Toxic: The addictive new crime thriller from the best selling author that will have you gripped in 2018

2

‘Wakey, wakey! Come on my handsome darlin’s, what’s all this? The day has started and you two pieces of lump are still in bed.’

Lola Harding cackled loudly as she energetically opened the curtains in the garishly decorated silver and velvet master bedroom of Janine Jennings’ large mansion just outside the straggling village of Wimbish in Essex.

‘Do me a favour! Bloody hell, Lola! Turn it in. Are you trying to kill me?’

‘No one died of a bit of sunshine, hey Janine?’

Leaning against the bedroom door, Janine Jennings sniffed as she bit into her fifth chocolate biscuit of the morning. ‘Don’t know why yer bothering, my husband has always been a lazy bastard.’

Alfie Jennings sat straight up. ‘Ex-husband.’

Janine guffawed with laughter. Her gold necklaces jangling with her. ‘You see, that’s the way to get him out of bed; remind him of our nuptials. Come on Vaughnie, take them covers off yer head. What’s wrong with you two? You asked me to wake you up.’

Alfie groaned. ‘Not this bloody early. And if I’d known me and Vaughnie had to share a bed when you said we could stay, I wouldn’t have bothered.’

Janine scowled. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers and anyway it’s only temporary, ain’t it?’ She paused before adding, ‘I thought you were supposed to be picking up Franny today.’

Alfie’s smile was tight as he tried not to let his anger overwhelm him as he thought of Franny. Franny Doyle, the woman he’d given his heart to. So strong, so beautiful, so clever, so fearless yet with a vulnerability which had made him fall in love with her, no matter how much he had tried to stop himself. But he had, and he’d fallen hard.

The daughter of one of the most notorious gangsters, he’d met Franny in Soho but after a while they’d decided to leave and go and live in Spain; there was nothing in the West End for them anymore. The place had changed beyond recognition. There was no more making money. Gangsters and faces had moved out. Tourists and foreigners, druggies and coffee shops had moved in. The council had clamped down, going into overdrive on any illegal activity, something they would’ve once turned a blind eye to or at least he could’ve paid them off. So, Spain had been their ideal.

He’d even given up the business for her after she’d become tired of seeing how many people it hurt. And he’d been happy to go semi-legitimate, or as happy as he could’ve been. But now, now was entirely different and happy certainly wasn’t a word which came to mind.

He stared at Janine and then at Vaughn. He shrugged, trying his best to sound unruffled.

‘There’s been a slight change of plan.’

Vaughn’s words shot out. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Look, calm down, nothing’s wrong. Franny’s on her way, she’s just been a bit delayed, that’s all.’

Incensed, Vaughn got out of bed, throwing the duvet in Alfie’s face. He walked across to the crushed velvet window seat and lit up a cigarette, inhaling it hard.

‘That’s all? She’s got two million quid of our money which, let me remind you, is all the money we’ve got in the world, and you expect me to be calm?’

Alfie got up from the mattress, pulling on his red sweat top over his muscular body, much to Lola’s dismay; albeit she was nearing seventy, she still had an admiring eye for a handsome man.

Then, lying through his teeth, Alfie said, ‘It’s just a little hiccup. Apparently when Franny got on the boat there were a lot of coast guards and police about at Puerto Banús and Puerto de la Bajadilla doing a routine sweep of all the private vessels, so she thought it was best to wait until everything’s quietened down before they set off. She knows what she’s doing.’

‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Franny knows exactly what she’s doing.’

Alfie stared at Vaughn, hoping the anger he felt towards Franny didn’t show on his face. Hoping he didn’t give anything away. Not yet anyway.

When they’d left for Spain, both he and Vaughn – who he’d known since he was a teenager – had invested in property. Clubs and restaurants initially, then finally a resort just south of Torremolinos, but then – and maybe it was his own fault for not keeping an eye on the legitimate businesses as he had done the illegitimate ones – the developer had gone bankrupt before the place had been finished, heading off to Mexico with their money, leaving unpaid workers and contractors as well as him and Vaughn out of pocket. The bank had closed in and they’d been left with not much change from fuck all.

But just when they’d started to worry, Reginald Reynolds, Essex kingpin, number one face and an old trusted friend of them both, had got in contact wanting to sell his bookmaker business, which not only incorporated the best legal pitches at racetracks like Cheltenham and Newmarket, but also the monopoly on the systematic illegal betting market in the East of England. And of course, they’d jumped at the chance. It was not only the reason they’d been looking for to come back home to Essex, it was a licence to print money. And all for just two million big ones.

