Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Born and bred in the East End of London, Dreda Say Mitchell has seen it all from the inside. After a string of jobs as a waitress, chambermaid and catering assistant she realised her dream of becoming a teacher. During this time she saw a new generation of East Enders grappling with the same problems she had but in an even more violent and unforgiving world. Dreda’s books are inspired by the gritty, tough and criminal world she grew up in. She still lives in London’s East End. For more information and news, please visit Dreda’s website:

  www.dredasaymitchell.com

  Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell

  Find her on Facebook: /dredasaymitchell

  Also by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Running Hot

  Killer Tune

  The Gangland Girls trilogy

  Geezer Girls

  Gangster Girl

  Hit Girls

  DI Rio Wray series

  Vendetta

  Snatched

  Death Trap

  The Flesh and Blood series

  Blood Sister

  Blood Mother

  Blood Daughter

  One False Move

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © Mitchell and Joseph Ltd 2017

  The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the Author of the

  Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

  the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

  stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any

  means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be

  otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that

  in which it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

  to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN 978 1 473 62572 3

  eBook ISBN 978 1 473 62571 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To all of you who have got in contact over the years,

  who kept me going and who spread the word. Bless you all!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part 1: 2006

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Part 2: 2006

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Fifty-Five

  Fifty-Six

  Fifty-Seven

  Fifty-Eight

  Fifty-Nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-One

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Epilogue: 2007

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Dee banged a spoon on the table to get Tiff and Jen’s attention before things got out of hand. She realised the noise had attracted the attention of the other diners and lowered her voice.

  ‘You see the problem here? I call us together for a constructive discussion on our little issue and it’s already turning into a Millwall match. What’s the matter, Tiffany? Why do you need money in a hurry?’

  Tiff shrugged and sank the rest of the wine in her glass before topping herself up. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Look, we’re adults here, and we’re sisters. We shouldn’t have any secrets. If you don’t need it, why are you asking me for a loan?’

  Tiffany downed her drink in one and turned blazing eyes on Dee. ‘Oh that’s right. Wash my dirty panties in public, why don’t you.’

  Jen sat back in triumph. ‘I might have guessed. She’s living on tick. No wonder she wants to fleece the rest of us. It’s to pay her bills off.’

  Tiffany decided she’d done with her glass and reached for the bottle, but it was empty. She shouted at a waiter: ‘Oi you – the one dressed like a penguin – another couple of these please. And no, I don’t want to taste it first.’

  A ripple of disquiet went through the restaurant but the Miller sisters were too engrossed in their squabble to take a blind bit of notice.

  Jen was jeering now. ‘Same ol’ little sis. No different now than when she was a kid. Won’t do any work, so she lifts money off others. What a ponce.’

  ‘Won’t work? I was a mechanic 24/7 when all your money was supplied by that Keystone car thief Nuts. Where is he these days . . .? Oh yeah, he upped and fucked off.’ She wriggled her head provocatively. ‘And left little Miss Iceberg.’

  Seeing Jen was on the point of exploding, Dee slammed her palm in the air to halt the mudslinging. ‘Tiff, enough of the bitch fest.’ She turned her gaze to Jen. ‘There’s obviously something giving you the nark, so please enlighten me.’

  Jen thumped her glass down. ‘I’ll tell you what the bovver is. Do you know what it’s like raising two kids on your own on a place like The Devil? It’s like wading through quick-setting diarrhoea up to your knees. All day. Every day. You’re alright for money. Tiffany would be alright if she wasn’t a greed hound. But I’m not alright. I don’t see why we should split the money three ways. Mum should’ve taken my situation into account and put something extra aside for my girls. It’s not about me, it’s about my kids. You wanna know what my problem is? It’s other kids calling my girls tramps in the playground. And Mum and you two could solve it in the blink of an eye but it never even crossed your minds.’

  ‘I see.’ Dee didn’t mean to sound like a headmistress with a couple of naughty school kids but she knew she did. ‘Well, all of our cards are on the table now. Got to say I’m very disappointed at your attitude . . .’

  All the bitterness and resentment that Jen had stoppered up for years burst out like a cork from a bottle. ‘It’s alright for you, shacked up with your gangster of a husband. You’re not even really part of our family anyway, are you?’

  Tiffany nodded
in a rare moment of agreement. ‘That’s true actually. You’re not.’

  At the other tables, diners looked in horror as Dee rose to her feet and then slapped Tiffany very hard across the face. Stunned for a moment, Tiff rolled back before she stood up in turn. ‘Oh, you’ve done it now. You want some, do ya? If you want some, you’ve got it.’

