Blood Secrets_A gripping crime thriller with killer twists

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  So they broke into a ground floor flat on the hunt for clothes. Turned out to belong to some old dear from the clobber on offer. Kitted themselves out like RuPaul without the fashion or flair. With a dash of pink, of course. Going out without any pink was not an option. Worse than being stark, bollock naked.

  Then they pinched a tenner from her caddy.

  They’d hit the streets rigged out in granny wear, one sporting a cherry blossom bobble hat the other a Barbie shade scarf. London, being London, not one person had given them a second look. The city had seen it all. Two guys kitted out like Hinge and Bracket wasn’t even worth the time of day.

  And now Pinky had taken leave of his senses.

  ‘This is what we should do to Biggin when he puts in his appearance.’ Pinky’s words ground out so hard it sounded like his teeth were going to crumble in his mouth. The gun hitched higher making a bullseye of the space between Styley’s eyes. ‘We should shoot his fucking head off.’

  ‘You what?’ Styley gaped at him. His brother was losing the plot.

  Pinky lowered the shooter to his side as his chest rose and fell. ‘We need to take Biggin out.’

  Styley rushed forward and grabbed his brother by the arm. ‘You can’t be saying shit like that.’ He threw a hand in the air with disbelief. ‘You’re talking about the Biggin, our mum’s uncle for fuck’s sake. The big fella hisself.’

  Pinky yanked away and rounded on him. ‘We might have the same blood running in our veins, that don’t give him the poxy right to string us up by our bollocks and piss in our eyes.’ He spat on the gym floor. ‘I’m fucking shit tired of his, ‘Yes sir, me sir, three fucking bags full sir.’ I ain’t getting on my knees no more to suck his over inflated dick.’

  With a roar he belted across the room and launched himself at the punch bag. He steamed into it with quick-fire jabs, snorting air like a horse while his feet danced from side to side. Styley held the other side of the punch bag while his brother pummelled it like crazy hoping Pinky would get out of puff soon enough.

  Pinky did the thinking for the two of them, but what his bruv was raving on about was utter lunacy. Wasn’t it? Biggin had helped grow them up, shown them the criminal ropes, set them up in the gym, treated them more like cherished sons than great nephews. Of course, it was his duty to cuff them up if they stepped out of line. Wasn’t it? Styley scrunched his face in confusion.

  As if reading his thoughts his brother lay off the punch bag and with sweat dripping down his face looked Styley directly in the eye.

  ‘We’re not two nippers with our arses hanging out of our trackie bottoms no more. We’re geezers.’ He inhaled deeply as the coldness left his eyes replaced by a fever of excitement. ‘We don’t need some has-been Face holding us with one hand and belting us with the other.’

  Styley still looked puzzled. ‘What you saying?’

  A nasty smile erupted on Pinky’s face as he moved and cupped his hand around Styley’s neck. He bent his brother’s head until their foreheads touched.

  ‘I’m saying when he gets here we take him out with this.’

  He tapped the shooter against Styley’s temple.

  Biggin arrived at the gym in his Japanese SUV. Big windows, big wheels just like the man himself. He checked his Rolex. Right on time. Timewasters should be shot, point blank, on the spot. His great-nephews were turning into the same breed taking the ultra piss out of his bloody time. Or was something else going on here? Were the pair of idiot-boys trying to tell him something? That spray and pray job at the club could be the lads signalling they had drawn a new marker in their relationship with him. A big, fat red marker. Knowing those dunderheads, they’d want to leave the Biggin nest and strike out on their own. And maybe he would allow it. Maybe…

  Biggin smoothed out any creases in his indigo-wool Paul Smith suit and headed for the door. He used the key his great-nephews didn’t have a clue he had. Always keep one or two aces up your sleeve going into a situation where you weren’t sure what you’d find.

  He opened up. Except for Pinky and Styley the gym was empty. A spliff did the rounds at their usual perch at the table.

  ‘What the hell are you wearing?’

  His mouth stretched with distaste as he clocked Pinky’s pink bobble hat and Styley’s even pinker scarf. What a pair of fashion criminals. Didn’t this generation get it that if you wanted to be taken seriously you couldn’t go around looking like two flamingos that had done a runner from London Zoo.