It was a deal that couldn’t be missed and once they’d shaken on it, Reggie had put the word around that he and Vaughn were going to be his successors when he retired, which not surprisingly hadn’t gone down well with a lot of people.

They hadn’t known at the time, but Reginald hadn’t been retiring but had been fighting cancer, and was just putting his affairs in order for his family before it was too late. Two weeks after the details had been sorted, his widow, Reenie had been in touch letting them know Reginald was dead.

Vaughn had sold his house and Alfie had sold his villa, getting the money they needed together. Obviously, the likes of Reggie and his family only dealt in cash and certainly no transfers through any bank, so it was decided that they would travel to England first and Franny would follow with the cash on the boat of an old associate of theirs, later. Easy. Or it was supposed to have been.

‘Fuck’s sake, what’s with all the paranoia? Just leave it, okay?’

Alfie turned around but felt Vaughn’s grip on his arm. ‘Listen, until I have me money in me hand, I ain’t going to leave anything. You hear me?’

‘Get yer hands off me.’ Alfie shoved Vaughn, who fell back into Lola, then, just managing to keep his balance, Vaughn sprang at Alfie, grabbing hold of his top. With his face red, he hissed his warning.

‘I’ve already lost nearly everything because you didn’t keep your eye on the ball with that developer, pretending everything was fine. So, I’m telling you now Alfie, if anything’s happened to me money, I’m going to hold you responsible. And I’ll come for you. You understand me?’

‘Don’t threaten me, Vaughn, unless you want to be a dead man walking.’

Scrabbling between them, Lola tried to pull the men apart. She appealed to Vaughn. ‘This is Franny we’re talking about. She ain’t going to rip you off, is she? None of this is Alfie’s fault. I know you’ve had it tough these last few months, but see sense, Vaughn.’

‘Have you forgotten that Franny is the daughter of Patrick Doyle, one of the biggest gangsters there was?’

‘No, but …’

‘But nothing Lola. The apple don’t fall far from the tree, does it?’

Lola, not enjoying hearing Vaughn saying anything negative about her friend, put her hands on her hips as she stood in front of him. ‘Vaughn Sadler, have you ever, in all the time that you’ve known Franny, had any reason not to trust her?’

‘No, but …’

‘But nothing, right back at you. If Franny says she’s been delayed, then she’s been delayed. It’s going to be fine.’

Vaughn, unable to help himself, snapped at Lola. ‘In less than a month’s time we are supposed to be finalising the deal with Reginald Reynolds’ widow to buy his pitches, pay off who needs to be paid off to get the bookies’ licences, as well as recruit and pay a trusted team of men that we can have around us. Tell me Lola, how the fuck are we supposed to do that now? More to the point, how are you expecting me to keep calm when some bird is floating round the Costa with two million big ones in her back pocket?’

‘Vaughn, love—’

‘No, Lola! Hear me out. Reginald did us a favour by putting us first in line for his business. Everybody wanted it, and you know that. Once we get it up and running – if we do – it’ll mean we won’t have to think about money again, but now, thanks to this muppet, there’s a chance we could lose this opportunity.’

Alfie glared at Vaughn. ‘Stop winding yourself up, mate. It’ll be fine.’

‘Will it? It better be, because I’ve risked everything on this. Sold everything I had right under me missus’ nose and because of that, she’s gone and left me. That money is all I’ve got.’

‘It ain’t only yours.’

‘No, but it wasn’t me who gave the money to Franny, was it?’

Alfie, always one to be hot headed, said, ‘Look, so she’s delayed, it’s no biggie. You’re acting like someone’s robbed your fucking grave. And as for Casey, maybe you should’ve been more honest with your missus, perhaps that way she might not have done a runner, or maybe it was just her excuse.’

Vaughn went to swing at Alfie but pulled back as Lola stepped in his way. She smiled at him, hating seeing them argue. ‘Vaughn, lovie, please. Alf’s right, you’re getting yourself worked up over nothing. Franny will be here soon, and as for Casey, she’ll come round and see sense. Once she understands you did it for your future, she’ll be fine about it. I’ll have a word with her if it helps. Look, how about instead of all this arguing, which ain’t going to do any of us any good, why don’t I make you all some breakfast?’

The resounding cry of ‘no’ was heard round the room as everyone present remembered the days of Lola’s café, which she’d run in Soho for years. Her breakfasts had been infamous.

Lola shrugged. ‘Then at least kiss and make up. Come on, Vaughn. Alf, how about you?’

