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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Stan picked up a fake porcelain figurine of a shepherdess sitting on a glass coffee table. The glass had a crack in it and the paint on the figure was flaking. Stan turned it over to find ‘Made in Taiwan’ printed on the bottom. Fancy being reduced to living surrounded by tat. It was tragic really.

  ‘Alright, what’s the problem? Let’s sort it out.’

  Stan clasped his hands together. It was obvious that Mickey knew what the problem was. It was all over his face. ‘Don’t play the silly girl with me, bruv. You know what the problem is. And I’ve got to say I’m disappointed. Very disappointed. I know we’ve had our differences but I thought you was better than this. I really did.’

  Mickey avoided Stan’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about. Talk some sense and I’ll help you out.’

  Stan picked up the figurine again, intending to drop it to make his point. But it wasn’t valuable enough. He put it down again. ‘What I’m talking about is your new friend. What’s he calling himself round here? Richard Smith? Napoleon Bonaparte? Don’t really matter.’ Mickey’s eyes were darting around like a pinball machine but he kept silent. ‘Oh – you didn’t realise I knew? Let me tell you something, my friend; you better believe I know most things round here. I can afford a lot of friends and they keep me posted.’

  ‘I don’t know no Richard Smith.’

  Stan massaged his fingers together. ‘I know you’re bitter, Mickey. I understand that. You don’t want to be a good loser, that’s your business. But this is going too far. You know that – you’re a geezer.’

  Mickey finally caught his eye. ‘This has got nish to do with you. It’s just to help me out. I ain’t taking you on, I’m playing him. It’s all part of the game.’ Then he added grimly, ‘You should know, you’ve played it often enough.’

  Stan rose to his feet, knocking over the coffee table as he did so. ‘I ain’t getting through to you, am I?’ He patted the knife in his breast pocket to make sure it was still available. He’d been looking forward to this moment ever since ’72. It was the one thing he’d been denied when he’d taken his former friend down. The opportunity to beat the living crap out of him. He clenched his fists. ‘Perhaps I can get it through another way.’

  Mickey jumped out of his chair. ‘Stan, you’ve got it all wrong. Smith is in the gambling racket. I think he’s interested in making a move on some of your properties, you get me? I ain’t got a clue what he wants them for.’

  Stan’s face lit up with fire and fury. ‘You’re forgetting who I am if you think I’m taking the bollocks you’re shovelling my way. Who the fuck is Smith?’

  Mickey ran out of the flat, knocking Mel out of the way. Stan took off after him. Mel was screaming. The kerfuffle attracted the attention of passers-by and neighbours. They stopped to watch at windows and on balconies. There wasn’t much in the way of entertainment on these estates and Stan was determined to put on a good show. And to make it very clear what the consequences of crossing him were.

  Mickey was already faltering and gasping. He called out, ‘Get the Bill down here, I’m being attacked.’

  They didn’t seem inclined to do so. Stan broke into a trot and soon caught up with his pathetic quarry. He grabbed hold of his vest and pulled him backwards. ‘You need to decide whose side you’re on. Let me help you make the right decision.’

  He leaned back and then head-butted Mickey’s nose. He felt the soft flesh crush and the bone behind absorb the full force of the blow. Stunned, Mickey staggered backwards but the shock seemed to keep him on his feet. He sneezed and puffed blood. Stan landed a right on his left cheekbone. It landed badly and it took a second, better-aimed blow to the right before Mickey toppled over like a sack of spuds. Stan looked up and around, hoping the gathering crowd would give him some credit. But they seemed to feel they’d been short changed by such a one-sided scrap. People started shouting out:

  ‘C’mon, Mickey! Show some life, mate, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Where’s the law? I’ve got a tenner on this bout and I’ve been ripped off. It’s a fix.’

  ‘What division is your old man supposed to be in, Mel? He looks like a super-fat-fuck heavyweight to me. He needs to lose a few pounds.’