  She took a swing at Dee, who raised one arm to protect herself and punched Tiff in the face with the other. Tiffany fell back in front of a shocked couple who ran for cover when they saw Dee moving in for the kill. Bottles, plates and glasses were scattered on the floor. But so focused was Dee on Tiffany that she didn’t notice that Jen wanted in as well. She only felt a wallop across the back of her head.

  That was it! World War Three had been declared and Dee knew who the victor would be.

  She staggered over to another table and asked the dumbstruck guy sitting there, ‘Excuse me mate, do you mind if I borrow this?’ Without waiting for his consent, she took the decanter of brandy from him and emptied the contents on the floor. She held it by the neck and turned menacingly back to her sisters. ‘You want to sort this out East End style do ya? Alright, let’s see what you two fake Mike Tysons have got.’

  With grim relish she advanced on them.

  PART 1: 2006

  A MONTH AGO

  ‘She began to wonder if she’d made a terrible mistake.’

  One

  ‘Call that justice . . .’

  ‘You twat – a rapist gets half that . . .’

  ‘She should be getting a medal mate, not a prison sentence . . .’

  The memories of the angry shouts her daughters had directed at the judge as he sentenced her to five years for the manslaughter of her former husband, Stanley Miller, rang in Babs’ head that Tuesday morning as she nervously waited outside the room where the parole board was meeting. She’d so desperately wanted to call out to Dee, Jen and Tiff that five years wasn’t so bad. It could’ve been much worse. She could have got life for murder rather than a knock-down to manslaughter. And despite doing her ‘I’m sorry Milord’ spiel for the benefit of the jury, she was glad Stanley was dead. May the bastard rot in hell.

  But the impact on her beloved family had been devastating. She would never forget the expression on her beloved Kieran’s face as he sat in the back row of the gallery. Worn and bloodless like the very life had been drained away from him. Kieran Scott had been like a son to her, Babs having taken him under her wing during his troubled childhood on The Devil’s Estate. People called him a thug, a psycho, a wrong’un, but Babs had never seen it. He would forever be her little Kieran.

  As Jen’s heartbreaking sobs filled the courtroom, Babs had taken one final look up at the gallery and nearly fallen backwards at the sight of the woman looking back at her with Stan’s fox-like eyes. Florence fucking Miller. His wrong-side-of-the-blanket daughter with that posh Islington tart. Flo was scowling and furiously chewing gum under a platinum-blonde wig. It seemed no one had recognised her apart from Babs. Just as well. If her girls had clocked her, there might’ve been another killing. She’d had the brass balls to smirk and mouth ‘Bitch’ as Babs was taken down.

  Babs had been dreading prison. She was afraid of sharing a cell with smackhead shoplifters, hard nut toughs and the type of dopey puss who brings a suitcase full of coke back from Spain and then wails she didn’t know what was in it. But as she’d been led down the steps, she remembered that she’d been sharing The Devil’s Estate with women like that for the past couple of decades. How much worse could the slammer be?

  She’d soon found out . . .

  Babs was slammed into her cell wall. She gazed, terrified, into the face of one of the scariest women she had ever seen in her life. And she’d seen a few.

  Drying-out junkie Shazza Logan had been creating ever since she’d been shipped from A to C Wing a couple of days back. Word was, she’d threatened to stick her fork into another girl’s neck in a row over brekkie one morning. And now she’d barged into Babs’ cell looking to do some serious damage.

  Babs had known this was going to happen sooner or later. Violence was a way of life within the walls of HMP Shithole. She’d kept her head down and stayed well clear of trouble. That had been the advice given to her the first day here by the kangas. Kangaroo was the nickname the girls gave the prison officers. Why they were called that, Babs didn’t know. Her mind was dizzy with all she had to learn about being a jailbird. Her nerves were cracking up because it wasn’t so easy to get a when-you-want-it supply of her steady pills.

  ‘Where’s my fucking lippy Miller?’ Shazza snarled, spit frothing like a ruptured spot.

  Like Babs would ever nab something that had touched this nutter’s scabby skin, much less her mouth. God knows what she’d pick up.

  ‘How the heck would I know?’ Babs knew about standing up for herself, but normal rules didn’t apply behind bars. Bullies might back down on the outside but in here they were more likely to go ape. So she knew she shouldn’t but couldn’t resist adding, ‘What do you need lipstick for anyway? Ain’t like you’re going out raving tonight, is it?’

  By way of reply, Shazza socked Babs in the gut, making her double over in pain. She almost collapsed, but made herself stand steadfast. The biggest way to become a target in here was to show weakness. The pain was crippling, but she couldn’t allow herself to fall.

