by Emmy Ellis
A tactic George and Greg used.
“Right…” George said.
She rebalanced her boobs. “So a while later, they came back past, except this time, one of them had blood on his face—the left side. I remember one time Cardigan blowing someone’s head off at a do in one of his pubs, and the spray! It goes a fair distance. That was what was on that man’s cheek. You don’t forget a thing like that.”
“Why didn’t you ring us?” Greg asked.
“Hang on a minute, son, I’m getting to that. I got up and had a proper look out the front—no unusual cars—so I went into the living room to peer out the back. They’d already got into a small white van by that point, Porter’s Plumbing on the side, and drove off.”
Greg nodded. “That’s really helpful. But like I said, why didn’t you phone us?”
“I was about to when the bloody thing rang. My daughter, wanting to take me out for dinner later. We got chatting, and Teddy goes past the kitchen window. I poured myself a cuppa from the old pot, you know, and sat here for a while, talking to our Laura. Then Clarke goes past, and I knew something was off. I went out there, asked him what had happened, and he said not to worry, you two knew about it.”
“It was Carla,” George said.
Mavis sighed. “Oh no. Dead, is she?”
It was as though they were discussing the price of fish, Mavis an old hand at hearing such news, so much so that it failed to have an impact. That was the way of their world—she’d lived it for years—and she saw things how they did.
“Shame.” Mavis took the patterned cosy off the teapot, and the lid, and peeked inside. “That’s well stewed now. Best make a fresh lot. I want to finish my crossword. Ten across is ‘algorithm’, I just thought of it.”
Her way of saying her part in this was done and they should go.
“Thanks for the info,” George said. “Especially about the van. How tall were the men?”
“Stocky, a couple of inches shorter than you two. They’d tucked their hair beneath the hats, but one hadn’t done it right. Ginger, he is, which is odd, considering his moustache was dark. His eyebrows were auburn.”
Johnny Black. So they did this job themselves. “Right, that’s brilliant. We’ll be off then.”
George led the way to Carla’s, and anger bit a greedy chunk out of him that a woman was dead. Door knocked, Teddy opened up, relief bleeding onto his pale face. No words were spoken, and they found themselves assembled in the hallway, man milk bottles, Clarke one end of the line, Teddy the other, George and Greg between them.
George stared at what remained of Carla, a body, a shell that had housed a vibrant if crass woman who had a heart of gold. “Fucking shocking. From behind an’ all.”
“That’s what I said to myself.” Teddy grunted.
George needed Teddy out of earshot, so he looked at Clarke. “A word.”
Clarke moved into the untidy living room. This wasn’t like Carla. All right, she wasn’t cleaner of the year, but it wasn’t usually so disorderly.
“Why the mess?” George called back to Teddy, wondering if Robins and Black had turned the place over to make it look like a robbery.
“She’s been ill for a fortnight, some flu or other. I meant to help out, but I was carrying the can for both of us while she rested. Why’s that any of your business?”
“Because it looks like the place has been tossed, you twat.”
“Ah, yeah, sorry, not thinking straight.”
George let it pass—it could be the grief getting Teddy ratty—and he closed the door and stared out of the window, down at where the van had been parked.
“Got anything?” Clarke asked.
“Yeah. Depending on how you’re playing this, you might want to check CCTV, just to confirm it was Robins and Black who did this.”
“Ah, those two pricks.”
“Yeah. As you know, their cards are marked anyway, but if this wasn’t them, we need to know who did it. Old Mavis said they came in a Porter’s Plumbing van, small one, white. Fat lot of good you are as a copper, you didn’t even talk to her.”
“Hold up, I was intent on seeing to this mess.” Clarke jerked his thumb at the door. “What did she say?”
“They had blue boiler suits on, moustaches, glasses, hats, a toolbox. Fucking classic way to get inside someone’s house, posing as workmen. One of them hadn’t tucked all of his hair away. Ginger.”
“That bastard, Johnny Black.”
