‘Fuck off, we ain’t doing no harm.’
‘Why don’t you go and help some old dear cross the road.’
‘Do you want a drag on my spliff officer?’
When she drew close enough, Babs surveyed the crowd of youths. No sign of her daughter. She slipped past the police and grabbed the arm of a girl she recognised. ‘Have you seen my Tiffany?’
The kid shook her head. Babs gripped her arm more tightly and pleaded, ‘Help me out.’
The girl gestured with her thumb in the direction of the winding, shadowy paths that led deeper into the cemetery. ‘I think she went for a walk with someone.’
Babs tensed up. ‘What someone?’
The kid shrugged. ‘Dunno.’
Babs let the girl’s arm go and started trembling. Someone? Who could Tiff have gone off with? How many times had she warned the stupid girl not to come here at night; there might be pervs and kiddie fiddlers lurking in the bushes. Jesus, when was her girl ever going to learn?
She moved quickly down the rambling tracks that led past graves with white angels and harps mounted on top. Above her, the wind blew through the treetops. The voices and shouts behind her faded as she pressed on. She knew Tiffany would go mental when she discovered that her mum had come looking for her. She anticipated the scream – ‘I’m not a fucking kid’ – but knew too that she had no choice.
She grew scared at the shapes and shadows that the graves made in the darkness, and the rustling of the leaves. ‘Tiffany,’ she called out, for her own peace of mind as much as to find her child. Women were attacked in this place in the daylight, never mind at night. Her calls became shrill and desperate.
It was then that Babs spotted a dark figure running amongst the bushes and trees, dodging the gravestones and columns.
‘Tiffany?’
No answer. Babs set off in pursuit. It was obviously a youngster as she was easily outpacing the older woman, but when she tripped over a fallen piece of masonry with a squeal of pain, Babs got the chance to draw closer. The noise the kid made meant she was a girl. The kid rose up and turned to see who was chasing her. A gleam of moonlight fell on her face before she turned back and ran, disappearing into the gloom like the ghost of one of the resident stiffs.
Out of breath and wheezing, Babs retraced her steps back to the track. But this time, when she once again shouted Tiffany’s name, she got a surly response.
‘Over here, Mum.’
Her daughter sat on the stone rim of a grave, her face lit up from the lighter she was using to fire up a spliff, two empty bottles of vodka lying at her feet. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I’m a wicked girl and I’m in with a bad crowd. Don’t go on about it.’
‘You little bitch! I’m getting sick of you. Why aren’t you out clubbing with your sister?’
Although she couldn’t really see her features, it was obvious that Tiff was taken short by her mother’s response and she whined, ‘As soon as we got to Leicester Square, Jen told me to sod off. She was only making a load of noise about taking me anywhere; she only said so to make a fool out of you, Mum. And I was really up for a night out too.’
The moonlight showed the outline of a sulky pout on her daughter’s face. Babs snatched the spliff out of her hand. ‘You’re smoking grass now are you?’
‘It’s not weed.’ Tiffany’s voice was slurred and unsteady. ‘It’s dandelion leaves we find in the cemetery. We can’t afford the real gear, can we? So we tried them. I ain’t got no money. I ain’t got nothing.’
Babs couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘You mean to tell me you pick dandelions in this place and smoke them? Bloody hell! Dogs and God knows what else have probably done their business all over it and you’re smoking it.’
Babs grabbed her daughter by the scruff of her neck and dragged her upright. Tiffany didn’t resist; her limp body merely swayed in the wind. But it stiffened when her mum wanted to know who ‘we’ was.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You said “we”, didn’t you? Who’s the other girl?’
‘What other girl?’
Babs shook her by the collar, ‘The one who scarpered when I came up the path.’
‘No one.’ Tiffany was defensive and it was only when she was violently shaken by her mum a couple of times that she coughed up, ‘I dunno – some girl. I don’t know her.’
‘Why did she run away? Why would she be scared?’
