Just Desserts: The Broughton Trilogy, #3

Copyright

Copyright © A. J. Smith 2018 – Just Deserts

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.

Contents

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

CHAPTER ONE

Monday 21st November

8.45 pm

London

Darkness lurked behind the shed.  Waiting patiently, it hovered in the spaces beneath the garden table and curled around the legs of a cheap plastic chair.  It wanted to nudge closer to the house, but for the time being it was held in place by a moat of light: a broad, bright rectangle spilling out from the kitchen window across the patio.  Anthony Fish glared into the darkness and seethed.  If only they’d leave him alone for a few minutes he’d be able to calm his temper, distract it for a split second and slip it back onto the leash.  But they refused to leave him alone.  He studied the thin slip of glass and plastic that was supposed to be a back door: the only thing standing between a few precious moments of solitude, and the prattling fuckwits on the other side.  Through its frosted panes a gloomy silhouette slid into view.

‘Tony!  We need you!’ a woman’s voice called.  ‘You’ve got to come back now!  Trevor’s promised to wind his neck in!’

Who the fuck was Trevor?  It couldn’t be the boxer, or the pair of tits, or the handbag.  It had to be the working-class twat.  A shiver of disgust clambered up his spine.  So that was his name then?  Trevor?  How very fitting.  How very working class.  And he’d promised to wind his neck in, had he?  Well, he’d better get on with it then, and quickly too, because if he kept his working-class neck wound out for much longer, he’d end up with his working-class face rammed into a bowl of rancid seafood chowder.

‘Tony!’ the voice called again.  ‘Oh for God’s sake.  Where’s he gone?’

He closed his eyes against a sudden onslaught of light.  Somewhere on the other side of the flimsy door, someone must have flipped a switch, because now an outside lamp flickered into life, pushing the darkness into full retreat.  He watched his breath cloud in front of his face and took a step back into the shadows.  They were closing-in on him now, and he wasn’t ready to be discovered.  Not just yet.

‘Maybe he’s on the bog,’ a second voice suggested.  Lower, gruffer; the voice of the boxer.  ‘He said he had gut ache after the soup.’

Anthony Fish grimaced.  Of course he’d had gut ache after the soup, a violent blast of gut ache, doubtless brought on by the fucking soup in the first place.

‘He’s not in the toilet,’ the woman’s voice complained.  ‘I’ve checked.  And he can’t have gut ache.  He’s not even eaten anything yet.’

The seething returned full force.  Now, that was an outright lie.  He had eaten something.  In fact, he’d rolled an entire amuse-bouche between his teeth for at least forty-five seconds before secretly spitting it into a plant pot.  And after that, he’d managed three spoonsful of the rancid seafood chowder before he’d begun to heave.

‘I think Trevor went a bit too far,’ the boxer grumbled.  ‘Got a bit personal.’

Summoning every last particle of self-control, Anthony Fish resisted the urge to kick open the flimsy back door.  These idiots had no idea what they were talking about.  If Trevor the working-class twat hadn’t got a bit too fucking personal, he’d still be in there now, trying his damnedest to stay tuned in to the drivel.

‘What caused it?’ the woman asked.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the boxer said.  ‘They were talking about that television programme Trevor presents.  You know the one?  Where he shows you how to do up a room in an hour?  Tony asked him to explain DIY.’

And that had been a mistake, because then he’d had to pay attention to the working-class twat explaining DIY in great and totally unnecessary detail.

‘Why would that cause an argument?’ the woman asked.

‘Well, it didn’t.  It kicked off when Tony said he couldn’t see the point of doing it yourself.’

A valid enough point, he’d thought at the time.  After all, there were people who did that sort of thing for you – and most of them were called Trevor.  You simply phoned them, arranged a date and let them do.  But Trevor the working-class twat had taken offence at that, which had caused him to rant like a woman: ‘Most people can’t afford to pay a man to do these things.  And if you haven’t fucking noticed, there’s been a recession and people are suffering, you fucking buffoon!’