  They sniggered.

  Pinky, the one with the supposed brain cell, explained, ‘Let’s just say an opportunity came our way and we couldn’t resist.’

  Biggin stared daggers at them as they tipped their heads back and roared with laughter. He had to do a double take to make sure he had entered a boxing gym and not the funny farm.

  Pinky kicked out a seat for him but he didn’t take it.

  ‘Look fellas, I feel bad about what went on last night.’ He held back the smile as he took in their stupefied expressions. Yeah, they hadn’t been expecting that.

  ‘It nearly broke my heart to put you both in that position. My own flesh and blood.’ He shook his head sadly and dramatically. ‘Left a foul taste on my tongue. But you do understand my position, don’t you?’

  Before they could answer he stepped around the table until he stood behind them. Stupid wankers! How many times had he knocked it into their skulls never to let someone blindside you from behind? He waited until they realised their mistake. Or until Pinky did, the other one just didn’t have enough up top to do the sums.

  Pinky’s breathing changed to shallow and rapid. His great-nephew started to rise, but Biggin got there first. He placed his large palms on both of their shoulders. Pressed down slightly so they understood to keep their selves where they were parked.

  He squeezed. ‘There’s something that slipped my ol’ mind last night.’ He let it out ever so softly.

  Silence, then, ‘What’s that Uncle Biggin?’ Styley of course. He suspected Pinky knew what was coming.

  And he was right.

  ‘We’re sorry Uncle Biggin,’ Pinky shot out quickly.

  He took his hands away and stepped back. As they turned to gaze at him Biggin searched them thoroughly to spot any signs of resentment. None in sight.

  He smiled as he rubbed his hands. ‘Right lads, you still got any of that Cockspur rum in the kitchen?’

  Once he’d disappeared out back Pinky raised his fist to thump the table in furious rage. His brother caught it mid-air. ‘He’ll fucking well hear you.’

  As soon as Styley let go of his clenched hand, Pinky dropped his voice dangerously low. ‘We’ve gotta do it now or he’s gonna rub our noses in the shit for the rest of our days.’

  ‘But he said sorry, we said sorry. All done and dusted.’

  Pinky could barely contain himself. ‘The reason he didn’t push his old goat backside in a chair was so he could lord it over us.’ He pulled his shooter out. ‘Now all we’ve gotta decide is how to do it.’ His brother looked unsure so he decided for them. ‘We get him sat down. I say I’ve got to take a leak. Then I get behind him and blast his brains across the wall.’

  His bruv began to sweat, his gaze darting nervously about. ‘I don’t wanna do this no more.’

  ‘Too fucking bad coz…He’s coming back.’

  They hurriedly settled back in their chairs as Biggin slowly reached the doorway. Funny thing was he didn’t have a glass of rum in his hand. And then they saw why.

  A stunning, black woman held a sawn-off against his back.

  She shoved him forward as she growled, ‘Which one of you soon to be dead bastards is Pinky and which one Styley?’

  32

  Bang!

  Pieces of the gym’s ceiling smashed down from the bullet Dee blasted into it so these cunts understood right off she meant business. She hadn’t felt this volcanic, almost unhinged, in a long time. Two of these fuckers had tried to murder her sister. But what made it worse was Dee was
riddled with guilt twice over. That was her club Jen had taken a bullet in and maybe, just maybe, she should’ve dolled out that protection money and none of this would’ve happened.

  She kept her gun trained on the big, older bloke. He appeared to be the head honcho of this pack of wannabe murderers. If they decided to take a chance at least she’d take him out of this world for good.

  ‘Toss any hard wear on the ground.’ No one moved. She yelled, ‘Do it now.’

  The one wearing the pink bobble hat – what the fuck was that about? – chucked an automatic.

  ‘Anything else?’ She wrenched the shooter so it pointed squarely at the leader’s face. She wanted to call it an ug mug but he was handsome and looked the part. ‘Not even you big man?’ Dee sneered.

  He had the brass to smile at her and say, ‘Am I correct in thinking this has something to do with a certain club in Stratford?’

