Sinner Read online

  SINNER

  Jacqui Rose

  Copyright

  Published by AVON

  A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

  1 London Bridge Street

  London SE1 9GF

  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

  Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2019

  Cover design © Alison Groom 2019

  Cover photographs © Shutterstock/Unsplash 2019

  Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Source ISBN: 9780008287344

  Ebook Edition © June 2019 ISBN: 9780008287351

  Version: 2019-06-04

  Dedication

  To my readers, with thanks x

  Epigraph

  ‘What’s done cannot be undone.’

  Lady Macbeth

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Acknowledgements

  Keep Reading …

  About the Author

  Also by Jacqui Rose

  About the Publisher

  1

  SOHO

  LATE LAST NIGHT

  Alfie Jennings gulped down the last drops of the bottle of whiskey as he watched the orange and yellow flames of the fire dance about. Pulling his gaze away he stared at the letter he held in his hand, reading it once more as he tried to stop himself from trembling whilst feeling the same clawing terror he’d felt over the past ten months or so since the letters first started to arrive.

  Leaning over the neatly cut-up line of cocaine that sat on top of the black, hand-carved mantelpiece in the front room of the large Georgian house in Soho, Alfie snorted it up greedily. He hoped the coke he’d bought from his friend would somehow make him feel better. Get him high and make him forget.

  Closing his eyes, he swallowed as the white powder hit the back of his throat. He tasted the bitterness as a rush of euphoria raced through his bloodstream and for just one fleeting moment, his crippling fear subsided, only for it to return a few seconds later as it came crashing back all too hard, all too quickly.

  About to snort another line at the same time as making a mental note to pull up his mate for selling him low-grade coke, Alfie felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he stared at the screen. Number withheld. He frowned as he answered.

  ‘Hello? … Hello?’

  Getting no reply and trying to ignore the cold, clammy dread creeping over his body, Alfie attempted to convince himself that his racing heart was just down to the bad batch of coke. He spoke again. ‘Hello? Hello? Listen, whoever this is, let me tell you something: I don’t appreciate being prank called, and when I find out who you are, I will make sure I get …’ He stopped suddenly, hearing slow breathing on the other end of the line. But not wanting to show alarm, Alfie cleared his throat, now aware of his own breath; short and shallow, his voice smaller, quieter, fear mixing into his words.

  ‘Who is this? Look, this isn’t funny anymore. You hear me? I don’t know what you’re trying to do but if you think you’re going to scare me by playing the old heavy breather game, think again, cos you’re wasting your time. You don’t scare me. You think a few phone calls and a few letters are going to get me going? Do me a favour. You seriously can’t know who I am. I’m Alfie Jennings. You hear that? I’m Alfie, and I never get frightened about anything, so why don’t you just do one and call someone else?’

  Hurriedly, Alfie clicked off his phone, throwing it across the room as he took deep, long breaths, wiping the prickles of sweat off his face, trying to calm his trembling, trying to stop the wave of nausea overwhelming him as he swallowed the vomit back down along with his panic.

  It was stupid. So stupid. How could a few letters and calls make him feel so jumpy? Maybe it was just the coke making him twitchy. Paranoid. Christ almighty.

  But as Alfie stood – his handsome face pale and strained – in the large, newly decorated front room, still holding the letter in his hand, the second one he’d received that day and feeling like it was burning a hole in his palm, he knew the real problem wasn’t the substandard coke. The real problem was he was scared – really scared – and he hated himself for it. He was disgusted at his fear, and God knows he’d never admit it to anyone. The worst thing was, no matter how much he drank and snorted coke to take away the panic, the fear still sat there like a stone in his stomach.

  He couldn’t even tell Franny – his long-term lover – about it, although it was clear she knew something wasn’t quite right. She’d asked him on several occasions if there was some kind of problem, even going as far as suggesting that he took a break, went back to Spain, set up again there, anything to make him feel better. But all he’d said to her was that he was fine. That everything was just fine, but fine couldn’t be further from the truth.

  It was a joke. He was a joke, and the shame of it all sat on his shoulders like a weighted barbell. And besides, even if he wanted to tell Franny, what would he actually say to her? How would he say it? And how could she look at him afterwards with any kind of respect when he told her he was afraid? Afraid of the calls. Afraid of a letter. A flipping four-line letter. It was pathetic because after all when it came down to it, he was the great Alfie Jennings, the same Alfie Jennings who’d put fear into so many men over the years and the same Alfie Jennings who’d taken on gangs and notorious crime families to become one of the biggest faces there was. Yet here he was trembling like a girl over a poxy note, which this time had been left on the window of his car. But then, it wasn’t just any note, was it? Because the no
te wasn’t from just anybody, was it? No, because he was certain he knew exactly who the note was from.