‘Trevor’s a bit on the socialist side,’ the boxer explained.  ‘It didn’t go down too well.’

No, it didn’t.  And in the inevitable way of things, it had all got completely out of hand.  While the working-class twat had ranted some more, a thing resembling a female had joined in the fray.  She had a name, of course.  She’d introduced herself earlier that evening.  But by the time he sat down at the table, Anthony Fish had already forgotten the name.  All he knew was this thing had once been a pop star of sorts, but now she wrote a weekly column for a celebrity magazine.  And at some point in between, she must have overdosed on cosmetic surgery, because now she looked like a handbag.  He hadn’t understood a word she’d said (too many facelifts perhaps).  And after he’d asked her to repeat herself for the fifth or sixth time, she’d simply picked up a bread roll and hurled it at his head.  And that had been that.  He’d begun to seethe.  Remembering his agent’s advice to keep his temper under control, he’d got up and beaten a hasty retreat.  He’d already tried the downstairs toilet, swiftly deciding that something the size of a matchbox was no hiding place at all.  And so he’d made his escape through the kitchen, into a garden.  In a corner by the bins, he’d found his spot and dug himself in.

‘Where are you off to, Vincent?’

‘Going out for a cigar, me duck.  Need a fix.’

Bugger it.  Any second now, his solitude would be stolen.  Bracing himself for yet another ridiculous conversation, he sucked in a breath.

‘Don’t be too long,’ the woman warned.  ‘The main course is going cold and it’s more fucking seafood.  I don’t want anyone getting the shits this week.’

‘I’ll be two whips of a gnat’s arse.’

The door opened.  The huge, mountainous form of the boxer emerged into the garden.  Anthony Fish stepped further back and collided with a dustbin.

‘Ah, there you are, Tony,’ the boxer grinned.  ‘How’s the evening going?’

Uncertainly, Anthony Fish moved out of the shadows.

‘Yes.  Fine ... er ...’

‘Vincent.’  The boxer closed the door behind him and retrieved a cigar and a lighter from his jacket pocket.  He lit the cigar, inhaled deeply and scanned the minuscule back garden.  ‘Vincent Pinsent.’  He exhaled.  ‘But you can call me Vinnie.  Enjoying yourself?’

‘Yes.  Fine.’

‘They want us back round the table.’

Anthony Fish shook his head.  ‘Not yet.  I can’t put up with any more of that twat’s gibbering.’

‘I assume you’re talking about Trevor.’

‘I can’t do with any more of his fucking nonsense.’

‘Neither can I, Tony.  But just do what I do.  Let it flow over the top of your head.’

Anthony Fish glanced at Vincent Pinsent’s enormous head, wondered how anything could simply flow over the top of it, and thought about informing the buffoon that his name was, in fact, Anthony.  And then he thought better of it.  No man on Earth (even if he had once been the Secretary of State for Education) should ever try to correct Vincent Pinsent.  He’d only end up flattened like a pancake on the patio.

‘I’ll do what I can.’

‘And you’ve got to eat the food, Tony.’  The boxer sighed.  ‘It’s only the first night of this crap and you’re already making enemies.’

‘I don’t want to eat it.’

‘But that’s the whole point of the exercise.  You eat their shit.  They eat yours.  Take the money and run.’

Fish gazed at Vincent Pinsent’s rock-hard face.  That was the only way to describe it.  Rock hard.  Over the years, it had been pummelled and pounded, and now it resembled a monster mutant vegetable that had somehow managed to defy normal vegetable laws and grow in ways it shouldn’t.

‘Vincent,’ he said quietly.

‘Vinnie.’  Vincent Pinsent’s vast mouth smiled in the gloom.  He took another drag on his cigar.  The red glow deepened.

‘I’m used to better than that.’

‘So am I, Tony.  Believe you me, I’ve eaten in the best restaurants in the world.  Just because I was a boxer, it doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate the finer things in life.  I’m a connoisseur of fine wine, good food, decent cigars and beautiful woman.’

