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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Cricket leered. Horner sneered – and then he reached into the file and gave Babs five sheets of A4 paper covered with closely written handwriting. It was a statement that gave chapter and verse, times and dates and described how Babs had run a prostitution ring. It gave details of the violence she’d used to keep order in the brothel and how she’d supplied the vulnerable girls with heroin to keep them under her control. The words slid like ice over her eyes until she reached the end. There was a signature. It was clear and familiar and had a name printed underneath.

  Babs’ husband, Stanley Miller.

  Perhaps the nightmare she’d woken from wasn’t over. Babs was wrung out. She felt barely alive but she managed to whisper, ‘No. That’s wrong. I want my baby.’

  It was Cricket who finally said, ‘Baby? You’re nicked.’

  Cleo was packed and out of the knocking shop as soon as she’d got Stan’s call. She couldn’t believe it – she was really leaving this life and never coming back. But she hadn’t felt right about doing a runner without letting Daffy know. Stan had warned her to keep her trap shut but that woman had been good to her. When she’d told her, Daffy hadn’t wished her good luck or said goodbye. She’d simply kissed her on the forehead like Cleo was her daughter.

  ‘Alright, Cleo.’ Hearing Stan’s voice, Cleo came back to the present.

  He walked towards where she was waiting in the darkness under the railway bridge on Coburn Road.

  She wanted this done and dusted quickly. ‘Give me the keys to my kingdom and I’ll be on my way.’ She hadn’t wanted money from Stan, but a house somewhere far away, her own four walls and roof to start a new life in. It hadn’t taken her long to figure out that Stan was a man who knew his way around property.

  He dangled a set of keys at her, but as she grasped for them he jerked them out of her reach. ‘I need you to do one more thing for me.’

  Cleo sucked her teeth lightly. Typical man, always wanting one more freebie. But she needed that house. ‘What?’

  He told her what he wanted. She wasn’t best pleased, but if it kept Micky and Mel off her back . . . She nodded.

  ‘The house is in Forest Gate, not far from the Princess Alice.’ He handed her the keys.

  Cleo closed her eyes and she clenched her hand around them. They were one of the best things she’d ever felt.

  ‘Just one other thing.’ Stan’s voice made her open her eyes, irritated.

  ‘I’m not getting down on my knees for a thank you suck. I’m done with that life.’

  Stan sent her a crooked smile. ‘Nothing like that. Just follow me.’

  Cleo stalled. She was in the deserted dark with a man she didn’t know from Jack and he wanted her to go to his car. Not bloody likely. He might slit her throat to keep her silent for all she knew.

  He reassured her, ‘I ain’t going to hurt you. I still need you to do something for me.’

  He was right. He still needed her help to put Mickey and Mel down for good. She walked with him to his car and waited as he opened the passenger door and stepped back to see what was inside.

  ‘I want you to look after this in that nice, new house of yours.’

  Cleo was gobsmacked.

  Thirty-Four

  Babs rocked back and forth on the floor of her cell, arms wrapped around her knees, out of her mind about her darling Desiree. Her angel was desperately sick in the hospital and those two nut job cops wouldn’t let her get word to Stan or anyone else to check what was going on.

  ‘Please God, please take care of my baby.’

  There was no one to hear Babs’ cry. She’d been stuck staring at these four walls for a week. Since they’d accused her of being the madam behind the Mile End brothel – as if! – the cops had said sweet FA. No interview, no charges, nothing. She knew from TV that they weren’t allowed to do that. When Cricket or Horner appeared, as they did from time to time, she demanded a brief.

  ‘Alright love, we’ll let you see our briefs if we can have a look at yours.’

  Babs had torn into them. ‘Fuck off, you pervs.’

  ‘Oh that’s charming. We’ve got an East End tom-runner accusing us of being pervs. Maybe we’ll tell the judge, let him know what kind of defendant he’s dealing with.’

  ‘You’re fitting me up. I want a lawyer.’

  ‘Yeah? And we want Ferraris and we ain’t getting them either. Now shut up or we’ll put you in solitary. Oh yeah – I forgot – you already are.’

  Babs decided the next time they appeared, she was going to play sick and get them to send her to a hospital. Then she’d get help.