“Yeah, but still, cover all bases. What’s going on with Carla? Anything I need to know? Do you have other coppers coming?”
“No. Get your men here after dark, the usual. I can keep a lid on this.”
“Has Teddy got a preference as to the disposal?”
“Nah, opt for the Thames.”
George had a think about that. The idea of using the circular saw on someone he liked was a bit nasty, but needs must. The smaller bits they could chop her into the better. “Fine. I’ll send a cleaning crew here for later.”
“Nice of you.”
George bristled. Was that sarcasm filtering in? “Look, mate, fuck off with the attitude.”
Clarke held his hands up. “Sorry.”
“So you should be.” He paused to let that sink in, the words he hadn’t said. “Okay, Carla paid up weekly, so it’s her due that we make this place look like nothing happened.” Back in the hallway, he patted Teddy on the shoulder. “Don’t open the door to anyone until this shit’s been sorted. Ten o’clock tonight, my men will come and collect her. Cleaners will come after that. Oh, and someone to change the kitchen door and plaster the wall where that bullet went. I’ll get on to our housing contact at the council—I assume this flat’s one of theirs?”
Teddy nodded.
“Good. You won’t have any problem taking over the tenancy, we’ll make sure of that.”
Teddy visibly relaxed. “Do I owe you anything?”
“No, Carla’s up to date with the money.”
“I’ll take that over.”
“Fine by me. We already know who did this, and they’re earmarked for a night this week anyway, so sit tight, and I’ll let you know once it’s finalised. I don’t want you twigging who it is until we’ve nabbed them—I know you’ll want to help, but just keep out of it. There are things going on you don’t even want to know about, stuff that’d curl your hair.”
Teddy let out a long breath. “But I want to do something.”
Would it be so bad if Teddy helped chop up their bodies? Or did that job belong to Lavender alone?
George tapped his lips. He’d put it to Lavender, see what she said. “I’ll think about it. If I haven’t rung you by Thursday evening, you’re out of the loop.”
So Teddy didn’t prod for answers, George walked out onto the balcony and stared at the houses across the road. Those residents had been out or hadn’t answered the door to them earlier. Shame, they had a prime spot to see up to where he was.
Greg joined him, closing the front door, and he draped his hands over the rail, hanging his head. “We’ll have those bastards.”
“Yeah. Part of me hopes Lavender doesn’t want to kill them. I’d take great pleasure in doing it myself.”
Greg snorted. “Me an’ all, bruv, me an’ all.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aniyah had had enough of Kevin. She’d done as he’d asked for weeks, playing at being his girlfriend, and it was tiring, not to mention debasing, her self-esteem crumbling more and more by the day. She’d done things in bed she’d never imagined or knew about, hadn’t even realised people did that sort of thing. The first time he’d forced her into BDSM—or his form of it—she hadn’t been able to walk for a week, her backside sore from some paddle or other he’d hit her with. She swore it had studs on it.
He'd laughed with every strike and every cry she’d let out.
“Take it,” he’d shouted. “Fucking take it.”
This was her life until he tired of her—or she could get away. But
did she have the strength to do that? It would mean giving up her life as she knew it and starting again. She’d have to tell Dad she was disappearing for a bit, let him know that under no circumstances was he to give out information; he had to tell people she’d vanished and he didn’t know where.
Would Kevin and Johnny accept that from him if they went round there, though? Or would they take him somewhere and torture it out of him?
Did they really know where Dad lived, or was that just another threat, another lie? She hadn’t considered that before.
Beginning again had to be better than this, didn’t it? The continual hope that he’d get bored and throw her aside? Seemed he wasn’t bored yet.
Would he ever be?
As usual, he’d used her tonight—although he hadn’t hit her—then gone downstairs for one of his ‘meetings’. She had no idea what they talked about, suspected she was better off not knowing, and it wasn’t lost on her how she lived a double life. One side of her upheld the law, and the other side endured pain and suffering at the hands of someone who regularly broke it. She was a pawn in one of his sick games, and she wasn’t stupid, she was aware he wanted to break her, see if he could chip away until there was nothing of her former self left. A gaslighter, a manipulator, a fucking psychopath, his threat always dangling between them.
