Crispin. Clare. Bingo!
Dee went to Islington. John had been right; Mr Chapaux was obviously worth a few. Short of a sign saying ‘Poor People Keep Out’, the square he and Clare lived on couldn’t have been any posher. The cars parked around the patch of green in its centre belonged in a luxury car showroom. Dee mounted the steps of a three-storey house with black iron railings and a grand oak door, still unsure what her line was going to be. She hit the heavy knocker and waited a long time before a woman appeared in paint-smeared overalls and a multi-coloured bandana wrapped around her hair. ‘Yes?’
Without thinking Dee said, ‘Good afternoon, Madam. I’m Detective Inspector Dee Hater.’
She left it at that but that was enough. The woman’s hand flew to her face. ‘Oh no . . . what’s she done this time?’
It had to be Flo. ‘It’s quite serious I’m afraid – perhaps you’d prefer to discuss it indoors so the neighbours can’t hear?’
‘Yes, of course, that’s very considerate of you, Sergeant.’
Dee was needled at being demoted. ‘Detective Inspector.’
‘Come in. I’m Clare by the way.’
She led Dee into a large room on the ground floor, which had been converted into an artist’s studio. There were canvases everywhere and paint slopping around. Dee didn’t know much about art but she knew what she liked – and it wasn’t this. If the people who sat for Clare’s paintings really did look like this, they needed to see a plastic surgeon, not to mention a skin specialist to sort out their green faces. Clare pointed to an armchair in the corner and pulled up a stool. ‘Would you like a drink, Inspector?’
Dee knew from the TV shows that she was supposed to say, ‘not while I’m on duty’, but she decided that she wasn’t on duty. ‘I’ll have a large brandy, Madam.’
Clare found a decanter half filled with cognac and sighed. ‘Alright, what’s happened?’
‘I’m afraid it’s credit card fraud and for quite a large amount.’
Clare lit a cigarette and inhaled fast and deep, like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. ‘Been stealing purses again? I might have guessed.’
Dee tried to look serious. ‘Yes, I know that’s her usual MO but I’m afraid this time it’s a bit closer to home.’
Clare pricked up her ears. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’m afraid to tell you that we believe she’s been using your credit card.’
Clare jumped off her stool in horror. ‘My card!’
‘Yes, I’m afraid . . .’
But Clare had run out of the room. Dee picked up the fag that the outraged woman had dropped, took a couple of drags and then stubbed it out. Clare was soon back, emptying her handbag on the floor. ‘She’s stolen my fucking credit card, the conniving little bitch! I’ll fucking kill her.’
Dee was shocked by the salty language coming from this upmarket arty type. ‘I understand your distress, Madam, but I need to ask you some questions.’
But Clare wasn’t listening. ‘Is she down the station again? She can fucking well stay there. I’m not bailing her out, not this time.’
Dee was firm. ‘Madam, I’m sorry but I really do need to clarify a few points. Are you familiar with a criminal associate of Flo’s who uses the name Stanley Miller?’
Clare exploded, lashing out with her foot and tearing the canvas showing the face of a woman too blue to be really healthy. ‘Stanley fucking Miller. No wonder the bitch has descended into the criminal classes, I thought she’d just got in with the wrong crowd. Where is he? You need to arrest him immediately, he’s pond life, complete scum.’
It seemed pointless to ask, but Dee did anyway. ‘Do you know him?’
‘Of course I know him; he’s the girl’s father. How come you didn’t know that? What kind of fucking detective are you anyway? I was married to the bastard.’ She let out a maniacal laugh. ‘Or at least I thought I was. Florence is our daughter.’ Dee was starting to get a little scared. She’d never met a woman who kicked off more than her before. She decided to skedaddle before any more paintings got trashed.
‘Florence is claiming that she’s someone else at the moment. Would you have a photo we could confront her with?’
Clare was still seeing red. ‘My fucking credit card.’ Dee jumped as she overturned several easels.
On the wall she’d spotted several photographs, including one of Clare standing next to a sulky-looking girl. Her eyes had a fox-like look that reminded Dee of Stan. She unpinned the snap and headed for the door. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
Clare was crying so many tears that Dee tried to help. ‘Perhaps, as this is a family matter, we might be able to drop the charges.’
