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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  He was a good stick that lawyer. He’d advised her that it was a good idea to let sleeping dogs lie until the authorities weren’t interested in her anymore. Let the management company run them in the meantime. Now it was three years on and Babs was looking at parole, she decided it was safe to sell them and provide for her children. It had never occurred to her to keep the money for herself. She was a mum first and foremost. Of course, only Jen really needed the money, the other two were alright. But even so.

  ‘All you need to know is that they’re mine—’

  ‘You haven’t gone and got yourself involved with some crooked deal while you’re in here, have ya?’

  Babs pursed her lips, hurt to her core. ‘You know I’m not really a crim. You know why I’m in here—’

  Dee covered her hand quickly, looking ashamed. ‘Babs, I’m sorry.’ Her eldest never called her mum, out of respect to the woman who had brought her up. It was something that would hurt her heart for ever. ‘You know I didn’t mean that. It’s just I’ve been so worried about what’s been happening to you inside . . .’

  Babs squeezed her hand. ‘I know hun.’ There was a closeness between her and the daughter she hadn’t brought up. Maybe they had this special bond because they knew how fragile relationships could be and that you should never take anything for granted.

  But she was more concerned about Jen, who just didn’t look right.

  ‘You’re very quiet – you’re OK about this?’

  Jen looked like she’d been slapped rather than had two-thirds of a million quid stuffed in her handbag for nothing. ‘Yeah. Sure.’

  Babs didn’t understand. ‘I thought you’d be over the moon? It’s a lot of money. You could really change your life with it.’

  Jen remained deadpan. ‘I am thrilled. It’s great.’

  Tiffany sneered. ‘If she don’t want her share, I’ll have it.’

  Her sister turned on her in fury. ‘What do you want money for anyway? You’re always flashing your latest buys around, you cocky cow; you don’t need any more fucking cash.’

  Tiffany tore into her. ‘Where we’re from, darlin’, you can never have too much loose change sloshing around. You know what I mean?’

  ‘Girls.’ Babs’ stern voice stopped any further verbal in its tracks. She was alarmed. The honest truth was, she’d been expecting the girls to show some gratitude. Come on, for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t every day that a bundle landed in your lap. She began to wonder if there was something else going on.

  She leaned in and stared at each deeply, in turn. ‘Is there a problem between you two I need to be told about?’ Jen and Tiff were very different from each other and every now and again rubbed each other up the wrong way. But above all else, they were loyal to each other. They were sisters. Flesh and blood always came first.

  Dee broke in, asking, ‘These houses – they’re not anything to do with Stan are they?’

  Now it was Babs’ turn to get the right hump. She’d already decided that there was only so many details the girls needed to know about those houses and Stan wasn’t one of them. ‘You’re not listening, are ya? I’ve told you, where they come from doesn’t concern you.’

  ‘Because if they are,’ Dee carried on, as if her mum hadn’t spoken, ‘shouldn’t Stan’s other daughter be getting a share out? What was her name? Fleur? Florence?’

  The mention of that girl was a red rag to the rest of the family. It was Tiffany who shouted, ‘Fuck off – she ain’t getting a slice. What’s the matter with ya?’

  Dee bared her teeth. ‘What’s the matter with me? I’m only saying if those houses are anything to do with Stan then maybe it’s right and proper the other kid should be cut in. I ain’t got no love for the girl, but I know what it’s like being the kid on the outside . . .’

  ‘Oh Dee.’ Babs slumped slightly. She still carried around a ton of guilt about not being there for her beautiful Desiree as a child.

  But Dee wouldn’t let her butt in. ‘It ain’t the girl’s fault she was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Those houses are something to do with your guy, aren’t they Babs? He was the property man. I ain’t weeping no tears for that cunt – he got what was coming to him – but that ain’t his girl’s fault. If I’m right, it’s only decent to cut this Florence-Fleur into the loop.’

  ‘Decent?’ Tiffany sneered. ‘Alright, we’ll give her the door knockers and the garden sheds. How’s that sound?’

