Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” He left her, chuckling to himself at the thought of throwing yet more fancy gear on the fire, a bright spot in an otherwise grim evening.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Thursday night was here, and Martin was nervous about his first job for The Brothers. He wanted to do well, show them he wasn’t a useless piece of shit like Mum and Dad said he was. He could be somebody, be a part of something bigger than the world he’d inhabited at home, on the streets, better than the person he’d been in Robins’ attic. He’d live his life for all those homeless people who’d been snatched by that Cricket bloke and those Robins had abused.

  As well as normal clothes, The Brothers had provided Martin with a black outfit for nights like this—joggers for ease when running, a T-shirt, hoody, beanie, a scarf ready to cover the lower half of his face, and trainers the likes of which he’d never had on before. He’d always had cheap ones, Mum and Dad saying they wouldn’t shell out over a hundred quid for a pair. He understood that, but having ones that cost a tenner off the market meant they broke quicker. All told, he reckoned he stood there in three hundred quid’s worth of gear.

  Fucking hell.

  His burner phone had arrived, and it bleeped with a message, Martin jumping at the startling tone, despite waiting for it.

  He checked it: Taxi is outside.

  Fuck, it was time to go. Was he ready for this? Really?

  He couldn’t debate that question so grabbed the keys and left the flat, going down in the lift, his limbs shaking, and all the while he told himself he had to pay The Brothers back somehow for their kindness. Watching a casino wasn’t breaking the law. It would be okay. If Robins and Black came out early, he just had to phone the twins, nothing else. And he’d earn a grand for his trouble.

  Martin couldn’t argue with that much money. It was more than he’d ever dreamt possible. What would he do with it? The twins had provided everything for him.

  He stepped out into the night, head down so no neighbours caught a glimpse of his face, and headed for the black cab. Got in the back. The Brothers sat in the front, the centre partition open.

  “All right, mate?” George, in the driver’s seat, turned and smiled at him.

  Fuck, he looked even scarier with that big bushy beard and those bottle-bottom glasses. If Martin didn’t know who he was, he wouldn’t have recognised him.

  “Nervous. I don’t want to mess this up.” Martin stuffed his hands into the hoody pocket. “I was thinking, won’t they reckon it’s weird if you both turn up to collect them in the taxi?”

  “That’s why I’ll be in the doorway with you at first,” Greg said. “George will pick them up, drop them there, then I’ll go with him. We’ve got a bit of business to do in the meantime, hence you watching the casino for us.”

  George drove off.

  Martin didn’t dare ask what they’d be up to. He’d keep his mouth shut and do what they’d told him. Since he’d been at the flat, he’d done nothing but think. His back was so much better, the salve he’d been given helping it to heal faster, and moving around wasn’t half as painful as before. And he’d come to the conclusion that this was as good an offer as he was ever going to get. A decent roof over his head, money to pay the bills, and all it took was a bit of cleaning and a few extra jobs for the twins. Like they’d said, he didn’t have to do anything he didn’t want to, and the rest of the time was his to spend as he saw fit.

  Maybe he’d visit a pub, make new friends, although living a double life might not be advisable. Still, he’d done it when living at home. No one at school had copped on that he’d had a shit time of it. He could keep what he did a secret. Blimey, maybe he’d even meet a woman.

  The taxi pulled up opposite the casino, and Martin’s stomach rolled over. He glanced across at the Soho establishment, which resembled a posh hotel, not the flashing lights and seedy façade he’d imagined, nothing like the amusement arcades he’d had in his head. Of course Robins and Black wouldn’t go somewhere like that, they’d live it up in a classy place, and this was it.

  “Come on,” Greg said.

  Martin pulled the scarf up over his mouth and nose and left the warmth of the taxi with a “Good luck!” from George. He followed Greg to a deep recess, the door at the end swathed in shadows.

  I can see why they chose here. No way will anyone see us.