‘Drop the charges? Stick the bitch in Holloway and throw away the key.’
‘That’s another alternative, of course.’
Dee ran out. She hailed her cab and told him to take her directly to Stan’s lawyers. But two o’clock had already come and gone. She was probably too late . . .
Seventy-Three
The atmos in the lawyer’s office was more like an execution than a signing. Stan paced back and forth, waiting for his brief to come back. Babs kept herself to herself, staying well away from the man who had once charmed her with a pair of baby’s booties.
‘Why did you never marry again?’ Stan suddenly asked.
Babs huffed, still refusing to look at him. ‘And end up with another leech like you? No, thank you.’
Tiff and Jen sat there listening, but left them to it.
Stan gave his former old lady the once-over. ‘You’ve still got it going on. Maybe settling down again would rub that vinegar look off your face.’
‘Right.’ Babs stood up.
‘Mum, please,’ Jen cried. Then she turned to her dad. ‘Why are you stirring everything up?’
‘Just a bit of fun.’
Tiff looked angrily at him. ‘Well, cut it out. We . . .’
Mercifully, the door swung open and the lawyer came in. He appeared harassed, but gave everyone a professional smile. ‘Apologies again, Mr Miller.’
‘That extra time had better not appear on my bill.’
The lawyer got the papers ready. ‘I think we’ll get Tiffany to sign—’
Stan cut him off. ‘Don’t they teach you lot manners? The mature ladies always come first.’ He waved his hand in Babs’ direction.
Mature! She’d give him effing mature. But she got up and took the seat opposite the lawyer.
‘I’ve put some post-it flags exactly where you need to sign.’
He slid the thick document over. Just as well he’d marked it; it was so big she wouldn’t have been able to find her way around it.
Babs picked up the pen. She could feel Stan nearby like a croc waiting to snap up his dinner. She leaned forward. A commotion outside the office made her pull back. Jen and Tiff jumped to their feet.
Everyone heard the office junior shouting, ‘You can’t go in there,’ followed by a louder voice saying, ‘Fuck off out of my way or I’ll knock you spinning into next week.’
It sounded like that was what was happening until the door burst open. Dee was holding Flo by her Harvey Nicks dress. The girl’s cheeks were red and her ear was swollen. Dee had clearly been to work on her and now she seized control of the office. She pushed Flo towards Stan and warned her, ‘Stay there and don’t cause no bovver or I’ll give you another portion . . . oh – and your mum wants a word with you. Something to do with a credit card?’
Flo sounded like a posh girl talking common or a common girl talking posh. ‘Oh fuck . . .’
Stan wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He put a protective arm around Flo’s shoulder and shouted, ‘Have you assaulted my wife?’
Dee sneered back, ‘Oh blimey, he’s been caught bang to rights and he’s still trying it on. Although given the way you carry on, it wouldn’t surprise me if you did end up marrying your own daughter.’ Dee turned to the shocked faces in the room. ‘Oh yes, people, Stan had a
daughter with another wife along the way and now she’s pretending to be his scary baby-missus.’ Dee enjoyed her moment of triumph. Only Babs didn’t seem surprised. ‘He thought you two muppets,’ she peered with disgust at her half-sisters, ‘would feel more sorry for him if you thought he had a wife ready to pick him clean. I found little miss Flo—’
‘Flo?’ Babs cut in. ‘I saw you as a baby—’
Flo snarled back, ‘You took him away from Mummy—’
‘What the effing hell is this about?’ The tone was classic Tiffany, but it was Jen who’d actually spoken.
Babs straightened her back. ‘I was wrong to shield you from the truth about your dad. I’ll tell you the lot later on. But for a start, he married some other bird while he was still married to me.’
‘Shut up,’ Tiff let out in astonishment. Jen just shook her head.
Dee got on back with her tale. ‘I found Flo down the road, sitting at the wheel of the getaway car. With a little bit of encouragement . . .’ Flo was touching her cheek. ‘ . . . I persuaded her to admit her and Stan cooked up this scheme together. She was in for half the money, although she’s claiming she doesn’t know what the scam is. And funnily enough, I believe her.’
