Table of Contents
Also by Mandasue Heller
About the Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
Also by Mandasue Heller
The Front
Forget Me Not
Tainted Lives
The Game
The Charmer
The Club
Shafted
Snatched
Two-Faced
Lost Angel
The Driver
Broke
About the Author
Mandasue Heller was born in Cheshire and moved to Manchester in 1982. She spent ten years living in the notorious Hulme Crescents which have since become the background to her novels. Not only is she a talented writer, but she has also sung in cabaret and rock groups, seventies soul cover bands and blues jam bands.
RESPECT
Mandasue Heller
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Mandasue Heller 2014
The right of Mandasue Heller to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 444 76948 7
Trade paperback ISBN 978 1 444 76947 0
Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 76946 3
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
For Karen Brookes, with love and a million memories.
Until we meet again xx
As always, I have to thank my lovely family for their constant support and love. My man, Win; my mum, Jean; my children, Michael, Andrew, Azzura (and Michael); my grandies, Marissa, Lariah, and Antonio; my sister, Ava; Amber, Martin, Jade, Reece, Kyro, Diaz, Auntie Doreen, Pete, Lorna and Cliff, Chris, Glen, Natalie, Dan and Lauren, Toni, Joseph, Mavis, Valerie, Jascinth, Donna, and their children … lots of love to you all.
Thanks, as ever, to my ace editor, Carolyn Caughey, for the brilliant advice and support. Also the rest of the superb team at Hodder: Lucy, Emilie, Emma, Rosie, Francine, Phil – to name but a few.
Immense thanks also to my lovely agent, Sheila Crowley.
Thanks to Nick Austin – your copy-editing has taught me a lot! Also, Cat Ledger, Wayne Brookes, and Martina Cole – for everything.
Love to great friends, Betty and Ronnie Schwartz, The Dysfunctional Duchess: Kimberley Chambers, Liz Paton, Katy and John, Norman Brown and Hilary Devey.
And a special mention to my Lost Angel dream-team: Jac and Brian Capron, Ann Mitchell, Rowetta and Chris Coghill. Can’t think of a better cast – or nicer people.
A big thank you to Carrie Austin for the invaluable info on the working life of PIs.
And last but never least, a million thanks to the buyers, readers, libraries, and my friends on FB & T. You all make it worthwhile, and I greatly appreciate the support and chats.
Respect!
PROLOGUE
‘Get the fuck out of my house, you stinking, cheating, lying bastard! Go on … fuck off – and don’t come back!’
‘Shut your mouth, you crazy bitch.’
‘Why? Scared the kids’ll wake up and find out what a loser you are? Well, they’re my fucking kids, not yours, so don’t you be worrying about them!’
‘You’d best quit pushin’ me!’
‘Or what …? You gonna whack me again? Go on, then – if you dare!’
The words were followed by a loud smashing sound, and Chantelle Booth shivered in her bed on the other side of the wall. She was frequently woken in the middle of the night by the sound of her mum and Jase shouting at each other, and she usually covered her ears and tried to ignore it. But tonight’s argument sounded nastier than usual and she was scared to go back to sleep in case something really bad happened.
Jase hadn’t long moved in but he was already messing her mum around; staying out for days on end, then walking back in as if nothing had happened. And the silly cow usually welcomed him back with open arms – but not tonight, by the sound of it.
Chantelle was glad about that, because she didn’t like Jase. He acted nice, but she had seen through him the instant she first clapped eyes on him. And she had enough experience to know the difference between real nice and fake nice, given how many men her mum had brought into their lives since her little brother Leon’s dad had walked out on them. The real nice ones didn’t tend to stick around too long, but the fake ones, like Jase, hung around like bad smells, making her mum cry and spending her money on drugs and drink so she couldn’t afford to buy food or pay the bills.
A heavy thud on the wall rattled Chantelle’s headboard. She sat up and bit her lip when she heard the creak of her brother’s bed springs through the wall on the other side. She hoped he wasn’t about to wake up. He was only eight, and slightly built for his age, but his handsome baby-face disguised a man-sized temper, and he was bound to fly off the handle if he saw Jase hurting his mum – which would only make everything ten times worse.
Unable to bear it any longer when her mum let out a piercing scream, Chantelle leapt from her bed and rushed into the hall – just as her mother hurtled out of her own room with Jase on her heels.
‘Stop it!’ she cried when Jase slammed her mother up against the wall and put his hands around her throat. ‘Leave her alone!’
‘Now see what you’ve done,’ Mary Booth hissed, using the interruption to regain her footing and push Jase away. ‘Happy now, are you?’
Jase flapped a dismissive hand in Chantelle’s direction. ‘Go back to bed – everything’s cool.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Chantelle sobbed, taking in the bleeding gouges in his cheek which she guessed her mum had raked with her nails, and the bruise that was starting to darken her mum’s eye. ‘You’re always hurting my mum, and I don’t like it. I don’t like you.’