  As Mickey tried to get to his feet, two female arms wrapped themselves around Stan’s neck, accompanied by screaming. He wrapped his hands around Mel’s wrists and pulled her off. He was tempted to give her a slap but decided that wouldn’t go down well. He shoved her to one side and turned back to his ex-friend, now on his feet but completely out of it. Stan knew the sporting thing to do was call it a day and help him back to his flat. But this was business. He slammed another right-hander across his face and it was clear he wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. There was scattered applause from the windows and balconies.

  ‘That’s enough, Stan.’ Only when he heard Babs’ stern voice did he realise she had a ringside seat too.

  But it wasn’t enough. He delivered a savage kick to Mickey’s ribs, then knelt down and whispered so no one else could hear, ‘Who is Smith?’

  But Mickey was too senseless to answer.

  Fifty-One

  Stan swaggered into the Bad Moon. A jukebox in the corner was playing Blondie but it wasn’t a very good one. The needle was stuck and Debbie Harry kept repeating, ‘Denis . . . Denis . . . Denis . . .’ until the landlord kicked it into silence.

  Stan said, ‘A glass of red plonk.’

  His upmarket life had introduced him to red wine and he was becoming quite a connoisseur; well, that’s what he thought.

  The landlord creased up. ‘Red wine? ’Ere, Stan, are you turning a bit funny?’ Then he nearly jumped two feet in the air when he realised what he’d said. He raised his hands in surrender and begged, ‘Just ribbing you, no need to take offence.’

  Stan ordered a pint instead and sat alone near the window, which had once given a view out on the docks. The days when the area had been a constant flow of people and vehicles, of ships’ horns and clanking chains, were over. The docks were long finished and pubs like this were ghosts of the places they used to be. The night sky looked naked without the cranes and the air was still without the noise from warehouses and ships.

  He remembered the evening at the strip show when he told Lord Tilgate the East End would rise again and it was just a question of buying up and waiting. As he looked out over the shadows and desolation, he couldn’t help wondering how long the wait was going to be. The property company he ran that Lord Tilgate had agreed to front had bought all over East London and he had the key points covered. He was making a lot of money from rent and various other property wrinkles but he wasn’t the tycoon he’d been planning to be. When he saw Lord Tilgate, the canny old goat would say, ‘Oh hello, Miller – is Mile End like Chelsea yet?’ He still needed Tilgate on the company’s letterhead so he resisted the temptation to say. ‘Dunno – are you still screwing black tarts?’

  But what really needled him was that it was true. The East End hadn’t risen again. Rather the reverse, it seemed to be sinking fast.

  ‘Hello, Stan, glad you could make it. We know you’re busy.’

  He looked up to find friendly neighbourhood bent cops Cricket and Horner.

  ‘Hello, boys. Park your bums. I’ll get you a drink.’ He gestured at the landlord. ‘So what’s got you in such a pickle?’

  Horner looked at Cricket, who looked back at Horner. They were acting like they were about to break the news that a child had been found brutally murdered.

  Horner did the talking, as per usual. ‘We’re here to give you a steer. Word at the Yard is that you’re in big trouble.’ He checked to see no one was listening. ‘Apparently, there’s a case review going on down in the murder department.’

  Stan studied the men carefully. He knew them. He knew all their tricks. ‘That’s interesting. And what’s my steer?’

  ‘You’re in the frame, mate. It seems they’re going over the murder of your brother Pete and your name keeps cropping up. Nothing
to do with us obviously, but we thought you’d like to know.’

  Stan sighed. ‘That’s a bit strange, because he wasn’t murdered. He committed suicide. Or maybe it was an accident. Have they seen the coroner’s report?’

  Cricket leaned over the table. ‘They’ve seen it but they don’t believe it. The lead detective is a right bastard called Ericson. Once he gets his teeth into a case, that’s it, he don’t stop. He’s already interviewed the receptionist at the B&B where Pete was staying. Pete had a visitor the day he was murdered but the receptionist claimed she couldn’t describe him. After Ericson slapped her around a bit and showed her pictures of you, she’s playing ball. She’s willing to testify you’re the guy. You’re deep in the crap here.’

  Stan drummed his fingers on the table. ‘Is that so?’

