Blood Secrets_A gripping crime thriller with killer twists

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘I told him you wouldn’t see him, but he won’t take no for answer. He’s suited and booted and looks official like.’

  Dee had a think. It might be a suit from up the council. She needed to keep them sweet because just as they’d had the power to give her a license they could as easily take it away.

  It was Jen who made the decision for her by announcing, ‘I’ll take Tiff for a tour of the wine cellar…without the taste test this time.’

  When her sisters were gone Dee gave the nod for her unexpected guest to present himself. Her head of security was spot on; the fella looked the part, clobbered out in a well-made, dark grey suit and briefcase in hand.

  ‘Mrs Black?’

  Dee hitched her head back and flicked her blue fringe out of her eye. ‘Who wants to know?’

  He smiled with professional politeness. ‘My name is Jacob Smith. I wonder if I might have a word?’

  It dawned on Dee that he wasn’t from the Council. Her mouth turned down at the corners. ‘You flogging something?’

  He burst out laughing, flashing a well-kept set of teeth. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am, in a manner of speaking.’

  By rights she should tell him to sling his hook, but curiosity got the better of her. ‘OK – let’s hear it.’

  Smith took out a business card and passed it to her.

  ‘I represent a consortium of local firms who’ve clubbed together to offer each other support in the face of the rising tide of criminality in the area. As I’m sure you’re aware, this is a subject close to the heart of anyone trying to run a successful business in these difficult times.’

  He rubbed his palms together. ‘And, as I’m sure you’re also aware, the local police are hopeless. They can’t and won’t help. We, on the other hand, can provide effective assistance in the event of you being targeted by criminals. By paying a small joining fee and making a regular contribution to our mutual defence fund, we ensure you can conduct your trade in peace.’

  He even sounded like a proper salesman but Dee was an old hand and realised straight away what he was up to.

  She slid his card back without looking at it. ‘No thanks, ta, Mister Smith. I’m quite capable of ensuring my own security thank you very much.’

  He persisted, his smile dimming ever so slightly. ‘I’m sure you are. But I’m afraid many local businesses have made the mistake of assuming they could cope with these kinds of problems without support only to find themselves sunk by trouble later. And you never know what direction crime might come from - theft, criminal damage, arson and assaults. Many an honest trader has been put out of business by this kind of delinquent activity.’

  He leaned in and whispered, ‘You may not be aware of this Mrs Black, but I’m afraid there are a number of protection rackets active in the area. Going up against these evil people on your own would be very unwise. Dangerous in fact.’

  This was rich. Dee nearly hooted with laughter. A bloke from a protection racket offering her protection against protection rackets? He must think she’d fallen off last year’s Christmas tree.

  ‘Like I said, no thanks Smithy. You see, I’m the widow of John Black. I expect you’re familiar with the name in your line of work? I know how to look after myself – you may want to pass that information on to your consortium.’

  Smith was still smiling but she could see from his eyes that he knew he’d drawn a blank.

  ‘Of course.’ He looked around the club. ‘Very nice place you have here. I wish you every success with it.’

  As he left, Dee eyeballed him all the way. She knew already that either Mister Smith or his ‘consortium’ would come a-calling again.

  Ten minutes later Dee forgot all about protection rackets as she and her sisters waited outside on the pavement with bated breath as the lights of the club’s name lit up for the very first time. They linked arms as they stared with excitement at the neon blue sign.

  Three Sisters.

  7

  Jacob Smith – not his real name - aka The Salesman was shitting himself as he sat in his motor outside the boxing gym. His bosses were liable to rip him a new one when he passed on the bad news that Dee Black wasn’t playing ball. He hated being called the Salesman. He wanted a moniker that was either cool or menacing. But he kept that to himself because it was the two brothers, his bosses, who’d given him his nick. Once they made up their minds about something they rarely changed it. But Jacob had to admit that The Salesman tag pretty much summed up the work he did for them.

  The two brothers drove around their patch in their big Caddy SUV, Tony Soprano style, and when they spotted a new business opening its doors it was his job to speak all nicey-nicey to the owners and persuade them to ‘insure’ against damage to their property. Usually it went down without a hitch. To say the brothers wouldn’t be best pleased that he’d left the Three Sisters Club without sealing a deal was the understatement of the year. Especially when they’d figured a load of wonga was being pumped into the club, which meant they could hike up the premium.