  Her sneer twisted into a deadly snarl. ‘You ain’t a brief and this ain’t the Old Bailey so cut it with the cute words. I’ve asked a question – which of you pathetic fools are Pinky and Styley?’

  She took a step forward and spread her legs slightly to balance the shotgun evenly.

  Big man said, ‘My name’s Biggin—‘

  She cracked over him, ‘Which means these two crap heads must be Pinky and effing Perky.’

  ‘You’re John Black’s missus.’ Biggin didn’t ask, he told her, which got her attention.

  That stupid smile of his must’ve been welded to his lips with Superglue because it didn’t waver an inch.

  ‘And what of it?’

  ‘I was a good mate of his while he was still learning the whats and wherefores with Uncle Frank.’

  Dee frowned. There weren’t that many folk around anymore who remembered her John’s early days back in The Green with Uncle Frank.

  She cautiously said, ‘Is that so?’

  ‘He’d be proud of you.’ Her gaze darted in confusion. ‘He’d expect you to come around to sort things out.’ That smile stretched. ‘But you know what I admired about John? He never went in all guns blazing. He always took the time to understand every nook and cranny of a situation. Made sure he had the facts first.’

  He was spot on; that was her John alright. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the one with the crazy scarf start to move. ‘Don’t try it buster or it will be three of you leaving this crap hole in body bags.’

  Biggin turned to him and snapped, in a broad Jamaican accent, ‘Keep your skin quiet.’ He flicked his gaze back to her. ‘I’m going to pretend you’re John. The facts are these. These two are my great-nephews—‘

  ‘Well, you didn’t try very hard to keep them on a short lead.’

  Pink Bobble hat didn’t take that well. ‘You wanna watch your big mouth gal before I bitch slap you into silence. I’ve taken on guys with shooters – no problem.’

  Biggin huffed loudly. ‘I said shut up.’ An uneasy silence filled the gym. ‘He’s Pinky. As I understand it my nephews got a touch heavy-handed trying to collect the insurance money—‘

  ‘Protection racket more like.’

  He waved his hand with a flourish in the air. ‘Whatever you choose to call it. I will admit that they collect the money on my behalf.’ Dee almost squeezed the trigger there and then until he quickly carried on. ‘But I never sanctioned any shooting. Believe you me they’ve been punished.’

  Dee let out a sick laugh. ‘Punished? You been on the ol’ crack pipe or something coz If they’d been dealt with they’d be in the obituaries column.’

  He waved his hand at his great-nephews. ‘If you think I haven’t done enough, go ahead. Shoot them.’

  Incredulous, Pinky and Styley blasted him back at the same time.

  ‘Are you off your head?’

  ‘You bastard.’

  Before Dee could think on what to do Biggin continued. ‘I heard what happened to your sister, Jennifer, and it makes me sick to my stomach. It shouldn’t have happened and it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been consulted.‘

  ‘My sister’s name is too clean to be in your filthy gob.’ Dee could feel the tears gathering at the back of her eyes and her tummy muscles knotting tight.

  ‘All I’m saying is that there’s no need for any more blood to be shed. John would have understood that.’

  She ignored him and addressed the ones she’d come gunning for. ‘My sister’s got two kids. Two little girls who are terrified that their mum’s never gonna wake up again. Do you have any idea what that must feel like?’

  ‘Yeah, I do.’ It was Pinky. His face looked like it was fixed in stone and his eyes were slightly glazed. ‘Our dad chucked himself under a train at Mile End Station. Probably have been killed out right if he’d used the Central Line but he went for the slower Metropolitan Line instead. We saw him in the London. No legs. One arm gone. A fucked up mess.’

  A hard, lump of emotion caught in Dee’s throat. That couldn’t have been easy for two little boys…but still…

  ‘We’ve all got our stories to tell I’m sure and the one I’m interested in is someone, or two, have to pay the price for Jen lying in a coma in that hospital bed.’