  Shaking and with his thick, dark hair stuck to his sweating forehead, Alfie glanced down again at the letter.

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  I’m your worst nightmare

  and I’m coming for you.

  Screwing it up tightly and throwing it into the flames, Alfie rested his head against the fireplace.

  The letters had been one of the reasons he’d moved back up to Soho from Essex; it made him feel safe, or rather he’d hoped it would’ve done. He’d thought the familiarity of the place, seeing the people he’d grown up with and throwing himself back into his old ways would make him feel better, make him forget. But he hadn’t. Not one little bit. He was still looking over his shoulder, still drinking more than he should to stay as sharp as he would’ve liked to, and still taking too much coke, all behind Franny’s back.

  The only thing it had helped him do was forget Bree Dwyer, an old friend who he’d bumped into last year, and when he’d stupidly thought that Franny had ripped him off in a business deal and wasn’t coming back, he had sought comfort in Bree and very quickly they’d become lovers. Then just as he was beginning to settle down with her, Franny had come back, explaining the reasons why she’d done what she’d done, but by that time it was too late, because he’d already fallen in love with Bree without bothering to fall out of love with Franny.

  But over time, Franny – who’d always been the strong one – did something that if he’d been in the same position, he knew he couldn’t have done; she’d become friends with Bree, trying to make the three of them work. And Jesus, it’d been complicated, especially when Bree had found out she was pregnant. Not that she’d been certain if it was his or her ex-husband’s baby, though ultimately it hadn’t mattered whose it was, because Bree had had a miscarriage. Afterwards, she’d decided she didn’t want anything to do with him and once again his heart had been broken when she’d moved away without saying goodbye and without leaving a forwarding address.

  And through all of it, and although Franny had been hurt, really hurt by his relationship with Bree – albeit he’d never set out to cause her any pain – Franny had been kind. Supportive. Worrying about him. Suggesting he took time out in Spain whilst she stayed in England to run the businesses. Not that he’d taken her up on it and anyway, when the first letter had come all those months ago, Bree and his broken heart were soon forgotten, overshadowed by his own debilitating fear.

  A sound in the hallway cut into Alfie’s thoughts. For a moment he froze before quietly stepping back towards the hearth, his eyes fixed on the lounge door.

  Feeling his heart begin to race again, Alfie carefully slid his hand behind the bronze clock on the mantelpiece, and pulled out a large jagged knife. He paused, listening again, then made his way slowly around the room, quickly turning off the light, leaving him in darkness save the glowing embers of the fire.

  He could feel the tightness in his chest as he gripped the leather handle of the knife. Moving across the room in the darkness, careful to avoid banging into anything, afraid to make a noise, Alfie stiffened as he heard the sound again. Someone was coming. They were getting nearer.

  Nervously playing with the knife in his hand, he twirled it around and around in his palm, which was now wet with sweat as he stared into the darkness, just waiting. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and there it was again. Just outside the door now.

  As the door began to open, Alfie pushed himself as far back as he could then without hesitation he jumped forward, grabbing the person in a neck lock, spinning them round and with as much strength as he could, he threw them hard against the wall, kicking at them brutally as they fell to the floor.

  In the darkness, Alfie, enraged, slammed their head against the wooden floorboards over and over again at the same time as ignoring the punching and struggling from the person beneath him. With one hand, he grabbed their throat, pushing down hard as he brought the knife to their cheek, pressing it into their flesh. He could hear choking as he held their neck. ‘You haven’t got nothing to say now, have you? Let me show you what happens when you think you can take me on. Thought you could frighten me, did you? Well I’m going …’

  ‘Alf … Alf …’

  Horrified, Alfie suddenly let go, scrabbling back as he dropped the knife, frantically leaping up to turn the light on. ‘Franny? Oh my God, Franny. Jesus, what have I done?’

  Sickened at himself, he stood transfixed as Franny rolled around in pain, the small nick on her face oozing with blood. Then shaking himself out of his trance, Alfie dropped to his knees, cradling Franny’s head in his arm as he pulled up her top to reveal the angry bruise on the side of her ribs. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Are you all right? Jesus Christ, I could’ve killed you. What were you thinking of creeping about like that?’

  Rubbing her throat, Franny began to sit up, wincing at the pain, her voice croaking from the chokehold as she stared at Alfie in shocked bemusement. ‘Me? What I am doing? Alfie, I live here!’