Tiffany was on the edge of tears. ‘Maybe she thought you were the Plod or something, I don’t know . . . How the fuck do I know?’ Choking, she wailed, ‘Stop asking me questions all the time; you’re always asking me stupid questions.’
Babs frogmarched her daughter back through the cemetery, past the approving police who had finally managed to disperse the crowd, and then onto the streets.
Tiffany started grizzling. ‘Everyone hates me. There’s nothing to do around here. It’s shit living on The Devil . . .’ On and on she went, like a rainy bank holiday Monday. But Babs wasn’t listening; her mind was on other things. Why wouldn’t Tiffany admit she knew the girl in the cemetery and why had she been so defensive about it? What were they up to and why had the other girl bolted when she’d heard Babs’ voice? Even though she’d caught a glimpse of the girl’s face, she didn’t need to be Mystic Meg to suss who she was. Stacey Ingram.
Seven
‘How’s your kid?’ John Black asked his right-hand man, Christopher Keston. They stood by the window in John’s office, upstairs in the Alley Club. John had a receding hairline, a face that told it straight that he’d come up hard in life, and Paul Smith, stacked-heeled shoes, to give his five-five height a little lift.
‘The little man is doing great; he’s such a clever boy, you know?’
‘I like a clever boy. Shame that the slag we’ve got here isn’t one of them.’
They both looked down at the man lying on the floor choking because John had one of his stacked heels pressed hard against his windpipe. The man was making a horrible noise, but he didn’t dare move an inch because he knew what John Black was capable of doing. John pulled his foot off and the man sputtered, dragging in air. John moved over to his desk and picked something up. Then he was back crouching down near the man. Chris ripped the man’s shirt open. Two buttons burst free and rolled onto the wooden floor.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Black, it won’t happen again,’ he pleaded, knowing that something bad was about to happen.
John raised what he held in his hand – a long stapler – and waved it in front of his victim like a prize. Then he attached the opening of the stapler around the man’s right nipple and clicked down hard. The man closed his mouth tight as his body shook, sucking up the pain; he knew better than to scream in John Black’s club. John did the same to the other nipple. He threw the stapler on the floor, grabbed the man by the hair and dragged him to his feet.
He yanked his head backwards. ‘My money. I want my dosh. Do you understand? I don’t want to hear about the end of the month. I don’t want to know who hasn’t paid you yet or when you’ll be out of the red . . .’ He drew back his spare hand, clenched it and punched the guy in the face. His victim’s body vibrated briefly before, by way of an answer, he slumped slowly back onto the floor. John crouched down beside him and grabbed his hair again but more gently this time and turned the bloodied face in his direction. His voice was softer. ‘Am I making myself clear here? I mean, I’m not talking French am I?’ The response was a lolling nod.
John smiled. ‘Good.’
He picked up the phone and called reception. ‘Send a couple of cleaners up to my office, I’ve got some rubbish on the floor and I need it tidied up and thrown in the bin.’
Forty-year old John Black – real name Charlie Dalton – had used so many aliases in his time that he sometimes forgot what his real name was. For a while he’d used the moniker John Smith, because tracking someone down with that name was a real problem. Turned out it also meant that people he actually wanted to
link up with couldn’t find him either. So he changed his name again, firstly to Chico Smith then Blanco Smith before finally settling on John Black. But he preferred to be known simply as ‘John’. When he was asked what his surname was he would say, ‘Haven’t got a clue; I’ve lost my birth certificate.’ And by that stage his reputation was such that no further questions were asked.
John’s main club was largely a hobby but it also served as a front for his various businesses, which he ran from his office upstairs. Running a private members’ club provided him with the perfect excuse for a heavy door that couldn’t be kicked in, and for a security detail that was supposed to keep order in his club, but which really kept friends and enemies alike away from his office. Any raid by the filth meant them elbowing their way past his guests in the bar downstairs which gave him plenty of warning, and the club gave him all the opportunities he needed to launder the proceeds of his various rackets. His business associates were always tickled pink to be admitted to his VIP lounge where he made sure there were always one or two people from the showbiz world hanging round. Like many men in his line of work he prized his connections to the famous and made sure they were always well looked after by his staff.
