Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (4 page)

When she got over her initial shock, she said, ‘Yeah, you can help actually. Can you help me get in this joint? I had a problem with the bouncer – he thinks I’m too young.’

He looked her up and down. ‘Well, you can see why he might have thought that.’

‘Oh come on mister – you’re not a cop or from the council are you? What do you care?’

The man shook the last drops off his little friend. Tiffany couldn’t help looking at it. Weren’t they meant to be bigger than that? His would’ve lost in a competition with a chipolata. He hesitated for a moment before lifting his arms and helping her wriggle her way through the window. He took her by the waist and lowered her to the floor. He looked baffled. ‘Are you sure you’re in the right place? Only you look like you’re dressed for a night out in Romford, love, rather than a pub like this.’

She straightened herself up. ‘I’m here to see a man about a dog.’

That must have tickled him because he smiled again at her. ‘Well, give him a pat on the head for me.’

‘The man or the dog?’

‘Either suits me . . .’

There were two bars. One was full of fit and trendy men while the other was crowded with women who seemed to have dressed to avoid the ‘night out in Romford’ look. The karaoke tunes weren’t the sort that filled a dance floor in Romford either. It was then that the penny dropped for Tiffany. She rolled her eyes and whispered, ‘Oh hell . . .’

A gay bar. Not that she had a problem with gay people. She was in favour of anything that narked other people off – shoplifting, gayness, whatever else – as long as someone, somewhere, didn’t like it, she was happy. It was just that back on the estates, you didn’t meet gay people; you only heard about them as figures of fun or hatred. She’d never met any and this pub was rammed with gayness. She’s never seen this stuff up close before, especially the women. A few were dancing, most were just chatting, but Tiff’s breath caught when she saw a couple tonguing each other in a corner. She dragged her gaze away, suddenly feeling pissed off that she hadn’t been forewarned by the boss man in the Bad Moon. Perhaps it was his idea of a little joke. But it took more than a pub like this to get a laugh at the expense of Tiffany Miller.

‘I want an absinthe cocktail,’ she ordered when she hit the bar.

The trendy barmaid with the gelled back sides and quiff, and Love Heart stud earring, was at a loss. ‘A what?’

An absinthe cocktail was the code words she’d been given by the man in the Bad Moon – but this female Elvis lookalike serving drinks didn’t seem to get it. So Tiffany repeated her request and added, ‘You know what I mean . . . ?’ to make her point. The barmaid looked even more confused.

That was until a man, who’d been loitering in the background, enjoying the singing, realised what was happening. What a total Man-donna, Tiffany scoffed as she checked him out – buffed, tanned, good-looking, and he bloody well knew it.

He tapped the barmaid on the shoulder. ‘I’ll look after this one, Julie. Why don’t you refill the optics?’ He turned to Tiffany. ‘So, you want an absinthe cocktail do you? Follow me and I’ll get you one.’

The man, who spoke in the same la-di-da voice as her bore-me-M&S-knickers-off maths teacher, rang the till and took out some notes before leading her to a storeroom at the back of the pub. He ferreted his way through a huge pile of invoices, letters and receipts that no cop or taxman would ever be willing to work through until he found a dog-eared beige envelope. He checked inside and then handed it over, together with a twenty quid note.

Tiffany looked at the score in disbelief.
Someone’s having a laugh.
‘Is that it?’

She’d busted a flipping gut to get in here and all she had to show for it was a piddling Demi Moore.

‘’Fraid so honey. Here’s a little tip in life, my dear; always negotiate the fee before signing the contract.’

Smug bastard. Like she needed life lessons from some dick who uses moisturiser
.

Tiffany flashed the twenty at him. ‘This can’t even get me back home.’

‘Give over, how much were you expecting? You’re not one half of Bonnie and Clyde, are you?’

Tiffany scrunched the note up and shoved it with disgust in her pocket. She tried to flatten the envelope but it was full of bulky paper; at least she assumed it was paper. She tucked it down the front of her grunge, flannel dress, although she was upset to see it made her look a bit fat; she’d be giving Tubby Guts Bex a run for her money. Man-donna chuckled, amused by her amateurish attempts to hide her wares.

‘Why don’t you stop by the bar and have an absinthe cocktail before you go?’