  When she heard the cops talking outside her cell, she flopped to the floor, clasped her belly and cried out in pain. When the cell door swung open, she cried out again.

  ‘Fucking hell Babs – are you alright?’

  She looked up to find her new husband rushing towards her. She stopped crying. She clambered to her feet and slapped him hard across the face, the sound cracking against the cell walls. ‘You bastard! You got me locked up.’

  She swung manically at him again. Stan swerved his upper body back, trying to grasp her arms, but he missed and she flew at him. Her nails dug into his chin as she screamed, ‘You really do think I’m a fucking chump, don’t you? You’ve thought that from the start. You needed a dumb girl in trouble, someone who you could put on the front desk and fend off all your callers. That’s it, isn’t it? As for the shotgun wedding without a shotgun – fuck knows what was going through your head when you thought that one up.’

  Stan caught her arms, the scratches as red as the colour heating his face. ‘Babs, you need to stop. I had nothing to do with this—’

  She wrenched herself out of his arms. ‘So why did it take you so long to get here?’

  He yelled back, ‘You think I haven’t been trying! Those two coppers wouldn’t let me—’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck about them,’ she spat, ‘All I want to know about is my baby. What’s happening with Desiree?’

  Stan gulped. ‘That’s why I stopped trying to see you. I . . .’ His Adam’s apple’s bobbed convulsively.

  Babs froze. She didn’t like the haunted expression on his face. ‘Tell me.’

  Stan shook his head. ‘I’ve been at the ozzie morning, noon and night. I . . .’ His mouth moved but no words came out.

  ‘Fucking tell me,’ she roared.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  Babs swayed. ‘What do you mean she’s gone? Gone to my mum and dad’s? Gone to Beryl or Cheryl?’

  ‘We’ve lost Desiree. She didn’t make it. I’m sorry.’

  Babs walked towards him in a daze. ‘What do you mean – didn’t make it?’

  Stan rubbed his hand over his mouth, tears glittering in the bottom of his eyes. ‘I got a call from the ozzie yesterday. They said Desiree had taken a turn for the worse again and I needed to come in. When I got there, they told me the crisis was over and she was a bit better. I spent the afternoon with her but as time went on, more and more quacks appeared, looking more and more worried and finally at about nine Desiree slipped away. She fought to the end – the kid was a fighter all the way through. They did everything they could . . . but it wasn’t enough. She’s gone, Babs.’

  No, no, no. Desiree couldn’t be gone. Not her Desiree. Stan was talking about another Desiree, somebody’s else’s baby. Desiree dead? No, no, FUCKING NO!

  Stan said, ‘I’m taking care of the funeral. It’s tomorrow.’ She flew at him like a banshee.

  ‘You’re burying my fucking baby while I’m stuck in jail – the jail you put me in! What kind of a fucking animal are you?’

  She beat and kicked at him until he grabbed her arms and twisted her around. He tightened his grip until it hurt her and whispered between gritted teeth, ‘what do you want me to do? Leave Desiree in the morgue? Watching her go was one of the worst moments in my life.’

  Babs’ ears buzzed. Her legs collapsed and she sank to the floor.

  Whoever was making that awful howlin
g noise needed to stop. Stop right now before she started beating her head against the hard floor. Babs felt as if her soul had departed her body and she was only flesh and bone. There was nothing inside. She was dead. As dead as her baby girl. Only the tears running down her face showed there was any life in her at all.

  Only when she felt Stan’s palm rubbing her back did she realise she was the one howling her grief. They lay on the floor for close to ten minutes, Babs clinging onto a man she didn’t trust but who had been a comfort to her baby as she took her last breath.

  Finally, Stan said, ‘They won’t let me stay long, so I need to tell you the whole of it. It was Mickey and Mel who stitched us both up.’

  ‘What?’ Babs said listlessly.

  ‘I can’t prove it but Mickey and Mel . . . they killed Denny.’

  All Babs could do was shake her head over and over. Denny gone? She couldn’t deal with any more death.

  Stan leaned back and wiped the tears from her face tenderly.