  Babs should’ve known that Dee would suss this had something to do with Stanley. But every time that bastard came into their lives, there was trouble. Even from the grave he was casting his evil spell. Babs made the decision to lie. ‘You don’t need to worry about any knockers. May I remind you that slag was Stan’s wing-girl for his last scam, so she wouldn’t be in for anything, even if they were his houses. Which they’re not, OK? And I’d thank you for not calling your ol’ mum a liar.’

  Dee was off on one now. ‘So these drums fell off a Christmas tree did they?’

  ‘They belonged to your Granddad George. The papers were found recently by one of my cousins in a shoebox her mum had in the attic.’ Babs rattled away with her desperate lie, crossing her fingers under the table. ‘My dad was a canny man and always kept a bit squirrelled away. Poor soul started to lose his marbles towards the end, probably forgot all about ’em.’

  Dee wasn’t convinced but she eased back in her seat. ‘OK. In that case, you shouldn’t be giving us dick. If Granddad George left them to you, they’re yours. Keep the money and pamper yourself when you come out. God knows you deserve it after what you’ve been through. We don’t need it anyway.’

  This was too much for Tiffany and Jen. They turned on their sister in fury. Tiff cried, ‘Don’t need it? Of course we fucking need it.’

  Jen joined in the battle. ‘It’s alright for you, shacked up with your retired gangster. I’ve got kids to think about!’

  Dee folded her arms in disgust. ‘You’re a right pair you two. Your mum offers you a load of money and you can’t even say thanks very much – never mind tell her to keep the cash, move off that crap estate and enjoy her winnings. What a couple of right selfish freeloaders you are.’

  In the silence that followed, the three women glared at each other.

  Babs looked on in stunned horror. This was the last thing she’d expected. How had good news turned so bad? She was suddenly in a hurry to get this over with.

  In a mum’s voice she cut the meeting short. ‘I’ve made my decision and it’s final. I’ve asked a friend of mine to do the refurbishment and as soon as that’s finished, we’ll put them on the market. Hopefully I’ll be out among the living by then and I can oversee all the paperwork. Alright? Dee, I’ve left a key for you at my brief’s, just in case.’

  Tiffany mumbled under her breath, ‘Waste of time, flog ’em now . . .’

  Babs had had enough. She hissed, ‘You keep a civil tongue in your mouth, my girl, and do as you’re told.’ She was fed up to the back teeth of her daughters. ‘That’s it then. You can go.’

  They filed out of the room in silence. Babs threw her hands up in despair as she heard them start to go at each other again in the corridor. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected when she passed on the good news but it wasn’t this.

  The shouting got louder.

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

  Nine

  The first thing Flo Miller did when she opened the door to her grandfather’s house was dump the black bin liners containing her clothes and possessions in the hallway. Her granddad, respectfully known as The Commander as a nod to his days in the Navy, lived in an elegant villa in trendy Notting Hill. It looked like something out of a fairy tale, a stunning white building with large windows looking out on the world from each of its four floors. Of course, he had an equally magnificent residence in the country, and another place in New York, but this house seemed to be where he most enjoyed kicking up his heels.

  She rang the silver ship�
��s bell that was hanging in the hallway. It had HMS Grenada engraved on it – the last ship he’d commanded. She always rang it out of habit when she visited.

  ‘Back again Florence?’ he called from the drawing room.

  Just hearing his voice made her feel calmer. ‘Mummy’s thrown me out. Again. I was hoping I could have my room here for a while?’

  Flo’s features softened with love when she found her maternal granddad sitting at a fancy table with a pile of matchsticks, some glue and the model he was making of the HMS Victory. He was dressed in his usual rig of patent leather shoes, grey slacks, an expensive woollen jacket with a ship’s crest on its pocket and a green and red silk cravat around his neck. His face was lined but impish and only his waves of snowy white hair showed his real age. He’d obviously been a bit of a dandy in his younger days. He’d been making a model of the HMS Victory out of matchsticks as far back as Flo could remember. He was crazy about ships. He was also an avid collector of mementoes from ports around the world and his house looked like a pocket British Museum. On one wall was an antelope head from Kenya. Flo hung her Chloe red suede handbag on one of its horns.