Jase narrowed his eyes and stared angrily back at her. ‘Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, you black bitch?’
‘Oi! Don’t talk to my daughter like that!’ Mary protested, smacking him on the side of his head. ‘And she ain’t black, she’s mixed-race, you ig
norant bastard, so get your facts right!’
Jase clenched his fist and went to punch her, but hesitated at the sound of someone hammering on the wall that divided Mary’s flat from the one next door. ‘You know what? Fuck this,’ he sneered. ‘I’ve had it with you and your dramas.’
‘Where d’y’ think you’re going?’ Mary demanded when he turned and walked back into the bedroom. ‘Don’t think you’re crawling back into my bed like everything’s okay, ’cos it ain’t happening. I want you out.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m gone.’ Jase sat down on the edge of the bed and dragged on his jeans. ‘I can’t hack this shit no more. You’re doing my head in.’
‘Yeah, well, now you know how I feel,’ spat Mary.
Jase stood up, pulled his jumper over his head, shoved his feet into his trainers and, pushing past Mary, strode back out into the hall.
‘Where you planning to go at this time of night?’ she asked, shaking now because she’d realised that he really was going to leave. ‘I’m telling you now, if I find out you’ve been anywhere near that slag Wendy Thompson I’ll throw her right over the fucking balcony – and you right after her! Is that where you’re going? Is it …?’
‘None o’ your business.’ Jase grabbed his jacket off the hook behind the front door and shoved his arms into the sleeves. He cast a quick glance back at Chantelle who was still standing there in her nightdress, tears streaking her pretty face, legs shaking visibly. Then, sucking his teeth, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.
Infuriated, Mary yanked it open again, screaming, ‘Don’t you fucking dare go to that bitch! I’m warning you, Jase – I’ll kill the pair of you!’
‘Let him go,’ Chantelle pleaded, grabbing her mum’s arm to stop her from going after him. ‘Please, Mum. We’ve got each other, we don’t need him.’
Mary shook her off angrily and stumbled out onto the landing. She’d been sure that Jase would be heading to Wendy’s flat eight doors down but the walkway was deserted. Standing there, with the wind lashing her cheeks and whistling down her ears, she picked up the faint slap of footsteps going quickly down the communal stairs and rushed to the balcony.
‘Where you going?’ she yelled over the rail when Jase emerged onto the path a few seconds later. ‘Got some other tart lined up already, have you? Some bitch who don’t care that you’ve already got a woman?’
Jase walked on without responding.
‘Go on, then!’ Mary shrieked at his back. ‘Go to your whore – see if I care! But don’t come crawling back to me when she gets tired of your useless arse and kicks you out, ’cos you’ve fucked me about for the last time! D’ya hear me, you dirty piece of shit? We’re finished!’
‘Mum, stop it,’ Chantelle pleaded, her bare feet freezing on the icy concrete as she tried to drag her mother away from the balcony edge. ‘You’re gonna fall!’
Chest heaving with fury and pain as Jase strolled around the corner and out of view, Mary clenched her fists and pummelled the iron railing. Then the tears came, and she sank to her knees and wailed.
‘For God’s sake, stop that racket!’ a hoarse voice barked. ‘We’re trying to get some flaming sleep here. We haven’t all got the luxury of sitting on our backsides watching Jeremy bloody Kyle all day – some of us actually have to work for a living.’
‘Fuck off!’ Mary pulled herself together at the sound of her next-door neighbour’s voice and lurched back up to her feet. Swiping the tears from her cheeks, she glared at the man who was peering out at her. ‘Get back in your coffin with that corpse you call a wife before I knock you out, you fat bastard!’
‘I’m calling the police,’ he spluttered, quickly pulling his head in and slamming the door shut when Mary lunged towards him.
‘Go on, then – I dare you!’ Mary kicked his door. ‘But don’t blame me when all your windows get put through, ’cos everyone already hates you round here, so see what happens if you bring the pigs round, you dirty grass!’
‘Mum, come home.’ Chantelle tugged on her mother’s hand again, terrified that she was going to get herself arrested.
Exhausted by now, Mary’s shoulders suddenly slumped. She looked balefully out across the estate in the hope that Jase might have changed his mind and be on his way back, but the area was as deserted as the landing she was standing on.
Relieved when her mum walked back into their flat, Chantelle followed and closed the door on the biting cold. She was shivering wildly, but her fear changed to concern when her mum turned the kitchen light on and her injuries became clear. Her eye was so badly swollen that it was starting to close up, and there were livid red marks on her neck from where Jase had throttled her, and scratches and bruises on her bare arms and legs. It was the worst fight they’d had by far, and Chantelle prayed that it really was over this time.
‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ she offered.
‘I don’t want tea,’ Mary muttered, pulling the fridge open and taking out a can of Tennent’s Super. ‘Go back to bed.’
‘I want to stay with you,’ Chantelle insisted. ‘You’re hurt.’
‘For God’s sake, fuck off and leave me alone!’ Mary rounded on her. ‘You’re fourteen, not forty, so stop acting like me bleedin’ mother. Do as you’re told and go … to … bed!’
Chilled by the fierceness of her mother’s tone, Chantelle fled back to her room and climbed beneath the quilt, her heart heavy. Minutes earlier, her mum had been screaming that she never wanted to see Jase again, but Chantelle knew that she would now mope about like a lost soul until he showed up again – which, in turn, meant that Chantelle would be expected to look after Leon while Mary tried to drink and smoke herself to death. And Chantelle would have to do it, or her little brother would end up going to school dirty and hungry, and then the nosy teachers would tell the social worker and all sorts of trouble would break out again. And, even though it wasn’t Chantelle’s fault, she’d get the blame – just like she always did.
As Chantelle cried herself to sleep in her room, Mary flopped onto a chair at the kitchen table and ripped the tab off the beer can. Aware that it wouldn’t be anywhere near strong enough to drown her sorrows, she reached into a drawer and rooted through the junk until she found a strip of tramadol tablets. She’d have preferred temazepam, but she’d sold her last script and the next wasn’t due for another week, so the painkillers would have to do.
As the rush of adrenalin subsided and the pain of her injuries began to wash over her, Mary licked at the fresh tears of self-pity and popped two of the little capsules out of the foil strip. Then, thinking to hell with it, she pressed out the rest and threw them all into her mouth, quickly washing them down with beer before traipsing miserably back to her bedroom.
She’d never taken so many of the painkillers at one time before, and it crossed her mind as she lay down on the bed that she might overdose and die. But so what if she did? No one would care. They’d probably all be glad to see the back of her. Jase, the kids, her so-called mates … none of them gave a flying fuck about her, so it would serve the bastards right if she didn’t wake up.
As a drowsy sensation began to creep over her, Mary swallowed the last of her beer. Then, carefully arranging her hair so that it fanned out on the pillow around her head, she crossed her hands over her chest and closed her eyes.
Fuck only knew who would be the first to see her body in the morning, but if it was a fit young copper or ambulance man she was determined to look her best.
1
It had just gone eight-thirty and Chantelle was in a rush. She and Leon would usually have left for school by now, but the shirt she’d washed the night before had fallen off the radiator so she’d had to try and dry it with her hairdryer. And now Leon was dragging his feet, so she ordered him to hurry up and brush his teeth while she went into the living room to comb her hair.
Surprised to find her mother in there, she drew her head back and gave her a questioning look. ‘How come you’re up so early?’
&n
bsp; ‘Not long got in,’ Mary admitted, clamping her lit cigarette between her teeth. ‘Haven’t seen my bank card, have you?’ she asked, her backside rearing up into the air as she knelt on the couch and rooted through the junk piled down the side of it. ‘Can’t find it anywhere.’
‘I hope you haven’t lost it again,’ Chantelle chided, walking over to the fireplace and taking her comb out from behind an ornament on the mantelpiece. ‘That’ll be the third time in a year, and they’ll start charging you if you’re not careful.’
‘All right, little miss know-it-all, I can do without a lecture, thank you very much!’ Mary straightened up and gave her daughter a dirty look as she teased her thick hair into shape. Chantelle had a beautiful face and a great figure, but it was completely wasted on her because she wasn’t interested in anything apart from school. Boring as fuck – just like her father.
Chantelle glanced out of the corner of her eye and frowned when she saw the way her mother was staring at her. ‘What’s up? Have I got dirt on the back of my skirt, or something?’
‘As if!’ Mary sneered, taking a last drag on her fag before stubbing it out in the ashtray.
Chantelle pursed her lips as she tied the scrunchie around her hair. Her mum acted like it was a crime to want to look presentable, and was forever making sniping remarks about OCD. But Chantelle would rather die than go out in public looking dirty – like her brother happily would if she’d let him.
Mary lit another cigarette and resumed her search for the missing bank card. Chantelle could wind her up on the best of days by just breathing, but with her nerves sparking like live wires – thanks to all the speed she’d done last night – anything the girl said or did today was guaranteed to infuriate her.
When Leon walked in just then, holding his mud-caked football boots out in front of him, Mary snapped, ‘Don’t be fetching them in here. They look like they’ve been dipped in shit. Get ’em out in the hall.’
‘They’re knackered,’ Leon told her, as surprised as Chantelle had been to see their mother not only up at this time of the morning but dressed as well. ‘I need some new ones. Can I have thirty quid?’
Respect (Mandasue Heller) Page 1