  £ £ £ was the name of their game.

  But the bitch owner had turned nasty. Now the boys were going to turn nasty.

  It was a nasty business.

  The Salesman pulled as much courage as he could together and exited his wheels. He nodded at the stony-faced huge bastard who was on point by the door and went into the gym. Amy Winehouse’s ‘Rehab’ blasted from speakers mounted on the wall. The place was heaving, smelling of sweat and maleness. Gloved and guarded guys were in the ring swapping punches under the eagle eye of a trainer. Other blokes pulled weights, skipped rope or belted punch bags. The Salesman took no notice of any of that. He focused on the table at the far end of the room where his gaffers kept an eye on proceedings, one in a leather chair, the other sitting on a table.

  Their birth names were Lennox and Glenroy, but they were known by one and all as Pinky and Styley. In their early days they’d got into a young designer who used the brand name ‘Pink Style’ because all her clothing had a dash of pink. To start with she’d peddled her fashion off a stall in Spitalfields Market and the guys were her best customers. Now she had a shop in Hoxton, flogging threads to pop stars and TV people but the brothers remained her number one customers.

  Today Pinky was in a pink suit and tie with a black shirt and handmade shoes while his brother was in a leather jacket sporting a pink fur trim, black jeans and a pair of Pink Style brogues. Their gear was a bit out there, but no one dared take the piss. No one took the rise out of these two.

  They fixed their cool stares on The Salesman as he hesitantly approached. They didn’t look much like brothers. Styley favoured his father’s Irish family, with his white skin and blonde, slightly wavy hair. Pinky, on the other hand, was black like his maternal Jamaican grandparents. And what confused people even more was that Styley had dark eyes and Pinky’s were a light, piercing blue.

  There was no small talk when The Salesman reached them.

  Styley got straight down to business as usual. ‘The rich bitch with the club – did you talk to her?’

  The Salesman nervously cleared his throat. ‘Ummm…Yes.’

  ‘And?’ Styley picked up a can of brew and swallowed slowly, his dark eyes never leaving his henchman. He was a good-looking guy with his hair styled out in zigzag cornrows.

  The Salesman bit the bullet, finally admitting, ‘She won’t pay up.’

  Pinky eased out of his chair. He was the brains of the outfit, Styley the fists. ‘Perhaps you didn’t try hard enough. Now you’ve put us to some trouble. You know we don’t like trouble.’

  Cold sweat leaked down The Salesman’s back. ‘I tried boss, but she knows her way round these types of matters. She’s John Black’s widow.’

  Pinky was unimpressed. ‘John Black’s six feet under, so I don’t see what the problem is?’

  ‘Even so, she looks like a bit of handful herself as it happens.’

  Pinky rubbed his nose. ‘Handful? We’ll give her handful.’ He turned to h
is brother. ‘Better give our girlfriend down in Bow a bell, get her to pay this clip joint a visit, show the Widow Black what a handful really looks like.’

  The Salesman stood to a respectful attention in front of the displeased brothers. It was difficult to tell how this was going to play out. Usually when they ranted and raved it was a good sign; meant you weren’t going to get a hiding. When they smiled and fooled around that was when you started worrying; it was often the run-up to one of the brutal beatings they liked to dish out.

  Styley took his phone from his jacket and made the call as his brother sat beside him on the table.

  ‘Alright bird? Me and my bruv have got a job for you, so drop by…No, I’m not telling you on the blower – what’s the matter with ya? Everyone’s phone’s bugged these days, you thick twat. Perhaps you’d like me to drop a memo to the Chief Constable while we’re at it?’

  The Salesman was dismissed by Pinky. ‘Jerk off. But do better next time. Practice your hard boy act in the mirror, otherwise people will think you’re a pussy ass, which is bad - and we will too, which is worse.’ He added with menace, ‘You wouldn’t want to go a round in the ring with us, now would ya? You might get some fingers broken.’

  The Salesman’s mouth went bone-dry at that stark final threat. He worked with the brothers on a as-and-when-needed basis, the rest of his time taken up with what he considered to be his real job. A job where the use of his fingers was his very livelihood. The brothers knew full well he couldn’t afford for any damage to be done to his hands. Evil bastards!

  As he walked with speed he passed a thick-necked trainer heading out to the back of the gym. As the man passed the table, he sent the brothers a cheery grin. ‘Here Pinky, what’s the deal with that tie then?’

  Pinky slowly lifted his head to stare at him. ‘Wha’cha mean?’

  The trainer nodded at his boss’ neckwear. ‘Well, it’s a bit wide. The cool boys are wearing them a bit narrower…at the moment.’

  The Salesman slowed his pace as he closed his eyes in horror. This guy was clearly too new on the premises to know you never dissed the pair’s clobber. Now he’d realised his mistake, it was too late. The gym went silent as all the men looked on. Even Amy stopped singing.

  Pinky’s lips spread in a slow and easy malevolent smile as he got off the table while examining his tie. ‘Too wide? Yeah, you think so? I suppose you think my brother’s fur trim is a bit girly for this season as well?’

  Pasty-skinned, shitting a brick, the trainer sputtered, ‘Leave it out Pinky, I was only having a joke wiv ya.’

  Pinky put his arm around the trainers shoulder with the strength of barbed wire hooking him close. ‘I know you was. Relax matey, we know how to have a hoot in here. I always say the art of good management is knowing when to share a gag with your staff. It keeps morale up, ain’t that right Sty?’

  Styley chuckled away as he settled back in the comfy padding of the leather chair and he plonked his Pink Style feet on the table. ‘That’s right bruv. Like one, big happy family here. We’ll be holding hands next, singing all the world needs now is love, sweet love.’

  Pinky’s arm tightened round the trainer’s trembling shoulder. ‘Just to show you I know how to share a joke, let me take my far too wide tie off and put it in the bin.’ Pinky loosened his tie without undoing the knot and pulled it over his head. Then, as easy as you please, he dropped the noose over the trainer’s head and pulled it tight before yanking the terror-stricken man backwards like a dog towards a punch bag. He tied the loose end of the tie to the top of the bag and then strung him up. The trainer dangled, choking and kicking for dear life like a man at the gallows.

  Pinky declared with the flare of the ringmaster at a boxing bout at Wembley Arena, ‘Can I have everyone’s attention please? Gather round.’ When the crowd had joined Pinky in a semi-circle, he explained, ‘the standard of boxing in this place is lower than the odds on me in a fight. You’re punching like schoolgirls in the playground. I don’t wanna see blows like this…’

  He delivered a couple of fierce jabs to the trainer’s face, who yelped and howled with pain through his gagging noises.

  Pinkie continued his masterclass. ‘If you want to box, you need to show some fire in your belly. Really let the other guy know he’s in for the battering of a lifetime. More like this.’

  He really let rip with his clenched fists. He pummelled his victim, landing blow after blow to his face and body, until the trainer was left slumped, hanging by his neck, face bloodied, black and blue.

  Pinky paused for breath and looked ready to go another round when his brother nudged him, indicating they had a visitor.

  A Range Rover had pulled up outside and judging by the headlights reflected in the blinds it looked like a big one. Pinky took a blade from his back pocket and cut the noose around the trainer’s neck who fell to the floor spluttering and gasping to fill his lungs like a beached whale.

  ‘Lesson over people – get back to it.’ When they didn’t move quickly enough for his liking Pinky growled, ‘come on – knock the living daylights outta something!’

  The brothers went back to their table as the door to the gym opened.

  A tall, older black guy in a long overcoat wearing a trilby walked in. He paused by the body of the trainer and peered emotionless at him while he peeled off his gloves. Then he went up to the table where Pinky and Styley now anxiously stood to attention like a couple of soldiers.

  Pinky spoke first, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed nervously. ‘Hello Biggin. This is a nice surprise. We don’t usually see you up here. How’s things?’

  All the men in the gym, except The Salesman, knew the newcomer’s real name began with an ‘N’ but due to his statue in the underworld he had been universally known as Big N. Over time this had morphed into Biggin.