  Biggin tried to get his hooks back in her again. ‘And how are those two girls – your nieces – going to carry on living normal lives if they not only lose their mum but their aunty as well?’ He raised his hands slightly. ‘Coz that’s the possibility here. I don’t want it to come to that. We need to find a way forward here. Something that works out for everyone; that would be a John type solution. ’

  Dee rapidly blinked trying to flush away the images of Courtney and Little Bea that Biggin had plastered in her mind. She didn’t want this man to be right, but he was. Her two princesses needed her. That’s why she’d felt so awful leaving them on their own at the hospital like that, but when Courtney had dropped her news Dee had seen red, her blood running hot and justice for Jen became her number one priority. All of a sudden she felt knackered. Emotionally and physically done in.

  She must’ve been stuck in her thoughts for a while because the next thing she knew Biggin was standing in front of her. Before she could move he wrapped his large palm round the front of the sawn-off.

  His chest leaned forward. ‘I’m gonna take this, put it in the corner and then we’ll all sit down and over a glass, decide what to do.’

  Dee’s grip tightened but there was something about this man that…that…she couldn’t put her finger on what it was. Maybe he reminded her of John and Uncle Frank, that old style Face who sometimes had another way of sorting shit out. Her fingers loosened and he took the gun.

  Styley dived for his piece, but Biggin turned the shotgun on him with fury. ‘You are dissing me big time now. This lady is the widow of one of the best blokes I ever knew and you want to fill her full of holes? Now find some respect and stop playing the bitch.’

  His great-nephew stopped shy of the gun. Then backed off.

  Biggin threw the shotgun to him and as he caught it said, ‘Put it away somewhere safe.’ He turned to Dee, ‘Let me take you to the kitchen so you can powder your nose. Then we’ll decide what to do.’

  Pearl’s bangles rattled as she pressed the bell on the door of the two people who she hoped were going to pull out all the stops and get her gold back. That’s right her gold. Babs’ betrayal meant she’d forfeited all rights to it.

  The loss of her gorgeous friends Vi and Di was a crack in her heart. Money could drive you to death. Taking note of that somber warning, Pearl still wanted her gold back.

  A guy, who she instantly threw her arms around hugging him tight, opened the door. She eased back to stare adoringly up at him. ‘How’s my beautiful Lennox?’

  He shuffled his feet with embarrassment, but leaned down and kissed her on the forehead.

  She stepped inside calling, ‘Where’s my other gorgeous grandson. Glenroy?’ She sang his name.

  He appeared from the other side of the boxing ring. He sent her an affectionate smile as he said, �
�Grams, how many times we got to tell you everyone calls us Pinky and Styley.’

  She kissed her teeth and mumbled, loud enough for them to hear though, ‘Smurfy and Smoothy? What kinda names are that? Lennox and Glenroy are solid Jamaican names you should be proud to carry.’

  Pearl popped herself in a chair at the table. Her gaze ran lovingly over her grandbabies. They meant the world to her and more. Her kids didn’t want to know her but at least her daughter’s two boys hadn’t blanked her. It had been them who had unknowingly moved the gold from Babs’ house, although she’d told Babs an untruth and said her sons had done it. Pearl hadn’t lied out of malice; she’d wanted Babs to believe that her kids had embraced her once again. What mum wants to keep admitting her children don’t want to know her?

  ‘Wanna drink grams?’ Lennox offered. No, Pinky. She made herself say it in her head. If that’s what the boy wanted to be called so be it.

  She shook her head and waved her hands. ‘Come sit down, I need you to do something for me.’

  Once they were at the table the story of the gold poured out. By the end their jaws were slack.

  ‘The gold from that blag last year?’ Pinky said in wonder, his voice low as if he thought someone would hear, but Pearl couldn’t see anyone else about.

  ‘More importantly,’ Styley rasped looking very angry, ‘this Babs Miller thinks she can double cross you and rob you blind.’

  Pearl caught his sleeve as he got up as if to track down Babs right there and then. Once she had their attention again she slowly confided, ‘I want you both to get it back for me.’

  Styley grinned. ‘As if you have to ask. We’ll have it back within the next twenty-four hours.’ He paused. ‘’O course we’ll want a big drink out of it.’

  Pearl’s head shoved back in indignation. ‘You want to take a cut of Granny Pearl’s retirement money?’

  Pinky leaned in and took her hands. ‘We did help you move it from that house up Mile End way and, from what I remember of the blag, there’s plenty to go round. Plus, a geezer has to put bread on the table.’