Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  She checked the street outside the pub. It was going to be difficult even to park up and watch who went in and out. Bloody bollocks, what was she going to do? She just couldn’t think of a way out of this. She started pacing up and down, digging away inside her brain for an answer. She looked up to the sky for inspiration, and that’s when she caught something, out of the corner of her eye, on the opposite side of the street. She zeroed in on it – a builder’s sign, hanging outside one of the houses opposite. Dee scanned the place, clocking the builder’s bollards outside. Her brain started ticking. What if she could get into the house later and keep the doors to the Bad Moon in view? She’d given up on the notion that she was going to hear any conversation, but there was always a chance she could see who was arriving with whom and what their expressions were like. She could do the same again when they left and, who knew, she might get lucky with a fight in the street or some shouting, which she would be able to hear.

  But when she went to check the place over, the house was a dead loss. The downstairs windows were boarded up and metal shutters were in place over the front door. Dee cursed the local squatters who made such precautions necessary. She’d developed many skills over the years but housebreaking wasn’t one of them. The only option left was to walk to the next street and see if there were any options for observing the pub from there. Another blank. The rear of the pub was guarded by a high wall. Unless she was going to be sitting on it, she could see nothing and the front of the pub was invisible from the rear anyway. It looked like her plan had failed before it even started and Dee began to see what the attraction of the Bad Moon was for the Johns and the Mickeys of this world.

  As she came back onto the pub’s street, she saw a truck trying to make its way down without hitting anything while being tooted by a car that was stuck coming the other way. She saw the truck back up outside the house she had looked at earlier, and watched, with a smile, as it lowered a skip into place. The builders came out and put a plank up against it before pulling wheelbarrows up. At the same time, another guy began pulling canvas over the other end.

  Dee walked past the skip and peered inside. It probably wasn’t the ideal place for a spot of spying, but sometimes she couldn’t help thinking the gods smiled on nosey parkers.

  Jen wavered near the door to Dominique’s, on her way to the phone box around the corner. For what felt like the millionth time, she stopped herself from going in. The security guard, Pedro, shot her a sour look, as he was about to reach for the door, just like all those other times she’d approached and then turned away. The plain truth was that instead of washing her hands of Nuts, she couldn’t stop thinking about him. He couldn’t be all bad if he’d sorted her out a spot in a place like this. Maybe she wasn’t being fair to him and should give him another chance.

  ‘Jennifer.’

  Jen inwardly groaned at the sound of Madam Dominique’s voice, but she turned around quickly, not wanting this kind, old woman to think she was taking the mickey and not doing her work.

  ‘Madam Dominique, I’m so sorry—’

  ‘Come with me please.’ Without waiting for a response, Jen’s shoulders slumped as she followed the other woman. You’ve done it now, the voice in her head screamed. You’ve lost your placement because you can’t get that boy out of your brain.

  She was surprised to see that they were entering a part of the building that none of the girls were allowed in, which led up to Madam’s private office. The older woman took her time climbing the narrow staircase to the first floor. They entered a room that surprised Jen with its plain and simple décor. She’d always imagined Madam’s office to be full of bright curtains and colourful rugs but the walls were white, except for one covered in a large, blue cloth, and the only furniture was a desk and two chairs.

  Madam Dominique waved a hand at a chair as she too sat down. ‘I can see the surprise in your face when you look at my room, but I like to keep things simple. All the show and colour is to entice my clientele to empty their pockets. You started as such a good worker, but I suspect that your life is anything but simple and has become very complicated.’

  Jen squeezed her hands into her lap. ‘No,’ she said, in a rush, ‘I’m as into this job as I’ve ever been.’

  ‘Then tell me what is going on.’

  Jen didn’t hesitate; she wanted to get her problems with Nuts out into the open. Once she’d finished, Madam Dominique remained silent for a while, then she quietly said, ‘Do you yearn for him?’

  Yearn? Yeah, that was the word. Jen hesitated, then nodded.

  The older woman smiled. ‘Then go get him. Simple. Now that is out of the way, you must apply yourself to your work. Remember, you are here to learn.’

