Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  She arched her eyebrow. ‘Why are you doing that then?’

  ‘I told you at the funeral, I’m a friend of the family.’ When he saw the look on her face he changed tack. ‘Alright, I can see you’re a smart girl and I’ll level with you. That’s a cover story.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘I’m actually a private detective. I’ve been asked by Maggie’s lawyer to track down any surviving relatives with regard to her will. Apart from her old man that is – of course he’s not getting a penny. She left quite a lot of money behind and Denise would get a sizeable portion of the dough. But no one seems to know what happened to her.’

  Babs could see right through this chancer. ‘If you were a real private detective, you’d know Denny is probably dead.’

  Richard Smith gave her a look of pure innocence. ‘Yeah, so everyone keeps telling me. But there’s no record of her death. Strange, eh?’

  ‘Maybe. But not as strange as the idea that Maggie Brooks left a legacy. The only thing she’ll have left behind is a pile of empty bottles.’

  He pulled a face. ‘You’d be surprised how much Mrs Brooks managed to squirrel away over the years. Quite a pretty penny. She liked to keep a shilling or two under her mattress, if you get my drift. How else do you think she paid that muscle to do over her old man?’

  True enough about those bully boys, but the rest of it . . . Nah! Pure bollocks. Babs turned to go but he got out of the car and called after her. ‘Don’t rush off, Babs.’

  She froze to the spot. Then did a slow motion turn and whispered, ‘How do you know I’m Babs?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve been making enquiries. I was hoping to drop by and have a word about Denny. Amongst other things.’ What other things? What was he going on about? ‘I know all about Stan as well. Have you seen him lately?’

  She didn’t like any of this. Sounded like he was giving her a warning.

  Babs drew close. ‘I’ve got a bit of advice for you, mate. Go back and tell your gaffer you’re out of your depth. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’

  He looked just like he had when he’d chased off snooker cue guy at Maggie’s send-off – not frightened of nobody. ‘Maybe. We’ll see. Do you mind if I drop by and ask a few questions about Denise?’

  Babs hissed, ‘Are you deaf? Word is she’s six feet under. And don’t even think about trying to track me down – or you might be too.’

  Babs set off at an even pace and Smith made no attempt to follow. But when she reached Whitechapel Road she began running, desperately looking for a phone box.

  ‘Mr Miller, there’s a call for you. It’s your assistant. She says it’s urgent.’

  Stan told the waiter, ‘I’ll call her back.’

  ‘She said it was about the Whitechapel deal.’

  Stan was irritated. He was up to his elbows with some important clients. They were buying property. Or maybe they were selling it; Stan couldn’t keep his head on the matter at hand. He was worrying about this bloke wandering up and down the East End asking questions about the Denny girl. These sorts of situations were like a woollen pullover. Start pulling at one thread and the whole thing was likely to unravel. He’d end up with a pile of wool and some awkward questions about his late brother.

  Fucking Denise. He hated thinking about her; it brought back memories of Pete. And then he’d recall what he’d done and he didn’t like that, not one bit.

  He’d told the girl at his office that if Babs rang with any information about someone called ‘Richard’ or ‘Mark’, she was to say it was about the ‘Whitechapel deal’.

  ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but could you excuse me for a moment? I need to take an urgent call.’

  Stan went behind the bar and picked up the phone. The girl at the office passed on the news from Babs. His wife had clearly been all over the place but she did include one vital titbit. She’d written down the registration number of this Richard Smith’s motor. And that was all Stan really needed. He was such a good customer at the Italian that the manager allowed him to use his office to make a private call.

  ‘I need to speak to Detective Graham Horner.’

  The days when Cricket and Horner were up for a wrinkle had become few and far between. Now they were ‘busy’ or ‘unavailable’. Horner had explained how it was over a snifter a few months earlier. His voice had dropped, as if he feared prying ears.

  ‘This new crowd that have taken over the Yard, they’re more interested in nicking us than the criminal fraternity. It’s got right out of hand, I’m telling you. Honest thief takers being sacked, retired, sent to the sick bay or even . . .’ – he recoiled in horror – ‘ . . . stuck in the slammer with guys they helped put away. Totally out of order – and for what? Helping people out when there’s a drink in it for you?’

