Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘But . . .’ Stan went on.

  Babs’ picture perfect image of Stan dribbled away. She should’ve known there was a catch. ‘What?’

  He was back to smiling. ‘You’ve got to do me a favour too.’

  Babs’ disappointment deepened. But he was getting her out of a tight fix, so maybe it was only right she did something in return. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  Stan leaned back in his chair. ‘I’ll let you know soon enough. But when I do, there’s no backing out.’

  A minute later Babs was back at her desk, her tone all chipper on the blower. ‘Mum, guess what? My fiancé Stanley will be coming over for dinner this Sunday.’

  ‘So are you gonna do this for me or what?’ Denny asked Babs bluntly later in the Dog and Whistle.

  Denny had gone from ‘just remembering’ that Babs was going to put in a word for her at the modelling agency to having a bite in her voice as she insisted that her mate help her out. Meanwhile Babs had gone from ‘forgetting to ask’ to increasingly unlikely excuses. Her latest was that Stan had gone on an assignment in Morocco and no one knew when he would be back. It was becoming a headache she didn’t need.

  ‘So there’s no one else you can ask for me?’

  Babs couldn’t look her friend in the eye; best mates shouldn’t string each other along. ‘No. There’s Mickey but he don’t book models, that’s Stan’s job. I can’t do nuthin’ for you until Stan is back.’

  ‘What does this Mickey do, then?’ When Babs mumbled something about organising shoots and that, Denny cut her short. ‘You’re a crap liar, Babs. What’s the matter? Don’t think I’m pretty enough?’

  That gave Babs the nark. ‘I never said that. It’s just, you know . . .’

  ‘No – I don’t know.’

  Babs decided to tell her half the truth. ‘Modelling ain’t easy-peasy. It’s flippin’ hard work from what Stan says. It can chew girls up and spit them out. You don’t want to get involved in that, do you?’

  Denny slammed her drink down. ‘Oh, right. Now we’re getting down to it. You could help me out but you won’t. Some mate you are.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t stop at home for much longer. I . . .’ Her lips snapped shut.

  Babs was concerned. ‘What’s up, Denny? Things haven’t seemed right with you for a while. What’s going on?’

  Denny pursed her lips. ‘I’ll tell you what’s up. My best friend don’t wanna go out of her way for me.’

  Babs knew she was cornered by her own promises. ‘When Stan gets back from Spain, I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Spain? I thought you said he was in Morocco. Don’t worry about it, I’ll sort myself out.’

  Babs was horrified. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘What I said. If you won’t help me out, I’ll do it myself. There’s more than one way to shine a penny.’

  Fourteen

  Bright and breezy on the Sunday morning, Mel went down to the agency. She used her husband’s key to open up and then tried the door to Stan’s office. She was sure he wouldn’t be there; the whole of Britain shut up shop on a Sunday. She’d been meaning for ages to have a snoop around and find out what he was up to. Now it was urgent.

  The door was locked. Mel scoffed at that. She pulled out a bobby pin from her bun, stuck it in the lock and wriggled it about for a few seconds before the lock sprang and she was inside.

  She’d never had time to examine his office before. Whenever she and Mickey had dropped by, it was always on business. The room looked more like the kind of love-nest a rich bachelor would have than a place of work. And she should know; she’d been in enough.

  Mel checked the globe drinks trolley, which seemed to be expensively stocked, and helped herself to a brandy. She sat on his plush leopard-print sofa, crossed her black crinkle boots and looked over the room.

  She knew the little weasel was too crafty to leave anything incriminating lying around, but he had to be hiding things somewhere. But where? She drained her glass, placed it back on the drinks trolley and began looking behind his pictures for safes and levering the floorboards to see if any were loose. When she had no joy with that, she went over his desk. The drawers were locked. But that was no problem for a pro like her. She’d once been the squeeze of a burglar from Romford who’d told her, ‘Drawers are just like houses, girl. Always go in round the back.’

  There was a solid silver paper knife on Stan’s desk. She used it to prise away the vanity panel to get at the drawers from the rear. They were heavy but she chipped away at the joints. So intent was she on getting in that she got the shock of her life when she heard Stan’s chair squeak as it turned and a voice say, ‘Morning Mel – I didn’t know you were into DIY?’

