Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Ten

  ‘I swear to God, I’ll have his fucking knackers off!’ Dee stormed as she parked up outside her house.

  As if the drive home from Her Majesty’s Hilton wasn’t bad enough, she flew into another rage when she spotted that fucking car in the driveway. She held it back well but Dee hated seeing Babs behind bars. The mother she’d only got to know as an adult was so precious to her. Their relationship had got off to a very rocky start but as soon as Dee had twigged why her mum had been forced to give her away her heart went out to her. It couldn’t have been easy for her back when there was so much shit thrown at white women who had birthed brown babies.

  That’s why she was so mad at her sisters. Babs had been through some heartbreaking struggles and now they wanted to pile up more crap at her door. After the meeting with their mum, the gloves really came off between them. Things had got said. The kind of things that take a lot of smoothing over later. But, as far as she was concerned, it was Jen and Tiff who would have to do the smoothing. Her ladyship Jen was an ungrateful moo who’d sulked when her mum had flashed the cash, while cocksure Tiffany was a selfish money grabber who couldn’t even be arsed to hide her red-eyed greed.

  So her journey home had turned into one long road rage. Dee had cut people up, flashed her lights and blown her horn at anyone who’d paused at junctions or dawdled when the lamps turned green. She’d even threatened to clump a bloke who was a bit slow getting over a zebra crossing.

  She’d calmed down as soon as her house came into view. She’d fallen in love with the place the first time she’d clapped eyes on it. It was a monster of a home. Six bedrooms, three en suite, a gym and pool, a cinema room that she called The Hollywood, combined snooker and bar and a roomy lounge to die for. On the open market it would’ve cost John a packet and a half, but it had ended up in his hands as part payment for a debt. Dee felt she could really call this place her own, and she was particular about who came calling. Seeing the knocked-up motor outside made a tidal wave of rage rise up. That car only meant one thing – trouble.

  ‘What the fuck?’ she fumed as she slammed into the house. She slung her bag and shades on a side table. She heard voices coming from the kitchen so she made a beeline for it. Sitting at the brekkie bar was John and that fuck-off merchant Tom. Just seeing him put her on edge. Tom was years younger than her old man, but Dee was terrified their bond would drive John back into the underworld. Her hubby didn’t think she knew anything about Tom, but she knew alright. She’d made it her business to find out. And there was another reason she didn’t want the git putting in an appearance, which she‘d keep tucked away for ever.

  ‘Hello bird,’ John greeted her. Dee squinted slightly; she knew her man and he looked jumpy. ‘You remember Tom, don’t you?’

  Dee ignored the question and the git. ‘Babes, can I bend your ear for a moment please? In private?’

  John got up. ‘Excuse me a minute mate.’

  Tom waved his words off. ‘No problem.’ His gaze drifted to Dee. ‘If I had a lady like your missus I’d use any excuse to be alone with her every minute of the day.’

  Dee itched to throw something at the smarmy shit face, but marched off instead with John following her.

  As soon as they were inside the lounge Dee kicked the door shut. ‘What the hell is he doing here?’

  ‘What, Tom?’ John stared at her puzzled.

  ‘I don’t see any other plonker in our home. What does he want?’

  John strolled past the large tropical fish tank at the back of the room and poured himself a sizeable Scotch. ‘The fella’s just dropped round for a cuppa. What’s got your G-string in a twist?’

  Dee marched over and snatched the glass from him. ‘You promised you’d start a health kick. You ain’t getting any younger.’ She tipped the drink into the aquarium. The fish went into a frenzy swimming towards the brown liquid, their mouths gulping convulsively. ‘I thought I told you, in no uncertain terms, that I don’t want that creep round here no more?’

  John threw his hands in the air. ‘I don’t get what your problem is—’

  ‘My problem?’ Her eyebrows flew to her hairline.

  ‘Yeah, your problem. The geezer’s always a proper gent and all you can do is gripe and grouse at him.’

  Gripe and grouse? She resisted the urge to grab her blockhead of an old man by the scruff of his Armani shirt. ‘I’ve said I don’t want him round here.’

  ‘Yeah, I hear you loud and clear, as I’m sure do the neighbours. But you know what darlin’, you didn’t say why.’

  Dee’s face heated up. She twisted away from John, went over to the drinks cabinet and poured herself some Prosecco from the chiller. She gulped down a mouthful, trying to figure out what to say. ‘He’s as dodgy as a gilt-covered turd, that’s why.’

  John chuckled. ‘Dodgy used to be my middle name but you don’t mind me being around here, do you?’

  Dee strode impatiently up to her husband. ‘But that’s the thing, babes, you ain’t dodgy no more. You’re respectable now, a pillar of the community. I can feel in my bones that that numb nuts is trying to get you involved in some Mickey Mouse venture.’ She put her arms around his neck, her glass settling against his skin. She kissed John sweetly on the lips and whispered, ‘Tell him to sod off and find some other bird’s hubby to cosy up to.’

  John got the needle and shook out of her embrace. ‘He’s not a villain. He’s a builder, a bloody top one at that. He came up the hard way, just like me and he’s done alright by hisself, making a pile along the way. He’s just popped over to see if I want to sign up for a pro–am golf match for a local children’s charity. That’s what he does. He’s a nice bloke.’

  Dee threw the glass across the room. It shattered into tiny pieces as it hit the wall. Her chest heaved with anger. ‘Get. Him. Out.’

  Without a word John left the room. Dee’s hands clawed in the air, ready to drag Tom out of the house herself. She was stopped from taking action when she heard laughter and the front door opening.

  ‘Alright Tom,’ she heard John say, ‘sign me up for the golf. The quack says I could use the exercise anyway.’

  ‘The quack needs an eye test coz you look as fit as a fiddle to me mate.’ Dee rolled her eyes. The smooth talking fake-up artist.

  ‘Gimme a bell about the golf.’

  The front door closed. Dee went over to the window and lifted part of the curtain out of the way so she could spy on him as he left. He got into that disgraceful motor of his – fancy running around in a rust bucket like that – and, maybe realising she was watching him, looked up and caught her eye. He sent her a slow, slow smile. Dee kissed her teeth with contempt as she let the curtain drop.

  Successful builder, my rear end.

  John came back in and this time when he helped himself to a bevvy she didn’t object. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘There’s something about Tom that don’t add up.’

  John let out a long puff of exasperation, plonked down in his armchair and picked up the newspaper. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘I’m warning you, if you get mixed up in any badness again, you’re out. You can move in with Tom and drive around in his half-car picking up knackered tarts.’

  John pursed his lips. ‘I haven’t been involved in the life for years. It’s a young man’s game anyway. Now then – how’s your mum up at the Hilton?’

  Dee was glad of the change of subject and got nice and cosy on her leopard-print chaise longue as she told him Babs’ news. Her blood pressure skyrocketed again when she reported Jen and Tiffany’s reaction. John read his paper and did that bloke’s thing of listening without really listening. He obviously couldn’t care less and merely grunted ‘that’s good’ or ‘that’s bad’ when she let him have a space to do so.

  ‘I mean, really John, can you believe them two? Not a word of thanks passed their lips. Two million quid between the three of us and they can’t even say ta very much? They’re a right pair . . .’

  John’s ears
seemed to prick up. ‘A couple of mill? What are these properties then? Period places? With attics, basements, that kind of thing?’ He paused for thought as he placed the paper in his lap. ‘And who’s doing them up for your mum? Babs should’ve asked me to get that sorted. I know loads of people who’ll do a really tasty job and it won’t cost a penny – I’ve got guys who owe me.’

  ‘I don’t care about any refurbishment. She shouldn’t be giving nish away. She’s had a hard life and ended up doing serious bird for killing a monster. She should be enjoying her just reward, not handing it over – especially to those two.’

  John lost interest, opening his paper again. ‘Yeah . . .’

  Dee decided to go and ring a friend who would actually listen to what she was saying. She got herself a coffee and went to sit in the conservatory to have a good natter about her no-good sisters. But as she made herself comfy, alarm came over her. John wasn’t thinking of— Dee flew back into the lounge. John was on the phone but rang off when she blustered in.

  She pointed a long fingernail at him. ‘You’d better get one thing straight mate – no way is your lousy chum Tom doing any work on my mum’s houses. Is that clear?’