  So the hunt-the-bent-copper racket up at the Yard was lapping around his former associates’ feet and they were lying low. But Stan wasn’t totally sorry to hear it. He had more than enough info to torpedo their careers and he’d decided to hold the threat in reserve until he needed it.

  Now he needed it.

  Horner finally came on, his voice tight and furious. ‘I thought I told you not to ring me at the office. Naff off, will you, I’m busy.’

  Stan was jovial. ‘Yeah, we’re all busy, but I’m sure you can manage a couple of hours for an old mate in need. Especially as it’s business related. Or should I say; your former freelance business?’

  There was a pause. Horner said, ‘I ain’t got a clue what you’re talking about.’ He said it loudly, like he wanted his whole office to hear. This Robert Mark geezer, the previous commissioner, might be retired, but his ghost still had everyone running scared and covering their backs.

  Stan didn’t give two fucks. ‘The Bad Moon today at four?’

  ‘The pubs are closed then, Miller.’ He was back to whispering again. ‘I would’ve thought a law-abiding citizen like you would know we’ve got licencing laws in this country.’

  Stan could do menace as well as Horner. ‘The landlord holds lock-ins for his special friends, of whom I have the honour to be one. Just knock on the door and mention my name. That way we get to have a drink and a chinwag where walls don’t have ears. And this does need to be in private, believe you me. Oh – and call that runt Cricket and get him there too.’

  Rosie Wilson fussed around the house for a good fifteen minutes, then put on her coat. ‘I’m just going to pick up a few pieces down the market,’ she told her husband.

  George had his head in a newspaper and his pipe on the go. He looked up at her and he frowned. ‘But it’s brass monkeys, pet. You don’t want to catch a cold again, you nearly ended up in the London last year.’

  She tied her headscarf tight around her chin. ‘Stop fussing. A bit of English cold never hurt no one.’

  He folded his paper and put it down. ‘Well, I might come and stretch my legs with you.’

  ‘No,’ Rosie almost shrieked. She steadied her voice. ‘No need for that. I’m . . . I’m . . .’ Her gaze darted away. ‘I’m meeting a few of the girls for a quick snifter after. I won’t be long.’

  Then she was gone, the front door banging after her. George slowly eased into his armchair, worried. His Rosie hadn’t been right since they’d seen Babs at the funeral. He knew she missed their daughter but he wasn’t having that girl anywhere near this house. The shame of it! George had come a long way from the lad with no shoes on his feet and no one, including his daughter, was going to take away his respectability. He mourned not having his friend Daffy to talk to any more, but she was off in a new life, having finally set up her boutique in the West End. Mind you, she’d only tell him to forgive and forget and George Wilson was not in the mood to do that. He would never forget what his daughter had done to this family.

  Rosie walked briskly through Whitechapel Market but didn’t stop at any stalls. She kept up her pace until she reached the tube.

  Forty-Four

  ‘Oi, darlin’ – you got
anything worth nicking?’

  The two lads sitting on a wall looked serious as Babs walked back onto what people were now openly calling The Devil’s Estate – or simply, The Devil. Babs was tempted to tell them to get stuffed, but when they jabbed their elbows into each other and started sniggering, she stopped feeling threatened. She despaired of this next generation.

  She raised her arms. ‘Does it look like it?’

  The boys stared at her clothes. ‘Yeah, you do look a bit trampy.’

  She gave him the ‘V’ sign and honour was satisfied.

  She’d meant to avoid the block where Mickey and Mel had moved in but she was so lost in thought, sorting out what she was going to tell Stan, that she only realised she was a couple of yards from the Ingrams’ flat when she almost collided with the back of a Ford Granada. She walked around it . . . Hold up, she recognised that motor. Richard Smith’s motor. She felt ice in her veins. He was on their estate already, only hours after he’d told her he was making ‘enquiries.’

  Babs looked around nervously. That wanker must be following her. Then her gaze fell on the door to the Ingrams’ and she realised she was wrong.