His club was originally called Tara’s after his first wife. When that marriage went tits up he renamed it Jessica’s after her replacement. When that one too ended in the divorce court, he changed the name yet again to ‘The Alley Club’. As he liked to tell his guests, ‘alley’ stood for ‘alimony’, the club being the only way he could afford to pay off the two lazy, greedy, gold digging, bitches who’d ruined his life. John didn’t have much in the way of principles but a point blank refusal ever to see the inside of a registry office again was one of them. He usually limited his various girlfriends to two nights a week in case they started to get funny ideas about commitment or family. If they got them anyway, he dumped them. As he liked to explain to baffled young men who worked for him, ‘If you’re with a dolly bird and she starts hanging around outside jewellers – walk fast and walk far – because she’s trouble. Especially if those jewellers are in spitting distance of Hatton Garden. Don’t look at me like that, mate; you’ll thank me for this nugget of advice later.’
His only regret was he had no young ’uns to pass his empire on to, or at least none he knew about or was willing to acknowledge. John wasn’t sentimental about men or women, in fact he didn’t like either, but he did dote on kids. That’s why he always took the time to ask his right-hand man about his son Nicky. Tragically, Chris had lost his wife to illness shortly after Nicky was born, six years back. John broke all his own rules to ensure that if Chris needed time with his boy, he got it.
‘Your lad’s going to have to be clever if he’s going to work for me,’ John announced once the rubbish was dragged by his bollocks from the room.
Chris hesitated, trying to find the right words so as not to give offence. He wasn’t a hard man, being the admin and paper man end of the operation, but he knew John’s business interests inside out, and was the only person John really trusted. He’d met the boss when they were both banged up in Brixton ten years ago. He’d been in for doing naughty things with other people’s plastic; he never figured out what John was in for, and he’d never asked. He simply remembered that he’d been as grateful as shit when John had prevented him getting the beating of his life, when he busted the bollocks of a crew of three guys who had cornered Chris inside the workroom.
It hadn’t taken John long to twig that Chris was a man who understood business and numbers. But Chris was always slightly nervous around his boss. ‘Well . . . I don’t know about that, John. I was hoping my boy would be a doctor or a lawyer or something. You know?’
John looked grim. ‘We were all hoping to be upstanding members of society once upon a time, mate. Then real life kicks in and you have to get serious. People like us don’t get to do things like that.’
‘Well, I’m hoping . . .’ Chris tailed off. He didn’t want a barney with the boss.
John got down to business. He was proper para about being bugged by the cops or rivals and so he often spoke in code: ‘Alright, what’s happening with that circus equipment we’re sending to the Middle East?’
‘It’s all sorted. We’ve got a boat booked and we’re shipping next week. I met Javid at the Ritz earlier and he’s taking care of things at their end. The consignment’s stored in garages out at the usual place. Javid’s going to arrange for the payment to be made to one of the new banks in Eastern Europe that don’t ask too many questions, then I’ll ask our accounts people to bring it back here after a few months. We’ll rinse it through the club as private parties for celebrities.’
‘I don’t think private parties cost that much, do they?’
‘You’d be surprised. Catering, champagne, class A extras – it all mounts up.’
John nodded. ‘What about the paperwork?’
‘Our mutual friend – the one from the East End – has organised a girl to look after it for us. He says she’s totally reliable.’
‘And is she?’
‘I don’t know; I haven’t met her.’
John looked doubtful. ‘She’d better be or I’ll have his knackers and hers as well. Alright, you’d better run along and see your kid. Tell him Uncle John will be popping by this weekend and he’s got a prezzie for him.’
It always squeezed Chris’s heart that the boss took such an interest in Nicky, especially since his child had never known the love of a mother.
‘He’ll really appreciate that John. By the way, our mutual friend from the East End says he wants to meet up as he’s got some projects he wants to run past you.’