Anthony Fish scowled.  There was no such thing as a beautiful woman.  As far as he could see, every last one of them was an ugly piece of work, especially the creature who’d pelted him with a bread roll.

‘Come on, Tony.  Just give the paella a try.  Sherry’s worked hard on this.’

‘Sherry?’

‘Owns this house.  Cooking dinner tonight.  Big bazongas.  She’s a model.’  He cupped his hands in front of his chest.  ‘And she really wants to win this.  There’s banoffee pie for pudding.  You’ll like that.’

Anthony Fish screwed up his face.  ‘I don’t like bananas.’

‘Oh come on, Tony.  You can’t play the game properly if you don’t try anything.’

‘Why not?’

‘Have you actually watched this programme?’

‘Well ...’  He shook his head.  He’d never watched it.  He’d only agreed to appear on it as a stop-gap.

‘Look,’ Vincent Pinsent smiled.  ‘Just try it.  That’s all.  And don’t spit it in the plant pot.’

‘You saw that?’

‘Everyone saw that.’

‘Oh.’  His face sank.  ‘All right.’

‘Good lad.  And no more winding up the socialist.’

‘But I can’t stand that prick.’

‘Trust me, nobody can stand that prick.  He’s in love with himself.  He’s taking the piss out of all of us.  He’s just started on Anita.’

‘Anita?’

‘The one who used to be a singer.  The one with all the work.’  He circled his face with the cigar.

‘Oh, the handbag.’

Vincent Pinsent raised a heavy eyebrow and took another drag on the cigar.  ‘That prat in there thinks he’s Mr Wonderful.  Trevor the socialist.’  He laughed – a deep, troubling laugh.  ‘Truth is he owns a cottage in Dorset, goes on holiday to the Maldives and drives an Audi TT.  He’s only on here because they’re cancelling his programme.  He’s looking to raise his profile.  Makes me sick.’  Another laugh.  A flash of the eyes.  ‘He has no idea who he’s talking to.  Truth is I could have him sorted ... just like that.’  Vincent Pinsent clicked his fingers.  ‘Put him in his fucking place.’

A gust of wind hopped across the fences, slipped between a mass of shrubs and slowly turned the rotary line.

‘You could?’ Anthony Fish asked slyly.  Because even though he knew it was wrong, an idea had begun to form inside his skull, or rather re-form, gathering itself together like iron filings round a magnet.

‘I was a boxer, remember.  I’ve got contacts.’

‘You have?’

‘Of course I fucking have.  I move in the underworld, Tony.’

The vegetable head took another long drag on the cigar.  And while the end glowed scarlet, Anthony Fish wondered if he was sharing a few quiet moments with the devil himself.  Well, if he was, he’d better make use of it.

‘Vinnie ...’  He paused, wondering if it might be a step too far.  ‘What if I wanted a job doing?’

‘Like around the house?’  A toothy grin leered at him from the shadows.

‘No.  No, no, no.’  He faltered.  ‘Not home improvements.  Life improvements.’

‘Not sure I’m following.’

Anthony Fish bit his lip and swallowed back the urge to swear.  ‘I want a job doing, Vinnie.  A job to improve my life.’

‘Like plastic surgery?  You want to look like Anita?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Not sure I do.’

‘A job.’  He battled a sneer.  ‘I need the sort of person who’ll ... you know ... do a job.’

A second gust of wind lolled across the gardens.  Slinking over the fence, it sidled across the grass and nudged at his trousers.

‘This is dangerous ground, Tony,’ Vincent Pinsent hissed.  ‘I’m not kidding you.’

‘And I’m not kidding you.’  The ex-Secretary of State hissed back, steeling himself for the task ahead.  ‘I want someone taken out.’

‘Taken out?’  The vegetable head cocked to one side.  ‘You mean eliminated?’

‘Exactly.’