  ‘Where is it? You wanna ask around, Saggy Tits? No one mixes it with me. Not if they wanna keep their head facing the right way.’

  Breath ragged, Babs stared directly into her attacker’s tight, mean eyes. ‘Know what I think? You ain’t come in here looking for no war paint.’

  Shazza shoved her face so close Babs could smell the hooch that was illegally brewed in many a cell come lights-out. How anyone could stomach that stuff she would never know. It was rank, plain and simple, more likely to strip your stomach lining than give you a buzz.

  ‘What you mouthing off about?’

  ‘Since you landed on the wing I ain’t never seen you wearing no lippy. The way I hear it you’re a bit of a bitch . . . Oops, I mean a butch.’ Babs played it all innocent although the slip-up was deliberate. She added, ‘Nothing wrong with that. One of my daughters is one too.’

  Shazza’s face spread into a nasty smile that really did make her look like a lunatic. ‘Palm me a tenner and we’ll say no more about it.’

  ‘A tenner? Cheap at half the price. Let’s see what I’ve got squirrelled away under my mattress.’

  Looney Tune let her go and stood back in triumph. Babs pushed off the wall, the muscles in her back and tummy aching. She moved towards her bunk but kept her head turned slightly to keep an eye on C Wing’s newest nut job.

  ‘Get a move on. This ain’t a boozer on Saturday night,’ Shazza growled, folding her arms.

  Babs made her move. She turned on a sixpence and threw a punch into her attacker’s face. Shazza barely stumbled. Oops! Babs’ terror really kicked in.

  ‘Oh dear Miller. It seems this is bash-a-granny week.’

  Shazza launched herself forwards, grabbed Babs’ hair and dragged her towards the cell door. Babs lashed out all the way but her blows had little effect. When they reached the door, Mad Bird used a trainer to edge it open. She seized Babs’ hand and tried to shove it in the doorway. Realising what she was about, Babs began fighting back with all her might. The classic punishment for stealing from another inmate was to have your fingers broken. But this was wrong; she hadn’t pinched anything.

  ‘You better let me go,’ Babs yelled, her last-ditch attempt to save herself.

  ‘Or what?’ Shazza growled back, ‘you gonna go blubbing to the kangas?’

  They both knew that she wouldn’t. No one went running to the POs. If you did you were marked as a grass and that was the end. Babs started flagging as her hand was pulled closer and closer to the doorway. With triumph Shazza flattened her fingers on the doorframe. Grabbed the cell door . . .

  The door was shoved back violently by one o
f the screws, propelling Babs and her attacker away. Thank fuck for that, Babs sighed mentally. She couldn’t remember the name of the prison officer, but she was big, pure muscle and had a face that looked like badly mixed concrete.

  Without a word she kicked the door shut and took out her retractable baton, snapping it to full length with a loud click. Babs cringed. She’d heard all about officers who liked to take the law into their own hands.

  ‘Miss—’ Babs started but never finished because the kanga advanced on Shazza and cracked her over the head. Taken by surprise, C Wing’s wildest crashed to the floor. Babs covered her mouth in horror as the officer dished out the battering of a lifetime. Less than a minute later, big mouth Shazza was a silent, bloody mess.

  Babs shrank back when the officer turned her attention to her. I’m for it now. She steeled herself for the attack. But it never came. Instead, the officer smiled.

  ‘I’m Mrs Reagan. I run C Wing.’ She snapped her baton back together. ‘Mister Scott sends his regards. Any problems Babs, you come to me.’

  ‘Miller.’ The insistent voice of the kanga next to her drew Babs back to the present.

  She missed Mrs Reagan watching her back but was pleased to have been shipped out of that hellhole to an open prison two weeks earlier. In HMP Hillsworth things were plenty different. The tabloids had dubbed it ‘Her Majesty’s Hilton’ and the papers had a point. The regime was more light touch in this spanking new, privately run prison. There were discreet bars on the window and though she was under lock and key she had a good-sized cell all to herself. The ladies called their cells houses because they had their own TVs, radio, mini bathroom, a bedside unit and a desk that doubled up as a dressing table.

  ‘They’re ready for you,’ the officer said.

  Right, here goes! Babs squared her shoulders and entered the room where the parole – or ‘jam roll’ as it was called inside – board waited for her. She was about to smile, but then thought better of it; it wouldn’t do to look like she was having the time of her life. She sat straight in the seat she was directed to but her hands couldn’t seem to keep still. Her gaze darted fretfully between the two men and single woman in front of her, making her feel like she was back before a jury. The next half an hour sped past as she answered their questions in a daze: