Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (46 page)

‘The fucking front of it. He nicks my Marilyn and then brings a fake around by way of apology and imagines I’ll fall for it. Then I suppose we were all going to have a good laugh and go for a drive. What a fucking tosser.’ She let fly at her victim with a kick to his leg. Nuts groaned behind the gag. Dee screamed, ‘You wanker. You’re dead, you’re . . .’ She could think of no words that would do justice to her anger so she gave him another kick to make her point.

John straightened the suit and tie he was wearing for the visit of Dee’s mother and took her by the arm to lead her away. ‘Alright, calm down. We’ll sort him out later. Your mum will be here anytime now. Go and play happy families with her. Only remember, when you give her the grand tour, don’t bring her down here.’

Dee pulled her shoulders back. ‘You’re right. Plus, I’m better than this. I’m not a violent person.’ But she gave Nuts an additional kick anyway.

John took her to the steps that led back up to the house. He looked back at Nuts and tried not to show any sympathy but he felt some anyway. The small timer’s wrists and face were already going red and he was desperately professing his innocence, although with his mouth stuffed, it came out as the sound of someone slowly being suffocated. Too bad for him he wasn’t an animal or a child – in that case, Dee would be getting him a bun or a saucer of milk, whatever it was he’d done. John was confident that Nuts would tell them where the stolen car had gone, now he was under lock and key. He had no choice. Whether that meant they’d be able to get the car back or not, and what was to happen to Nuts afterwards, were other matters. But John knew he had a little time now to make up his mind.

When they reached the top of the steps, they were startled to find their son waiting there. Nicky seemed agitated. ‘Who’s that bloke?’

John looked at Dee and then back at his boy. ‘What bloke? There’s no bloke.’

‘The geezer who brought mum’s car back. The one you roughed up on the drive. The one you’ve just dragged down to the safe room.’

John put his arm on Dee’s shoulder. ‘I’ll tell you what, my dear, why don’t you go and powder your nose and plump the cushions for your mum’s arrival while I deal with this.’

John took Nicky into the dining room and closed the door. ‘There is no bloke, OK? You haven’t seen any geezer round here because he doesn’t exist. This house isn’t public school and we don’t play cricket in this place. Instead, think of your home as a miniature East End. And in the East End, you don’t see things that you don’t need to see or hear things that you don’t need to hear. And above all, you certainly don’t say things you don’t need to say. So, as far as you’re concerned, there is no bloke. Are you getting me here, son?’

John could see the boy got him but it didn’t seem to be helping. Instead, Nicky looked really spooked, which he didn’t understand. ‘You think he nicked Mum’s car, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps I would if he existed but he doesn’t exist, so it’s not an issue.’

‘He didn’t nick it; you’re so wrong.’

John’s patience ran out. ‘If you’ve got a problem with your hearing perhaps a cuff on the ears might help clear the tubes?’

Nicky said no more. He left the room with his head down. John was disappointed but he’d always suspected that if they sent the kid to public school, he might turn out straight. Nicky should know better than to flap his gums when his mum and dad were taking care of business.

Dee was madly rushing around the house. She’d changed into a hot pink number with so much bling attached it would have made 50 Cent looked underdressed. She seemed to have forgotten the man who didn’t exist. ‘Nicky! Get in the front room. Why aren’t you in your school uniform? And have you got the prizes and certificates you’ve won out, to show my mum?’

‘I ain’t won no prizes or certificates,’ he answered back in a sulky voice.

Dee’s head was spinning, nerves eating her up. The bloody doorbell was going to go any minute. ‘Right waste of money your education’s been; you’re a right show up. Never mind, tell her about your prizes and certificates anyway, she won’t know the difference. Oh, and talk fucking posh.’

A car pulled up outside the house. Dee hurried to the window crying, ‘She’s here, she’s here.’

She disappeared into the hall and touched up her Halle Berry cut in the mirror before heading to the door.

John walked into the family room and, after clocking a deeply depressed-looking Nicky on the sofa, he went to the window himself. Outside, a woman, who he suspected wasn’t much older than himself, was paying a cabbie. John studied the scene with a weary look, as he could see this was going to be a long evening with Dee on tenterhooks, taking care of her mum while he came up with a plan to deal with the scumbag they had trussed up like a chicken downstairs. Then he noticed something outside. He pulled back the curtain and had a closer look before whispering, ‘Who the hell are they then?’

The cab carrying Dee’s mum had passed Jen and Tiffany who were parked in a lay-by on the way to Dee’s house. Not that either of them had noticed. Jen’s gaze was fixed on the chimneys to the property, where she was convinced her children were held captive. It seemed to Tiffany that her sister had finally calmed down and was ready to listen to reason.

‘Let’s go home and call the Plod, eh?’ she said, keeping her voice very calm. ‘Even if Dee’s got the kids, they won’t be in the house. But she hasn’t got the kids, I promise you. It’s not her style, I know her. Kidnapping adults? Yes, I get that. But kids? No chance . . . Mum’s probably home by now and wondering where we are.’ She squeezed her sister’s arm. ‘Come on eh? Let’s go home.’

Jen didn’t look at her sister but just carried on staring.

Tiffany had spent the entire journey trying to come up with a plan but the only thing she could think of was to wait for Jen to cool it and then use common sense on her. It wasn’t working.

Jen drew a deep breath and began rummaging around in her handbag. ‘Right, I’m going in. Are you coming? If not, you can wait here and pick us up after the job.’

Tiffany drew a deep breath in turn, before saying. ‘They’re not in there, Jen. Even if they have taken the kids, they won’t be there. Those two aren’t stupid. They’re proper criminals; they’d be keeping them miles away. Please listen to me. I know how upset you are but what you’re doing is fucking bonkers, babe.’

Jen didn’t even look at her; that’s how far she was lost in her own world of revenge. ‘So you’re not coming then. Suit yourself. It’s probably better you’re not involved anyway.’

Tiffany madly shook her head. ‘You’ll go to prison! What use are you going to be to the kids if you’re banged up? Have a think about that.’ Jen opened the car door to get out but Tiffany grabbed her arm and dragged her back. Her voice turned rough and angry. ‘What do you think is waiting in there for you? Some soppy old goat from a sweet shop? This is John Black we’re talking about. He’s armed and dangerous. He’s killed people. And you think you’re going in there with a busted hammer and a bread knife to take him on? Have you gone nuts?’

The two women began to struggle. There were scuffs, bumps and thumps in the confined space and it seemed that Jen was trying to whack her sister with her handbag. Tiffany clenched her fists, determined to knock Jen out as a last resort and drive her home unconscious. But she unclenched her fist and gasped with horror when she saw that she was staring down the barrel of a battered and stained Browning pistol, which was being held against her face.

Sixty-Six

Tiffany reared back in stunned horror. ‘Oh my God, Jen, where the fuck did you get that from?’ This wasn’t the soft-hearted sister she knew. Jen appeared cold, determined – a woman who’d suddenly realised that you had to harden your heart sometimes to deal with the world.

Jen clasped both hands around the butt of the gun. ‘It was in our old man’s toolbox, wrapped in oil skin.’

Tiffany shook her head in utter disbelief. ‘You picked that shooter up in front of that cop? Now I know you’ve lost it . . .’

‘I didn’t know it was a gun until I went into mum’s toilet and had a look. Anyway, what do they care?’

‘I think the courts do. Five years, isn’t it? And I think you get more if you actually kill people with them.’

Jen pushed the driver’s door open with her foot and began to back out of the car while keeping the pistol trained on her sister. To Tiffany, she appeared both unnaturally calm and wild at the same time, with the deadly weapon in her hand and her hair hanging over her face. Tiffany didn’t know much about firearms but the gun looked so knackered she wasn’t sure it would shoot anyway. And that was supposing Jen knew how to fire it, which Tiffany very much doubted. She watched her sister slink away. A few yards down the road, her sister stopped and began to inspect and fiddle with the gun, holding it up to get a better view of it.

Tiffany put her head in her hands, rubbed her face with them and reached for the car door. Her sister had been right, back at their mum’s flat. This was all her fault. Framing Nuts for the car theft had been mega stupid. But barging into John and Dee’s place with a shooter was about the craziest idea anyone could think of, and the last thing she’d intended. Then again, this was all her fault and she had to go with her. She couldn’t let her sister go in there alone; Jen was too good a person and too good a mother. Plus, the guilt was starting to eat away at Tiffany. She should confess to Jen – tell her the full story of what was going on. If anything happened to the girls because of her . . .