  Once Jen had gone, Dominique slowly rose from her chair and moved towards the simple, blue cotton cloth covering one wall. She swept the cloth aside revealing a door, which she opened into the room that was her real private haven, containing many of the relics of her old life. She pulled off one of the many photos on the walls. As soon as she’d discovered Jennifer’s last name, she knew that her instincts were right when she first met her, that she knew that face. But she couldn’t turn the girl away, once she’d made a promise. She looked at the photo of her younger self, standing arm in arm with Stanley Miller.

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘I thought you were doing a bit of retail therapy?’ John asked Dee when she got back to the Alley Club.

  Dee had deliberately waited for John to come downstairs – she wanted it to look like she hadn’t been out at all but in the cellar. ‘No, too busy. By the way,’ she took his arm, squeezed it, dreading the answer to the question she was about to ask. ‘How did Chris get on, round your girlfriend’s?’

  His face darkened. ‘She was obviously in there but wouldn’t answer the effing door. The bitch.’

  Dee had to restrain herself from smiling. Instead, she patted his arm. ‘I know – the bitch. You’ve sent her flowers; she’s probably holding out for you to send her your wallet next. Stuff her, John, she’s not worth it.’

  Triumphant, Dee went upstairs to listen to John’s phone calls. There was only one. A menacing call to one of Mickey Ingram’s associates telling him to pass on the message that he’d be down the pub at 7.30 sharp and warning Mickey not to be late. John also insisted that Mickey needed to ‘bring the team’ with him as he wanted to speak to all of them.

  Later that afternoon, Dee did go shopping. She bought a no-brand tracksuit, some washing-up gloves and a cut-price pair of trainers, and got ready to drive down to Shadwell.

  She wasn’t the first to arrive on the street that evening. There was already a solitary heavy, standing outside the entrance to the Bad Moon. She parked her car at a distance and then walked down to the skip, which she ducked below. After waiting several minutes for the guy on the door to lose interest in the empty street and pop inside for a moment, she loosened the rope that tied the canvas on top and climbed inside, crunching and clattering her way over the broken bricks, plaster and rotten beams until she found a half-comfortable spot to lie down, raise the canvas and keep an eye on proceedings.

  Several locals appeared at the entrance where they were stopped by the heavy and subjected to questioning.

  ‘Private party,’ Dee heard the goon on the door say.

  One of the locals had the unfortunate audacity to answer back. ‘I don’t remember any mention of a private shindig.’

  ‘Do one, boys, if you want to keep your matching ears.’ The locals scurried away. So it was going to be one of those meetings: customers kept out, big boys allowed in. Just as well she’d found an alternative to trying to spy inside the pub because she wouldn’t have got in anyway.

  Next, a flash Harry turned up in a pinstripe suit with a silk hanky poking out of his top pocket, wearing enough gold jewellery to keep the Royal Mint ticking over. The jowly man looked like he was going to a fancy dress do as a cockney gangster, but the respect he was shown by the guy on the door, and the size of the t
wo men who accompanied him, suggested he was the real deal. A few other, more anonymous blokes appeared and went into the Bad Moon before the first of two cars arrived.

  A BMW pulled up directly in front of the pub and a youngster in a tracksuit, trainers and a baseball cap got out. The cap was pulled low, which made it impossible for Dee to see his face. He was subjected to an interrogation and pat down by the guard who eventually allowed him in.

  Finally, at 7.30 on the dot, a sleek, black Jag appeared. The driver jumped out to open the back doors. Slowly, Chris and a bit of muscle got out. They scanned the street like they were the Prime Minister’s protection duty and only when they were satisfied did John emerge. He straightened the tie that was the same colour as his black suit. The bodyguard stood at a respectful distance while John and Chris stood huddled close, no doubt having a quick, pre-meeting chat. Dee was frustrated she couldn’t hear what was being said. The heavy on the door virtually bowed to John and held the door wide open for him.

  Dee let the flap of canvas fall back. She assumed that the plonker in the pinstripe suit must be Mickey Ingram but that wasn’t really helping much. In fact, none of this was helping very much and she was beginning to wonder why she had come. But then her interest was aroused again when she heard someone shouting so loud, inside the pub. She knew that voice: John.

