‘I’ve taken loads of courses and got my Level 3 certificate in English. Plus I’m working outside, on day release, in the memorial gardens.’
‘In the prison before this one I saw the shrin— I mean the psych lady, Pam, every week to talk out my problems, especially about my obsession with keeping everything spic and span and tidy all the time.‘
Babs shuddered, remembering how the filth of the previous prison had tipped her and her manic need for order over the edge. She’d tried her best to keep her cell clean, but the dirt and dust just seemed to breed and the cockroaches that crawled on her at night . . . She’d ended up spending a month on the funny farm ward that first year. Of course her girls were none the wiser; she’d been too ashamed to let on. The prison had got her into a support group for inmates with something called OCD. That first meeting had nearly blown her mind; some of the other girls’ stories made her own problem look like a stroll in the park. She’d never heard the like. One woman had to chant to ten over and over, every time she got stressed out.
The whole group had choked up when she’d finally spilled her guts to explain that her problem had started with someone spitting on her in the street and the loss of her first child. Talking had done her the world of good. She wasn’t cured but the need to be in control wasn’t nearly as bad.
Babs answered the next question quickly. ‘I keep a diary of any of the risk factors associated with my crime so I know when I might need a helping hand.’ One of the other ladies on the Wing had told her to say ‘risk factors’ as many times as she could because jam roll boards liked it.
It was the woman who asked the final question, the only question that really mattered. Babs answered in a clear and firm voice.
‘I deeply regret, to the bottom of my heart, what I did to Stanley Miller.’
If I had my time again I’d do it all over again.
‘He didn’t deserve to die like that.’
Nah, I should’ve stabbed a stake right through the fucker’s cold-blooded heart.
When the meeting finally came to an end Babs felt wrung out. She prayed hard that she’d done enough to secure an early release. She missed her family so much. And it was thinking about her daughters that made her reach a momentous decision. It was time to have a sit-down with them to tell them the news she’d been holding back for the past three years.
She turned to the prison officer and said, ‘I wanna see the Number One.’
Two
‘Alright you wankers! Let’s roll!’
The bulldozer lurched forward, picking up speed as it careered towards the wrought iron gates set in thick concrete walls of the security depot. The joint they were crashing had no signs to show what kind of business it was. But Kieran Scott, known to his makeshift crew only as ‘the Boss’, knew full well what went on in there. It was a private vault, the kind used by dodgy people who wanted to keep their property away from authority’s prying eyes.
Kieran was perched on top of the JCB, dressed in black overalls, gloves and a crash helmet like the rest of his gang. Four other men held on for dear life while the driver stuck his foot down on the pedal. It didn’t seem possible that even a vehicle of that size could take down the gates, but the guy who’d organised the raid had done his sums and promised Kieran that if they were hit at the right angle and at the right speed, they’d cave in.
But of course that guy wasn’t there. It was Kieran taking all the risk.
They struck the gates, which squealed and tore but the fuckers wouldn’t open. Kieran soon sussed out why. At the last moment, the prick at the wheel had braced for impact and eased his foot off the gas. And that meant there wasn’t enough power when they collided. What a ponce!
Seething, Kieran grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and screamed, ‘You yellow-bellied cunt!’ That was the problem with the world these days – you couldn’t get the staff, even for a robbery.
In disgust, he yanked the driver out and took over the controls, throwing the grinding gears into reverse and backing up. He looked up and down the industrial estate. Time mattered. Would it be five, ten minutes before the law turned up?
With no time to waste, when he’d got enough of a run up, he threw the gear stick forward and jammed his foot onto the accelerator. The walls of the depot loomed in front of him and the gates looked even hardier than they had before, but he didn’t falter. He forced the pedal right down to the floor. Struck the gates again. The metal creased, buckled and bent while the tracks on the bulldozer furiously ground the concrete.
Kieran howled, ‘Come on you fucker! Come on!’
As if obeying his command, the gates began to break open and the vehicle squeezed and lurched through the gap, throwing one of his boys off as they went through.
In the courtyard beyond, he headed for the shutters at the vehicle delivery point. They were partly open and two security guys were sitting on the parapet, staring in disbelief as he came storming through. They ran for their lives when Kieran ploughed the bulldozer’s massive shovel into the gap and then lifted it upwards. The shutters sprang and rolled as they were torn from their fittings.
His gang jumped off and ran into the unit, shouting and waving sawn-offs. The boys went to key points so they could keep the place covered. They knew exactly where they were. One of the gang headed to the security office to stop the alarms being set off and they knew exactly where that was too. Kieran himself ran to the manager’s office, a route he knew like the back of his hand from the model of the premises safely tucked away at his club. Inside, a middle-aged man in a suit and tie was sitting at his desk with his chops wrapped around a sandwich. Kieran pointed the shotgun at him. ‘I want vault 25a opened and I want it opened now. Don’t fuck about.’