  Horner took over. ‘Right in the crap, mate.’

  ‘So, tell me, why would this Ericson be investigating a suicide from six years ago?’

  ‘Who knows? Ericson’s the ambitious type. He ain’t had a collar in ages so he’s probably gone back over the files and decided you’re his man. A respectable businessman like yourself, he gets you up the Bailey and puts you away and he’s moving up the ladder. You might have read that the Met’s been cleaned up but there’s still characters like Ericson around, willing to bend the rules.’

  Stan’s smile widened. ‘Well, quite – they’re still employing you two farts for a start.’

  Horner swallowed the insult. ‘We can help but only if you level with us. He was your brother; you must have known where he was. We’re not saying you killed him, that’s ridiculous. But tell us what happened. Did you arrange the B&B? Maybe went down there and said hello?’

  It was what Stan had always feared. Pete was still messing things up, despite being brown bread for six years. Stan had no idea whether there really was an inquiry into Pete’s death going on. He’d made a mistake in beating Mickey so badly he couldn’t tell him who Richard Smith was. He wasn’t sure he could believe him even if he had. Something was going on, though, and he needed to know what. But one thing was certain; these two pricks were there to screw him over. That was the great thing about Horner and Cricket, they were so reliably unreliable.

  ‘Alright, lads, you’ve been honest with me and I’ll be honest with you. I need to unburden myself about Pete. I feel gutted about it. I’m to blame. I’ll tell you what really happened.’

  Cricket and Horner looked at each other in shock. ‘This is strictly between you and us. You’re among friends.’

  Stan’s face dropped. ‘Pete told me he was going away but he didn’t say where. He seemed on top of the world. I couldn’t see how much pain he was in and I should have done. When I heard he topped himself, I felt terrible. I should have been there for my brother and I wasn’t. I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.’

  Cricket and Horner sat back in disgust. It was Cricket who finally said flatly, ‘Yeah. That’s terrible.’

  Stan seemed nearly in tears. ‘I’m sorry, boys, I’ve got to go and have a weep.’

  Horner hissed, ‘We understand. Look, we’re seeing Ericson for lunch tomorrow, we’ll get an update. Let’s say we meet here later tomorrow so we can let you know what’s what.’

  ‘That’s good of you.’

  Stan walked off. The walls were closing in but he was still Stan Miller. And if the walls were being pushed in by the likes of Cricket and Horner, he didn’t have too much to worry about.

  Inside the Gents, Cricket was frothing at the mouth like an angry dog as he griped, ‘I really thought he was going to give us something there. Fucking waste of time ...’

  Horner stretched his lips in a cruel smile. ‘You heard the man, he’s meeting us tomorrow. We get him talking again. Push him a bit more—’

  ‘The bastard’s too smart,’ his former partner cut in.

  Horner’s smile deepened. ‘But this time I’m going to make sure he cracks. And we’ll come wired for sound.’

  Cricket frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ll stick a portable cassette in my jacket to record every last one of his incriminating words.’

  ‘Mum, why are you sad?’ Jen asked Babs.

  Jen was such a sensitive soul. She could always tell when her mum was upset. Babs still felt distraught after the stroke Mel had pulled and Stan brawling with Mickey in front of the whole estate. What a show-up. She didn’t want them to be one of those families who let their dirty laundry blow in the wind for all to see. Why couldn’t he have beaten the shit out of the fat fuck behind closed doors? Naturally, as soon as he’d done a number on Mickey, Stan had been off – an important business dinner this time.

  At least she’d made a decision about the copper. Richard Smith might press her buttons but she wasn’t telling him a dickie bird. When Stan got back she was telling him the lot. A wife did not grass up her old man. Final.

  ‘Nothing, baby.’ Babs tried to brush off her misery for her child’s sake. She still had two kids to bring up and what was the point in getting down in the dumps? Time she snapped out of it. In a cheerful voice she said, ‘Shall we pop some new clobber on Bunty?’