If she allowed him to totally wreck her, what then?
Thirsty, and sick of drinking water straight from the en suite sink tap like some animal, she left the bedroom wrapped in a dressing gown and crept downstairs. Kevin had told her to stay where she was, but if he was busy and didn’t hear her, what did it matter? What you didn’t know didn’t hurt you, and if he didn’t know…
She reached the bottom step and stopped, her nerves prickling. The living room door was open, and rowdy laughter filtered out—no people visible, though. Smoke from umpteen cigarettes and cigars clogged the air, manmade fog tarnishing the luxurious visual of a white carpet, white leather armchair, a silver glass-topped table beside it, and a posh lamp on top, emitting a cosy glow.
If she didn’t know better, and if they weren’t being so noisy, that snippet of the room resembled a calm family home.
“The fucking little wanker bit me,” someone said. “Actually bit me.”
“You had a tetanus jab recently?” Whoever said that belted out a guffaw that had strains of a smoker’s cough tagged on the end.
“Knob off, you’re not funny.”
Everyone else thought it was. More laughter, maybe a slap of someone’s thigh.
“Well, he’s in the attic now, so he can stew for a bit,” Kevin said. “Go hungry for longer than usual.”
“Can you imagine being that low you eat out of bins?” Johnny said. “Like, the leftover chips and the quarter of a burger someone else tossed away? Fucking grim. Feral bastard.”
Were they talking about a homeless man or someone down on his luck? Who were these people not to have compassion for someone so hungry they had to do that? She felt sick at their lack of empathy, should move on and get a drink of water, but she was rooted, unable to tear herself away.
Another thought struck her. Had Kevin taken over from that Cricket fella? That had been in the news, the homeless held captive at his mansion and sold off to the highest bidder, the lads living as sex slaves until the new owners got bored and asked Cricket to kill them, bury them in graves at the cemetery, ones waiting for legitimate bodies to go in them, then they bought another and another, the cycle seemingly never-ending.
Was Kevin capable of that?
“Savage, he is,” Bitten Man muttered. “Should be shot.”
“That’s a waste.” Kevin. “Whipping them is so much more…satisfying. Breaking people is my speciality, you know that. I enjoy watching them crumble, but what I enjoy more is them beating the odds, coming out the other side. That’s why I admire Aniyah.”
Her stomach rolled over. He admired her? And him talking about her with his men… Had she thought he wouldn’t?
“What the fuck are you on about?” another bloke said.
Kevin cleared his throat. “Look at her life before she got away from her mother. A shithole, that’s what they lived in. She could have taken that as her lot, even accepted the better life she had with her father, but no, she pushed for more, worked for more. And I’m waiting for her to do it again. I’m testing her boundaries, waiting for her to crack, and this time, I think she will. She’ll accept what I’m doing to her. A shame, that.”
So he was playing some sick game? Hitting her, expecting her to do disgusting things to him because he wanted to see if she would take it? What did this mean, that she had to tell him she wouldn’t, show some courage, then he’d let her go? Was it that simple? Or was she meant to endure it, and at the point he thought she’d crack and didn’t, she’d be free?
“Shall we take bets on how much longer she lasts?” Bitten Man asked.
This time, the laughter was too much, and as she fled to the kitchen on silent feet and grabbed a bottle of water, she told herself she would get through this, she wouldn’t allow him to watch her crumble. The question was, how bad would it get before he told her she’d passed his test?
She padded towards the living room and peered around the frame to check no one was there to see her go past. It was clear, so she moved to the bottom of the stairs.
“Are we all in for a session tonight then?” Kevin asked. “Last man standing?”
A cheer went up. Thank God, Kevin wouldn’t do anything else to her this evening. These sessions were drinking until they passed out, sleeping where they either fell or slouched on the furniture.