  ‘So anyway, these three geezers come down to this boozer in Hackney, right?’ John was not happy that he could hear that fat cunt Mickey Ingram’s voice, as he and Chris made their way through the empty public bar to the saloon bar at the back. Who did that twat think he was? A cross between Al Capone and Jack the Ripper?

  Mickey’s voice got louder as they got closer. ‘Mouthing off about some money I owed them, they were. So I says to them, You want your money, boys? I’ll give you your money. So I reached inside my jacket, pulled out my shooter, shot the fuckers, two bullets each. And down they go – bosh, bosh, bosh – stone cold dead, right? Straight up. So I has a look around the pub so everyone sees my face, and I say, My name’s Mickey Ingram, if anyone’s interested. And then I walk out, cool as you like. Old Bill comes down there, mob-handed, and they interview all the pricks who was in the pub. And you know what? No one saw anything, no one heard anything. A hundred people that was – straight up. Thing is, right, people know better than to grass on Big Mickey. You know what I mean?’

  The tosser juggled a pint and a whiskey chaser in his hands, and John was fucked off to see him with his two-tonne arse at the head of the table. John considered that his place.

  Mickey waved his arms wide when he clocked him. ‘Great to see you, pal – what can I get you to drink?’

  John looked around the bar to make sure there were no unfamiliar faces. ‘Orange juice and lemonade.’

  Mickey started grinning. ‘No, come on, John, don’t muck about mate. Have a proper snifter; it’s all on me this evening.’

  John wasn’t grinning back. ‘No thanks. I’m like the police, I don’t drink when I’m on duty.’ He looked at Mickey’s two drinks which were nearly empty already and added, ‘It’s sloppy and unprofessional.’

  Mickey’s smile slipped slightly, letting John know his nose was well and truly out of joint. Mickey heaved his bulk up and walked over to the bar to collect John’s bevvy from the landlord. While he was gone, John made himself nice and comfy in Mickey’s chair at the head of the table. When Mickey spotted what John had done, the tension in the room heated up. Go on, I fucking dare ya, John thought, I’ll rip your brainless head off.

  But Mickey played it safe and took another chair on the other side of the table. He was soon holding forth on the shipment he was organising for John and how the tentacles of his operation reached everywhere; he even had people at Tilbury who would keep everything cushty.

  John listened to him in silence before saying, ‘Don’t worry about Tilbury; I’ll have my guy Chris down there, keeping an eye on that.’

  Mickey looked none too pleased as he eyed up Chris. ‘I thought we were here to talk about Tilbury?’

  John stared hard at him. ‘No. I’ll tell you what we’re here to talk about. I asked you to take care of a simple job for me. Find a courier to pick up my paperwork for me and then keep it safe until I need it for the shipment.’

  Mickey still didn’t understand. ‘That’s right. And . . . ?’

  John brushed his fingers lightly against the bottom of his tie. ‘Thing is, bruv, obviously I left the choice to your discretion, because you have to trust people – no matter how crap they are. But now I hear you chose a sixteen-year-old kid, with a reputation for being a bit of an off-the-trolley merchant, who’s constantly getting pulled up by the law. In other words, just about the worst possible person you could have picked.’

  Mickey brightened. ‘But that’s the beauty of the plan, John. Thing is, my family have been in a major league strife with her family for years and she don’t know who I am anyway. If she gets lifted by the Plod, there’s no way she could be traced back to me. Good eh?’

  John’s hand smoothed against his tie. ‘Well, as long as you’re alright, Mickey, we won’t worry about it.’

  The sarcasm went flying over Mickey’s head. ‘Exactly!’

  John looked Ingram squarely in the eye. ‘You really are a fucking idiot, aren’t you?’

  Finally, the penny dropped for the Shadwell gangster. He spread one hand on the table and started jabbing a finger from the other in John’s direction. ‘No, I’m sorry, John, you can’t come down here to my manor, shooting your mouth off to me like that, thinking you’re the dog’s bollocks.’

