Page 115 of The Guilty Girl

Ivy knew she wouldn’t be caught dead in a grotty, rat-infested kip like that. There was even a tattoo parlour next door. What kind of people lived in these dumps?

Looking at the tattoo place made her wonder about the conversation she’d had with that detective. It was true, Lucy had got a tattoo without telling her. She’d have stopped her if she’d known, because it had turned out awful. Why had she lied to the detective? Now the stupid guards wanted her to come in for a formal interview. They could fuck right off.

She put away the nail file and drummed the steering wheel. The circulation of the half-naked photo of Hannah had been so cool, until Hannah had fought with Lucy. That photo had unleashed a side of her that had shocked Ivy. And then Lucy had died. Murdered. Sad. Yes, Ivy thought, very sad. Lucy was her best friend. Would the darling of the athletics track pay for the crime? Itching with impatience, she fervently hoped Hannah Byrne would rot in prison.

The passenger door opened and she turned to her visitor. ‘You took your time.’

‘Give me a break. My wife could be in labour and I’m supposed to be in Tesco, shopping, so I can’t delay.’ Richie slid in, sitting on her cosmetic purse. Shifting, he threw it on the dash.

‘Shouldn’t you be holding her hand or something? Helping to squeeze the little brat out of her hole?’ Ivy idly picked a non-existent hair from the seam of her sheer white top, which revealed her expensive red lingerie.

‘For fuck’s sake, Ivy, you don’t have to be so gross.’

‘It’s true.’ She smirked, relishing her talent for making people lose their cool. He was even shivering, like he was stuck in a snowstorm in the dead of winter. Grow up.

He refused to look at her. ‘You know I don’t like texts. Brontë might see them. Don’t do it again.’

‘Oh, so now you’re worried? You weren’t that concerned when you were poking me with your limp excuse for a dick on Friday night.’

He shook his head vehemently. ‘You’re insane. I’m out of here.’

She laughed as he opened the door, ready to flee.

‘Fine by me. I only wanted to show you a selection of photos from Friday night. I think they’d look good on Instagram or TikTok, or …’ she paused for effect, hunching up one shoulder, ‘maybe Brontë would be interested in seeing them.’

She waited as he stalled with one foot outside the car, a hand on the door, his back to her. Then he turned ever so slightly, eyeing her. She had him.

‘I honestly think these photos are so gross I might have to figure out a way of putting them on the dark web. That’s if you keep acting the prick.’ Smiling, she relaxed as he closed the door again and sank back into the cream leather seat.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, each word curled into a snarl.

‘That tone makes you so ugly.’

‘Why are we sitting in the middle of town where everyone can see us?’

‘All good crime books tell you that the best place to meet is in plain sight. That way, people don’t give you a second glance. Clever me.’

‘I asked you what you want from me.’

‘A cuddle would be nice. Then I can show you what I’ve got here.’

He turned to her, his cheeks red, spittle at the corners of his mouth. ‘If you so much as threaten me or my wife again, I’ll kill you. Do you hear me, I will kill you.’

‘Oh really? Tried it before, have you? Practice makes perfect and all that.’

‘You are a bitch, Ivy Jones. A slithery fucking snake in the grass.’ His face had taken on a sinister hue. She felt like grabbing his stupid beaded necklace and choking him with it. He swiped her phone from the central console, where it was held by a magnet.

For a moment she felt a surge of unease, but she quickly capped it with what she hoped was a sinister expression of her own. ‘Everything is backed up to the cloud, just in case you think I’m stupid enough to store my photos solely on my phone.’

He let it drop back to its resting place. Now that she had his attention, she told him her plan.

When Richie got out of the car, he slammed the door so hard her phone fell from the magnet to the footwell. She picked it up, then fetched her cosmetic purse from the dash and applied a swipe of lip gloss. It was then that she noticed the shake in her fingers. She hoped he hadn’t seen it. She had to present as being fully in control, displaying no sign of weakness. Richie Harrison might be easy to manipulate, but she reckoned he could be dangerous when mad. But she needed him to do what she wanted. Then she would be free at last.

55

Noel Glennon parked his car outside the semi-detached new-build. Despite himself, he admired the impressive house. Way out of his league. He knew he shouldn’t have come, but he had to talk to Richie before he gave himself a heart attack.

He checked that the buttons on his white shirt were closed, except for the one at the collar so that he could breathe. He despaired at the creased cotton. It looked like he’d slept in it. He was sniffing his armpit when the door was flung open.