  He didn’t look up from his work. ‘Oh dear, had another set-to with her?’

  Flo wasn’t in the mood to talk about it, but The Commander was the only person she wouldn’t be rude to. ‘You could say that.’

  The Commander stuck a matchstick to the Victory’s mast. ‘Yes, well, she’s always been a difficult woman, your mother.’

  ‘I prefer to describe her as a complete bitch personally.’

  They’d always had a rubbish relationship. Her mother was always putting that stuff she painted – which she had the nerve to call art – before her daughter. And though she’d never come out and say it Flo was a reminder of the time in her life when a Cockney geezer had pulled the wool over her toff eyes, got her down the aisle and in bed on a bogus marriage certificate. But Flo didn’t give a flying bollocks what anyone said – Stanley Miller had been the best dad in the world.

  The Commander grinned when he finally looked up. ‘Well, all I can say is that when your poor old granddad passes on to the great shipyard in the sky, he’s put a little something to one side so you can buy a place of your own and forget all about your mother.’

  Flo walked over and kissed him on his forehead. He squeezed her arm. But she was hoping she wouldn’t need to wait for a legacy. She already owned property that had been stolen from her by the Miller family. And she was determined to get it back.

  ‘Am I alright to crash here for a week or two while I get myself sorted out?’

  ‘Of course my dear, although I’m surprised you don’t want to stay with one of your wealthy gentlemen friends rather than your grumpy old granddad.’

  Flo put a mock hurt look on her face. ‘Wealthy gentlemen friends? Are you calling me a tart Commander?’

  He chuckled. ‘You make it sound as if I disapprove. The ability to attract wealthy gentlemen is a very useful talent for a young woman.’

  That was what Flo loved about him. There was no side to him and no lectures. He knew she liked living her life ‘the Flo way’ and unlike her mum he smiled at her adventures instead of screaming that she’d end up like her no-good, cheating father.

  ‘I’ll take my stuff up to my usual room then.’

  The Commander peered at her over his glasses. ‘Ah, I’m afraid you can’t have that room, I’ve let it to someone.’

  Flo was outraged. That was her room. And she was confused too. No one came to The Commander’s house apart from a long procession of prostitutes. Others would have condemned him for it but Flo took the view that for a bloke in his seventies, it showed admirable stamina. Flo’s mother, Clare, was banned from the house after calling him a dirty old man when she met a lady of the night on the villa’s steps one morning. The Commander didn’t get on with Clare anyway and Flo thought it was a shared hatred of her mother that had brought them together in the first place.

  ‘Who have you let my room to?’

  ‘Well, it’s not really your room m’dear, is it? Anyway, I didn’t let it, she sort of moved in.’

  ‘And who is this freeloader?’

  ‘Her name‘s Jezebel. She’s upstairs at the moment having a nap. Poor soul, I think she’s tired.’

  I bet, Flo thought maliciously. Jezebel? Obviously some tart who’d decided to take advantage of The Commander’s good nature. She left the room without a word, marched upstairs to her old room and threw the door open. ‘Alright, Miss Jezebel, you’ve had your bit of fun . . .’

  But the only living thing there was a cat with purplish fur lying on the bed. Nor was there any sign that the room had a tenant or that it had even been touched since her last visit. So where was Jezebel?

  The cat yawned and stretched its legs before it realised there was an intruder. For a moment, it tilted its head sideways and looked at Flo with cutting green eyes. When Flo made no effort to leave, the animal arched its back, wagged its tail, bared its teeth and began to hiss at her like a witch.

  Flo went back downstairs. ‘You let my room to a cat?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right – Jezebel.’ He looked shamefaced. ‘But as I say I didn’t really let it, she just turned up here one morning, liked the look of your room and moved in.’