  ‘Where are these houses?’ he asked, avoiding her question.

  ‘She wouldn’t say. Says she inherited them from her dad. But she told me to pick up a set of keys from her solicitor for safe keeping.’

  ‘Umm.’ John tucked into his Scotch for a few seconds then said, ‘I can always find out where they are. I’ve got a mate who’s a dab hand at finding info on the land registry.’

  Dee thought for a bit. It was betraying her mum’s wishes, but still . . . ‘Alright. Get him to put his snout about.’ She squinted. ‘Don’t try no nifty shit behind my back, getting that twat Tom to do the building work. Although we both know that isn’t his main business.’

  John looked innocent. ‘I don’t know what you’re chatting about.’

  She shook her head. ‘When will you learn that I wasn’t born under a knows-nothing bush. I know who Tom really is.’

  She watched with satisfied glee as panic spread across his lying face. ‘And I know that his name ain’t Tom, it’s Kieran.’

  Eleven

  To say that Jen was pissed off as she emerged from a heaving Mile End tube was the understatement of the century. First off, she couldn’t believe that her mum had a pile tucked away and had kept schtum about it all these years. Mum had always seen Jen as the sensible daughter and confided in her. OK, maybe Babs had held back about their dad all those years, but seeing what a total conniving crook Stanley Miller had turned out to be, she could forgive her that. Jen felt the same about talking to her girls about Nuts, their dad. But owning not one, but two fuck-off houses in London that were worth a mint and not letting on was something Jen didn’t think she was going to come to terms with for a long time.

  And if that wasn’t enough, Mum thought that the money should be divvied up equally between the three of them. As if! Dee was living it large in that mansion Essex way, courtesy of tying the knot with former gangland hard man John Black. What did she need more dosh for? Probably to splash out on – yet again! – another deluxe Caribbean cruise or a fleet of new motors. Her half-sister did like her cars, as Jen remembered from that awful business three years ago. And if their mum thought a portion should go to Nicky . . . well, Jen liked the kid well enough, but let’s face it he was only Dee and John’s adopted son; he wasn’t really family at all. Plus, as John and Dee’s only child he was in line to inherit the lot when they cocked their toes up; the kid didn’t need a helping hand from someone else.

  But what really stuck in her craw was Tiffany. Her one-time yobbo sister had landed on her feet like a Big Issue seller with a jackpot lottery ticket and ended up in some swanky block in Canary Wharf. Tiff had claimed that it was the council who’d set her up there, but Jen had asked around and the word was it was all privately owned. How her sister had got the rent she would never know, but at the end of the day that wasn’t what mattered. Tiff had managed to get off The Devil’s Estate and was living it right up. The only responsibility she had was to herself, unlike Jen.

  She felt the weight of the world on her shoulders as she entered The Devil. There was a crowd near the flashing lights of a fire engine, no doubt due to some kids having a laugh and calling 999 to say someone was stuck in a lift. Sometimes she hated this place. She ignored the fuss and kept moving. The council had decided to do up a few blocks on the estate after years of neglect, so part of The Devil looked like a building site with buildings covered in scaffolding and tarpaulin. Of course, sod’s law, Jen’s wasn’t one of the ones being done up. There had been a right have-a-go from some of Jen’s louder mouthed neighbours, but the council were adamant – they didn’t have the cash to do any more work.

  Jen had kept herself well back from the row. She was a single mum with two growing girls who needed clothes on their backs and bread on the table. Her mum’s windfall should be split five ways, not three, to take account of Courtney and Little Bea. That was only fair; anyone with a working brain in their head could see that. She’d worked her fingers to the bone and needed more of a leg up than her sisters.

  She arrived at the lift in her block and realised that it was out of order – again. As she trudged up the stairs, guilt ate into her. She told herself she should be grateful. Two-thirds of a mill would cover a lot of bills. But her lifelong problem was her soft heart. No way would Tiffany lose sleep in her position; she’d come out fighting for more money if she had kids. Whatever she got was still going to be a pretty penny. But even a pretty penny didn’t go far these days. How could they not see that? Why was she always taken for a mug?