  Bollocks, she hadn’t even heard him come in. She peered over the top of the desk to see Stan lighting up. Mel knew she looked straight-up stupid, on her hands and knees with a silver knife in her hand. ‘I’m sure I dropped an earring in here. It belonged to my dear mum. I suppose I should have asked you but I didn’t like to bother you on a Sunday.’

  Stan blew smoke and pulled a face. ‘Give over, Mel – you can do better than that. That’s the kind of excuse your dick brain of a husband would come up with.’

  Mel got to her feet and put the knife back. She pulled up a chair and sat down. He offered her a cigarette, which she took. Then he gestured at the room with his fag.

  ‘If you want to know anything about my side of the biz, doll, you only have to ask. I haven’t got any secrets from you and Mickey.’

  She burst out laughing and choked on her smoke. ‘It’s me you’re talking to, not my cack-handed Mickey.’

  Stan shrugged. ‘That’s not fair. Me and Mickey are as thick as thieves. When we went into business together, we agreed we’d have no secrets. I’m sure Mickey’s told you how we sealed the deal.’

  Mickey had told her alright, but she’d had to drag it out of him in bits and pieces. Even he could see what a cheeky ponce Stan was being. How when he’d joined the business, he’d visited the premises in Chancery Row, wandered into Mickey’s office and made himself at home in Mickey’s swivel chair behind Mickey’s big desk. Then he’d said, ‘I’ll tell you what, why don’t you let me run the modelling agency? You stick to what you know and I’ll take care of this for you.’

  And like a mug, Mickey said yes, although on condition he still got first dibs on the birds to supply his other interests. Stan had agreed but Mickey told her the supply of girls had soon dried up. Whenever Mickey asked how the Soho business was going, Stan would reply, ‘It’s still ticking over.’

  But was it? Shortly afterwards Stan had taken over Mickey’s property interests in the East End to ‘look after them’ too. Of course it made sense to Mickey. Stan was smart, he knew all about contracts and council pen pushers and solicitors and how to persuade others to buy and sell. That was the trouble with Mickey. Everything made sense to him. He was so fucking thick.

  ‘Yeah, he told me about your business arrangements. Trouble is, my husband’s so busy he doesn’t have time to keep tabs on what’s happening up here.’

  ‘Why would he?’

  Mel hissed. ‘Because you’re up to something, Miller, that’s why. There’s no modelling going on here, we both know that. And this office doesn’t supply us with girls no more—’

  ‘You know this is my base for looking after Mickey’s properties. People are more likely to work with you when you’ve got a West End address.’

  Mel wasn’t letting him off the hook. ‘See, what worries me is what’s going on with Mickey’s houses and flats. I’ve given up counting the forms and documents you’ve asked him to initial in the past months, knowing he won’t ask what they are. What’s going on, Stan? What are you up to?’

  She knew she couldn’t trust his words or his face, but she could trust his eyes. And they were glinting.

  ‘Nothing’s going on; it’s admin, that’s all.’

  ‘Fuck off. You’re up to something.’

  Stan li
t another fag. ‘Sounds to me as if you’re accusing your husband of being too thick to read what he’s signing.’

  That was what she thought but instead Mel said, ‘Not too thick – too trusting.’

  ‘Trusting, thick. What’s the difference?’

  She’d blown it. In the unlikely event there was anything incriminating in his office, by the time she got another chance to look for it, it would be gone. But Melanie Ingram was no loser. She still had one card left to play. ‘OK, fine.’ She slowly undid her mink and coyly tilted her head to the side. ‘So tell me, what’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?’

  Stan sniffed the air. ‘Already smells like you’ve had a snifter or two . . .’ But he got up and went to his drinks cabinet. While he was pouring her a brandy, she undid her blouse to reveal her ample cleavage. After all, there’s no talk like pillow talk.

  When he put the drink in front of her, he didn’t look at the flesh on display for more than a second before asking, ‘Feeling warm?’

  She lowered her voice to a husky whisper. ‘Well, you know how it is . . . Sometimes a woman does feel quite warm, don’t you find?’