She returned to the bedroom and thought about what she’d heard. A man was in the attic. She’d never been up there before, watched as she was—or incarcerated in the bedroom. Tonight, once the men had flaked out, she’d go up. See who was there.
But the door was bound to be locked, wasn’t it?
Five hours passed, and with no sounds filtering upstairs, she went down into the living room. All seven men were asleep, four on the floor, one either end of the sofa, and another on the white leather chair. She left the lamp on, not wanting Kevin to know she’d been there, and searched the key rack in the kitchen. There was a bunch with a label on it: SPARES. She wrapped her fingers around it so the metal didn’t tinkle, her heart going mental, and rushed upstairs, then up the second lot to a single door.
Fear sent her shaky. If she got caught…
It took a while to find the right key, and it ended up being a large old-fashioned one, which she turned, satisfied and relieved at the resounding click. She opened the door, afraid of what she’d see, and a groan greeted her.
Her knees gave way.
A man sat on the floor opposite, beside a shower area to the left, but he didn’t look homeless—or not the type she expected anyway. No rags, his clothing was decent if a bit grubby, and his mousy hair wasn’t long or unkempt. Was he new to the streets? A rolled-up sleeping bag beside him was a bigger clue, as was a rucksack, but other than that, he could just be a young man who needed a washing machine.
His head was down, chin to chest, his eyes closed. His face, though, had bruises, one cheekbone especially blackened, perhaps by a fist or a kick. Compassion for him filled her, and she moved forward, wanting to help. He must only be about eighteen.
Cricket’s captives had been around that age or younger.
“No more. Please, no more.” He opened his eyes and looked at her.
She smiled.
“Oh,” he said, as if surprised a woman stood there. “Help me. Please, help me…”
She couldn’t stand this, the indecision. If she let him go, Kevin would know. But if she didn’t, he’d try to break him. As she knew what that felt like, the former decision won, and she’d take any consequences, however terrible they were, if it meant saving him. What if Kevin whipped them into submission then sold them? What horrors would this lad face then?
“Get up,” she whispered. “You hav
e to be quiet. I mean it, not a word, and walk lightly so they can’t hear you. If we’re caught…” Despite the men being asleep, one of them could wake, and the idea of that pushed a flurry of chills through her.
He lumbered to his feet, picked up his things, wincing. He must have been beaten up before being left here. He slotted the sleeping bag into some looped straps underneath the rucksack then slipped his arms through so he could carry them on his back.
Anyone would think he was a camper.
“Listen to me,” she said, needing him to understand the urgency of her words, how important it was to do as she said. “When you leave here, don’t tell anyone where you were.” She couldn’t have him clocking the house number, the street sign on the corner, and passing them on to the authorities—for his sake. “If you do, they’ll find you again, kill you. Do you see?” She thought about the black van Cricket had owned, his men picking up the homeless in it. She asked him if he’d heard about that.
“Yeah.”
“The men here have taken over.” While she couldn’t be sure of that, it was best this lad was frightened into keeping silent. “So you get why you need to keep your mouth shut and your head down?”
He nodded. “I just want to get the fuck out of here. I don’t want any trouble.”
She had no choice but to believe him.
Aniyah guided him onto the landing, locked the door, and led the way down the two flights of stairs, her chest hurting from the pressure of doing this, her face and armpits sweating, her heart going into overdrive. In the foyer, she checked the man was still asleep in the visible chair. His mouth was open, and snores came out. She peered through the crack between the edge of the door and the frame. The others were sparko, too, so she opened the front door and ushered the homeless fella out. He ran into the night without a by your leave, and she closed herself back in, wishing she could run with him, barefoot in her dressing gown, and cried hanging the keys in the box.
She could still go. Open the door. Rush after him.
She thought of what she’d told him: They’ll kill you. Maybe, when they discovered he’d gone, they’d put two and two together and kill her, too.
