He had his opinions, and he’d stick to them, all the while presenting a kind front. And besides, look at Aniyah. She’d been one of the dregs once upon a time but had worked to pull herself out of the muck and into the shiny and new. Why couldn’t everyone else in that situation do the same? There was no excuse.

  He knocked on her door, annoyed he had to do it—one, that he had no say in the matter, and two, that he didn’t have a key, that she wasn’t still his. Mind you, he wouldn’t choose to step foot inside a flat like these, so therefore wouldn’t want a bloody key, but it bugged him nonetheless.

  She must be in bed—no answer.

  He knocked again, getting livid, especially as some skinny runt of a woman opened her own door and poked her head out, a turtle in its rancid, poverty-stricken shell. He shuddered and ignored her, rapping on the door again.

  “She’s not in, mate.”

  He bristled. “I rather gathered that.”

  “Fuck me, a hoity-toity one.” She laughed and leant back on the doorjamb, one arm across her middle, the elbow of the other propped on it, cigarette filter loose between two Twiglet fingers. “She left earlier. With a suitcase.”

  Shit. “Oh?” He turned to her fully.

  “Ah, see, you’re interested now.” She puffed on her cigarette. “Always the same with your sort. Look down your noses at us, but when we’re useful, you’re all ears. There are people like you who rely on people like me. Your type like sniff, and my type provide it.”

  His cheeks flushed. How had she known he’d tried cocaine? Did he have a certain look about him? “I apologise. I’m in a hurry so a bit testy.”

  She smiled, smug. “Apology accepted.”

  He changed his tone. “Which direction did she drive in—presuming you watched her go?”

  “You presumed right, I did watch her, but her car’s still down there, look.”

  He turned to stare down at the car park, no clue which car was hers. “Right. So…?”

  “She got in another one.”

  “A taxi?” He held his breath.

  “Nope.”

  Frustration set in, and he blew air out. “What then?”

  She glared at him as if wondering whether to continue talking since he’d snapped again. “Now that, I won’t tell you. If I did, well, I’d be without a paddle on that not-so-charming watery issue called Shit Creek, wouldn’t I.”

  This was useless. She was messing him about and wouldn’t tell him anything. “Fine. Thanks for your time.”

  He stormed off, his vision fuzzy at the edges—fear of what would happen next if he didn’t get hold of Aniyah? He didn’t care at the minute, just wished he wasn’t…fucking…here…having to deal with this. In his car, he geared himself to up phone Johnny, all the while looking around, wondering if anyone else had seen Aniyah leave and might be willing to tell him who she’d gone with.

  Actually, no, that’s not my job.

  He prodded Johnny’s icon in his contact list and held the phone to his ear, listening to the ringing. There were four sets of two, then Johnny barked a hello.

  Charles held back a retort. “It’s me.”

  “I realise that, you toffee-nosed twat. There’s this thing called technology, and it just so happens to bring your name up on my screen.”

  Very funny, you absolute wretch of a man. How he wished he could say that out loud, tell Johnny to go and play with the traffic. “She’s not in. Left earlier with a suitcase.” Take that, why don’t you.

  “You what?” Johnny snarled.

  “She left earlier—”

  “I heard you the first fucking time, dickhead.”

  I know.

  “Who told you this?” Johnny demanded.

  Charles thought of the woman’s attitude and made the decision to let her face whatever the consequences were for not giving him details. She’d need that paddle, maybe a life jacket, too. “Her next-door neighbour, some blonde skinny thing, about thirty. Said Aniyah didn’t go in her car but with someone else. She wouldn’t tell me who.”

  “Which side does the woman live? Fifteen or seventeen?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Right.”

  The line went dead.

  Shit.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  In his office in the block, Kevin sighed. It looked like shit was on the murky horizon—Johnny wasn’t best pleased. He’d ended whatever phone call he’d had and slapped his phone on the desk, anger stiffening his every move.

  Kevin really ought to utilise the block better, rent some of the other units out perhaps, give his ‘business’ there a more authentic feel amongst the new ones. As far as anyone was aware, he ran a cleaning company, Luxury Suds. Funny, because by one of those delicious quirks of fate life sometimes threw at you, his sole employee at the minute, Helen, was the woman who cleaned for The Brothers. And they had no idea. George had phoned about a cleaner, and when he’d given his name, Kevin had stopped himself from laughing there and then.

  He hadn’t questioned Helen about the men yet, what their home was like inside, how secure it was, whether they had meetings there, stuff like that. She’d only been with the twins two months, and he’d wanted her to settle in.

  She must have by now. Mental note: Get her talking. Offer her a bonus to snoop.

  “What the fuck’s gone on now?” Kevin asked Johnny, weary.

  Johnny slapped his forehead, clearly fucked off. Annoyance rolled off him, his cheeks flaring pink. “That was the posh prick.”

  “And?”

  “Aniyah’s not in.”

  Kevin shrugged. What was the big deal? “So? He’s only asking her out for a meal. Can’t he go back later? She’s probably gone shopping or whatever. People tend to do that sort of thing.”

  “Sarky bastard. No, she’s gone-gone, as in, with a suitcase.”