No one said anything. Stan sighed and took his arm off Flo’s shoulder. He obviously knew that the game was up.
Dee pushed the lawyer out of the way and stood centre stage. She produced the Slim-o-matic packets from her handbag and put them the desk. ‘So let’s see what’s really been going on here. Item one – slimming powder that you mix up in a glass to make those pounds fall off. Sounds a bit hocus pocus to me but it obviously worked for Stan. Hence that just-dying look. Item Two. Yellow eye shadow. Put that on your chops and your thin face won’t look too clever either. Our friend here isn’t pegging out at all. He’s probably healthier than we are.’
She scanned the shocked expressions, including Babs’. ‘Me and Flo have been having a bit of a natter and she tells me her old dad is flatty broke with his arse hanging out of his trousers. There’s no legacy. Never was one. He was quite the little property magnate when he fled the country twenty-five years back. But since then he’s frittered it away on wine, women and song. He’s been through more WAGS than a footballer with a hit record. So he’s not dying and he’s got no dosh. That only leaves one question. What’s the scam, Stan? Why are you so eager for these ladies to sign this telephone directory?’
Stan grinned. ‘OK. It’s a fair cop. I might have exaggerated things a little but only to help the girls here. I have got a large estate to leave behind. Flo doesn’t know everything about me. I’ve simplified things.’
Dee picked up the contract. She waved it at Stan. ‘The truth’s in here somewhere. I’m going to take this away with me and find out what it is.’
‘Madam, you can’t do that,’ Stan’s lawyer stuttered, making the mistake of getting in Dee’s way.
‘You got any kids?’ she asked sweetly, cocking her head to the side.
He appeared confused. ‘One. A son.’
‘Well, if you’re planning on having any more you’d better shift it – before I boot your tackle so far across London you’re gonna need a sperm donor to get your wife up the duff.’
He swiftly got out of her way.
She crammed the document into her Burberry bag. ‘Come on, Mum, you shouldn’t have to deal with this shit on your birthday.’ She stabbed her hot gaze at her half-sisters. ‘Your other daughters can take themselves down a burger bar and think about what they’ve done.’
After Dee and Babs had left, Stan said, ‘Why don’t you two girls join me and Flo for lunch? Get to know each other?’
‘You’ve got the nerve of the devil,’ Tiffany said at last
He raised his hands by way of apology. ‘You’ll get your money. And a free lunch.’
In a rage fit for a heavyweight bout Jen rushed across the office, ripped his stick out of his hand and belted him so hard he went crashing.
His daughters marched out. He turned to his remaining child and growled, ‘Don’t just stand there; help me up.’
With a sulky expression, Flo did as she was told. Stan pulled his clothing back into order. Then he turned sweetly to her and asked, ‘Have you still got your mum’s credit card?’
Seventy-Four
‘Right, birthday girl, it’s time for you to get your gear on,’ Jen told her mum with a wide grin.
Babs smiled back. Jen and her sister had turned up at her door, sheepish at having the wool pulled over their eyes. But that’s what happened when some folk waved the promise of a wodge in your face. Babs had welcomed them back with open arms, although Dee had given them the evil eye. None of them could figure out why Stan needed those papers signing; they couldn’t make head nor tail of the paperwork.
But who cared? All that mattered was that Stan was out of their lives. Although Dee had said one thing that still rang in Babs’ head. ‘That effing nut job of a daughter of his is proper trouble. I don’t think we’ve seen the last of her.’
Babs forgot about Stan’s daughter and looked at her own in turn – Desiree, Jennifer, Tiffany. Her heart filled with pride. They’d come through so much together . . . and survived. Stan had thought that he was coming back to the same ol’ Babs, but he’d been wrong. He hadn’t figured out she wouldn’t be standing alone. She had three bolshie daughters for backup.
Although Babs was smiling, she was bloody tired. All she wanted to do was put her head down and sleep for a year. ‘Do we have to go out tonight? Can’t we do something or other at the weekend?’