Tiffany recoiled like he’d gobbed in her face. ‘No chance. I ain’t hanging around to be eyed up by a bunch of lezzas.’ That didn’t stop her from looking lingeringly at the ladies part of the bar.

The man looked wistful rather than outraged. ‘My, my, you really are from the back end of nowhere aren’t you?’

‘Mile End actually.’

‘Whatever.’

As she made her way out, the guy grabbed her by the collar and dragged her back. ‘There’s just one other thing.’ He tapped the envelope under her clothing with his knuckles. ‘Don’t lose this or try and sell it on. It’s worth a lot of money and if our mutual friend finds out you’ve let him down, he’s going to be very upset. And his employer in turn is going to be even more upset. I’d hate to see your new career ending in the foundations for a motorway flyover. This isn’t selling a few pills or nicking stuff from Woolworths, you’re playing with the big boys now. Do you understand?’

There was no anger or threat in his voice. He really did sound just like her maths teacher telling her that if she couldn’t do long division she’d never amount to anything. And perhaps that was why, for the first time since she’d been hired, she felt a chill in her backbone and butterflies in her stomach.

Four

‘Nuts is the name ladies. Not,’ Mister Blue Suit hastened to add, ‘because I am nuts, but because I’ve got lots of them.’ He raised his eyebrows and winked. ‘You know what I mean?’

Hell’s bells, Jen thought, I’ve got a real plastic Casanova on my case. Slowly she checked him out, from head to toe, with a cold, hard look before turning away and dramatically whispering, ‘Oh dear, look what the cat’s dragged in . . .’

Bex gave him a girlie giggle and fluttered her lashes to show she was into it, but Nuts hardly seemed to be giving her the time of day. His hand was casually draped around her shoulder while he was holding on tight to Jen with the other. Then he seemed to realise that there were only two girls, where there had been three down at the club. ‘Where’s the girl with the gob on her gone?’

Jen explained. ‘She went home.’ Then she added, ‘She thought there were too many nerky guys in blue suits hanging around; it was creeping her out.’

Nuts leaned into her face with a smile and she caught a whiff of his aftershave as he whispered, ‘Woah – hard girl. I like it.’

Jen had already decided that this boy-man was a complete prat but he had in-your-face confidence and wasn’t easily deterred; she had to give him that. Nuts gently guided the two women forwards. Bex went eagerly, Jen not so much.

He explained. ‘You see, the thing is, my beauty queens, it breaks my good heart to see a couple of classy-looking birds like yourselves being turfed away at crap clubs. You know what I mean? Crap clubs, crap people, crap clothes, crap music; it’s insulting.’

All his attention was focused on Jen and he obviously liked a challenge. If she’d been doing the whole hyena giggling routine like Bex, he’d have probably lost interest by now. He needed putting in his place. ‘You seemed happy enough to go in there. Perhaps you’re a bit crap as well?’

Nuts shrugged his shoulders. ‘Had to, babe— Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

‘Simone.’

Nuts looked unconvinced by her lie but went with it. ‘Had to, Simone; it’s part of my job to knock around in some of these places.’

‘And what is your job?’ Jen’s sarcasm was as thick as butter on the bread of someone with too much cholesterol. ‘Only it looked to me, down at the club, like you were some kind of minor league drug pusher; offering a special deal to the staff, were you?’

Nuts’ face went stone white. His patter dried up as his arms dropped right away from both women, like he was going to catch something nasty and incurable. ‘What are you then, some kind of undercover cop?’

Seeing his look Jen wanted to laugh her head right off. He didn’t look so piss confident now. She should prolong and twist his agony by introducing herself as Detective Simone of the Yard’s ‘Get Men To Keep it in Their Pants’ special squad. But she didn’t. Not that she felt sorry for him or anything, but she did like the way he smelt, and his eyes.

‘No, just a lady who likes to keep her eyes open.’

‘So – not a cop then?’

‘Don’t worry blue eyes, your little secret is safe with me.’

Nuts recovered himself and pressed on. ‘Drugs? Oh come on, babe, do I look like an ice pusher?’ He looked at his suit as if realising that he did. ‘Drugs isn’t where the money’s at, darling. I work in the City, in finance, loads of lovely spondoolies, and all totally legit. We lend money to the entertainment industry so all these places want to keep me sweet. Obviously, I don’t socialise in them coz they’re a bit crap. I’m actually a member of a private members’ club in Soho. You know, showbiz types – that kind of thing. That’s where I like to hang out when I’m off-duty. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you let me take you down there? Rub shoulders with some stars? There was that bloke from
EastEnders
in there the other night, you know the one who tried to off his missus and set up his brother to take the fall.’

