She was frustrated that she still didn’t know what Courtney was up for, but she parked herself in one of the hard chairs. She didn’t have long to wait before the detective turned out. He was much younger than Jen was expecting and would have been easy on the eye if he wasn’t looking at her with a sharp expression, as if trying to decide whether she was a good mum or not.
She got to her feet and braced herself for the worst. ‘So, what’s she done?’
‘I think it’s best if I take you through so we can talk about this with Courtney.’
As Jen walked beside him, she rattled off, ‘You do know she’s underage? Only thirteen. I hope you haven’t been giving her the third degree without one of them appropriate adults there.’ She’d learned that that was what the plod had to do from The Bill.
They entered a long, narrow corridor. ‘She wouldn’t tell us her age but her school uniform was a bit of a clue.’
So, she had a sarky ’tec on her case, which Jen didn’t appreciate one bit. But she bit her tongue; she couldn’t afford to throw her weight around if she needed to sweet talk him out of charging Courtney. The idea of her kid having a criminal record made her sick to her stomach.
She played it nice and friendly. ‘Of course officer. Whatever’s happened, I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding we can soon clear up.’
He merely lifted his eyebrow as he opened a door. Inside the room sat her eldest with a female detective opposite her. Jen let out a weary sigh. She couldn’t pinpoint where she’d gone wrong but Courtney had never been the same after her Nanna Babs had been sent down. That first year of Babs’ stretch her poor girl had gone into meltdown, waking up most nights screaming her head off. Jen hadn’t known what to do other than hug her tight and comfort her as best she could. The real nightmare had started when Courtney had gone to big school. The once gentle girl had turned into a brawler, slugging it out with any other girl who looked at her the wrong way and mouthing off at the teachers. At first Jen had been defensive and thought it was the school’s fault. So she pulled her out of that school and found another. And then another. Until she reluctantly had to admit the problem was her kid.
Jen kept her beady eye on her sullen daughter. Although Courtney still wore her school uniform all the thick eye make-up made her look like a cross between Lady Gaga and a Marilyn Manson fan.
‘What the hell do you look like? Going out are you?’ Jen got a scowl for her trouble and lost her temper. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’
Courtney huffed and rolled her eyes. Eyes that were replicas of her dad’s. Funny, but it was Nuts’ piercing baby blues that had first attracted her. Other than that, her daughter was her image through and through, with light blonde-brown hair and a pretty face distorted by thick eyeliner and cherry-black lipstick.
‘I forgot.’
Jen never hit her girls, but she was itching to flex the back of her hand. She reached out to grab her lippy daughter, but Detective Johnson’s ‘Mrs Miller’ stopped her, reminding her where they were. Her hand dropped into her lap.
She turned to him. ‘Alright, what’s she done?’
‘Shoplifting I’m afraid.’
Tea leafing? Her kid? Jen couldn’t catch her breath. OK, all the kids did it. Her sister Tiffany had made a career out of it at Courtney’s age. But her own kid?
‘Where did this happen?’
‘In Roman Road Market. She pinched a pair of trainers from a stall and ran for it, but she was caught by a couple of the market guys.’
Courtney sneered, ‘They were a right manky pair anyway. I only did it for a laugh. There’s no law against wanting to have a laugh, is there?’
Jen blew her stack. ‘You like a laugh do ya? I’ll give you a laugh later, don’t you worry.’
As Jen reached for her, Courtney dived out of her chair and yelled, ‘That’ll be a first. I wouldn’t be having to swipe stuff if you had money! All my mates are decked out in the latest clobber while I’m dressed like a fucking homeless. You never buy me anything new. NEVER.’
The last word left her mouth like a bullet, echoing around the room. Jen’s face flushed hot and red with shame. Embarrassed that her daughter would air their dirty laundry in front of strangers but also because Courtney was right. There wasn’t much money these days to splash out on something special. Whose was the shame really? Courtney? Or her broke mum?
‘Sit. Down. Now.’ Jen was not in the mood to take any more backchat and Courtney knew it.