  They talked quietly for a while—well, Greg talked and Martin listened. The bloke let him know in no uncertain terms that people who crossed them didn’t often live to tell the tale, although sometimes, ‘just a broken leg does the trick’.

  “I’m not going to shaft you,” Martin said, fear shaking his voice.

  And he told him about home, how life had been, how he’d had to get away. How staying a moment longer hadn’t been an option, the streets of London a better one, despite him being cold and hungry, scared, and unsettled.

  “We’re your family now, kid,” Greg said. “We’ll look after you.” He peered out into the street. “George is back.”

  Martin stared out, too. Robins and Black exited the rear of the taxi in expensive suits, and bow ties, for fuck’s sake. They came off as rich men, and they probably were, but Martin knew how depraved they were, especially Robins, and it took the shine off their appearances.

  Kevin held a briefcase. What was in it, a gun?

  “Bastards,” Martin muttered, although it was directed more at Robins than Black.

  “Nasty pieces of work. They’ll be gone before the sun shines, then you can rest easy.”

  “I want to watch,” Martin blurted. “Later.”

  “Thought you might.” Greg stuffed some notes in Martin’s hand. “Later, get a taxi to the address we told you about. The warehouse. Go as soon as George picks these two tossers up. There’s a taxi rank outside the theatre.”

  Martin gripped the cash in his gloved hand. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

  “If you change your mind, no problem.”

  “Thanks.”

  Robins and Black disappeared into the casino. Greg patted Martin’s shoulder then stepped out onto the pavement. He glanced side to side. Ran across to the taxi and got in. The twins glanced his way, bearded, menacing, and Martin was so glad he was under their wings, on their team.

  The taxi peeled away, and he huddled against the door, strangely at home there, given how long he’d spent living in places just like this, except it hadn’t been in the West End amongst the elite but shoddy, unwelcoming streets.

  He folded his arms, trained his gaze over the road, and prepared for a long night. He’d enjoy watching those two die.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  George and Greg stood out the back of Robins’ office block, the shadows their best friends. They’d agreed not to speak, just stand there, waiting. It wasn’t long, and Nigel Chambers appeared in the lit foyer, cigarette packet in hand. He stepped outside, stopped to stick a fag between his lips and light it, then shoved his free hand into his trouser pocket.

  George didn’t fancy dilly-dallying with this one. He raised the gun with the silencer on it, thinking of Robins or Black doing the same with Carla, and that was all the prompting he needed. He pulled the trigger, and Chambers went down, his cigarette flying through the air to land in the darkness, orange sparks flickering.

  “Good shot, right in the fucking forehead,” George said.

  They lost no time in getting to work, picking Chambers up, one at each end, then carrying him out onto the empty street. They stuffed him in the boot of the taxi, George muttering about blood on the carpet, and Greg snatched a large flagon of water, bleach, and a scrubbing brush to the right.

  He went off to clean the blood at the back of the block while George closed the boot and got into the driver’s side. He checked his watch—plenty of time to get Chambers to the warehouse, chop him up, and dump him in the river.

  He fired off a text to Martin: Everything okay?

  Martin: No sig
n.

  G: Good lad.

  Greg appeared and clambered in, dropping his cleaning things in the footwell. “Sorted.”

  George drove to the warehouse, and they did the business. There was no point ordering his crew to come and get rid of any evidence, not when they’d be back later, so for now it was playing the game of sit and wait.

  “Martin’s had a rough life,” Greg said once they’d come in from their little stint beside the river.

  “Poor kid. Reckon he’s genuine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just that I don’t want to be disappointed and have to give him the treatment.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I’ve got a soft spot for him,” George admitted.

  Greg nodded. “I know what you mean.”

  George glanced around. “Wouldn’t want to see his blood on this floor.”

  “No.”

  George didn’t reckon they would, especially after Greg told him what Martin had said. Mean parents, abusers, treating their son like shit.

