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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Kieran dragged hard on his smoke. ‘What do you want, Babs?’

  He looked at her as if she were a stranger. How sad! Her heart did a funny flip inside her chest. Poor sod had probably had all the feeling beaten out of him.

  She remembered why she had come. ‘I need you to get something for me.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the deal was done.

  ‘You’re a true sweetheart,’ Babs told him, embarrassed and grateful at the same time. He was the last person she’d wanted to involve, but what choice did she have? Stan’s mug was well known in the boozers around these parts, so going to a pub to sort out her problem hadn’t been an option.

  ‘A favour for a favour, Babs.’

  That startled her. The way his good eye was roaming over her like she was some tart up on Commercial Street freaked her out.

  He closed in on her. ‘What the fuck, Kieran?’

  He whispered, ‘I’ll have to come over when it’s dark. We can’t have anyone twigging what’s what.’

  He wasn’t suggesting . . .? Him and her? Sod that. Babs pulled herself straight. She was putting a stop to this right now. She prepared to give him back what he’d got for her. ‘If you think I’m desperate enough to let you hump—’

  He put his finger on her lips. ‘I want you to teach me to read.’

  In the dark, heavy night, Stan drove onto The Devil. As if the mysterious Mr Smith wasn’t enough glass on his toilet seat, Clare had told him about her visitor – the equally mysterious ‘Karen’. He’d laughed it off. A nutter. But when he’d asked for a description, Clare had become suspicious.

  ‘Please – tell me you don’t know this mad woman?’

  So he’d dropped the subject without finding out anything – apart from the fact that she was ‘frightfully common’.

  There was no way it could have been Babs. Stan was a master of keeping his various lives apart. But he couldn’t be sure. And even though Babs was as dumb and as soft as a rice pudding, he didn’t want to have to deal with his double life being exposed.

  As he turned into the dark courtyard for his block he saw a bloke standing by another car. The fella must’ve been feeling the cold. He was rigged out in a fedora like a cartoon mobster, a muffler pulled over the lower part of his face, gloves and what looked like a pair of strides from a smart suit. Stan would’ve ignored him, except the fuckwit took a few steps that put him slap bang in the path of his motor.

  Blimey O’Reilly! ‘What’s this Herbert up to?’ he muttered.

  He sounded his horn and slowed. The idiot had his hand stuck deep in his pocket and seemed to be struggling with something.

  Stan leaned out of his window. ‘Get outta the way, you prick, or I’ll iron you with my wheels.’

  The geezer didn’t move an inch but his hand finally emerged with something deadly in his hand. A shooter. Stan went on high alert as the fella tried levelling his weapon at his car. Bollocks. He threw the car into gear, rammed his foot on the accelerator, threw the lights on full and pressed his thumb on the horn. Blaring away, the car flew forward like an angry bull. Instead of letting his trigger finger go crazy, the assassin dived for cover. Stan felt the car judder and thud as two bullets hit the bodywork. When he hit a bollard, he escaped, hanging low and going round the front to take cover. Two more shots ripped through the night air. One blew out a tyre, the other wailed like a cat as it struck the brickwork of the old washhouse.

  This cowboy was coming over as a rank amateur.

  In the Blitz, they said, you never heard the bomb that killed you. In the underworld the rule is you never see the man that shoots you. Stan had always taken every precaution to avoid a hit, but you could never be sure. He had enough pride to think he’d only piss off serious people who could afford to get the job done properly. The idiot trying to shoot him was more like a school leaver who’d lasted a week on a hitman’s access course and been told to try shelf stacking instead.

  Stan peered over the bonnet and saw his guy emerge from behind a van. Instead of making a swift getaway, the prat was knocking around, trying to see what the deal was. He obviously wanted Stan dead badly. Not if I catch you first.

  Stan ran towards him at high speed. The gunman twisted around and belted it. Stan motored after him. The geezer was nippy and obviously knew the estate. He led Stan a merry dance along walls and walkways, through playgrounds and gardens, always managing to keep about twenty yards ahead. Whenever Stan was closing, the guy would switch direction or go through gaps that took Stan longer to wriggle through. Soon he realised he’d been led in a circle, right back to the scene of the shooting.

  But when he came round the corner into the courtyard that fronted his and Babs’ block, he saw his bird had flown. The yard was empty, with no way he could have avoided Stan seeing him. Puffing away like mad against a wall, he listened for the tell-tale sound of a vehicle starting nearby but heard nothing. Stan looked up along the block, checking the balconies for any sign of the fugitive. When he saw nothing, he walked back to his car. As he locked it, it suddenly hit him – what if the killer was making his way to Babs and the girls? Stan bolted towards his block.

  Fifty-Nine

  Rosie was still smiling when she left the bedroom. She could hear Jen’s happy giggles as her Granddaddy George played with her. It almost made her weep to see him with his grandkids. All these years wasted, when they could’ve been a happy family. Well, they were one now and that’s all that mattered.

  The phone rang downstairs. She got to it on the third ring. ‘Rosie Wilson,’ she said quietly; she didn’t want to wake the baby up.

  ‘It’s Stan. Are Babs and the girls there?’

  Rosie frowned. The children were there, but why would he think that Babs was?

  He carried on before she could say anything. ‘I just got in and there’s a note saying she and the kids are spending the night at your place.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Jen and Tiff are here . . .’ But not her daughter. She didn’t know what was going on, but the last thing she wanted to do was drop Babs in it. ‘And Babs.’

  ‘Can I speak to her?’ Her son-in-law’s voice sounded stressed and he was breathing heavily.

  Rosie thought quick on her feet. ‘She’s lying down. Had a bit of a headache, poor dear. I don’t wanna disturb her.’

  ‘Fair dos. Tell her to give me a bell first thing.’

  After he rang off, Rosie held the receiver against her chest, worried. Where was Babs? She knew there were a few hiccups in their marriage but she hoped her daughter wasn’t playing away from home.

  Babs was shaking when she finally reached Whitechapel. Her clothes stuck to her body with sweat. She was still shocked by the enormity of what she’d tried to do – murder her own husband. Blast Stan far enough into kingdom come to show him what a murdering bastard he was. He didn’t deserve to live, not after snuffing out Desiree’s life.

  When she’d dropped the girls off, Babs had sneaked into her mum and dad’s bedroom and nabbed some of her dad’s clothing. She’d gone to see Kieran and got the Browning pistol. Then she’d waited for Stan to appear.

  But it hadn’t gone to plan. She’d pulled the trigger alright, but had been so nervous her shots had gone wild. And when he’d started running after her . . .

  Babs was at breaking point as she reached for the door in front of her.

  George was disturbed by knocking. He turned to Rosie, but she was sound asleep. The knocking came again. Bollocks. He didn’t want the noise waking up his beautiful granddaughters. He quickly got up, popped his dressing gown on and went barefoot downstairs.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asked, his mouth close to the door.

  All he got back was the sound of soft weeping. He didn’t like the sound of this, but he opened the door.

  ‘Dad?’ Babs said. She was in a right old state, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She was wearing . . . Hold up!

  ‘Is that one of my suits?’

  There was a choking noise at the back of her t
hroat. ‘Dad?’

  George ushered her inside. He might’ve had a problem with his daughter for what she’d done years back, but he didn’t like seeing her in this mess. ‘What’s the matter, luv?’ he coaxed her.

  Babs stared at him, her eyes wild. ‘My baby . . . Oh God, my baby.’

  In that moment, all the hate in his heart disappeared. He held out his arms and she collapsed into them. He drew her towards the stairs to sit down. She laid her head on his chest as she gently wept. He caressed her hair.

  ‘Shh! It’s gonna be alright. I’m so so sorry that your little one died. I should’ve stood with you.’ There were tears in his eyes too.

  She looked up at him. ‘I need you to phone someone called Richard Smith. He’s to come and get me. Tell him I’ll tell him everything.’

  George felt his wife sit down on the step above them.

  Rosie said, ‘We’ll do that in a minute. Let’s get you sorted first. Cleaned up and changed into some of your clothes we still keep in your old room.’

  Babs laid her head back on her dad’s chest as her mother leaned down and put her arms around both of them.

  The first thing Richard Smith did when Babs got in his motor was search through her bag, one of the beautiful ones her dad had bought her years back. She was too washed out to protest. He pulled out the gun.

  ‘How did you know?’ she asked.

  ‘What would a vengeful person do in your situation? Simple – go gunning for the man they thought murdered their daughter.’

  Her dad had been scandalised that she’d left in the middle of the night, but Babs needed this sorted now. She couldn’t go on like this.

  Richard took her to a small hotel in Finsbury Park. Once the door was closed, they stared at each other. Babs was the first to move. She walked right up to him and wordlessly began to take off his clothes. Soon they were making the type of tender love she needed to feel whole again.

  Afterwards, as he held her close, she whispered, ‘Stan doesn’t have the right to be breathing air while my baby’s dead—’

  ‘We’ve got no proof that he killed her.’ Babs tried to pull away but he held her tight. ‘A couple of my mates on the murder team looked into it and they came up with nothing. I’ve got a funny feeling if you tell me what you know, we’ll find out what happened.’ He eased her gently to the side and stared at her. His face was dead serious. ‘I work undercover at the Yard in anti-corruption.’

  Babs froze. She hadn’t been expecting that. She thought about all the stuff a while back about them trying to get rid of bent coppers. It was about time someone did something, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to be part of it. But if it meant finding out about Desiree . . .

  She stared up at the ceiling.

  Babs’ fingertips touched his arm, giving him his answer.

  ‘There were two crooked cops in the vice squad who were hand in glove with Stan. We’ve got most of the bad guys but these two slipped through the net. I need to find anything I can so we can put them in chokey or kick them off the force. You’ll know them – they’re called Cricket and Horner.’

  Cricket and bloody Horner. The same dodgy cops who had kept her away from Desiree. She hated them with a passion. They’d been working for Mickey and Mel and . . .

  Babs urgently turned to the man by her side. ‘Stan told me they were working for Mickey and Mel. But it’s not true. My first day in Stan’s office, he gave me a list of important people. If they came in or called I was to put them straight through. One name was C&H—’

  ‘Cricket and Horner,’ he finished off. ‘Tell me about 1972. Everything you can remember.’

  He scooted off the bed in his birthday suit, giving Babs an eyeful of his trim backside, and got a notebook and pen. He perched on the bed as Babs sat up and wrapped the blanket around herself. ‘The first time I met Cricket and Horner was when they dragged me outta my home on my wedding night. I was in a right state because the ozzie had called to say Desiree had taken a turn for the worse . . .’

  She told him the lot – from Stan offering her the job in Soho, to the tragedy of hearing her baby was dead. Babs’ breathing shuddered.

  ‘You’re a strong woman to have survived all that.’ His voice was quiet.

  ‘I had a harsh teacher.’

  Richard looked at his notes. ‘I’ll be frank with you. The big problem is that all the paperwork has conveniently disappeared. And they’ll say – which is unfortunately true – that you lied in court. That’s always the problem we face. Bent cops can always claim the people informing against them are liars and crooks. I’ve found plenty of verbal evidence that Cricket and Horner were on the take, but I can’t prove anything. They were on a number of criminals’ payroll but as crooks they wouldn’t last five minutes in the witness box.’ He gazed grimly at his notes. ‘Your husband really is a piece of work.’

  ‘Yeah. So I’ve noticed.’ She frowned. ‘I don’t get why he got hitched to me.’

  His mouth twisted. ‘If his schemes went wrong you couldn’t be forced to give evidence against him. He wouldn’t want to make an enemy of you. You know too much.’

  Babs looked forlorn. ‘Well, he made a mistake there. I don’t know nuthin’ more than I’ve told you.’

  His frustration began to show. ‘You must do. Think about it. Is there anyone else I could speak to? Someone solid and reliable? We need a respectable citizen; tough enough to take the heat in the witness box. There’s got to be someone.’

  Babs sat back. She remembered her talk with Mel. ‘Mel Ingram said there’s someone who might be able to tell me what happened to my baby. Her name’s Cleo Clarke.’