  ‘Your manor?’ John shoved his drink to the side with an impatient sweep of the back of his hand, while his other gripped his tie. ‘Your manor’s the four walls of this pub and you don’t even boss that. Let me put you in the picture here. You finish this job for me, and then I never want to clap eyes on you or your keystone cops’ outfit again. And if anything goes wrong with my job, whether it’s your fault or not, I’ll be holding you personally responsible.’

  This was too much for Mickey. ‘No, I’m sorry John, in that case bollocks to your job – and I’m going to have to ask you—’

  In two quick moves, John pulled out a razor blade hidden inside his tie and had it pinned between Mickey’s spread fingers on the table. The sharp edge touched the inside of one of Mickey’s fingers ready to slice. The air filled with the sound of chair legs scraping against the hard floor, as both men’s people shoved out of their seats.

  ‘You were saying, Mickey?’ John said very slowly and calmly.

  Sweat pooled on the other man’s forehead and started dripping down his face. Mickey looked at John’s minders. They were smirking. Then he looked at his own, who were avoiding his gaze. They were realists, well aware of the pecking order of London’s underworld; they weren’t interested in taking on the much bigger man.

  ‘Alright, mate, alright,’ Mickey finally uttered, his tone filled with panic. Out of the corner of his eye, Mickey could see that his security detail had decided they had other business to attend to and were leaving. ‘We go back years, to when we were nippers. Let’s not destroy a good friendship over some teenage halfwit. I’ll do the job, you’ll see, you’ll see.’

  The tension sizzled. Finally, John straightened up and placed his razor in his pocket. As soon as he turned his back, Mickey was up, out of his chair and heading for the door. But John spun around: ‘Oi, Ingram – back here, I haven’t finished with you by a long shot.’

  Dee was watching the entrance closely. Two guys appeared and bolted down the street quickly followed by Mr Pinstripe who was also in a mighty hurry to get away.

  John appeared at the door to the pub and yelled, ‘Oi, Ingram – where do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.’

  Mickey Ingram picked up his pace and didn’t look around. John shouted after him. ‘Hiring sixteen-year-old head-cases for a job like that? What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you go back to shoplifting, you ignorant little fucker
.’

  But he made no attempt to follow; he obviously didn’t think Mickey was worth it.

  Dee felt a surge of pride at her man’s behaviour. This was the kind of thing she liked to see in her guys – not the horse-whipped pussy, wringing his hands over dopey cow girlfriends. But then, both sides worked to her advantage. She needed a wealthy man who could go head-to-head with men but not with women. And in John, she’d found one.

  Chris and the bodyguard came out of the pub and exchanged a few words before Chris walked up the street to hail their Jag and John slipped the heavy a few quid from his pocket. The car reversed down the street and John and his party climbed in. The Jag stood motionless for a few minutes before it slowly crept up the road and disappeared into the night.

  Dee got out of the skip, walked around to her car, got changed and went back to the Bad Moon. She knew it would be empty now and was hoping to catch any gossip the bar staff might be swapping, or, if she got lucky, she might strike up a conversation with them. But it proved to be a wasted journey. The pub was empty alright and the bar staff were relieved and relaxed now that the boys were all gone. But they were going about their business quietly. They didn’t seem bothered about a black woman being here anymore.

  Dee ordered her favourite tipple – rum and coke, iced to the max. She downed it quickly and got ready to get back to the Alley Club. As she turned, she bumped into a young man, the same one who’d come into the pub wearing a baseball cap.

  He looked at her with surprise. ‘Mizz Dee? What are you doing here?’

  Twenty-Eight

  Dee was struck dumb as she stared at the man in front of her, thinking that the game was well and truly up. Without his cap on, Dee pegged him immediately – Knobby, one of John’s boys. He gazed at her with suspicion. Shit. All of John’s people knew that Dee wasn’t involved in the bizz side of things. She was just supposed to handle security in the club, and was happy to give that impression. But with her plan about to come to a climax, she felt like a trapeze artist. If she lost her grip now, she would plunge towards the ground and there would be no safety net to catch her. This boy was not going to disrupt her smooth landing.