Resolved to tell Jen the truth, Tiffany opened the door, but before she could say anything there was flash of yellow and orange, a rumble of thunder and the windscreen crashed backwards into thousands of pieces, showering her with shards of glass. For a few seconds, she sat rigid as an ironing board while her head tried to understand what had happened. It was only when Jen came rushing up to her, showing her the gun and crying, ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It went off. Are you alright?’ that she understood that her sister had accidentally fired it.

Tiffany climbed out of the car and snatched the pistol from her hand. ‘I’ll look after that. Some fearsome gunslinger you are.’ She checked the gun and tried to find the safety catch. ‘Mind you, the old man is partly to blame; fancy keeping a shooter in a toolbox with the catch off. What a prat Stanley Miller was.’

She could see her sister was desperately trying to fight the tears – tears of utter madness and rage. She put her arm around Jen and gave her a hug. ‘Alright, come on, we’ll go up there together and see if we can find out what’s going on. But the shooter’s for self-defence, OK? And chuck those knives and the hammer away. We won’t be needing them.’

There were clanks as Jen did as she was told and threw her various weapons into a ditch. Through muffled sobs she asked her sister, ‘How are we going to get in there?’

Tiffany laughed. ‘Hadn’t really thought this through, had you, sis? Don’t worry; I know how to find my way in. They’re too arrogant to make the place really secure; they think no one would dare try and break into their home. Although having seen Dee in full sail, I’m not all that surprised.’

They reached the perimeter wall of the house. ‘But I’m afraid we might have lost the element of surprise. Your gun shot will probably have alerted everyone for miles.’

In the walls was a wooden gate that led through to the back garden. Tiffany turned the latch and led her sister through. They walked past the flowerbeds, avoiding the lawn where they might be seen and over to the conservatory. Inside the house there was no sign of life.

‘Hide by the shed while I check the front.’

Tiffany made her way down the decking that joined the back garden to the front, that Dee had named ‘Lovers’ Lane’. She ducked low as she passed the kitchen window, then very carefully peered inside. A miffed-looking John was struggling with the popcorn maker. He seemed unhappy but not like a man who’d just organised the kidnap of two children. Tiffany was more convinced than ever that she was about to break into a gangster’s house on a wild goose chase with a crazy sister and a gun. She carried on down Lovers’ Lane until she reached a wooden partition with a gate in it that led out to the front gardens and the drive where various vehicles were parked, including John’s Range Rover, which looked in a sorry state after the crash. Over by the gate was another car, covered with a tarpaulin.

There was no sign of visitors and no sign that John had stationed anyone out front to keep an eagle eye open for unwanted ones. When Tiffany got back to Jen, she shook her head. ‘Let’s go. The kids aren’t here. John’s in the kitchen making popcorn for Christ’s sake. Kidnappers don’t make popcorn.’

Jen’s expression grew stubborn. ‘They’re in there. I know they are. Mother’s intuition.’

Tiffany gritted her teeth, felt the gun in her pocket and gestured with her head for her sister to follow. ‘Alright then, mad bird. Let’s go.’

Nuts had twisted and turned to avoid the reach of John and Dee, for a crime he hadn’t committed. But that was then. Now it was just a case of staying alive. Christ he’d only tried to make the situation right by nicking another Pirano FS that he heard was being kept safe in a garage in Broxbourne. The only problem he had foreseen was that it was bloody blue and that had been easily sorted (or so he thought) by a re-spray. But he’d got that totally wrong, not realising that mad woman Dee also had her car customised.

He sat in darkness, bound hand and foot with a duster taped to his mouth, the only light coming from a couple of CCTV screens showing footage from the garden and the drive. He knew he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box but he also knew how to keep his nerve and he had some time. Dee had visitors. He was safe until they went and the deadly couple upstairs came down to lay into him again. Using his tongue as a makeshift fork he began chewing the duster into pieces, slowly but surely, and then storing the shreds in his cheeks like a hamster. When there was enough space in his mouth he began levering the tape that closed his lips, using his tongue again. Filling his lungs with air, he blew through the small spaces on the sticky surface of the tape covering his mouth while grinding his jaws to loosen it. Finally, he moved himself and the chair he was tied to across the floor and over to a bench, by bumping it from side to side. He pressed the dislodged tape against the wood with his head and rocked it backwards and forwards. The tape finally came free. He spat the chewed duster on the floor.