  Oh. Now that wasn’t good. If Kevin had a penchant for hurting himself like Johnny did, he might have slapped his own forehead. Thankfully, he didn’t. He had the homeless to take shit out on, and in the absence of Martin, that meant Kevin needed something to calm him down in the interim.

  Had Charles fucked up? Had him visiting The Angel shit the life out of her, and now she was running again? He imagined her getting the jitters, going home after work last night, packing, and scooting out of London.

  I swear, if that’s the case, the knob is dead.

  “And that’s not all.” Johnny paced in front of the desk, a hand jammed into his hair. He tugged at the strands.

  He’ll go bald if he isn’t careful.

  Johnny stopped to kick the wall. “She didn’t go in her car but someone else’s.”

  Who does she trust enough these days? “How did he find that out?”

  “From a neighbour.”

  “Ah, so Charles has some sense.” But did he let on more than he should’ve?

  “Hmm.” Johnny gave his hair one last yank then lowered his hands and clenched them together in one big fist. “Are we paying her a visit? The neighbour, I mean.”

  Kevin thought about no man in the attic. “Yep.” He stood and cracked his knuckles. “I assume from your side of the conversation
with him, you know which flat she’s in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Kevin unlocked a store cupboard and selected their outfits for the visit. He threw some dark-blue overalls at Johnny.

  “I’m glad it’s that kind of visit,” Johnny said. “She needs nudging to open her gob.”

  “Yeah.” Plus I fancy getting in the thick of it for once.

  They got dressed, parked black beanies on, tucking their hair beneath, and changed from their nice shoes into chunky black boots, steel toecaps for if they needed to give the neighbour a kicking, which usually persuaded people to talk. Next came fat dark-brown moustaches, thick-rimmed specs, and gloves. The last item to come out of a locked box went straight into the pocket of Kevin’s overalls.

  The steel toecaps might not be needed.

  A sense of power came over him, settling into his muscles, his bones, and giving him a measure of calm. It’d be a while since he’d been on the front line, scaring people, sucking in the sight of fear in their eyes. Yeah, the homeless were a nice diversion, but going out in the field had a different kind of thrill to it.

  They left the block, and Johnny all but jumped in a small white van they had parked around the rear for this sort of occasion. From the back, Kevin selected peel-away decals and slapped them on the sides, smoothing his palm over them to eliminate any air bubbles. Now the van belonged to a company, the decals with the image of a dripping tap, PORTER’S PLUMBING beneath, plus a phone number that went nowhere, all in a fetching shade of red.

  They were as ready as they’d ever be.

  Adrenaline pumped Kevin up, and his stomach flipped over. Back to his roots, the old days when he’d just started out with Jerry.

  Johnny drove them to the flats. They reminded Kevin of his youth—the houses did, too, as did the street. Council tenants with some buyers sprinkled in, a few nice gardens, others tatty. The same went for cars, relatively new against battered old bangers decorated with rust on the wheel arches and dirt on the number plates. A hopscotch grid chalked out on the pavement brought a smile.

  Nostalgia hit him, and he remembered watching Aniyah through the living room window when she played outside, those little fuckers, Peter and Olivia, taunting her for the colour of her skin. He’d bet every street had children like those in them, parents teaching them their nasty ways, and they’d grown into adults who’d learnt not to voice their displeasure, their contempt, hiding it behind the I’m Not Racist card while seething within, dying to say something, except the law prevented them.

  Bastards.

  Still, at least Peter and Olivia hadn’t quite made it into adulthood, where they’d have spread their hate on all the Aniyahs in the pocket of their divisive world. Kevin had done it for her, to show he cared, although Aniyah had no idea.

  What was the point then?

  Maybe he’d tell her next time he saw her, let her realise there was another reason for her to do as she was told, the burden of their deaths hanging heavy around her neck, and, like before, tell her if she didn’t obey, her father would be next.

  That threat would never get old.

  Johnny parked round the back of the flats beside some overstuffed wheelie bins, the front of the van hidden. It didn’t matter, hiding it, but what did was ensuring no one clocked them coming and going. A bit difficult with all the windows, but given the measures they’d taken, it’d go some way to throwing folks off. They’d remember the decals, the way they stood out, over who’d been inside it.

  There was a back entrance to the block that led to a communal foyer with a wall-mounted post pickup point, and luckily, the woman they were after lived on the first floor, so minimal steps and minimal chances of being seen. Not that he gave a shit, they were in disguise, and the van had fake plates, ones he’d ditch later.

  “Ready?” Johnny asked.

  “Always am.”

  They got out, Johnny going to the back of the van to get the metal toolbox out, blue to match the overalls. Appearances mattered when creating illusions. It was the small things people noticed, and those small things brought normality and erased any thought of something being ‘off’ before it had a chance to germinate and grow, an unruly weed they didn’t need in their heads. People just continued with their mundane or busy day. Kevin asked himself if he’d leave this solely to Johnny or whether he’d join in, getting his hands dirty, but the gun in the overalls’ deep pocket meant he’d subconsciously already made his decision. A shooter over a kicking from the boots, nice and easy. Quick.