The guy didn’t move. He sat like a statue as all the colour drained out of his face. Kieran pointed his gun at the ceiling and let off one barrel. The office shook with deafening thunder and bits of ceiling and light bulb scattered down. He waited a few seconds for effect before pulling the trigger again. Another roar and more debris. The office looked as if the builders were in. After he’d loaded two more shells, Kieran walked around and pressed the hot barrels into the bloke’s ear. ‘I don’t know what kind of money you’re on mate but I bet it’s not enough to get your head blown off for.’
The manager whimpered. ‘I can’t get you into the vaults. There’s a time delay.’
Kieran was confident. ‘You’re a liar. There’s no time delay.’ He knew everything about this place. He took the sandwich out of the guy’s hand, opened it up and showed it him. ‘You see that tomato? That’s the colour your head’s going to be in a few seconds if you don’t get me down there. You know I mean it bruv.’
As if he’d put his hand into a plug socket, the manager sprang up and led Kieran down a corridor. He pressed numbers on a keypad and went down a flight of stairs. At the bottom were steel security doors. Another number and they were inside, walking past rows and rows of deposit boxes. But Kieran wasn’t interested in them. He was on strict instructions only to take what was in vault 25a. The bloke who’d organised the raid had warned him, ‘Don’t touch nuthin else. You might upset the wrong sort of people. Know what I mean?’
When he first walked into 25a, clutching his sports bag, Kieran found what seemed to be army surplus crates. They were covered in dust and looked like they’d been there for ever. He pulled a jemmy out of his overalls and used it to prise open one of the boxes. Kieran knew what he’d find but he still stood stunned when he saw the contents. Like a little kid with a present on Christmas Day, he ran his fingertips over a gold bar and whispered, ‘Look at that – they’re real.’
Kieran ran back upstairs to find chaos. Someone had managed to trigger the alarms and there were so many red lights flashing, you would have thought there was a rave going on. The metal walls were vibrating to howling sirens and the security guards were emerging from their hiding places to see if it was safe to take the gang on. One of his boys ran up to him. ‘Time’s sho
rt boss, the law’ll be here in a mo.’
For a few moments Kieran Scott hesitated. He hadn’t expected there to be so much gold to move and he was on a split second schedule. ‘Get some pallet trucks and back our van up to the shutters – then get downstairs to the vault.’
Kieran fired two more blasts of his gun to warn off the guards and then ran back down to the strong room. He told the manager, ‘Right, help me shift these crates upstairs. You look like you could use the exercise.’
But when they came back up to ground level, clutching the first of the crates, there were pallet trucks nearby but no sign of the gang. Nor was the van parked outside. The premises seemed empty. Kieran ran over to the shutters. He could hear police sirens even over the alarms in the unit.
His crew were gone. The wankers had run for it. The only vehicle he had left to make his escape was the bulldozer and he knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun the cops on that.
He’d blown it. He felt like a lottery winner who’d put his winning ticket in the washing machine.
Firing off random shots, he grabbed the manager by the lapel and shouted in fury, ‘Are you having a tea break or something? Get back in the vault and bring the rest of the crates upstairs!’
They carried on dragging the gold up the stairs. Their arms strained under the weight but they pressed on, piling the crates up until the pallet trucks could take no more. Then Kieran wheeled them over to the shutters. He put his haul in the bulldozer’s massive shovel. He had about half of the gear but went back to get the rest. His arms were nearly numb when he dragged the trucks back for the second time. When he’d finished, the crates were piled up in the shovel. He climbed into the driver’s seat. He took one gold bar out and gave it to the manager who was covered in sweat and dust. ‘Here you are mate, get yourself a drink for your trouble.’
Kieran turned the vehicle round to see the first police car coming in through the gates. They parked sideways to stop him. The cops yelled at him to halt but he lurched the bulldozer forward, scattering the cars as he went. One was pushed through the gates and he went over the bonnet of a second, trying to follow the first one in. There was a whiff of fuel as the crushed engine began to ignite and then an orange flash in his rear view mirror as it exploded in flames.
Kieran carried on up the industrial estate’s perimeter road. He did a hard right and rolled over the security fence and upwards into the muddy field beyond. Behind, a police van that had attempted to follow was hopelessly stuck in the mud, yawing with its wheels spinning.
The bulldozer rolled on at a steady twenty miles an hour, its tracks taking out hedges and fences and anything else that stood in its way. Of course a helicopter would be up shortly but Kieran was confident there was still time to pull this off. He had no choice now.
As the bulldozer rolled on, he saw exactly what he was looking for. He changed direction and made his way over to the farmhouse.
Kieran parked up outside and put a couple of new shells in his shotgun but there was no need to knock on the door; a stout farmer’s wife had emerged to find out what the hell was going on.
He was cheerful. ‘Hello there love. Sorry to disturb you but I see you’ve got a van parked on the drive. Do you mind if I borrow it?’
Three
‘Twenty pound fifty please,’ Jennifer Miller informed the customer as she sat behind the checkout at the supermarket in Bow.
‘Do you have a reward card?’ No.
‘Are you collecting school vouchers?’ No.
‘Do you have a million going spare so I can get outta my crap life?’ No answer to that because she didn’t ask, but so wished she could.