  Maybe, when this was all over, they’d pay them a visit an’ all.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Lavender paced her room at the parlour. Time was ticking on. By now, they’d have dealt with Chambers, and she didn’t feel any guilt over it. She should, given her previous profession, but that man had collected the homeless, and he’d been a wanker to her, tossing racial slurs at her when he thought no one else was around. Kevin had punched him for it the one time he’d overheard, saying if he did it again, he was a dead man ‘like those other two who did it’.

  She had no idea who he was talking about.

  With no customers due at the minute, and definitely none after midnight, she wandered out into reception. Debbie sat behind the desk, reading her usual magazine—Heat tonight—a Wonder Woman cup halfway to her mouth. The other girls had clients in their rooms, so Lavender was safe to talk.

  “How are you coping?” Debbie whispered.

  “I’m okay, just a bit nervous.” Lavender leant her arms on the high desk and propped her chin on them. She was emotionally tired, yet her blood was pumping, adrenaline spiking.

  Debbie reached out and rubbed Lavender’s hand. “If you think about it, you’re an abused woman, suffering the aftereffects, so of course you’d be nervous. I mean, he did a right number on you, and seeing him again after three years… There’s got to be a part of you that’s still scared, still afraid you’ll do whatever he says, even though you don’t want to.”

  Debbie was right. Lavender had obeyed him for so long, that despite her running, he still had power over her. Maybe she should latch on to that and use it to get through. Tell herself he had no power once he was roped to that chair—he’d be as trapped as she’d been in his house, rope binding him, but in her case his words had tethered her.

  “They dealt with Charles,” she said quietly, then glanced at the girls’ doors to make sure no one was coming out. The last thing she needed was a customer overhearing.

  “Oh fuck.” Debbie put her cup down and walked around the desk. She gestured for Lavender to follow her to the sofas. “What the hell happened? Although I can guess.”

  They sat, Lavender’s guts churning at the memories.

  “He…he was in with them—with Robins and Black, I mean.” She explained what Charles had done, how she’d been there when they’d killed him, how Carla had got caught up in it.

  “Bugger. I know her,” Debbie said. “We were a couple of years apart at school.”

  “She ended up in the Thames, poor woman, and all because she wouldn’t tell them which car I’d gone in.”

  “Sounds bitchy and like I don’t care, but better that than the police being involved. It’d all come out, you know, your involvement. Rod Clarke dealt with it, did he?”

  Lavender shouldn’t be surprised Debbie knew. The Brothers had probably told her. “Yeah. How did you know?”

  Debbie shrugged. “Because he’s taking money off the twins and he’ll probably tell me all about Carla next time he comes round for a shag.”

  Shocked, Lavender spluttered a laugh. “What?”

  Debbie’s cheeks reddened, and she fiddled with the hem of her short black dress. “Long story, but I have to let him do what he wants as a form of payment. He guessed about Harry and Mickey.”

  “I’m sorry you have to go through that. Does he pay you?”

  “Does he fuck.” Debbie lifted a shoulder as if that dismissed the issue. “It’s okay, I switch off. You know how it is.”

  Lavender did, she’d had enough practise with Kevin and then with her customers. Would she give this up after tonight? The parlour? There was no reason for her to do it to get the control she craved. With Kevin gone, all the control would return to her hands.

  She could go back to being a solicitor.

  But could she, after she’d watched people being killed? Could she honestly stand there in court, a criminal herself, defending people just as bad as she was?

  What a hypocrite.

  Something to think about tomorrow, when it was all over.

  “How do you feel?” Debbie asked. “About Charles.”

  “At first, I didn’t want to believe he’d done what he had, but once I knew he was lying to me…”

  “Had him in the chair, did they?”

  “Hmm.”

  “Did he cough up in the end?”

  Lavender nodded. “Yes, with excuses attached. I can kind of see where he was coming from. You don’t say no to Robins. But it’s done, Charles is gone.”

  “One less person who knows something.”