  Johnny led the way and, inside the foyer, they stood for a second, Kevin listening, letting the ins and outs of the adventure ahead settle inside him. Fuck, he’d missed this lark.

  He gave Johnny the nod.

  Johnny checked the post wotsit. “Says here her surname’s Nicholson.”

  “Right.”

  They walked up the stairs, Johnny in front, heads down, even as they went along the balcony. He stopped outside number seventeen, and they stood side by side, smiles in place, just some jolly plumbers, madam, nothing to worry about. Let us in so we can ask questions then kill you.

  Kevin knocked quietly. No need to alert other neighbours. In their practised move of old, they turned their backs to either side of the balcony, their sides close together, forming the point of an arrow with their bodies so no one could see the resident or what happened to her—if she didn’t let them in.

  A scrawny bint answered, her blonde hair in need of a wash. It was that greasy you could fry chips on it, and Kevin’s smile turned genuine. It was something Mum would have said—had said about Aniyah’s mother once or twice, but in a way that meant she was worried for her friend, that things were bad and going downhill fast. She hadn’t said it to be bitchy.

  “Yeah?” she said, a just-lit fag in hand. Smoke coiled up and past her ear. It had seven studs in it, various fake jewels. Ruby, emerald, sapphire and the like.

  Kevin might buy Aniyah some real ones if she was a good girl.

  “Ms Nicholson? Plumbers from the council, love,” Johnny said. “Sorry to bother you, but we’ve got to check all the stopcocks. There’s been reports of some leaking, the water dripping into the flats below. A bugger on the electrics, a fire hazard, so we need to ensure yours is okay. Wouldn’t want you burning to death, would we.”

  No, shot to death is fine.

  “Mine’s all right,” she said. “And the name’s not Nicholson. That was the bitch who lived here before me. Left a load of unpaid bills an’ all. I even had bailiffs round, can you believe that? Some people don’t give a fuck, do they.” She eyed them up and down. “Bloody Nora. What are you two, paedos? Who the fuck has moustaches like that these days? Fugging hell, it’s like I’ve walked into the seventies.” She let out a cigarette-enhanced laugh.

  Kevin didn’t like being thought of as a nonce. A prickle of irritation burned at the top of his spine. She’d pay for that comment alone.

  Johnny reached into the toolbox and produced a fake council lanyard, holding it up so she could inspect it. “Look, it’ll only take us a second, then we’ll be off next door.”

  She grunted. “Good luck. Sandra’s on holiday, and the other woman must have gone, too, because she left with a suitcase. It’s all right for some.”

  Kevin hated that phrase, like if you went on holiday, you somehow had to feel guilty for those who couldn’t, when you’d worked hard for your money and the nice things it could buy you. Like this woman here was entitled to a holiday, they were a right in life, the same as eating. Nah, if you could afford to go somewhere, good for you. If you couldn’t, fucking work harder, and if you didn’t want to toil for it, shut your sodding mouth.

  He breathed deep to get a handle on his emotions. He shouldn’t have let Martin go so early.

  “Right,” he said. If he wasn’t assertive, they’d be out here all day—more chance of being clocked by nosy neighbours. “Stopcock under the kitchen sink, is it?” He pushed past her, into the flat, his nose registering the state of the place
before he did. It stank like old takeaways and cigarette smoke, the hallway carpet owning a liberal sprinkling of dirt and dust fluff. It hadn’t seen a hoover for days.

  “Oi,” she said, “you can’t just barge in. I said my stopcock’s fine.”

  Kevin ignored her and entered a kitchen on the right. The woman didn’t know how to clean, or she couldn’t be arsed. Dirty plates, cups, glasses, pizza boxes strewn about. The table was full of washing, and not in neat piles either, instead a jumble that reminded him of going to the church sale with Mum. And as for Mum, she’d have a fit at this mess. It was like Aniyah’s house back in the day. He pitied any kids the woman may have, coming home from school to live in this squalor.

  Finding her dead. Like Aniyah did with her mum.

  The woman who wasn’t called Nicholson came in and pointed to the cupboard beneath the sink. “Go on then, get on with it. Seems you’re going to anyway, with or without my say so.”

  Anger reared its beautiful head inside Kevin, but he smiled and opened the doors. Got on his knees and removed some cleaning products, though why they were there he didn’t know. Flash, Cif, pine bleach, it wasn’t like she used them, was it. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Johnny entering and closing them in.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she screeched, waving her fag hand about at Johnny. “I’d prefer that open, thanks.”

  I don’t care what you prefer.

  Johnny pressed his back to the door and let go of the toolbox. It dropped to the floor, the items inside clattering. He glanced at Kevin—You or me?—and Kevin indicated himself. From behind the cupboard door, he eased the gun with the silencer out of his pocket. It wouldn’t deaden all the sound, but it didn’t matter. With Aniyah gone, and this Sandra, whoever the fuck she was, no one would hear anything either side anyway unless someone else walked past when he fired the shot.

  That would be a cruel twist of fate, and an inconvenience.

  “Shut up and listen,” Johnny told her. “Aniyah, the woman in number sixteen. Tell me about when she left.”