  Mel scooted up onto his desk and crossed her legs, letting her dress fall down over her knees. She took the hem and wafted it up and down. ‘That’s better, circulating some air . . .’

  Stan leaned forward, looked at her legs, then back at her before saying lecherously, ‘You know what you need, don’t you?’

  Gotcha! ‘I think so . . .’

  Stan leaned back again, deadpan. ‘Some fresh air – and a better plan. You should know me better. I always keep business separate from pleasure. I’m unusual like that.’

  Mel shook her hem down and climbed off the desk. If it had been any other bloke, she’d have been furious. But Stan was indeed an odd fish. She’d wondered whether he might be a bit ginger. It was probably working in Soho that did it. She picked up her bag.

  At the door, she turned to him and said, ‘You’re running on luck, Stan. The trouble is, luck eventually runs out.’

  ‘No, Mel. I run on talent and that never runs out. And do your buttons up, droopy drawers, or you’ll have some sad sack on the street asking you how much it costs for you to give his cock a close-up.’

  The rapid clunk-clunk of Mel’s heels on the wooden stairs matched her fuming mood. That slimy bastard. Rotten cunt. Smug prick. Her mind cursed Stanley Miller every which way. If he thought he’d put her down for good, he didn’t know the first thing about her. Ever since she’d been a not-so-innocent fifteen-year-old and rolled over her first guy by promising sex and then ripping the geezer off instead, Mel had made it her business to find men’s weaknesses. And every man had one. Her Mickey’s was their daughter Donna. And Stan’s was . . .

  Mel stopped. His weakness was so glaringly obvious he probably didn’t even realise it.

  His older brother. Pete. Why else would Stan go all out for a man whose nut was pickled in booze most of the time? Mickey had told her the tale of Stan’s unhappy childhood. Stan probably thought he owed his brother.

  ‘What a chump,’ Mel whispered. In her book, one of the golden rules was never owe anyone anything. Especially if they were your flesh and blood.

  Now all she had to figure out was how to use Pete to get rid of Stan. She went out of the door and was caught up short by a real stunner of a girl loitering nervously nearby. She didn’t look like the usual Soho tart, so Mel asked, ‘Can I help you, luv?’

  The girl hesitated as she gazed at Mel with enormous hazel eyes. ‘I was looking for the Go Go Girls Modelling Agency but it don’t seem to be here.’

  ‘The agency? Funny time to come looking. It’s a Sunday. No one works on a Sunday – I’m just off to church.’

  The girl’s face fell. ‘Oh. I thought the guy in charge might be here, I heard he works on a Sunday sometimes.’

  ‘The guy in charge?’

  ‘Yeah, Stanley Miller.’

  That needled an already needled Mel even further. ‘You’ve been misinformed, darling. The gaffer is called Mickey and I should know – I’m his wife. Stan’s just the office boy. Mickey makes all the decisions.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked even more deflated. ‘I wanted to know how to become a model.’

  Mel should’ve known. What did girls hanging around in Soho always want? They were always the same – girls from nowhere who were as thick as a bookie’s wallet.

  Mel assessed the girl. Mind you, they could always use another pair of boobs down the brothel.

  ‘You should go home and forget this modelling lark,’ Mel told her. She didn’t know why; she’d lost her heart a long time ago. If this girl wanted to end up on her back with men poking her for a living, what was it to Mel? But there was something innocent about the girl that reminded Mel of herself before life got its fangs into her.

  ‘Get yourself home.’

  The girl shook her head furiously. ‘Home?’ She begged, ‘Please, missus, put in a word for me with your old man.’

  She was desperate. All softness left Mel. She smiled, transforming her into the picture of kindness. ‘I might be able to sort you out. No promises, mind. Let me have your name and address.’ After this was done, Mel smiled again. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  She headed down the road, mind buzzing away, until she came to Luigi’s café. She knew it would be shut so she headed around the back and knocked on the door.

  A half-naked brunette with more paint on her face than a Dulux factory opened it. Her face creased into a smile when she saw Mel. ‘You wanna word with Luigi?’

  Mel shook her head. ‘Nah, just need to use the blower.’