  Turning his shame into anger, Alfie snapped, ‘I know that, but you could’ve been anybody!’

  ‘Like who? Like who, Alfie?’

  Alfie shrugged, not wanting to hold eye contact. ‘I don’t know, like a burglar.’

  ‘Are you kidding me? When was the last time you knew a burglar to use a key? What is wrong with you?’

  Although he knew he was out of order and should be full of apologies, her tone bristled him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Why would there be anything wrong with me? What are you trying to say, Fran?’

  Standing up with great effort and holding her side, Franny shook her head, strands of her long chestnut hair covered in blood from the wound on her cheek. ‘Have you heard yourself? Are you …’ About to say something else, she stopped as her eyes caught sight of the lines of cocaine still sitting on the mantelpiece. She spoke coldly. ‘What is that?’

  Alfie glanced towards where Franny was staring. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. Irritated, but aware it was more about being caught out, he said, ‘What do you think it is? Can’t a man have a bit of downtime?’

  Stepping towards him, Franny matched Alfie’s tone. ‘Not when that downtime turns you so paranoid you think you need to attack me for coming into my own home!’

  ‘Turn it in, Fran. I hate it when you exaggerate … Look, I’m really sorry, okay? I thought you were …’

  ‘Thought I was who, Alf? Talk to me.’

  Alfie shrugged, aware of his anxiety as he tried to sound casual. ‘I dunno. Does it matter?’

  ‘What matters, Alf, is that you were so high you could’ve killed me. You didn’t even wait to see who it was … Baby, what’s going on? I mean you haven’t been yourself for a long time now. I’m worried about you. I know I’ve said it before but why don’t you think about getting away? Take some time out. Set up again in Spain if that’s what it takes. You were happy there and we can make that work. We’ve done it before; after all Spain is only a couple of hours away … What’s that you’re burning?’

  Franny looked at the fire and again, Alfie shrugged. Uncomfortable, he mumbled, ‘Nothing.’

  Franny’s voice was soft. ‘Alfie?’

  ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Like what?’

  Rubbing his chin, Alfie snapped, ‘Like I’m hiding something.’

  ‘Well are you? Because I can clearly see something burning.’

  Angrily and unable to deal with his emotions, Alfie grabbed his coat before turning to stare at Franny with as much hostility as he could muster. ‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? You’ll be wanting to know what time I went for a piss next.’

  ‘Alf …’

  Alfie cut in, leaning in to Franny’s face. She recoiled at the smell of the whiskey on his breath. ‘Don’t flipping Alf me. I already told you, it’s nothing. Like the coke is nothing. It’s my nothing.
It hasn’t got anything to do with you, so why don’t you just leave it? Now unless you’ve got anything else to say, I’m off to the club. Someone around here has to earn the money you seem to spend like water.’

  And with that, Alfie Jennings slammed out of the room, leaving Franny to stare at the dying flames of the fire.

  2

  Shannon Mulligan was on her knees. It was only 8pm and she’d already lost count of the amount of blow jobs she’d given that day in the small members-only club in Mead Street, Soho. Though on analysis, she reckoned it must be a lot on account of how painful her knees were and how much her jaw was aching – those were two good indicators in her book. Her rule was, if she didn’t feel the burn in her knee joints and the throbbing in her jaw, well she hadn’t done enough, which ultimately meant her pimp, Charlie Eton, would have something to say. And one thing that Shannon Mulligan knew all too well was that Charlie’s first language wasn’t English when it came to money.

  Charlie talked in bust lips, black eyes, broken ribs and knocked-out teeth. Not that she was particularly bothered about her teeth – they’d started falling out a long time ago, long before she’d started working for Charlie and around about the same time she’d moved from heroin on to crack. Besides, she didn’t think it was half bad not having all her front teeth: it made the blow jobs easier and stopped the punters’ pubic hairs getting stuck in them, which was one of her pet peeves.

  Bored and glancing up, Shannon’s view was blocked by her client’s enormous pasty white wobbly belly as he thrust into her mouth one final time before he let out a loud squeal – reminding Shannon of the pig she’d seen on TV last week – as his legs gave way underneath him, and he collapsed satisfied to the floor.

  Staring in disgust, Shannon stood up and sighed. Today was her sixteenth birthday.

  Charlie Eton was one of life’s bastards and he prided himself on this self-proclaimed title. If anyone called him a bastard, rather than be offended, he took it as a compliment, knowing that he must be doing something right, because to Charlie being a bastard showed strength. It showed aggression. It showed he’d wound somebody up enough for them to be upset. Everything he aspired to do and be – that word said it all.