  He was standing at the gate and seemed to be having a set-to with Mel. Babs darted behind the car and crouched down to see what happened next. She heard Richard Smith call Mickey’s name and a few moments later, the swaggering no-brain tub of lard appeared on the doorstep and saw his missus off with a wave. The two men shook hands, which made Babs’ heart drop. It appeared they were well in with each other. Richard Smith went into the flat and Mickey stood for a few moments, looking up and down the estate. Babs crouched even lower. When he’d finished checking there was no one spying on him, Mickey went inside.

  Babs got to her feet. She could feel her heart beating. Something serious was going on and she needed to speak to Stan urgently. But how could she find a husband who never seemed to be around?

  Someone poked her in the back.

  ‘You breaking into cars now, Babs?’

  Startled, Babs spun around. It was her mother.

  ‘We didn’t mean nuthin’ by it.’ One of the teens who’d given Babs the verbal was shitting himself as he gave Kieran Scott an account of his disrespectful actions.

  Sixteen-year-old Kieran was top dog of the tearaways on the estate. He’d seen the two prats giving it the big ’un with Babs, so he’d had them dragged to his little hangout.

  ‘What I saw didn’t make me happy.’ He raised his fist, ready to use the knuckleduster he’d made himself from corrugated sheeting dumped in the cemetery. But he stopped short of the lad’s cringing face. ‘I’m giving you a message to spread far and wide. Anyone even looks at Babs Miller the wrong way, I’m coming after ’em.’

  ‘I’ll make you a nice cuppa,’ Babs told her mum and without waiting for an answer, she left her unexpected – and unwanted – visitor in the sitting room and fled into the kitchen. She was still brimming with anger at what her mum and dad had done to her and Desiree, but unlike them, she would never slam the door in anyone’s face. So she’d taken her mum upstairs. But what could they say to each other after all these years?

  Babs downed a couple of Annies and picked up a dishcloth to clean the kitchen, which was already spick and span. Cleaning was her little tic when she was anxious – in times of stress everything must be in its place.

  ‘Barbara Wilson,’ her mum said sternly from the doorway, ‘stop hiding. You were the same as a little girl, always hiding away in your bedroom rather than getting something sorted out.’ Rosie Wilson spoke to her daughter as if there wasn’t six lost years between them. ‘And we’ve got a lot to sort out.’

  Babs drew in an uneven breath as she turned. God, her mum still looked the business after all these years. The grey in her hair and the new lines on her face couldn’t take away from that no-nonsense expression.

  ‘It’s Miller,’ Babs finally said. ‘Barbara Miller. I got married to Stanley, the one you met that Sunday. We’ve got two young ones now.’

  Her mum’s expression made all the tired lines on her face show. ‘I was so, so sorry about your baby—’

  She turned on her mother in fury. ‘Oh, you mean the innocent baby who broke my dad’s heart for having the cheek to be born?’

  Sorrow clouded Rosie’s face as she stepped fully into the room. She wrung her hands. ‘It was the shock of it all. You should’ve told us, warned us. You made fools of us. And once it all kicked off, there was no turning back.’

  Babs strode across the room until she was in her mum’s space. ‘I was just a kid and so was my daughter. You know – a human being – you wanna try being one some time.’ A dam broke. She sank onto a chair, her face in her hands, tears running down her cheeks.

  Rosie took charge. ‘Alright, have a good cry, you’ve earned it. I’ll make a cuppa.’

  A few minutes later, they faced each other across the small Formica table. Babs broke the silence. ‘Dee was too small and she didn’t make it.’ Then her voice rose slightly and she added in a bitter voice, ‘I wasn’t there when she passed.’ When Rosie touched her daughter’s hand, Babs looked at her in fury. ‘Don’t say perhaps it was for the best – or I’ll kill you.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to say that. We’re very sorry.’

  ‘We?’ Babs scoffed. ‘I bet Dad isn’t. Why did you come, Mum?’

  Rosie’s fingers tightened. ‘Because I missed you. I’ve missed you for years, but your dad . . .’ She shrugged and Babs got the message loud and clear about where her father stood. ‘Since the funeral . . . I just had to see you.’