The eyebrows shrugged.  ‘Why?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m a man of morals.  If I’m going to hook you up with someone, I want to know it’s a worthwhile cause.’

‘Yes, it’s worthwhile cause.  The target’s a low-life piece of shit.  He destroyed my career.’

The vegetable head leaned in.  The eyes gleamed.  ‘There are consequences to this type of stuff, Tony.’

‘What sort of consequences?’

‘Guilt, for a start.’

‘That shouldn’t be a problem.’  While Anthony Fish raked over the countless things he’d done that should have caused him guilt – but never had – he watched the boxer’s face.  Beneath a thoughtful frown, the lips took a long pull on the cigar.

‘We’ve got four more nights of this,’ Vincent Pinsent said at last.  ‘At some point, you can slip me your address on a piece of paper.  Nothing on the mobile.  I’ll get instructions to you.  Read them and destroy them.  They’ll give you details of a rendezvous.  And then I’m out of it.  You never mention my name.  Is that understood?’

Even though it must be well below zero, Anthony Fish felt himself break into a sweat.  He nodded, vigorously.

‘Because if you do, you’ll find yourself meeting a very nasty end.  Concrete footwear.  Is that clear?’

He nodded again, even more vigorously.

‘Good,’ Vincent Pinsent growled.  And with a swift, practised movement, he flicked the cigar across the lawn.  ‘Now, let’s go inside.  That paella’s calling.’

He turned, opened the door and disappeared back through the kitchen, flicking off the light along the way.

And darkness took its chance.  In the absence of defences, it leapt across the grass ... and staked its claim on the house.

CHAPTER TWO

Sunday 27th November

2.15 pm

Leicester

A pair of hazel eyes scoured the room, taking-in the television, the tatty three-piece suite, the bookcase lined with trashy novels, and the dining table with its tidy pile of newspapers from the past week.  Sarah Pickering wasn’t worried at all.  The hazel eyes could scour all they liked.  They wouldn’t find a thing out of place in this room – or any other room for that matter – because for the past few weeks she’d been relentlessly cleaning, relentlessly tidying, in a desperate effort to keep herself sane.  Much to her daughter Laura’s surprise, and then annoyance, every single window had been polished, every surface dusted, every carpet vacuumed at least once a day.  Every last kitchen cupboard had been wiped down, inside and out, the draining board buffed, the oven blitzed with some nasty chemical solution.  And upstairs was just the same.  The bath scrubbed, sink sponged, toilet scoured.  Even the duvet covers had been changed, washed, dried and ironed, and then changed, washed, dried and ironed again.  The house was spotless.

‘He’s going back to work tomorrow.’  Angie King stood up, made her way to the French windows and examined the garden.

‘Keep your voice down.  My daughter’s upstairs.’  No doubt plugged into an iPod and glued to her laptop, but you could never be too careful.  ‘And if that’s all you’ve come to tell me, I already know.’

‘I just wanted to make sure we understand each other.’  She turned back.  With the light flooding-in from behind, Mrs King was nothing more than a silhouette.

‘We do.’

‘Still ...’  One little word, loaded with fear.  It was more than enough to give the game away.  As of tomorrow, Ed would be back within reach, and the scarlet woman should not be trusted.  ‘He’s been through a terrible ordeal, Sarah.  He’s had enough to cope with.  So far, he’s remembered nothing, and I want it to stay that way.’

‘You don’t need to worry.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Really?  Why?’

There was no reply, and no need for one.  Because just like Bellingham, Angie had clearly passed judgement, deeming Sarah Pickering to be a woman of no morals.  And even though she could easily terminate the conversation with the news she’d given up on Ed, Sarah wasn’t about to abandon her scruples to yet another pasting.

‘You’re on dodgy ground,’ she said.  ‘You should take a good look at yourself.  You’re lying to your husband, and if he does remember, he’ll hate you for it.’

‘I’m not lying.  I’ve simply filtered out the unnecessary facts.’

‘So that’s what I am, is it?  An unnecessary fact?  You’re wrong.’