Neither of the men moved and Lola sighed. She’d known and loved Alfie and Vaughn for as long as she could remember, meeting them in Soho back in the day. In all that time she’d never known the two men have so few options, but then, they may never have come back to England otherwise. She hid a small smile. Every cloud.

Vaughn, ignoring Lola’s plea for reconciliation, spoke to Alfie, his voice full of hostility.

‘And what are we supposed to do for money until Franny comes? What are we supposed to tell Reginald’s widow?’

‘We tell her nothing because there’s nothing to tell. And in the meantime, we stick to our plan. We let everybody know we’re back and we mean business. Essex is ours for the taking.’

‘Just the two of us?’

‘Yeah, because they won’t know that, will they. We give it large like we always did. And in a couple of days Franny will be here, and then we’ll have the money to recruit some of the people who used to work for us. It’ll be sweet.’

Vaughn looked at Alfie. ‘Okay, but I’m telling you, Franny needs to be here by the end of the week.’

Janine, who’d been unusually quiet, piped up. ‘And you’ve got here. You can both stay here with me.’

‘See, there’s an offer no man can resist.’ As he said it, Alfie rolled his eyes causing Janine to let out a screech.

‘I saw that! Did you see that, Lola? Bleedin’ fucking cheek. I don’t know why I bother. You should be thanking me, Alfie. You should be grateful.’

‘Grateful! I’d be more grateful to an arse full of piles.’

Seething, Janine turned to Lola. ‘I knew this was a bad idea. I should never have listened to you. I’m a mug. That’s what me mates said when I told them I was going to let you stay. They said, Janine. You. Are. A. Mug.’

Lola pushed Janine and Vaughn gently out of the door. She smiled at Alfie. ‘Why don’t you get dressed and come downstairs for a nice cup of tea.’

‘Thanks Lola, I’ll be there in a minute.’

‘And Alfie, it’s good to have you back … I missed ya. Both of ya.’

Hearing the others heading downstairs, Alfie pulled out his phone. He stared at the text from Franny.

Please don’t be angry Alfie, but something’s come up. It’s probably better if you don’t know what. But trust me when I say, I wish it could be different. I won’t be coming to England. One day you’ll understand why I’ve done this. If it’s any consolation, I do love you. F.

Dialling Franny’s number, it switched straight onto voicemail. Speaking quietly Alfie hissed through his teeth. ‘Franny, it’s me. You better start picking up the fucking phone, you hear me? Just pick up the fucking phone. I want my money.’

He clicked off the call before hurling the phone against the wall, wondering which was greater, his broken heart or his anger.

3

Stepping out of his silver Audi Q5, which had seen better days, Eddie Styler lit a cigarette, admiring as he always did the mock-Tudor cladding he’d had fitted last year on the large, five-bedroom property on the private gated estate, just south of Emerson Park, Essex.

The place was a far cry from the run-down council block in South London he’d been born and brought up in, where drug addicts shot up on stairwells and anyone passing who cared to used the lobby as a giant urinal.

Unlike his childhood home, which he’d been ashamed of, number 25 Colney Close impressed, making him the envy of his family, most of whom still resided in the same shit hole they were born in and no doubt would be carried out in a box from.

It’d been the double garage feature of the house which had excited him, and within minutes of seeing the place, he’d put in an offer, well over the asking price, much to his wife, Sandra’s disgust. But then, when wasn’t the moany cow disgusted at him for one thing or another? And God, didn’t she just like to remind him how it was her money and not his that had bought the place.

But they were married, so by rights that made it his whether she liked it or not. To have and to hold. For richer, for poorer. His home. His castle.

Irritated at the thought of her, Eddie gritted his teeth too hard, causing the white filling that’d cost him near on three hundred quid last week, start to throb, making his present mood considerably worse.

Stomping towards the house and having inhaled deeply on the cigarette, which made his green eyes water, Eddie opened the front door, being hit immediately by the nauseating smell of Sandra’s constantly burning vanilla and honeysuckle scented candle, causing his eyes to water some more.

He clenched his fists feeling the stress catapult through him. How long he’d resented Sandra he didn’t know. Maybe it was the moment he’d said ‘I do’ and had lifted her wedding veil to see her dark, cold beady eyes staring at him as she chewed down on a piece of gum. But no matter when it was, Eddie knew he resented her now … hated the stupid cow now.