  ‘A cat?’ she threw back incredulously.

  ‘I understand how you feel, but Jezebel is a Persian Blue, there’s no arguing with them. They’re very highly strung and liable to get hysterical if crossed.’ He touched his cheek, which had a few small scabs on it. ‘And they’ve got very sharp claws. It’s not their fault. The Persian Blue is a bit inbred you see. We had one as the ship’s cat on a destroyer I commanded. A couple of weeks after she boarded, there were no rodents for miles. Even the toughest sailors would avoid her when she was in a bad mood. And seafarers don’t scare easily.’

  Flo marched off again. ‘We’ll see about that . . .’

  Having had her nap disturbed, Jezebel was grooming herself, licking her backside on the bed. She seemed shocked when, despite the warning she’d been given, Flo came back into the room. With contempt the cat turned her backside towards Flo and resumed her cleaning routine.

  Flo held the door open for the unwanted guest and pointed at the landing. ‘Alright Jez, I’m a bit inbred too and I don’t like being crossed neither. Now move your arse or your fur’s gonna end up as the lining on a pair of ladies’ mitts.’

  Flo couldn’t help slipping into the East End lingo she’d learned at Stanley Miller’s knee. Despite being educated at exclusive schools, when she got really rattled she became her dad’s daughter. For some reason she could never understand, her ability to switch from upmarket to downtown seemed to frighten people. She used this to her advantage whenever she could.

  When the cat ignored her, Flo made her move and grabbed the squatter by the scruff of its neck. The cat’s paws flew in a blur of purple, forcing Flo’s grip to loosen. She had four bloody nicks on her wrist. Jezebel looked up to see if Flo had got the message.

  She had. But as she left, nursing her wound, Flo pointed her finger and warned, ‘This ain’t over. You bet your last tin of Whiskas on it.’

  Flo went back downstairs to get her bag. Without looking up from the Victory, The Commander whispered, ‘I told you not to argue with her.’

  Flo flounced out with her bag. She went into the room next to Jezebel’s and made a lot of noise unpacking just so her new neighbour got the message that the fight was still on. Then she sat on the bed and rummaged in her bag until she found what she wanted – a small, creased black-and-white photo of her dad, which she carried everywhere. It was him back in the ’70s, wearing a safari suit, sitting like he was Lord of the Manor in the office of the modelling agency he’d once run.

  The anger she felt towards the Millers filled her with poisonous thoughts. Her precious, kind-hearted father had rescued an unmarried, pregnant Babs from shame. And how had she shown her gratitude? With a stake through his heart. Th
e bitch! Five bloody years, that’s all that pathetic judge had given her for taking Stan’s life. And now they wanted to keep his houses all to themselves? She wasn’t going to let that happen.

  Flo would’ve got on to avenging her dad sooner, but after Stanley’s death she’d gone over the edge, including dipping a finger or two into her mum’s purse. ‘I refuse to have a thief living here. What are the neighbours going to say?’ her mum had finally declared.

  Who gave two fucks about the neighbours? Since when did they get a say in her life? OK, she was the first to admit she’d taken a few liberties with her mum’s gold card, especially that first class, all-inclusive deal to the Bahamas. Her mother shipped her off, minus credit cards and her allowance, to her Uncle Max in New York. But she’d never lost the grief over her father’s death. It was like a knife carving away at her every second of every day. And the only way she could deal with it was to get off her face on booze and drugs. In the end she’d made such a proper nuisance of herself her uncle and his stick thin wife had thrown up their hands in despair and shipped her back.

  She’d never forgiven Babs Miller for thieving Stan’s property out from under his nose and she was working on a number of schemes to get it back. It involved working various wealthy gentlemen. As Flo knew only too well, men were a lot easier to push around than Persian Blues.

  She looked at the photo and vowed, ‘I’m gonna get them tea-leafing cunts, Dad. Babs Miller will regret the day her miserable life started.’