‘I don’t care what you think.  You stole my husband, broke up my family.  And now I’m putting it all back together, because I love him.’

Oh, that old cherry.  Love.  Mankind’s greatest concept.  A creature of the imagination, bringer of misery and creator of delusions, demanding absolute faith, and offering very little in return.

‘You have no idea what love is.’  Sarah winced at her own words.  What a terrible cliché.

‘It’s certainly not what you had.  You barely know the man.’

‘And what makes you think you know him?’

‘I know him better than anyone.’

‘I doubt it.  He’s changed.’

‘We all change.’  Vitriol filled the air.  It sizzled and crackled and fizzed.  ‘I know this is hard for you,’ Angie went on, breathing heavily now.  ‘I mean, this is the second time you’ve lost a man to his ex.  You must be getting sick of it.’

‘That’s a low blow.’

A seriously low blow.  So low, she could feel the tears pricking at her eyes.  Blinking them back, she wondered why it still hurt.  After all, the bastard ex had faded to little more than a scar.  But then again, a new wound had opened up in his place.  Blinking again, she watched Angie step away from the window, her features swirling into focus; hair, lips and skin regaining colour and form.

‘I’m sorry,’ Angie said, her voice softening now.  ‘I didn’t come here to snipe.  I know this isn’t easy for you ... but it hasn’t been easy for me either.  Maybe I need to make you understand.’

‘I understand enough.’  She was sick of being treated like an idiot.  It was time to stump the woman with a couple of choice facts of her own, pay off that low blow, like for like.  ‘I know plenty about your marriage.  I know it was on the rocks long before I showed up.  Ed told me that.  And you had another man ...’

‘Oh, yes.  Apparently, I kissed some bloke round the back of Nando’s.  I couldn’t wait to chuck my husband out because I already had someone else on the go.’  She smiled.  ‘I’ve heard the gossip, Sarah, but it’s all wrong.  Whoever saw me round the back of Nando’s needs a new prescription, because I’ve never been to Nando’s in my life, and I’ve certainly never been round the back of it.  I’m more of a Frankie and Benny’s kind of girl.  I’ve never kissed another man, not since I’ve been with Ed.  Sorry to disappoint, but there’s no Get Out Of Jail Free card here.  He cheated on me.  I never cheated on him, because I made a commitment.’

‘But ...’

‘I threw him out?  Yes.  Because I thought it might knock a bit of sense into him.  I was raising the game.  Thought he’d come back to me with his tail between his legs.  I never expected him to run straight off to you.  But I guess that’s what they do.’  The smile disintegrated.  The voice quietened again, this time to a whisper.  ‘You really don’t know me at all, Sarah.  And what you do know about me, you’ve got from other people.  It’s all perspective.’

They locked eyes then, woman to woman, passing a few seconds together in abject honesty.  And in those seconds, Sarah glimpsed the truth: Angie King had never been anything else but a simple concept, a cartoon collection of bright red lips and scarlet nails, Manolo Blahniks and back-combed hair.  A silhouette.  An outline.  But now she’d come into full view, and that was fear in those hazel eyes.  Because Angie King was just a woman, like any other woman, terrified of losing it all ... and determined to keep what was hers.

‘You don’t know how much I cried when he left,’ she pressed on.  ‘You don’t know how miserable it made me.  And you certainly don’t know how I felt when I got the call, when I had to take the kids down to the hospital, because we thought he was going to die.’  She moved back across the room, settled herself into an armchair and crossed her legs.  ‘We sat with him for four days before he woke up.  Four days, wondering whether he’d make it or not, knowing what he’d done.  It didn’t feel right, but what choice did I have?  The kids wanted to be there.  After all, he’s their dad.  And I had to be with them.  That’s why I sent the message.  Because I couldn’t have you turning-up.  Not because I’m a bitch.  Because it was the only thing to do.’

Sarah nodded.

‘So I had to wait ... wait for him wake up and reject me all over