All her daughters were alarmed. Dee put her straight. ‘Are you off it? You’re fifty today, not Saturday or Sunday. Plus, we’ve booked that fancy restaurant. You’re gonna love their bolognese.’
‘I can get one of them in the freezer section down the supermarket,’ she said with a wink that got all of them laughing.
Eventually she got up. ‘Alright, I get it. I’ll go and get ready—’
‘In the meantime,’ Tiff interrupted, ‘we’re going out to get some supplies in for when we get back—’
Babs frowned. ‘What, all of you?’
Instead of answering, Tiff planted a kiss on her cheek. Then they were all gone, leaving Babs alone. She sagged back onto the settee. She’d been trying to hold it all together, keep it all cushty so her girls wouldn’t get worried about her. Now the full realisation of Stan trying to tear her family apart hit. Babs bowed her head and cried and cried. Five minutes later she wiped back her tears, went into her bedroom and pulled out a suitcase dating back to the 1970s.
For once in its life, the Old Swan really did look like a swan. The pub was gleaming, decorated with balloons, streamers, banners – including one with ‘Princess’ written across it – all sorts of food laid out, sparkling glasses and a ton of champagne ready to pop. It looked like it was waiting for royalty, which of course it was. One of The Devil’s Estate queens, Barbara Miller, had hit her half-century and the residents had turned out in force.
Babs’ old gang were all present – Cheryl and Beryl and many of the other women who had met, laughed and gossiped in the old washhouse. It was like the old spirit of the Estate had come back.
Dee, Jen and Tiff surveyed the boozer with pride. They’d all clubbed together to make sure the night would give her memories to last a lifetime.
‘Listen up, everyone,’ Dee told the gathered crowd, ‘we want to make sure that this is a surprise, so when you see the signal you better keep your gobs shut. Jen’s Courtney is going to go and get Babs and my Nicky will keep a lookout. As soon as he raises his hand, keep schtum. Got it?’
Despite everyone nodding, Dee squinted menacingly. ‘Anyone who slips up will answer to my fists.’
She passed some photos to Courtney. ‘You know what to do with them?’ The ten-year-old nodded. ‘Good. Then get your nan straight after and bring her over. And remember . . .’ She placed her finger across her lips, ‘not a word about the party.’
Courtn
ey grinned with excitement and went on her way.
Babs twirled around her sitting room singing, ‘Leader Of The Pack’. She wore a bright white maxi dress she’d taken from her old suitcase. Her dad had given it to her back in ’72. It floated around, making her feel like she was on cloud nine. She’d never actually worn it; she’d been saving it for a blinding occasion. Then tornado Neville and hurricane Stan had hit her life and there had never been a right moment, so she’d just tucked it away. But now she was fifty, she wanted to feel like a young girl again. Wanted to recall what it felt like to be full of promises and dreams.
Babs waltzed past the ironing board she’d put up to run the creases out of her dress. She laughed as she tried to make the motorbike noises in the song. Ah, she felt so flippin’ good. The door knocker went. The girls. They were going to do their nut when they saw her outfit, especially Dee, but sod ’em. This was her night and she was gonna wear what she wanted.
She opened the door and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘You didn’t think I was going to forget my Babs-babe’s birthday,’ said Stanley Miller, with his killer smile.
Before she could react, he’d shoved her back and slammed the door behind him.
Ten-year-old Courtney had one more piccie to go. Her mum didn’t usually let her go out on her own, but fetching Nanna Babs for her surprise party was special. Though her mum had told her point blank that she was to hurry and if anyone looked at her the wrong way she was to scream her head off. As if! She was a big girl now . . .
‘Court,’ someone called, freezing her in her tracks. Her mum had also said that if anyone tried to talk to her she was to keep walking.
‘Court.’ The voice was louder and more insistent this time. Her gaze darted around. All of a sudden her braveness deserted her and she almost scarpered back to the Old Swan. But she didn’t when she saw who it was. Her mate Dexter Ingram, who had gone to big school a few years back. Courtney started blushing. He was such a heartthrob, kind and clever too. She didn’t get why her mum and Nanna Babs always told her to stay clear of him.
Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Page 39