  Jen leapt down with a shout of joy. If there was one thing she loved, it was dressing Bunty up in the cut-out clothes she came with. They spent the next half hour on the sitting room carpet. Bunty went on a picnic. Bunty went swimming in the lido in Vicky Park. Bunty went shopping down the Roman.

  A gleeful Jen announced, ‘I like this.’ She pointed at the long, red maxi dress Bunty was togged out in.

  ‘Where’s she going in her knockout dress?’ Babs felt a million times better.

  But before an excited Jen could answer, a fist banged at the front door. ‘Keep it down,’ Babs shouted as she got up, ‘you’ll wake up the baby.’ Then she realised she was likely to wake up Tiffany with her yelling.

  She could’ve committed murder when she saw the cop from hell, Richard Smith. ‘This is the second time you’ve come knocking at my door. Don’t you understand what “no” means?’

  In a loud voice, so any and everyone could hear, he informed her, ‘Barbara Miller, I’m arresting you for perverting the cause of justice.’

  ‘You what?’ Babs could only gape at him. ‘You’re having a laugh.’

  He whipped out a pair of handcuffs. ‘I won’t use these if you come peacefully.’

  Babs shook her head, raging. ‘I’d like to see you and whose army try.’

  He reached for her and Babs let fly with a right hook that glanced off his cheekbone. He winced but kept on, grabbing her arm and twisting it behind her back.

  ‘’Ere, what the heck’s going on?’ Cheryl cried out from her doorway.

  ‘Get your bloody hands off her,’ Beryl screamed from the other side.

  Both women rushed at him like avenging angels, but he pulled Babs in front of him and snarled, ‘I’m an officer of the law. If you touch me, you’ll go down for assault.’

  Both women held back, but their anger was at boiling point. ‘What’s she done?’ Cheryl demanded.

  He ignored them as he cuffed Babs and dragged her along the landing. Babs could hear Jen crying her eyes out and Tiffany howling a storm. ‘Take them to my mum’s,’ she belted out. ‘Stan . . .’ But Richard Smith didn’t allow her to finish as he dragged her away.

  With the whole estate looking on, Richard Smith dumped Babs into the passenger seat of his car.

  Fifty-Two

  ‘I don’t know what you’re up to, fella, but you’re making a massive mistake.’

  Richard said nothing. He’d taken the cuffs off as soon as he’d locked the car doors. They’d been driving for ages. But he kept it zipped, just like he had with all the other questions she’d flung at him. The geezer was obviously losing his marbles, dragging her off like that on a bogus charge. Then Babs’ heart fell. Unless he’d found out about them stitching up the Ingrams years back . . . But that just didn’t make sense. Why would a cop give a rat’s arse about those lowlifes ge
tting banged up? There was something else going on here and she had the right to know what.

  ‘Tell me what’s going on, matey.’ No answer; no surprise there.

  Babs shivered. She’d been taken away from her children, just like the last time she’d been banged up. She couldn’t go through that heartache again.

  ‘I don’t know what you want!’ she screamed. Then she noticed the sign on the road for Canonbury.

  ‘What are we doing in Islington? I thought you were taking me to the cop shop?’ She was getting scared. ‘Mister, if you try and do anything—’

  ‘Put a sock in it,’ he finally said. ‘Just relax and enjoy the ride.’

  Cheeky beggar! Knowing she had no alternative, Babs kept it shut until they rolled into a gorgeous Georgian square. He cut the engine and warned her, ‘I don’t want no more earache, you got it? All you’ve got to do is wait and watch.’

  Babs scrunched her face up. Wait for what? Watch for who? She didn’t like this one bit but knew she had no choice.

  Nearly fifteen minutes later, a flash shiny red Merc stopped outside one of the houses. Babs moved closer to the window. A young woman stepped out of the car, laughing. She was dressed to the nines in a lace blouse under a sleeveless vest and a cranberry-coloured skirt that blew in the wind. She looked like she was having the time of her life. A man appeared, his head down, looking at the baby he held in his arms. He wore a bulky cardie and flared tartan trousers. The woman whispered in his ear. Whatever she said had him laughing out loud. He raised his head.