Jen straightened and winced. Only an hour and a bit of her afternoon shift had gone by and already her back was murder. But she wasn’t about to bitch and moan about it; this job was her one steady lifeline to the readies she needed to keep clothes on her girls’ backs and food in their bellies. The wages weren’t anything to brag about but it was better than taking a handout from the social, like some single mums she could’ve named on The Devil’s Estate down the road in Mile End. No way did she want Courtney and Little Bea thinking that you got paid to sit on your jacksie all day.
‘Jen,’ a voice whispered in her ear. She’d been so stuck in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard one of the other women come up to her. ‘I’ve gotta take over your till. Her Upstairs wants a word.’
Her Upstairs was the store manager, Mrs Howard, known behind her back as Attila the Glum. Jen had never met such a sour individual in all her born days. Attila ruled her employees like she’d been an executioner in a past life.
‘What does she want?’ Jen griped as she passed the change to her customer.
‘Heaven knows.’ The other woman‘s voice lowered. ‘But I tell you what, her face looked like it could give thunder a run for its money.’
Jen worried her bottom lip as she got up. She couldn’t afford to get into Dreary Drawers’ bad books. The word in the locker room was the supermarket might have to lay off some workers: a rival company had set up down the road and was pulling in the punters with bargain basement goodies.
As soon as she walked into the main office and saw the tight expression on her manager’s face she knew something was badly wrong. She moved quickly to stand in front of the desk. ‘You wanted to see me?’
Mrs Howard looked her up and down and her vicious, thin-wormy lips began wiggling at each end. She did not invite Jen to sit down.
‘Jennifer,’ she started, pronouncing the name as Je-neath-her, in that fake la-di-da voice she used to lord it over her supermarket kingdom. It was bogus alright; everyone knew she’d grown up in the back end of Canning Town. ‘Can you remind me what my job is?’
Jen’s face creased in confusion. ‘You what?’ was on the tip of her tongue, but she sucked it back, knowing she should be more respectful to the boss. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
The other woman drew herself tall. ‘Let me put this another way – do I look like your personal secretary?’
Jen felt herself shrinking with embarrassment, finally sussing what had Attila flapping her feathers. ‘I’m really sorry if my girls’ school’s been on the phone again.’
That school must be calling her the boomerang mum because she’d been up there so many times.
The older woman squinted and leaned slightly forward. ‘If there’s one more instance of me having to answer one of your personal calls I’ll have no choice but to issue you with a formal warning.’
Jen’s heart started hammering away, although she was tempted to tell the curdled-faced witch she wouldn’t need to answer her calls if she was allowed her mobile on the shop floor. But she held her tongue. Bloody hell, if the company did decide to start firing people, anyone with a warning would be first out the door. She couldn’t afford to lose this job. It was at times like this that she really missed her mum. She would’ve been round to Babs’ in a flash for advice. A wave of sadness washed over her as she pictured her poor mum banged up in the slammer.
Jen turned her attention back to her immediate problem. ‘I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.’ She said it slowly and with feeling. ‘Did the school want me to come now?’
‘I don’t think I mentioned a school.’
Jen’s head jerked back in utter surprise. ‘If it weren’t the school who was trying to reach me?’ Worry was etched clearly on her face. God, what if something had happened to her mum?
Attila’s lips twisted into a malicious, gotcha grin. ‘The police.’
‘When I get my hands on her . . .’ Jen fumed as she swung furiously into Bow Road Police Station.
The only other time Jen had been in a cop shop was back in ’93 when Tiffany had been nicked in West End Central. Jen knew the police had come a long way with what people called ‘community relations’, but she would never forgot what she saw one of them do to her brother-in-law’s bar manager at the Alley Club in Soho. Not a pretty sight. She’d kept her distance ever since and warned
her girls not to look ’em in the eye.
A woman with standout breasts and bum was having a row with the cop at reception. Her body jiggled as she said, ‘I’m not leaving until you put up one of them posters with my Arnold’s beautiful face on it.’
The officer, an old timer who looked like he wanted to click his standard issue black boots three times to be transported somewhere else, smacked his lips in irritation. ‘I’m sorry madam, but that’s not the type of service we provide.’
Jen was gobsmacked. What kind of nick couldn’t be bothered to help someone find their loved one?
The woman wailed, ‘But he hasn’t had his tea. He always comes home for his tea.’
The officer leaned forward, the lines round his mouth sagging. ‘I suggest that you make your own poster.’ Heartless bastard. ‘That’s what most people do when their pet goes missing.’
Pet? Some might’ve laughed on hearing that, but not Jen. The poor woman looked like she was having her heart pulled out. She felt sorry that the woman’s dog or cat had gone walkabout, but she had her own urgent business to get sorted. Very urgent indeed.
As the dejected woman wandered off, Jen swiftly took her place. ‘I got a message from a Detective Johnson that my daughter, Courtney Miller, has been arrested. What’s she supposed to have done?’ After Nuts had left she’d changed her last name back to Miller and when it became clear her ex wasn’t interested in playing daddy to his girls she’d changed their names too.
He consulted the admission book in front of him. Then he peered back at her. ‘If you take a seat, I’ll let Detective Johnson know you’re here.’
Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series) Page 2