by Emmy Ellis
“Fuck me, I’ve already had some posh ponce asking questions. I can’t say. If I could, I would, but I’m telling you, if I do, I’ll have scrambled brains.”
“You may well have them anyway,” Johnny said.
“That a threat, is it?”
Nope.
She sighed. “Look, she left with a suitcase. I only noticed because I was filling the kettle and happened to glance out as she went past. She didn’t get in her car but someone else’s. I know who it is, and like I said, I can’t tell you. Are you council types all nosy or what?”
She didn’t get it. Didn’t get the severity of the situation. Was she doped up or something? Had to be if the gravity of them being there hadn’t hit home yet. She still thought they were there for the fucking stopcock. Kevin would have laughed if he wasn’t so arsey. She had information he wanted, and he had a feeling she wasn’t going to give it. Some people were like that, so fiercely loyal to whoever that they’d take the consequences just to prove a point.
“Best you be saying who it was,” Johnny said.
“That another threat?” She sucked on her fag. “I’m protected. I pay to be protected, because in my line of business, there are some dodgy sorts. And I’ll give you fair warning. My Teddy will be home in about ten minutes, so unless you want your heads caved in with his baseball bat, you’d better leave.”
Kevin did laugh then, and she turned to glare at him.
“You won’t be laughing when you see the size of him.” She threw her fag into the sink with the tangle of dirty shit crowding the bowl. It sizzled out in the scummy water.
“What sort of car was it?” Kevin asked. “At least tell us that.”
“Fuck off. Nine minutes until Teddy time.” She turned from Kevin and presented her back so she faced Johnny.
A flick of Kevin’s head, and Johnny stepped to one side, away from the door, scooting the toolbox along with him. Kevin raised the gun, hand steady, and aimed for the bottom of her skull. The trajectory meant the bullet would exit through her forehead.
He pulled the trigger.
A soft pfft, and the bullet went through her and the door, blood spatter spraying it, brains scrambled like she’d said they’d be, bits of it decorating the wood and the frame. Some blood had landed on Johnny, but he wouldn’t mind the spray coating one side of his face, his shoulder, his arm. She remained standing for those few seconds it took for Kevin to admire the mess he’d made, her body suspended in time as if it hadn’t realised it was dead, then Johnny took one step, reached out his arm, and poked her in the chest.
She fell backwards, cracking her head on the floor, landing in a star shape, air puffing beneath her skirt, which then settled to ride up her thighs. Her forehead was a crimson wreck, although not as nasty as it could have been if he’d used a sawn-off shotgun, and Kevin experienced not an ounce of guilt. She hadn’t given him what he wanted, simple as that.
“Nice one,” Johnny said, going out into the hallway.
Kevin joined him.
Johnny took protective shoe covers out of the toolbox and handed Kevin a pair. A well-oiled machine, they were, and they slid them on over their boots so they didn’t transfer blood to the van. They should have put them on before Kevin shot her really, but better late than never.
Johnny shut the kitchen door and pointed to the bullet hole in the wood. Kevin chuckled, and they walked out of the flat, closing the front door so the apparently sizable Teddy would need to use his key, seeing as the woman wouldn’t be opening up for him.
The trot along the balcony had the pair of them doing their usual, scoping the area without looking suspicious, entering the stairwell, moving down each step listening for neighbours, then outside to the van.
Getting in it. Driving away.
Laughing.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Teddy banged on the front door with his boot. He had his hands full, a box containing the weed, pills, and coke he’d just picked up from the supplier. It wasn’t ideal being stuck out here, vulnerable. Carla was probably off her face on some of the last lot, flaked out on sofa watching some bullshit on the telly. She’d taken to smoking weed more the past fortnight so it knocked her out.
She was a pest, his Carla, but he loved her just the same. For all her faults, she cared about him, which was more than he could say for the others he’d shared his life with in patches belonging to an adulthood where he’d drifted from one disaster of a relationship to another.
He was settled here, for the first time since he was a kid living with his nan, and he could even stretch it to say he was happy. Until Carla did shit like this and didn’t open the fucking door. She wound him up something chronic, but he wouldn’t be without her.
“Come on, woman,” he shouted, glancing up and down the balcony in case that nosy cow called Mavis poked her head out and told him to keep it down.
A couple more kicks produced nothing—Carla must be asleep—so he placed the box on the balcony floor and dug his key out of his pocket. “She knows what time of the week it is,” he muttered. “If anyone catches me out here and grasses…” But he wouldn’t do anything to her, just have a little go, then they’d get on with life as usual.
That was the thing about Carla. To the outsider, she had a gob on her, a rough way about her, but inside, she was diamond. For all his moaning, he didn’t know what he’d do if she ended it with him.
He unlocked the flat, scooped the box up, and hefted it into the hallway. He dropped it beneath the coats hanging on hooks to the left of the door, opposite the bottom of the stairs, calling out, “What have you gone and done, fallen asleep, you daft mare? Was the telly that boring?”
He chuckled, smiled at the thought of her face, slack with her dreams, her sometimes caustic mouth slightly parted. Maybe he’d get all romantic and run her a bath. She hadn’t been well lately, hence her greasy hair and the flat being a mess, the uptick in weed-smoking so she could nap away the aches of flu, and he’d been unable to help, working all hours to flog the drugs. They could get on with cleaning in a bit, together. It’d be done in no time. “Many hands make light work,” Nan used to say.
Teddy moved to the kitchen door, which was closed, and he frowned. There was hole in it, a hole he recognised, one he’d seen countless times. He’d shot ones just like it, seen others doing the same—you had to have a gun or knife on you in this business. If you didn’t shoot or stab first, you were dead.
He stared from there to the wall opposite, the one that enclosed the stairs. Same hole there, and anyone with a bit of nous about them would know someone had fired a gun in the kitchen.
Heart galloping, he turned the handle and pushed the kitchen door wide.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Carla was on the floor, staring through streams of blood that had dripped down into her eyes, onto her cheeks, her mouth. His brain registered she must have been standing for it to go south like that. And her forehead… Jesus Christ, she’d been shot from behind by a cowardly bastard who couldn’t look her in the eye and do it. A yellow-belly, the type you didn’t want to hang around, a charmed snake until it had a mind to bite. The door had to have been shut when she was in there with the killer, so had she trusted them? Or had they forced her inside and closed them in?
The idea of her panicking, frightened, brought tears to his eyes.
Someone had to have come here for the gear. A robbery. Carla wouldn’t have given them anything, she was as loyal as they came, so the only alternative was to shoot her. The thing was, all last week’s gear had run out, and Teddy dropped the money off to the supplier every morning, so they’d have left with nothing, killing her for no reason.
Teddy absently acknowledged he was calm in the face of this death, like he always was when hit with situations of such magnitude, and also, as always, he accepted the rage and tears would come later, once he’d dealt with things, found who’d done this. There was no question of phoning the police, not until he’d spoken to The Brothers, who’d be livid Carla was de
ad, on their patch, and when she’d paid for protection.
Not that it had done much good.
It was their job to find who’d done this, work for the weekly money Carla had paid them for years, but Teddy would join them, not sit idly by.
He fished his phone out and dialled their number by heart, staring at his Carla, the one woman who’d taken him for exactly who he was and hadn’t tried to change him. None of this “Cut your hair, Teddy,” or “Stop picking your nose, Teddy.” The poor cow didn’t deserve this end. Thank God she didn’t have any kids he’d have to break it to. That would be rotten, and he should know. His mum had been stabbed to death outside Tesco.
“Who’s this?” one of the twins said into his ear.
Teddy jerked out of his thoughts and into the present. “It’s Teddy, Carla’s fella.”
“Right.”
“She’s been shot. In the head.”
“You fucking what?” It had to be George to bark like that.
“I just came home with the goods, hadn’t been out long, maybe an hour, and she’s on the floor in the kitchen. They fucking shut her in there.”
“Jesus. Sorry to hear this. Don’t touch her. Get the gear out in case the police have to get involved. The woman next door in sixteen, she’s away for a bit, so break in there and stash the drugs. Someone will be round.”
“Rod Clarke?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank fuck for that. He knows about the gear.”
“Doesn’t matter, still get rid of it. He might bring that DS of his, and she’s not on the payroll, know what I mean? He’ll sort everything. If he goes the way I think he will, some of my lot will come and remove the body.”
Teddy didn’t know how he felt about that, Carla taken away, dumped in some unmarked grave, or worse, in the Thames. Could he live with the guilt? All right, she didn’t have any family or friends, no one who’d miss her except for him and the druggies who came to buy stuff, but he’d know, and that would hurt.
What would she want me to do?
‘I don’t want you to have any hassle, Teddy…’
“Fine,” he said. “It’s what she’d prefer.”
He ended the call, impotent, unable to do anything but break into next door until Clarke turned up. Carla had paid him an’ all, to turn a blind eye, giving him a small baggie of coke every week. Well, this was what happened if you took a cut. When the shit hit the fan, you had to work for what you’d been given. Clarke could deal with this mess, and Teddy would help The Brothers in finding out who the hell had dared to do this.
They’d pay, just in a different way.
The Cardigan Estate way.
Chapter Twenty-Six
George entered the kitchen and put the phone on the island after ringing Rod Clarke. He gave Greg a ‘Shit’s happened’ look then turned to Lavender. “Did you know your next-door neighbour, Carla?”
“Not really. I’ve seen her about, but I haven’t even said hello—I thought it best I kept under the radar. I think she sells drugs, going by the amount of people she has knocking on her door throughout the day. It wakes me up sometimes.”
“Yeah, she sells, and pays us protection. Problem is, we failed on that score.”
Greg frowned. “How come?”
George scowled. “Some fucker, despite probably knowing she’s one of our…clients…has offed her.”
Lavender slapped a hand over her mouth. “Robins?”
George nodded, assessing that remark. It was obvious she’d think that straight away, what with him being uppermost in her mind. “Could have been, seeing as you live next door to her. Bit of a fucking big coincidence otherwise, isn’t it, although it could have been a robbery gone wrong. They’d be after drugs, the takings.”
“Oh my God.” Tears filled her eyes and fell down her cheeks. “What if he went there looking for me?”
“He—or someone in his employ—may well have done, which is why it was sensible for you to come here. I had a feeling something would happen if you stayed there. They know your address. They’re not going to sit back with that information and not do anything with it.” George sensed she was on the verge of a meltdown so aimed to placate her—as much as he could in the circumstances. “Not your fault, though. This is all him. He won’t leave you alone. He’s in the wrong. Look at what he did to Martin, to all those other homeless people, to you. It’s survival of the fittest, love, and something you just have to get past. Carla—that’s who was shot—is unfortunately nothing more than collateral damage.”
“How can you think like that?” Lavender swiped at the tears, her hands shaking.
“Because if you don’t view things in black and white, viewing them bland, as facts,” Greg said, “and you allow all the other colours in, it gets fucking clogged, make sense? You’d end up going out of your mind thinking about it all. Compartmentalise, always.”
She nodded. “I’ll never forgive myself.”
“What, for having some ponce force himself on you, making you do shit, threating your father?” George asked. “How is that your fault?”
“I could have gone to the police.”
“And have your old man’s death on your conscience?” George was struggling a bit himself with Carla’s murder—killing women didn’t sit well with them—but he had to get Lavender’s head straight. They couldn’t afford for her to lose her marbles over this. “A life was lost to save him, and that’s in your favour. The guilt you feel over Carla would be a million times worse if it was your dad.”
“But still…”
“I know. Now, we have to go out, deal with this. Are you going to be okay here on your own? It’s secure, no one can get in, but I mean emotionally. Want me to get Debbie over?”
Lavender shook her head. “No. I need to be by myself. To process this.”
“It’ll give you a chance to reflect on how you’d feel if you were the one to kill Robins and Black. If you feel bad about Carla, and you didn’t even do it…” Cruel of him, George conceded, but like Greg had said, black and white. It got you through, seeing the world that way.
Satisfied there was nothing more they could do for Lavender, George led the way to the garage. They got into their BMW—people in Lavender’s street needed to know who was dealing with this—and he drove them there, the pair of them in silence. George was raging inside about Robins coming onto their patch—yet again, what with the homeless—and acting like he ran the fucking place. Well, he’d soon see who did, and he’d wish he’d never been born, the cheeky bastard.
He pulled up at the kerb and got out. Waited for Greg on the pavement. The street seemed deserted. Either everyone was out or they were hiding, sensing something bad had happened. If they ever needed to call on him and Greg in the future, they’d better remember to speak now, or else they’d be ignored and left to deal with any shit on their own. Unless they already paid protection.
They spent the next hour or so knocking on doors, receiving no response at some, and those who did answer weren’t much cop. Seemed they genuinely hadn’t seen or heard anything.
The one day we need witnesses…
“Carla’s flat?” Greg asked.
George nodded at Clarke’s car. “Yeah, he’s here. Best we go and see what’s what regarding the body. We don’t want to fuck up if he’s got his DS with him.”
They climbed the stairs, and on Lavender’s level, strode along the balcony.
“Excuse me?”
George recognised that voice. Mrs Flannigan, who got protection for free on account of her late husband’s involvement when Cardigan had run the estate. She was a tough old boot who gave as good as she got, despite being in her winter years.
He turned and smiled at her. “All right, Mavis?”
She didn’t smile back, steel-grey curls bobbing as she jerked her head. “Come in here, quick.” She disappeared into her hallway, the material of her pleated blue silk skirt swishing then following her inside.
“She’s seen somethin
g,” Greg muttered. “No other reason for her to be acting shifty.”
“Good.”
They entered her flat, which was as pristine as ever and smelling of polish. She’d once said cleaning and keeping things spick and span meant her mind didn’t wander to Ben, her husband. The poor cow had been with him for decades, and his passing was a shock—a short, quick illness that had scoffed him within days. She’d nursed him through it and held his hand right until his final breath. Ben had been one of Cardigan’s men from the start, and while he’d earned a packet, she’d insisted on staying in this flat, the place they’d moved to after they’d got married.
She was in the kitchen, kettle in hand. “Got time for one?”
“Not really, but thanks anyway,” George said. “What’s up?”
“Three doors down.” She pursed her pink-painted lips.
George nodded. “Yeah, we were just on our way there.”
“Now then…” Mavis plonked the kettle on its base and folded her arms, creating a shelf for her large breasts encased in a white blouse. “You know how I sit in here at the table and do the crossword.”
“Nope, but got on,” George said.
“Well, I was staring out through the window there, trying to think of an answer to one of the clues, and saw two men go past.”
George glanced at the window. No nets, so she’d have got a decent view, depending on how quick they’d walked.
“They didn’t look right,” she went on. “You get a feeling, don’t you. Easy to spot a bad face when you’ve been doing it for as long as I have.”
“Yeah. What did they look like?”
“Glasses, black frames. Moustaches—they weren’t bloody real, I’d bet my last quid on it now I’ve had time to think on it. I went to the front door, kept myself hidden, and watched them go to that Carla’s, the one who sells drugs. Boiler suits, dark blue. A metal toolbox, also blue. Black woolly hats. I told myself they were workmen and came back in—they didn’t see me nosing, too busy crowding her doorway.”