  ‘And it’s thanks to them that you’re here. They’re why you weren’t with Desiree. They’re trying to cover their tracks. Those two cops out there are as bent as a butcher’s hook and taking backhanders from Mickey to evict God-fearing families from their homes and anything else he asks them. I never signed my name to any statement, just like you didn’t on any deeds. Mel, the bitch, is a dab hand at forgery.’

  Babs stared ahead, eyes blank, but asked, ‘Why would Mickey and Mel do that? Why drag me into it?’

  Stan wet his lips with the tip of his tongue before answering, ‘They want me out of the way, to get their hands completely on the business. And they don’t care how low they have to go to do it, including dragging down anyone close to me like—’

  ‘Me, Denny and Desiree,’ Babs finished in a dazed whisper.

  ‘I need you to be tough, girl. You need to trust me. I’ll get you out of here and fix the Ingrams for you, Denny and your lost baby. But you need to trust me.’

  Babs finally looked up at him. ‘I trust you.’

  She flopped in his arms like a rag doll. He gently laid her down on her bunk. She whispered over and over, ‘I want my baby, I want my baby . . .’

  When she finally looked round her cell, Stan was gone. Hatred filled her and she made a vow. If it was the last thing she did on this earth, she was going to get Mickey and Mel for causing her the worst misery a mother could feel.

  Thirty-Five

  Stan moved fast after leaving Babs. He pushed some coins into the blower in the phone box around the corner. When the line connected, he told Mickey, ‘All the paperwork is sorted and ready to sign.’

  ‘Good lad.’ Mickey preened.

  ‘Let’s meet at your brief’s this afternoon.’

  Mickey’s solicitor was in the De Beauvoir area of Hackney. It was typical of the idiot to have a lawyer there; the silly sod thought having a legal mouthpiece in a place with a French name made him sound grand. Most of the people Stan knew around that way called it Der Beaver.

  Stan carried on, ‘Bring Mel with you.’

  That surprised his business partner. ‘The wife’s having her hair done. Again. What does she need to be there for anyway? It’s my business.’

  ‘She’s going to be as pleased as Punch when it’s all wrapped up. There’ll probably be a roll in the hay in it for you.’

  Mickey cackled lecherously. ‘You’re probably right. Alright, she’ll be there.’

  As he put the phone down, it was Stan’s turn to laugh.

  At four o’clock, Stan rolled up in De Beauvoir. The area had some truly gorgeous houses, but typically of Mickey, his brief was holed up in an office over a greengrocers. Stan found all three waiting expectantly around a table. The only difference he could see in Mel’s new hairdo was a bit more bounce, like she was already celebrating her victory against him. The lawyer, who went by the name of Ronnie, was officious and polite and wore a cheap suit and ill-fitting toupee. Mickey was easy and friendly – ‘No hard feelings mate!’ – but Mel didn’t even return Stan’s greeting. Instead, she kept her hard gaze fixed on him, determined to make sure there weren’t any last-minute strokes being pulled.

  The brief got business rolling. ‘Mr Miller, if you can sign your copy of the documents and my client can sign his, we can wrap this up in five minutes.’

  Stan reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced the A4 envelope that Mickey and Mel had brought to his office. He handed them to Mickey, who turned down his lawyer’s offer to give the papers inside the once-over and tried to study them himself. After a few minutes, he looked up sheepishly and mumbled, ‘Actually, maybe you better had check. I didn’t see a lot of school after the age of twelve.’

  Ronnie, who’d had his glasses ready for this moment, shuffled the documents and got reading. He spent fifteen minutes checking each page to make sure Stan hadn’t made any changes or set any traps for his clients, before announcing with a professional smile, ‘Everything appears to be in order. Shall we all get our pens out and seal the deal?’

  He passed the paperwork over to Mickey.

  ‘Hold up a minute.’ Mel snatched them from Mickey’s hands. ‘I want to have a butchers before anyone puts ink to paper.’

  It took only a few moments before she ran into a problem. She looked at her husband and then at Ronnie with withering contempt and then turned to Stan.

  He played innocent. ‘Is there a problem, Mel?’

  ‘I don’t have the legal training and years of experience that my husband’s distinguished lawyer has.’ Her every word was laced with sarcasm. ‘But it rather looks to me as if this document has been altered so that Mickey’s giving you his share of his business rather than you giving him yours?’