  As she reached her front door her mobile went off. Probably some new customer wanting her to do their ironing, which she took in to make ends meet. It didn’t improve her mood, making her feel more hard done by than ever.

  But she plastered on her best voice; she couldn’t afford to turn work away. ‘Jennifer Miller.’

  ‘I’m down The Knackered Swan. Fancy a snifter?’

  Jen smiled hearing her best mate Bex’s merry voice. She looked at the door. She should really go in, get the girls’ tea on the go and a bit of shut-eye before doing the late shift tonight. But slaving away over the cooker was the last thing she fancied.

  ‘I’ll be there in ten.’

  After she got her afternoon registration mark, Courtney wasted no time before doing a bunk. Five minutes later she was in the toilets of the nearby Nando’s changing out of her uniform into a figure-hugging black T-shirt, mauve, mini ra-ra skirt and leopard-print flats. She topped it off with a pale blue stone necklace she’d palmed down The Roman a few weeks back, and knock-off D&G shades. The only slap she put on was some extreme black eye liner, lashings of mascara and bold blue eye shadow. The mags said it was all about the eyes these days. Only one more thing to do . . . She pulled out the quart bottle of whisky she’d nabbed from the offy and slugged back two mouthfuls.

  As soon as she hit the cool air on her way to The Devil, the booze turned the world nice and hazy. Her mum would do her nut if she sussed that she was on the sauce most days. The drink was the only thing that made her forget her and Nanna Babs’ secret. It was the reason she didn’t touch red lipstick; it reminded her of all that blood. Only bad girls did what she’d done, she told herself. Every day it was getting harder to live with. Sometimes she just wanted to tell someone the truth, but her nan had warned her to keep her gob shut. Nanna had said if she told a soul Nanna would get into trouble. And she didn’t want more aggro coming to Nanna Babs’ door; she was already banged up for pity’s sake. Suddenly tears lined the bottoms of her eyes. She missed Babs so much.

  ‘Court,’ someone yelled as she walked onto The Devil.

  She quickly sucked the tears back as she saw her friend Natasha on a bench near the chemists, smoking a fag. As usual there was a crowd of local lads hanging around her. Tash wasn’t a stunner but she put enough skin on
display to give the boys on The Devil ideas. Courtney liked hanging around with her. She was a few years older at fifteen and knew how to have a good time.

  As soon as she reached her the other girl handed her a ciggy and Courtney puffed away. She thought smoking was disgusting but did it because she wanted to come across as all grown up.

  ‘I thought you’d never get here,’ Tash said. She turned her gaze to the boys and batted her lashes. ‘But these gentlemen were keeping me company.’

  One of the lads saw his opportunity and took it. ‘So, you coming round to mine then?’

  Tasha cocked her head to the side in a classy pose that Courtney often tried to perfect in the mirror. ‘Maaaaybe,’ the older girl strung out. Then she shoved her head back up straight. ‘Nah. Me and my mate here have got real fellas to see.’

  She grabbed Courtney’s hand and they rushed away, giggling their heads off. Courtney’s eyes darted apprehensively behind her sunglasses. She couldn’t take the chance that any of her mum’s mates might clock her. If that happened there would be murder when she got indoors. Her mum had made it crystal clear that she didn’t want her daughter knocking round with the likes of Natasha Wood. ‘She’s going the same way as that mum of hers, mark my words, crooking her pinkie so men can sniff up her skirts. That girl is heading for trouble, if it hasn’t found her already.’

  But that was her mum all over – always wanting to put a crimp on her. She loved her mum and had hated her dad when he knocked her about, but she didn’t want to be like her, always mashed up and washed out. Tasha’s mum was always turned out to the eyeballs, her make-up never out of place.

  Anyway, after what had gone on with her and her nan she’d learned to take the good times when you could get them; you didn’t know what was waiting for you round the corner.

  Tash wasn’t the only thing her mum had warned her to stay away from. She’d put her straight about the block of flats that they were now outside – Bridge House, aka The Devil’s Playground. It was the newest building on the estate, a broad, six-floor block, built two years ago. The irony was it was built above the old underground car park the residents called Neverland, a place riddled with crime. Those in the know soon learned if you didn’t want your car burned out, or ending up on a pile of bricks, you parked it elsewhere.