They’d made an odd-looking couple; her at six foot three – all pale skin and jutting bones – and him, barely five foot tall of rounded Greek heritage. But it hadn’t mattered, because money had been the reason he’d got together with her in the first place, desperate to escape the poverty of his life, and Sandra, with her flashy car and expensive shoes, had been his ticket out. Well, that’s what he’d thought she was. But rather than having money at his fingertips as he’d imagined, she’d held onto her bank accounts tightly like they were a life raft.

Despite her, over the years he’d tried to make a name for himself, wheeling and dealing, using old contacts and being the middle- man for the Mr Bigs, but each time he’d thought he was making a reputation, each time he could smell success, each time he thought he could finally leave Sandra, someone or something came along to squeeze the balls out of whatever deal he was trying to make and he’d be left with nothing at all.

But a few years ago, things had started to look up. He’d got the call from Reginald Reynolds, the number one face in Essex, who made the Kray twins look like something out of a children’s storybook. And he’d worked hard for Reginald. Becoming his right-hand man. Setting up the beatings, the tortures, the paybacks, the deals, and with Reginald Reynolds’ men behind him, his own name had become synonymous with fear. There wasn’t a man alive who’d say no to him. He could run up debts at casinos, debts with pimps, he had money at his fingertips. That was, of course, before Reginald Reynolds had popped his clogs at a very inconvenient time.

At first though, he’d been pleased that Reginald had finally snuffed it, assuming he was going to take the Essex crown. But after discovering from Reggie’s widow, Reenie, that rather than him – after all his loyalty – being the natural successor to his empire, he’d arranged that the scumbags, Alfie Jennings and Vaughn Sadler, were going to take over, he’d gone to the cemetery in Chigwell and pissed on Reginald’s grave.

But there was one thing that Reginald hadn’t managed to finalise before he’d died. A deal which only he really knew about. And once he’d pulled it off, things were going to be different. What he had lined up would change everything and no one was going to mess this up. And unlike all the other times, there was no question he wasn’t going to pull it off. Because everything was riding on it. Everything.

Even though Reginald had left some outstanding money to pay on the goods, thankfully he was able to find some cash himself by forging Sandra’s name on a remortgage application, getting the readies transferred into a bank account she didn’t know about, which had given him enough to finalise the deal of all deals, and all without any of Reggie’s men or family knowing about it. And the beautiful thing was, even if Sandra did eventually find out about the loan, it wouldn’t matter because they’d literally be rolling in it. Or rather he would. And then? Well then, it’d be adios Sandra.

Tiptoeing along the dark, oak wooden hallway to the cupboard under the stairs, he glanced up towards the bedroom, pausing and checking for any sound. He opened the stair cupboard door, quickly rummaging in the large box of tools he never used, and pulled out a half empty bottle of whiskey. The screw top couldn’t come off fast enough for Eddie and he knocked it back in one; wincing at the burn.

Content and preoccupied in his thoughts, Eddie absentmindedly stepped backwards, knocking over one of Sandra’s glass candle holders, shattering shards of glass all over the dark wooden floor.

‘Bollocks!’

Sighing and feeling the effect of the alcohol, Eddie heard Sandra, her voice grating through the silence of the darkness.

‘Eddie, is that you? What time is it? Eddie! What the bleedin’ hell are you doing?’

Walking up the stairs, Eddie thought it best to knock a couple of hours off, knowing that his wife would start to complain and ask a dozen questions about where he’d been if she knew the real time.

Gritting his teeth, he gave a saccharine reply. ‘It’s one o’clock, teddy bear. Go back to sleep.’

Immediately, the bedside light flicked on, and Sandra, sleepy eyed and messy haired, stared at him accusingly. ‘How the fuck am I supposed to sleep when you’re banging about like a brass band?’

Knowing it was best not to reply, Eddie undressed and slipped into bed, feeling the cold as if the sheets were made of a thin layer of ice. He shivered as he lay on the very edge of the super king size bed, which was mostly taken up by Sandra and all her cushions.

‘Is Barrie in okay?’

In no mood to go on an early morning hunt for the cat he hated – who perpetually seemed to have a supercilious smugness on his face – and having seen him wandering down the street yesterday morning and not since, Eddie answered casually, pushing down the sense of loathing towards Sandra that immersed his whole being.

‘He’s curled up on the sofa …’

‘Have you been drinking?’

Too quickly, Eddie shook his head and answered, ‘No.’

For the next few minutes Sandra continued to stare, looking for a giveaway tell-tale sign as Eddie Styler smiled reassuringly at his wife, trying to push down his hatred, thinking as he so often did how like her brother, Alfie Jennings, she looked.