Once her daughter was grudgingly back in her seat Jen turned to the detective. ‘You don’t need to make a federal case out of it. She was only mucking about. She knows she’s done wrong and she won’t do it again.’ Her gaze drilled into her thirteen-year-old. ‘Don’t you?’
Courtney sneered. ‘Yeah, I know it was wrong.’
‘She’s only a kid. She won’t do it again.’
Courtney repeated, ‘No, I won’t do it again.’ Jen gave her the eye; she was sure the little miss had muttered under breath, ‘I’ll go up West next time.’ But she left it alone; she just wanted to get out of there as soon as.
Detective Johnson leaned forward. ‘Fortunately, the stallholder appears to know your mother, a Babs Miller, so he said he wouldn’t be pressing any charges.’ He coughed nervously. ‘He said that one Miller behind bars was enough anyway.’
Him and his colleague shared a meaningful look. Jen knew what that meant – they were well aware who her notorious mother was.
The female officer proceeded to give Courtney a bollocking that was meant to frighten her back onto the straight and narrow, but from the contemptuous look on her face she might as well have been talking Russian. The officer did scare Jen when she finished with, ‘Next time, we’ll have to get social services involved.’
Jen was horrified. No way in hell was the SS snooping around her business. Everyone on the estate would know and start whispering about her being a no-good mother. One way or the other Courtney was going to step back in line.
The female copper surprised Jen by asking, ‘Do you mind if we have a quiet word outside?’
Jen didn’t like the sound of that. A cop wanting ‘a word’ was never a good look, but she followed the other woman into the corridor all the same. The officer got straight into it. ‘I don’t like having to set social services on any parent, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t make you aware how it might end up if your daughter doesn’t pull her socks up.’ Her voice was soft and surprisingly sympathetic. ‘Have you thought about getting her a counsellor?’
Jen stiffened. An outsider sticking her beak into her family business was not how things were done on The Devil. She shook her head. ‘No need for none of that. I’ll straighten out my girl with my own counselling skills, thank you very much.’
The detective’s voice lowered. ‘I had a bit of trouble with my boy a few years back. I talked to him till my face was a new shade of blue, but he wouldn’t listen. In the end I got him this brilliant counsellor. I don’t know what she did but within months he was back to the kid I gave birth to.’
Jen mulled it over. Just the thought of her baby girl going off the rails like her younger sister Tiff made her want to weep. Her mum had gone through hell with Tiffany, who’d only stopped her nonsense after being chucked in a cell and getting a break from a judge. She’d move heaven and earth to ensure that her kid didn’t go the same way. Maybe she should take a helping hand, even if it was being offered by a copper.
She held the other woman’s gaze. ‘Alright, give me her contact details.’ But she added with obstinate determination, ‘I’m not saying I’ll use her mind.’
Ten minutes later, Jen faced Courtney outside.
She took a couple of much needed deep breaths before saying, ‘This has got to stop. Do you hear me?’ Courtney threw her a surly snap of her eyes but nodded. Jen carried on, her voice gentler this time. ‘What’s the matter hun?’
Her eldest crossed her arms defiantly. ‘I’m sick of us having no money.’ And with that she
stalked off in a strop, but Jen couldn’t help but notice how her shoulders were slightly slumped.
Jen motored after her, at her wits’ end. It wasn’t her fault; she didn’t have any spare cash to flash around. Maybe she should give this counsellor a bell . . . No. She pressed her lips stubbornly together. Tomorrow she’d be able to speak to the best counsellor she knew – her mum.
Four
Tiffany was buzzing, still high on speed and booze, as she rolled into her gaff after an all-nighter.
Her bubble burst when she clapped eyes on the pile of mail that greeted her. Shit was finally catching up with her. She hesitated before picking it up and staggering into her bedroom, where she opened the wardrobe. It was bulging with top-of-the-range designer gear – Armani, McCartney, Kors, Posen. It had the lot, some still unworn. Even the hangers were designer. There were two shelves for her growing collection of bling, individually stored in compartments, and an exclusive, very naughty range of sex toys she got from a ladies only sex shop in Hoxton. And in the bottom were neat rows of expensive trainers, sandals and flats; Tiff had never been and would never be a heels girl.