Jen had had enough; she didn’t even watch
EastEnders
; she was a
Corrie
girl. ‘I don’t think so, Nuts. We’re a bit choosy about the kind of blokes we hang out with. We only do designer, not off-the-peg shite.’

Now it was Bex’s turn to have had enough as she glared at her friend. ‘Could you excuse us for a moment, Nuts?’

She took Jen by the arm, led her a few yards away, into a shop doorway, and hissed, ‘What’s the matter with you? I’m starting to think your sister’s right – you really are a bit up-your-own arse. He’s seems a really nice fella. OK, he’s a bit flash and full of himself, but so what? He’s offering to take us somewhere different and you’re acting like Lady Muck. What have you got to lose? You can get the tube back to Mile End if you want, but I’m going with him.’

She flounced off. Jen watched while Bex explained to Nuts that he was only going to be taking her to the club. He looked over in her direction like a cocker spaniel who’d been kicked in the stomach. He looked so disappointed that she began to feel a bit sorry for him. There went her soft heart again. She was also a little worried about her mate. While the guy seemed harmless enough, she didn’t want Bex going off on her own. And if she was being honest, at the back of her mind was the nagging doubt that, under the surface, perhaps this young man really was worth fancying, and she might be missing out. It was clearly her he liked, not Bex. As the two of them turned their backs on her and began to walk away, she called out after them, ‘Hold up, I’m coming.’

After all, what did she have to lose?

Tiffany jumped the ticket barrier at Charing Cross underground and then bolted down the escalator as two members of staff set off in hot pursuit. Coming from the East End, Tiffany knew that genuine criminals are among the straightest people going, when they’re not actually committing crimes. You make sure all the lights on your car are working so the Bill can’t pull you over at random. You make sure your books are all in order, so that the Revenue don’t start snooping around. You don’t get into rucks in pubs, so the law doesn’t have a chance to arrest you and get nosey with your business. You keep a low profile and you keep it clean – apart from whatever your crime of choice happens to be. Tiffany knew all that in theory but she had forgotten it when she got into the business of dodging her fare back home.

Pausing only to kick a man who’d told her to be careful when she pushed him and his girlfriend out of the way, she shot off down the escalator and onto the platform. She knew there was no chance of being caught in the heaving, Saturday night crowd. After a short search, the two jobsworths did an about-turn. She couldn’t understand why people like that bothered; it wasn’t like it was their money. At Mile End station she did the same again but there was no chase this time. A woman in an underground vest merely shouted at her as she vaulted the barrier and disappeared onto the street.

A hundred yards down the road, she went inside a cash and carry to stock up on supplies, but as soon as the guy on the counter clocked her face, he shouted, ‘Get out! Get out! You’re banned! You’re banned! You and your no-good friends . . . !’ He ferreted about under the counter, emerged shouldering a baseball bat and came around to confront her.

He looked like he meant business, so Tiffany decided to move on, flipping him the finger and yelling, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, your shop’s full of out-of-date shit, anyway.’

The shop bell jangled behind her and she carried on down the road until she reached another store. She was banned from that one too but that had been three months back and she was hoping there would be no staff there who remembered her mug. She peered in through the window. The guy on the counter looked familiar but she decided to chance it. She was all smiles and seriously Miss Prim and Proper as she walked up to the counter.

‘Two bottles of vodka and twenty Benson please – my nan does love a tipple and a fag on a Saturday night.’

It was true what her mother said to her. She could be a lovely girl when she wanted to be. But then Babs would plead, Why can’t you be a lovely girl all the time? And Tiffany would roll her eyes and think, Because I’m not a lovely girl and I don’t want to be one. She needed excitement not lovely girl syndrome.

‘Are you sure you’re eighteen?’

It took a huge effort on Tiffany’s part to stay a lovely girl and not yell, ‘Oh bloody hell, mate, not you too.’ Instead she answered sweetly, ‘Yes, I’m eighteen; I’m doing business studies at East London College.’ She always claimed she was doing business studies in these situations; it sounded so respectable.