  Biggin looked back at Pinky’s victim. ‘What happened to him?’

  Styley wet his lips. ‘Oh, you know, the usual locker room banter that ended in a difference of opinion. Can we get you something? A snifter maybe?’

  The brothers were falling over themselves to accommodate him.

  Biggin’s voice was soft. ‘Yeah, you can get me something – the rent – I was expecting it yesterday.’

  The brothers looked like they were about to be the victims of a fatal car crash.

  Pinky turned on his brother in horror. ‘You were supposed to do that.’

  ‘No way bruv, that was down to you.’

  Biggin swiftly raised his hand to stop the Ping-Pong blame game in its tracks. ‘I don’t care which of you two lemons it was supposed to be. Go and get it for me now. And put on ten per cent for late payment.’

  Styley hurried out back and returned with an envelope, which he handed to Biggin who put it in his coat pocket.

  ‘I won’t count it. Even you two aren’t stupid enough to try and short me. And I’m very sure indeed you’re not stupid enough to make me come up to this flea pit a second time to collect my cash.’

  And with that he walked out without another word. His motor’s engine burst back into life and glided off the pavement outside.

  The two brothers were badly shaken and were whispering frantically to each other. They were so dazed that they barely noticed that The Salesman was still in the background.

  He heard Pinky say, ‘the curtain’s gonna fall if he finds out we messed up the backhander from that club.’

  The Salesman had no idea the brothers answered to anyone. They always insisted they were top of the chain. He had no idea who this Biggin character was but he knew one thing - if Biggin could verbally bitch-slap two crazies who’d just choked a man half to death for making a joke about a tie, then he had to be a very big Face indeed.

  8

  Heart beating like the clappers, fourteen-year-old Courtney Miller peeped around the corner of the brick wall near the Ragged School Museum opposite the newly done up Mile End Stadium. All she had to do now was walk through the park, cross over into Bow Common Lane a
nd then be on her merry way to The Devil following the brick wall of the old cemetery. That would sort the fuckers out. No way were they getting her today.

  But luck wasn’t on her side. Half way through the park her tormentors appeared like birds of prey. One minute they weren’t there and the next they were.

  As per usual there were three of them, but the one who was yanking the chain was her former best mate, Tasha. What a right jealous bitch Tasha had turned out to be. They’d once been all bestie-bestie, matey-matey but as soon as Courtney had won the scholarship to Egerton Academy, a posh school in the City, Tasha turned all salt and vinegar and didn’t want to know her anymore. Courtney could’ve dealt with that – she’d already felt the hard whack of life in her short time on this earth – but her once time best mate had taken it into her mean loaf to wage all out war on her. Being a Miller, most figured Courtney knew how to use her fists to look out for herself, but the plain truth was after that horror-filled incident with her granddad Stan she dared not raise her hand to anyone, terrified of what the results might be.

  Smirking with evil confidence Tasha sauntered up to her, followed by her two hood monkeys, who snapped and snarled eager to sink their gnashers into something tasty.

  Tasha wore her trademark clobber – skimpy skirt and crop top – which put enough flesh on display, as she put it, to get the lads on The Devil sniffing after her. Probably thinks she looks like something off MTV, Courtney thought wickedly; more like Scrubbers TV.

  They crowded her and Tasha, the Teenage Bitch, got in her face. ‘Oh please Mizz! I’ve done my Shakespeare homework Mizz! And I sagged my violin lesson to make it extra special for you Mizz! Can I kiss your jacksie Mizz?’

  Tasha’s she-devils cackled their dumb heads off. Courtney clutched her rucksack, which contained her homework, as her edgy gaze swung between the bullies. She’d tried every trick in the book to avoid their antics. Hanging around the City for a couple of hours in the hope this mob would out be off their heads on the latest high when she got back but that was no use either. Tried blindsiding them by getting off at either Stepney Green or Bow Road tube and then making her way home through the back streets. Nothing seemed to work. Her school had a strict anti-bullying policy but these girls didn’t. They had a piss-take and clout very hard policy. Wailing to her mum wasn’t an option; in the East End you took care of your own problems.