In the corner was a stash of envelopes – some opened, some not – and abandoned letters. She threw the ones in her hand onto the rest. The mini mountain of papers collapsed and spilled out onto the luxuriant blue carpet.
‘Fuck this,’ she swore. She knew as soon as she touched them she’d be confronted with what she’d been refusing to deal with for ages.
Tiff was tempted to leave them on the floor and turn her back, but she didn’t. She knelt down, started to gather them up and, like a tongue that could not stop touching a rotting tooth, she couldn’t help herself. She opened one of the letters.
We hope you are enjoying the Deluxe Dolby Vision DVD player we shipped to you in January. The agreement was to pay £30 each month. Your third payment is now overdue . . .
Tiffany opened one of today’s letters.
Our records show that a balance of £357.51 remains overdue on your account . . .
And another
We have been most patient, but you have failed to respond to three previous notices about non-payment of your rent . . .
She crushed it up and hurled it with violent frustration across the room. How the hell had she managed to get into this mess in the first place?
Three years ago every dream she’d ever had had been right in front of her. She’d kept one step ahead of everyone else, manipulated the situation around Dee’s stolen car and pocketed a cool fifty G. Finally she could put a hefty down payment on the one-bed flat in a plush, private block that had once been a sugar factory in Bow. Instead, that much lolly had turned her head and made her think big. A building where people had once sweated their guts out to pack sugar hadn’t been grand enough for her. No, Tiffany Miller, one time tearaway number one on The Devil’s Estate, decided to lease a fuck-off duplex within kissing distance of Canary Wharf. The building was all that The Devil would never be – spanking new, with huge French windows that reflected the London skyline and river. Now come on, Tiff thought, who wouldn’t move heaven and earth to live here?
She’d never forget the day she moved in. She’d stood in the middle of the sitting room – no, den – and gazed around in wonder. The dreams of girls like her didn’t usually come true, but she’d done it. Gotten outta The Devil. She wasn’t one to dwell on the fact she’d traded up by ripping off her nearest and dearest. What mattered in this life was going places. Any way you could.
Back then Tiff still had plenty to play with so she’d kitted the place out to the hilt with state-of-the-art equipment, including a 70 inch plasma screen mounted on the wall, remote control curtains and a speaker system in every room. Something had triggered inside her, like comfort eating, and Spend, Spend, Spend became her triple-barrelled surname. Anything she wanted, Tiff got. Even when her bank balance went into the red she didn’t stop. The debts piled up and she still couldn’t put the brakes on the madness.
Instead of dealing with the demands she slung them in the wardrobe and slammed the door. What the eye doesn’t see the head doesn’t have to deal with. But when they started coming thick and fast she took out other loans so Peter could pay Paul.
Tiff shrugged off her troubles. She went into the all-mod-cons kitchen and put a glass under the water dispenser in the fridge-freezer that she still owed money on. Instead of water a stream of ice cool lager filled up the glass. Yeah, this was the life. She knocked her drink back in the den, her feet up on the partially paid for leather recliner next to the unopened box containing her new DVD player.
Her mobile went off.
‘Yeah?’ she answered, her eyes drooping as the night before caught up with her.
‘Tiffany Miller?’
Sleep vanished in an instant as a chilly sensation slithered down her backbone. There was something about the man’s voice that put her on edge. She kicked her feet off the sofa and lowered them to the polished wooden floor. She decided to play her usual little trick to throw someone off the scent.
‘Tiffany?’ she asked in a bewildered voice, the accent of the Polish girl she’d been doing the duvet tango with last year. ‘No Tiff-fanny here. You have wrong number—’
He cut her off with a humourless laugh. ‘The old Johnny foreigner voice scam. I’ve heard it all before.’
She sighed, knowing she was caught bang to rights. ‘Which one are you then?’ she asked in her normal voice. ‘The landlord’s agent? I’ve already explained to the fella who works with you that my bank’s got their numbers the wrong way round. The money will be in by the weekend ‘
‘That’s the trouble with people like you. The numbers are always the wrong way round, ain’t they?’