  In a right flap, the startled lawyer took the papers and made a good fist of pretending he’d noticed too. Mickey merely looked confused.

  Mel snapped, ‘What are you playing at, you conniving little git?’

  Stan looked up. ‘Pardon me?’ He tapped his forehead dramatically. ‘Oh that’s right, didn’t I say? There’s been a slight change of plan. Mickey’s giving everything to me, not the other way around. Come on, let’s get a move on, I’m busy.’

  Mel turned to Ronnie. ‘Make yourself scarce, fella.’

  Their brief couldn’t get out of the room quick enough.

  It was Mickey who led the attack. ‘I expected better from you. Sending your own brother down the river on a murder charge? That’s bang out of order, even if he is a drunk and as mushy as a bucket of wallpaper paste. I’m disappointed, I really am.’

  Stan could see Mickey still didn’t get it. Mel was going pale. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about Pete if I was you. My understanding is he’s already gone down the river – for good, unfortunately.’ He interrupted the stunned silence that followed by raising his hands in mock surprise. ‘Oh – haven’t you heard? Yeah, that’s right, tragic story. Apparently, he took a tumble off a cliff on the south coast. He was probably pissed, of course. But then again, maybe he couldn’t handle killing that poor girl. Apparently he was staying at a B&B in Eastbourne. Never seen the attraction myself, but he obviously fancied it. Ring the local coppers if you don’t believe me. I expect I’ll have to get a train down there and do the formals on the body. As you can imagine, that’s rather changed the situation. Which means our deal has to change along with it.’

  ‘You murdered your own brother?’ Mel gasped, staring at Stan as if she’d never seen him before.

  Stan came over all shocked. ‘Killed my own flesh and blood? What a thing to say. Really, darlin’, wash your mouth out with soap and water. I told you, it was a tragic accident. Of course, you’re more than welcome to put the dead girl’s body in the boot of your car, run it down the local nick and tell them Pete killed her. You could do that . . . but I’ve got a feeling you won’t.’

  Mel picked up the contract, but Stan stopped her dead. ‘Hey, hey, hey – what the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re signing it, not ripping it up.’r />
  The closed window in Mickey’s brain had finally opened. ‘I’m not signing my share of my business over to you, you ponce. Why would I?’

  ‘Because I can help you with some legal problems that I hear are coming your way. I was having a chat with some friends from the vice squad at a cocktail party the other night. Apparently they’re taking a very close interest in a knocking shop in Mile End and your name’s been floated in connection with it. The pimp running the joint was recruiting girls through a bogus modelling agency in Soho.’

  Mickey rose to his feet, fists curled, cheeks flaring red. ‘You no-brain wanker, that drops you right in the shit too, seeing how you’ve been running the agency for the last couple of years.’

  Stan knew it would royally wind Mickey up if he smiled, so he did. ‘Ah, but that’s the thing, I realised when I joined the operation that there was something funny about Go Go Girls, so I put it into liquidation. No doubt you’ll remember the papers I gave you to sign to make it happen. It hasn’t traded for a couple of years. Of course what happened before I joined I don’t know, but the paperwork’s all there and I dare say they’ll pressurise the toms into giving statements . . .’

  Mickey came at him with every street skill he’d ever learned. Stan raised his arm to avoid the right-hander, but felt the full force of the blow from his left. The punch was so hard his teeth rattled, one of his eyes seemed to have gone AWOL and he was spinning across the floor in his chair. More by luck than judgement, he managed to avoid a second bunch of fives as Mickey roared, ‘I’m gonna fucking batter you, you slippery fuck.’

  As he moved in for the kill, Stan pulled his ace – his shooter. Mickey pulled up in his tracks and Mel shot to her feet. Stan pulled the hammer back.

  ‘Sign the documents,’ he ordered. ‘Do it now, because I already feel like blowing both your heads off. If you don’t sign, that’ll tip me over the edge. I’ve already done one stiff this week; a few more won’t make no difference.’

  Mickey signed. But as Stan staggered over and picked them up, Mickey warned him, ‘You ain’t heard the last of this.’