John laughed. ‘Yeah, tell him to fuck off. I don’t deal with small timers like him.’
There was a knock at the door. John dropped the lock with a switch and one of his bar staff poked her head around the corner. ‘Mister Black, you’d better come downstairs. We’ve got a problem. One of the waitresses – black bird – is kicking off.’
Jen and Bex stood with their arms folded, freezing their privates off on the corner of Old Compton Street in Soho, waiting for Nuts. Nuts? Jen rolled her eyes. She was the one who was nuts waiting for him and his so-called motor. He’d insisted on giving them a lift home in his car, which he claimed was parked nearby. Well nearby must be a hell of a way because he’d already been gone ten minutes and there was no sign of him or his drive. She should’ve known that under all that glitzy gear and charm was moonshine and coke. He was probably trying to unchain his bike to offer them a backy. She’d give him a couple more minutes and then they were off.
Where they stood, they were badly exposed to passers-by. They’d already had a crew of lads from the suburbs, out for a night on the lash, drunk out of their boxes giving them the ‘You alright babe, fancy a bevy’ routine, which had soon turned into, ‘Think you’re too good for us? Slappers!’ when neither woman had given them the time of day. One had even given them a bare bum salute.
Bex looked at her watch and sighed, ‘Come on, let’s go. He’s not coming back, is he?’
Jen shook her head. ‘Give him a chance, give him a chance.’
Now it was Bex’s turn to roll her eyes. ‘You were right; the guy’s a B.S. merchant. Come on, let’s go before we get mistaken for a couple of toms.’
But it was because she knew she was right that Jen didn’t want to go. She enjoyed being proved right. It was true that Nuts dressed well, knew an underground club in Soho and seemed to have plenty of dosh, but that could all be faked. A car could be faked too, of course; he could always have hired it for the weekend to impress the more impressionable type of girl. If he drove a kosher motor it might be evidence that he was a genuine geezer. But Jen didn’t think it was true, which is why she was smiling to herself, even though it meant she’d have to navigate her way home to Mile End past the drunks and the weirdos, and walk at the other end (because no cab was going to drive on The Devil at what the locals called, ‘the witching hour’).<
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A seedy-looking old fella stopped in front of them, looked furtively around and then whispered, ‘Are you two girls working the perimeter? I’ve got the cash-in-hand for a threesome. Got somewhere we could go or do I have to book us a room?’
Bex was speechless so Jen took over. ‘Sure, we’re doing business. Can’t we go back to your place?’
His eyes darted around like he was thinking about the possibility. ‘Well, we could, but I don’t think my wife would be very happy.’
Jen cosied up a touch closer to him. ‘No problem, we can sort somewhere out for you. We cost ten grand an hour. Each.’
He sputtered, ‘Ten thousand? Are you taking the piss?’
Jen got right into his badly wrinkled face. ‘No, you’re taking the piss. Now knob off, you creepy, dirty sod.’
The man couldn’t get away from them fast enough. This incident was the end for Bex. ‘I’m going to get the tube; you stay and wait for lover boy if you want to.’ She walked away but then stopped, ‘Oh, and Jen, next time, please leave Tiffany at home will you? I know she’s your sister, and you have to look out for her and everything, but she’s a total muck-up artist.’
Jen watched her best mate getting smaller in the distance and straight away wished she’d gone off with her. She’d proved her point and there was nothing left to stay for. But as she did so, she was forced to step backwards in a hurry as a car’s horn blared. A flash, red, sports Mercedes pulled up on the pavement in front of her. Jen scrambled a few paces back and then stopped in gob-smacking awe when she saw who was at the wheel.
‘Alright, Cinderella? Your carriage awaits,’ Nuts proclaimed dramatically, a large grin spreading across his chops.
The automatic lock on the passenger side door clicked. When Jen climbed in Nuts put his arm around her shoulder and said, ‘You must really fancy me to have waited this long.’
Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama Page 5
