Blood Secrets_A gripping crime thriller with killer twists

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  The history teacher looked at Courtney with sympathy. ‘You’re excused Miller.’

  Courtney went limp. She knew there was going to be comeback after Flo had trashed the headmistress with her milady routine. No way was Mrs Elliott going to take that lying down.

  Resigned, she closed her book and got up to go.

  The teacher snapped, ‘what are you two girls smirking at? Is that your mobile?’

  One of the two girls hurriedly dropped her phone into her pocket. ‘No miss.’

  There was a lot of sniggering going on that morning as girls looked at their mobiles but no one had let Courtney in on the joke. Most likely a cat video that had clocked up a trillion hits or some girl hating on another on social media. She’d dared not check her phone because she was already in Elliott’s bad books. She didn’t need the grief.

  Mind you, she was in no hurry to get there either, so she took the long way round, dawdling in corridors and checking her locker. When she finally arrived outside the headmistress’ PA’s office all she could hear were raised voices. Courtney’s heart sank. Whatever was going on she prayed had zilch to do with her.

  Mustering her courage she tapped gently on the door, hoping the knock would go unnoticed and she could slip away. Instead, it swung open and the PA clutched it so tight her knuckles were white. Her face was as pale as her hand. There was an almighty row going on inside Mrs Elliott’s office. The headmistress’ voice was dialled up to the max.

  Her PA guarded the door like a Rottweiler. ‘What do you want Miller?’

  Since her aunts had flounced in here and lay the law down the PA had taken against her. No problem since the feeling was mutual; Courtney didn’t give a monkey’s toss about Missus Twin Set and Pearls too.

  ‘Miss said she wanted to see me.’

  ‘Does she?’ The PA was jumpy and all nerves.

  Courtney craned her head to see if the door to Elliot’s adjoining office was open. It certainly sounded like it was. But it wasn’t.

  ‘She’s too busy to see anyone. Now run along.’

  The door slammed shut. Courtney hesitated for a few moments. She wasn’t interested in history and she was coming over a bit nosey. It wasn’t like Elliot to normally lose her rag like this. Even when Flo had worked her over the headmistress had kept it cool.

  Intrigued, instead of going back to class Courtney went outside. With a burglar’s step she crept along the side of the school until she was under the headmistress’ window. Elliot was still going at it hammer and tongs.

  ‘Do you think Mr Baxter, that parents are sending their daughters to this school at ten grand a term in order to have a pervert for music teacher?’

  Courtney grinned with supreme satisfaction. Barmy Baxter was getting it in the neck, was he? Served him right. She’d kept well out of his reach since he’d tried to throttle the very life from her. But ‘pervert?’ What was that about? His voice was quieter. Courtney picked her ears up. She could just about make out what he was saying.

  ‘This is obviously a set up Mrs Elliot.’ Sounded like he was wetting his pants. ‘You only have to look at that picture to see it’s been photoshopped. It’s obvious some of your pupils who’ve decided to have a malicious joke at my expense—‘

  ‘My girls?’ Her voice was like thunder. ‘My students come from some of this country’s most respectable families.’

  Courtney so wanted to peak through the window…She restrained herself.

  ‘You can’t seriously believe that I, of all people, would put myself in such a position. It’s absurd. I’m a musician, an artist.’

  Elliott’s voice became even louder. ‘Well, it looks genuine to me.’ She cried with horror. ‘And not only is it on the school’s website but it’s on the achievement and standards page. That’s the one page prospective new parents find out about the standard of education in my school and make their decision about whether to send their child here.’

  Courtney could feel Elliott vigorously shaking her head. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. The welfare of my students has to come first, not to mention the fact that I’m not willing to have my school turned into a laughing stock.’

  ‘Let me have another look at that image please.’

  A few moments of silence before Baxter pleaded, ‘Look! Can’t you see? The woman’s hand doesn’t fit on my thigh properly. It’s obviously fake.’

  The penny dropped for Courtney. She leaned against the wall and pulled out her phone where she found a dozen alerts from other girls through the morning. She went straight to the school’s website.

  On the achievement and standards page was a banner with huge black letters announcing, ‘Naughty Nights At The Glam Gran’s Parties (Uncut).’

  It featured two naked wrinkly women, each one posing on the lap of a bloke who was sat on an easy chair. He leered at the camera with a drink and a cigar wearing just a pair of y-fronts. There wasn’t much light at this Glam Gran’s porno party but there was no doubt it looked very like Barmy Baxter.

  Courtney slapped her palm over her mouth as she creased up laughing. Her tummy hurt so much she had to hold her chest.

  In the office Mrs Elliott was back to her glacial, sniffy self. ‘Since you are on a short-term contract I think it’s best we terminate our arrangement now. Best for all parties. You need to leave the premises now. All your belongings will be forwarded to your address.’

  He began to shout the odds. ‘This is outrageous. You haven’t heard the last of this. You’ll be hearing from my solicitor.’

  The office door opened and then slammed. Courtney raced round to the front door to catch him in the corridor. No way was she missing this moment of total triumph. As he went by red-faced, she pulled some paper out of her pocket and collared him. ‘Please sir, I’m wondering if you could sponsor me? I’m doing a five mile walk to help old-age grannies.’

  Baxter looked at her with hatred. He pushed her out of the way. ‘Fuck off Miller!’

  ‘Here he comes.’

  Tiffany and Flo were at the wheel of a hired car when the man who had dared terrorise their beloved niece emerged from the electronic school gates.

  Flo drove up along side him as he marched down the street.

  She leaned out of the driver’s window. ‘Oi Oi!’

  A still fuming Baxter peered at them. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘No, but you know our niece Courtney. Look mate, what you get up to in your private life is your business but don’t you ever, ever, put your hands on her again – do you understand?’

  Baxter clenched his fists. ‘You faked those porno photos, did you?’

  Flo’s lips shaped into an innocent O. ‘Dunno what you’re gassing on about mate but we will say this: If you threaten our kid again, we won’t play for laughs next time. It’ll be more like this.’

  She chucked a photo at his feet. She turned to Tiff and laughed as they high-fived. Popped an Annie each. With backslapping laughter they drove off at speed.

  Mr Baxter, aka, The Salesman, snatched up the picture. It showed a gravestone with his image on it and the words:

  ‘Mr Baxter

  RIP’

  50

  It was bound to happen.

  Pinky and Styley – the morons should be shot for the names alone - would twig soon enough he was the one backing Babs. And when they did…they’d come after him, blasting on all fronts. That’s why Kieran was looking out of his huge, office window with a sharp eye checking the comings and goings below.

  He stiffened, shifting into high alert, when he clocked a motorbike, driver plus pillion passenger, pull up outside. The guys peered into reception before slowly backing the bike up and checking out the building.

  They wore helmets, trainers and black overalls with baggy tops. Gunman’s clothes. Looked like they were on a reccy to him, casing exits and entrances, alarm system, security guards, the whole shebang. And after that they would lie in wait for him when he was coming or going.
<
br />   And then…Bang! Bang! Bang! He was a dead man.

  He watched them rev up the bike and zoom off up the street. Ordinary Joes probably wouldn’t even notice the bike or think the guys were lost. But Kieran had been in the business way too long not to know better. Or maybe they really were lost, you never knew, especially on the Isle of Dogs.

  ‘Mr Scott?’

  Kieran had forgotten that he was doing an interview with a hack from one of the money mags to big up his business. His PR people liked him doing this but he didn’t. The press thought he was a crook and he didn’t like that. He turned back to see the journo sitting on one side of his teak desk that he’d brought back from a trip to Italy – no expense spared. He could see she thought he was a bit odd, jumping up and going to the window when he heard a noise on the street.

  He smoothed his palms over his Hugo Boss jacket and walked with purpose back to his desk. ‘Sorry Jane, I’m expecting someone.’

  ‘My name is Martha,’ she corrected him, her lips curdling like soured cream at the edges. Tetchy!

  Alright looking woman, nothing to write home about, with long, bronzed hair and soft skin, but the hungry glint in her light-brown eyes spoke volumes about her ambitions. He’d worn that same look once upon a time.

  ‘Martha, ‘o course – now where were we?’ He eased deeper in his chair to give her the impression he was relaxed.

  ‘I was hoping to ask you a question that gets asked from time when your name crops up in the world of finance and development.’

  Kieran clasped his hands together and said, ‘shoot’ before wishing he hadn’t.

  Martha avoided his eyes. ‘Only – it might be considered a bit rude.’

  Kieran shrugged. ‘Ask me anything you like sweetheart – I haven’t got any secrets.’

  She toyed with her pen. Made eye contact. ‘Well, as you’re no doubt aware, there are rumours that you made your fortune by running with friends who come from the London underworld. No doubt that’s just nasty gossip from some of your rivals and there’s no truth in it – but…umm…I was wondering if you’d like to comment on those stories?’

  London underworld? Cheeky fucking bint.

  Kieran gave her a dirty look and then reached across his desk for his antique cigarette box. He lit up an expensive brand of charcoal filter, gold tipped fags and blew out a puff of smoke. Her face scrunched with distaste. A bleeding heart ciggy hater! Well, tough jiggly puffs, she was in his space now.

  Kieran sighed as he leaned slightly forward. ‘Do you know what really pisses me off about this country Jane? It’s the way everyone assumes that a poor boy from the back streets can’t make a few quid for hisself without sticking his fingers in someone else’s till. These chinless, public school prats can’t accept that a geezer from the East End can beat them at their own game, so they start up with the muck spreading at their poncey parties. All them Ruperts and Simons, they can’t hack it, know what I mean? So I’ll be frank with your readers sweetheart.’

  He pulled hard on his smoke and practically blew it in her face. ‘Yeah, I come from a tough neck of the woods. Did I meet a few villains while I was growing up? O’ course I did. Did I get in a few barneys and the odd ruck when I was a nipper? Fair play, yes I did. But let me tell you this; I made my money by honest toil and hard graft, not by ‘running with’ anyone, as you put it.’

  A button on the desk phone lit up. Kieran pressed it and snapped at the receptionist, ‘Not now darlin, I’m doing an interview.’

  She sounded out of puff and harassed. ‘Mr Scott, we have intruders in the building. I have alerted security.’

  He stubbed his fag out with a hard grind. ‘Are they wearing crash helmets?’

  The receptionist’s tone sounded surprised. ‘Yes, that’s right. They rushed the barriers in reception and we think they’re heading upstairs.’

  ‘Alright, tell everyone to keep their heads down.’

  Kieran jumped out of his chair and pulled open a drawer in his desk. He took out a Glock, loaded a magazine and pulled off the safety catch.

  He turned to Martha who looked at his gun in bug-eyed horror. ‘You better get under the desk.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Her lips moved like that of a beached fish.

  ‘Are your deaf? I said get under the fucking desk!’

  As she scrambled to do his bidding Kieran picked up a golf club that was propped up against a wall and tucked it under his arm. He opened the office door a touch, mentally did a three-count, then peered outside. No one around. He ran out and hid in a stationary storeroom that was nearby. He held the shooter tight with one hand and the club with the other.

  This one was going to be down to him. His company security people would run like rabbits when the gunplay started and he couldn’t really blame them. They weren’t paid to risk their lives. What a right idjit he’d been not to have hired a couple of tooled up heavies from the old days as bodyguards and put them on the payroll as caretakers or something. He knew his past was going to catch up with him sooner or later and now he had to deal with all this crap on his own. At the same time, he felt a spark of excitement. This was how he really rolled, not having working dinners with Rupert and Simon.

  He listened intently until he heard a door open at the far end of the corridor and the soft footsteps heading for his office. A single set of steps. The other ponce was probably covering the stairs. That was good; he could deal with them one-on-one. As the guy went past his hidey-hole, Kieran gave it a second and then threw open the door.

  He levelled his Glock at the man who now had his back to him. He had the fucker bang to rights.

  ‘Drop the hard wear, get on the floor or I’ll cut you in two!’

  Even though his head was covered by a crash helmet, Kieran could tell this wannabe killer was taken totally by surprise.

  The geezer half turned and fumbled in his pocket. That was enough for Kieran. He fired twice. The force of the bullets struck so hard he was blown up against the wall where his head banged before he bounced backwards onto the floor. But there was no blood.

  ‘Help! Help!’ Martha screamed from the office.

  Kieran ignored her. He moved forward slowly and used his foot to flip up the guy’s top. Kieran knew what he’d find, and he was right - a BPV. The wanker was out for the count. Kieran found his shooter in a pocket. Slipped it in his own pocket and thought about using his club to break the bloke’s legs but then remembered that there was another one about. This joker could wait.

  Running at high speed down the corridor, Kieran peered through a glass pane in the door to the stairwell. The other gunman was waiting at the top of the stairs, shooter ready for action, looking downwards. Kieran thought the bloke looked a bit on edge as he shifted his weight from one leg to another.

  The guy made towards the door, changed his mind and went down a few steps on the stairs. These two weren’t professionals, but he’d give them that, they had some front, rushing his office like fucking commandos. It crossed Kieran’s mind that it might actually be the brothers themselves, Pinky and Styley. They were young and stupid enough to try a stunt like this. And they’d probably want to take personal revenge for him and his sister’s kidnapping their grandmother.

  Kieran kicked open the door and raised his pistol. ‘Your brother’s dead! Drop the gun or it’ll be double bubble down the undertakers!’

  Stunned for a moment, the guy seemed to be doing as he was told. He stretched out his arm but then twisted and loosed off a volley of shots. Kieran ducked as bullets hit the wall behind. A piercing burn sizzled down the side of his leg.

  Enough with the playing games.

  He fired only one shot back which hit the other man on his helmet. He tumbled down the stairs like a stuntman and then rolled, topsy-turvy, down a second flight. Kieran rushed over to the railing to see his target struggling to his feet and fleeing down the stairwell. He set off in hot pursuit but he took only a few steps before the wound in his leg kicked in and each step became an ag
ony. By the time he staggered down to reception the only trace of the second hitman was the sound of a motorbike tearing down the street at high speed.

  His receptionist’s stark-brown face peeped over her desk.

  ‘Did you call the law?’

  His staff knew the golden rule – never, ever get on the blower to the cops.

  ‘Of course not.’ Her voice shook.

  ‘Good.’ Kieran turned to see frightened staff huddled around reception. ‘Alright – back to work. Nothing to worry your pretty heads over. I’m not paying you to stand around looking scared, am I?’

  Then Kieran remembered. He limped over to the lift as fast as he could and went back up to the top floor, Glock in hand. But by the time he reached the corridor outside his office, the other gunman had legged it. Kieran stumbled back to his office, ripped the sleeve off his shirt and used it to bind what he could see was only a flesh wound on his leg.

  As he put his shooter back in the drawer, he looked under his desk. ‘You still there?’

  A terrified Martha was still hunched in her hiding place. ‘You can come out now, they’ve gone.’

  A badly shaken Martha was shivering as she put her notebook and recorder in her bag. She looked at him, her mouth opened as if to say something. Then, thinking better of it, she left his office as if the hounds of hell were after her.

  As she went, Kieran called after her, ‘don’t forget, all that stuff about me and the Underworld - it’s complete pony.’

  51

  The following afternoon the totally miffed barman of the Bad Moon lay down the law to Babs, vigorously tapping the tip of his finger against the bar to ensure every word got through her loaf.

  ‘I don’t want no argy-bargy this time round, you got it?’

  ‘I’m just meeting my mate,’ she answered sweetly.

  ‘Yeah? That’s what you said the last time.’

  Before they could exchange more crossed words the door swung open. A breathless Pearl stepped inside.