  A visual slammed into Lavender’s head. Was this how it would always be, flickers of the horror coming back to haunt her? “George stabbed him in the eyes with the pointed ends of cricket stumps. He used a mallet to smack them in.”

  “Fuck me, he’s a nut—”

  The door buzzer sounded.

  Debbie rose and checked the CCTV behind the desk. “Sorry, your customer is here.”

  Lavender stood. Sighed. “Good. It’ll take my mind off what’s to come.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Kevin had enjoyed the evening, not to mention the fact he’d won twenty-one grand. He’d cashed his chips in and had the dosh in his briefcase, one he brought with him every week for just this reason. It didn’t hurt to have hope that you’d win, did it, and he’d had a feeling this was his lucky night.

  The taxi was due—he’d asked the cabbie who’d brought them here to come back at midnight—so he stood in the foyer with Johnny. Fuck was he going out there to stand and wait, where anyone would guess exactly what his briefcase contained. There were scrotes who stood in the shadows and had the balls to run past, snatch your winnings, and blend into the crowd. And there was a crowd, people streaming out of the theatre down the way a bit, their fancy clothes marking them out as well-to-do, money to flash and burn.

  The cab rolled up, and Kevin peered through the casino’s double front doors to check it was the same driver. It was, so he let Johnny lead the way. On the pavement, Kevin had the distinct impression all faces had turned his way, but it was paranoia. His right-hand man opened the cab’s back door and stood aside for Kevin to get in first.

  In the safety of the taxi, he let out a breath. He’d been uneasy, all those people, and it had felt like he was in the spotlight, observed. Probably just the money on his mind, plus getting it home and stashed away.

  Johnny got in and closed the door, then the partition. “Good night at the tables, eh?”

  The driver engaged the central locking—good man, he must have twigged Kevin had won—and eased away from the kerb and merged with traffic.

  “One of the best,” Kevin admitted, “but tomorrow will be even better. We’ll get hold of that slag after she’s finished work at The Angel. With that posh twat fucking it up, we’ll have to make a new plan in the morning.” He shrugged. “And we’ll deal with him, too.”

  The taxi stopped. “Do you mind sharing?�
�� the driver’s voice crackled through the speaker.

  Kevin was in good spirits, so no, he didn’t mind. He opened the partition. “Nope. Fine by me, so long as the fare isn’t going to the arse end of nowhere.”

  A man got in the front, some beefy bearded fella, and the cabbie pressed the lock button again then pulled away.

  “Warehouse district,” the passenger said, ignoring his seat belt.

  Kevin held back a sigh. “Drop us off first then.”

  The newcomer turned around, kneeling on the seat. What was his fucking game?

  Kevin gripped the briefcase handle tighter. “If you don’t sit your arse down, you’re dead.”

  A gun with a silencer on it appeared in the partition slot, pointing straight at them, then down, at their knees. The passenger fired, the bullet hitting Johnny, who growled instead of screaming, his teeth clenched, and clutched his knee, drawing it upwards.

  “What the fuck?” Kevin patted his pocket for his knife.

  “I wouldn’t if I were you.” The man let off another shot.

  Pain seared Kevin’s shin, burning, his bone on fire, and he screamed. Despite being wounded, he grew indignant at someone having the balls to do it. Anger flooded his system. Who the hell was this bloke, and as for the driver, he looked too calm not to be in on it, or maybe he was scared.

  Kevin had been set up.

  Johnny sat beside him, frozen, whimpering.

  “If you go for a weapon,” the gunman said, “you’ll both get bullets in the heart, and that would be a shame, because we have plans for you. Now then, just sit there calmly. We will be going to the warehouse district first.”

  Oh. Was that what this was all about? Some deranged prick had got arsey because Kevin had asked to go home? He had the right of it, he’d been in the cab before this prat, but he’d do as he’d been told and find out who this gimp was, deal with him at a future date.

  We have plans for you…

  What did that mean?