  Richard slipped on his shirt and left Babs alone in the room for fifteen minutes. When he came back, he wore a jubilant expression. ‘I found her. We’ll go talk to her tomorrow morning.’

  He gazed at her solemnly. ‘When my investigation is complete, we can’t see each other.’

  She understood. And if the truth be known, as soon as Stan was gone she didn’t want another fella hanging around. She was done with blokes for good.

  Babs let the blanket slip down from her naked body. He walked towards her.

  Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Babs crept quietly out of the bed. She tip-toed over to Richard’s jacket and retrieved the pistol Kieran had given to her.

  Sixty

  ‘Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Let me hear you sing!’ Cleo Clarke yelled the words with joy and glory.

  The thirty-strong choir raised the tempo even higher as they sang Boney M’s version of ‘Rivers of Babylon’.

  ‘Joy! Joy!! Joy!’

  The choir bashed their song out at an even higher pitch. There was no music, and Cleo was beating her baton completely out of time with the rhythm. But it didn’t matter, they knew the words and they were eager to praise all that is holy.

  ‘Will I hear a sound like this again before I’m promoted to glory?’

  The stone walls and stained glass of the old Wren church soaked up the volume. The flowers vibrated in their vases.

  ‘Final verse! Let the East End of London hear the noise. All the way from Bow Bells to . . .’ She wasn’t quite sure, so she cried out, ‘Dagenham Causeway! Let me hear you sing, let me hear you sing.’

  The choir were determined to finish their practice on a high and made one last frantic effort to push the dial up. But then a strange thing happened.

  Cleo’s baton, which had been whirling like a propeller, slowed down as if its engine had turned off. The gleeful laughter on her face turned to ash. By the time their song was over, she was motionless, her attention elsewhere.

  There was no joy in her voice when she murmured, ‘Brethren and sistren, that was beautiful. Pat yourselves on the back.’ She got down from the prayer stool she’d been standing on and added, ‘If you’ll excuse me for a moment.’

  She hurried down the aisle, wearing an expression more suited to a funeral than a choir practice, until she reached the two people sitting on a pew at the bac
k.

  They stood up when Cleo reached them. ‘It’s Babs, isn’t it?’

  Babs nodded. ‘That’s right.’ They were both remembering their stormy encounter that day in Mile End. ‘Stanley Miller’s wife. And this is Richard Smith, Cleo.’

  ‘It’s Sister Cleo now. I’ve given my life over to the Lord.’ She looked suspicious.

  Babs frowned slightly. She didn’t get why the other woman had a cob on. Sure, they had a tense history but they weren’t enemies either. ‘Mr Smith is a policeman, leading an investigation into all that bovver back in 1972.’

  Cleo stepped back as if someone had slapped her face. ‘I don’t want to know. By all means stay here and be uplifted by the divine majesty of God, but my past is dead to me.’

  Richard got tough. ‘I don’t think so. One way or another you’re going to answer some questions, even if I have to lead you away in handcuffs while the good members of your choir look on.’

  Cleo sounded once again like a working girl on the make. ‘Cuff me up? For what, you crafty rozzer? I ain’t done nuthin’.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘I dunno what I could pull you in for, Sister. But my experience leads me to believe that you can always find something if you really want to.’

  Cleo turned and looked at the choir. They were staring at her with curious faces. ‘Alright, five minutes. We’ll go to the vestry.’

  As they passed the choir, Cleo called out breezily, ‘People! You don’t need anyone’s permission to sing songs of praise! Let me hear you sing!’

  The singing began again. It could still be heard when they reached the musty-smelling vestry. For poor Cleo, the songs of praise were like a wagging finger to remind her she’d been a terrible sinner. ‘I don’t know what you’re after, but I can’t help. That period of my life is over. I prefer not to remember. What happened . . .’ She quickly corrected herself. ‘I mean, what may have happened, is dead – and I am now alive.’

  Smith picked up a book lying nearby. ‘I see.’ He opened it at random and began flipping through the pages. ‘Do you know what this book is?’