  They were interrupted by a bang on the front door. Babs stood up. ‘That will be my neighbour with the kids.’

  Cheryl bustled in with the girls, her face still marked with the bruises. Rosie went all dopey-eyed over the children, especially Tiffany who was sucking madly on her sweetie fag. ‘They’re adorable,’ she told Babs.

  Babs couldn’t help but think – it’s a bit late now, I’m afraid. But instead she whispered, ‘I know. I’m glad you like them.’

  While Rosie played with her grandchildren, Cheryl pulled Babs aside. ‘I’m leaving. For good.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I can’t hack this place no more, what with being walloped senseless the other day. I put in for a transfer with the council and they’ve fixed me up with a nice spot near my sister in Romford.’

  Babs was crushed, no two ways about it. Cheryl and Beryl had been a lifeline to her. What was she going to do without her dear mate? No more days of sitting on the balcony chatting and laughing over a sloe gin. The friends embraced.

  ‘We’ll have a leaving drink for you before you go,’ Babs said when they pulled apart.

  ‘Not at the Knackered Swan.’ Cheryl shook her head as she mentioned the estate’s boozer. Everyone called it the Knackered Swan because its polish had rubbed off a long time ago. ‘Word is someone’s pushing drugs there. I don’t want no part of it. Come around to mine for a cuppa and some Gordon’s.’

  Babs watched her friend go. As her mum had walked back into her life, one of her best mates was leaving.

  ‘What’s the matter, pet?’ Rosie asked. She held Tiffany while Jen looked through her Bunty mag. That girl did like looking at Bunty’s clothes.

  Babs popped on a fake smile and she nodded. ‘Life’s what the matter is, Mum, just life.’

  For the next hour they nattered away, catching up with each other. Then Jen conked out over her Bunty.

  ‘I’d better be off. Your dad will be wondering where I got to.’ Rosie self-consciously smoothed her hand down her dress. ‘The children are beautiful, but watch little Tiffany. Someone once told me that a baby who fusses all the time will grow into a right handful.’

  ‘She’ll be alright.’

  ‘Can I come back?’ Rosie asked, so quickly Babs wasn’t sure she heard right.

  ‘Of course you can. I missed you something rotten too.’ Then they were hugging the life out of each other.

  ‘I�
��m so sorry,’ her mum said, the words muffled in her neck. ‘Everything just went too far and ran away from us.’

  ‘What’s done is done. It’s the future that matters.’

  Her mum eased away from her. ‘We’re gonna have to keep your dad in the dark for now. But he’ll come round eventually.’

  A happy Babs escorted her mother to the stairwell and waited to make sure she got across the courtyard safely. Even being an older woman was no defence on the estate.

  As she walked back towards the flat, she realised someone was following her. Close behind. Babs thought of that bitch Mel Ingrams, hurried back to her front door and tried to slam it behind her. But she was too late. A well-buffed leather shoe was already jammed in the doorway. Behind the half-closed door she heard a voice say, ‘I thought I’d pop around for that chat.’

  It was Richard Smith.

  Forty-Five

  The foot was well wedged and the door wasn’t closing. Babs tried blagging. ‘If it ain’t Tricky Dickie. I’m so glad you paid me a visit. My old man Stan wants a word with you. Wait there a moment; I’ll get him.’

  Babs made herself sound confident as she went back inside. ‘Stan,’ she called out like a damsel in distress.

  Babs anxiously bit one of her nails as she waited for the man at the door to do one, fearing her irate husband would give him a proper hiding. She waited. And waited. But she didn’t hear footsteps retreating along the balcony. At least he’d made no effort to come inside.

  When he laughed and said, ‘Yeah, you do that Babs – go and get Stan,’ she knew she was sunk. He knew full well Stan wasn’t there. Babs went back to the door and swung it open.

  He reached into his pocket. ‘Apologies for dropping by like this. Very rude, I know, but as I was visiting friends on the estate—’

  ‘Yeah. I saw.’ She lifted her brow knowingly.

  Now it was Richard Smith’s turn to falter. He was silent for a moment before going on, ‘And I thought, as I was in the area, I’d drop by and leave you my card.’