For the first time she clocked that he had a pure bred East End accent. And it was rough. She swallowed hard. ‘Yeah, look, mate, I ain’t got the foggiest who you are but if you tell me what the problem is, perhaps I can help.‘
She didn’t even need to ask if it was about money. It was always about money now.
‘Problem?’ the man went on, sarcasm dripping like blood off a knife. ‘I’ll tell you what the problem is love. You borrowed five hundred off Jimmy down the Moon and he wants it back. With interest obviously, he’s not a charity.’
Who the hell was Jimmy? And where the hell was the Moon? What five hundred nicker? Tiffany had so many Jimmys on the go now, she’d lost track. She’d performed a juggling act with her debts, paying off one credit card by getting another one, borrowing money from one Jimmy to pay another Jimmy. She’d been down the Citizens Advice Bureau to get help with rearranging and consolidating. But now the walls were starting to close in.
‘Yeah, look, tell him I’m a bit short at the mo but I’ll defo sort him out when my dosh goes in at the end of the month.’
Her caller wasn’t happy. ‘No, no, no sweetheart, you’re a bit confused. He don’t want it at the end of this month, he wants it at the beginning of last month, you understand? Otherwise he’s asked me to pop round in person and pick it up. Or goods to the value of. Plus a couple of slaps by way of a penalty payment. Obviously, I’m a nice guy and I don’t wanna get into that. I’ve persuaded Jimmy that you’ll go down The Bad Moon by the end of the week and pay up. That’s right, ain’t it?’
Tiff’s heart pounded, as she suddenly realised which debtor was on the blower. Fobbing off the banks and the stores was easy. Menacing lowlives she’d taken a sub from on the never-never, not so much. And these lowlives were a duo called Tommo and Errol. She’d asked around about where she could get a bit of cash in double time. Her old stomping ground The Bad Moon in Shadwell had been mentioned. She’d gone up there in a flash and asked the barman for a white wine spritzer with bitters, which was the code for the loan of a grand, no questions asked. He’d passed it over, told her the debt was owed to ‘Jimmy’ although she already knew Tommo and Errol ran the operation, and warned she’d need to keep up the payments or the next spritzer she ordered would be mixed with h
er innards. She’d never been back because she’d never made any repayments. Why oh why had she gone to The Bad Moon? Nothing good ever came out of that boozer.
‘There’s no need to get all Wile E Coyote on me bruv. You’ll have your dosh as soon as—’
His snarl slashed over her. ‘The arrangement is you pay up on time, not when you feel like it. You don’t wait till after you’ve munched on one of them dollies you bring home. You like your birds, don’t you Tiff-fanny fancier?’
The blood drained out of her face, leaving her pale and shaking. ‘Are you spying on me?’ That scared her silly. Her gaze darted around nervously.
‘Jimmy wants his cash. The full amount. If he don’t get it, things will turn nasty. Very nasty indeed.’ He rang off.
When Tiffany put her phone back in her pocket, her hand was trembling. She always thought something would turn up and now it finally had. Men threatening to come round and give her a kicking, never mind the court cases and bailiffs. As she got to her feet in a blind panic, the flat echoed to a furious hammering.
Tiffany folded back on the recliner. She was done for. And there was no escape route. The hammering came again, but this time with a voice that got her breathing easy again.
‘Tiffany, are you in there?’
She wiped her hand across her sweating forehead and opened the door. The young man in the neighbouring flat was usually smartly dressed but today he was decked out in T-shirt and black jeans.
‘What’s up?’ She played it cool although she was still almost wetting herself from that phone call.
He handed over a letter. ‘I found this on my mat when I got in. The postman must’ve popped it in by accident.’ He leaned on the doorframe and switched on the charm. ‘I’ve just got back from New York. Maybe I’ll book you a first class seat up beside me next time I go.’
Tiff rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. They always played this game – him hitting on her and her giving him a knock back. When he’d tried it on for the first time, she’d let it be known loud and clear that he was missing the essential equipment that made her go gaga.
Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series) Page 3