  She entered a large backroom with a live striptease show on stage, men staring at it, glassy-eyed. While most of Britain had a day of rest on the Lord’s day, behind closed doors Soho was still doing the devil’s work. Luigi’s served tea and muffins in the daytime and dished up strippers and muff at night and all day Sunday.

  Mel found the call box outside Luigi’s office. She dialled. ‘It’s me . . . He caught me at it . . . Calm down and keep your hair on . . .’ Mel lowered her voice. ‘I’ve thought of a better way to wipe out Pete and Stan. We need to think this through properly. There’s this dosey-doe called Denny . . .’

  Fifteen

  ‘Your young man’s not very punctual, is he?’ Rosie Wilson complained in a clipped tone while they were waiting for him to join them for Sunday roast.

  ‘Like I said, he’s very busy with his company.’

  Her mum snorted at that, and Babs couldn’t blame her.

  She was sitting facing her parents in the front room, her hands neatly folded in her lap. Inside, she was bricking it. Come on, Stan. What the bloody heck was keeping him? He was already fifteen minutes late. One slip-up and she was royally screwed. Her mum and dad had pulled out all the stops: got dressed up in their Sunday best and put on a spread fit for the Queen.

  Mercifully the knocker on the front door went with a solid bang. About time! Babs started to get up, but her mum gave her the eye that clearly said this was her house and she’d be doing the opening of any doors.

  Less than half a minute later, Rosie escorted Stan into the sitting room. He looked like the dog’s bits, a total knockout. He wore a navy Norfolk jacket with patch pockets and a stylish belt, trim-cut, flared slacks and shoes buffed to perfection. He wore his clobber with such style that Babs wished for a moment that her fake fiancé was the real deal.

  ‘You must be Babs’ mum – I can see where she gets her looks from,’ Stan told Rosie. She blushed. What woman could resist Stan’s killer smile? ‘And these are for you.’ He presented her with a large bunch of flowers, a box of Black Magic chocolates and a bottle of such upmarket vino Babs couldn’t even pronounce its name.

  Babs rushed over to Stan’s side. He put his arm around her waist possessively as she introduced him to George.

  ‘I’ll call you Dad, shall I, now I’m family?’ Stan said after the introduction.

  ‘Yes,
I suppose,’ George muttered, not so easily taken in. ‘Although, I’ll tell you this, I was not best pleased—’

  ‘George, dear,’ Rosie intervened with a tight sweet smile, ‘let’s all go through for dinner, shall we.’

  Stan praised the roast as ‘one of the best joints he’d ever eaten’ and then held court like he did in the office. Her parents chucked questions at him like booby traps, but Stan answered each and every one so convincingly, Babs was half believing it herself. She said nothing and let him get on with it. He was doing a bang-up job.

  ‘My business? It always keeps the cash flowing if you’ve got your fingers in a number of pies. So I’m in import/export and I think there are some very interesting possibilities opening up on the continent, what with the talk of this Common Market. I’ve got a number of commercial partners in the Netherlands and West Germany I’m exploring opportunities with.’

  Rosie looked at him as if he were talking German, so her husband took over. ‘The Krauts?’

  Stan tucked into his succulent beef. ‘Yeah, alright, they did reduce the East End to rubble but fair’s fair, they know how to do business. I’m not going to hold the past against them. My office in Soho—’

  ‘Soho?’ George jabbed his fork into a roast potato and drilled his gaze into Stan.

  It was the first time he’d put a foot wrong and Babs held her breath. She’d warned him all about her dad’s opinion of that part of London and to stay clear of it.

  Stan laughed. ‘I meant Southend. That’s where some of my business contacts are as well.’ He swiftly turned to Rosie, making a delighted mmm sound. ‘Mum, this food is fantastic.’

  Rosie preened, but George was not such a pushover. ‘I’m still asking myself, son, why it took you so long to find our doorstep?’

  Babs’ knife clattered to her plate. Here we go! She looked over at Stan, who turned to her father. ‘The truth is, I was away on business and when I got back and my Babs told me the wonderful news I wanted to come over as soon as. But I had a few family problems.’ Rosie made a little gasping sound of sympathy. ‘But that’s all sorted now, and me and Babs can look to the future.’ He took Babs’ hand and squeezed it.