Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (50 page)

The blonde woman drove for a good twenty minutes before she slid her rental car into a lay-by. Then she pulled off the blonde wig and sunglasses and dumped them on the passenger seat.

Tiffany Miller grinned as she looked at herself in the rear-view mirror. She’d played a cunning and clever game, shifting everyone around like chess pieces. She hadn’t started out with any thought of taking the car, but that had all changed when she’d passed the estate agent’s window on Mile End Road. For there she had fallen head first for a one-bed flat for sale. This money would give her the deposit she needed. To be given the chance to move out of her mum’s and have her own place was simply a dream come true. And hanging on to Dee’s car was going to give her the readies she needed.

It had been easy to move the car from the garage in Southend. After she had held a sobbing Jen in her arms while they were in the B ’n’ B, once her sister was asleep she’d stayed awake for a while and then slipped out of the room. She’d gone to the garage, removed Dee’s car and hidden it elsewhere. By rights, with all this shit going on she should have driven it straight around to Dee’s and just ’fessed up. Taken Jen and the girls out of harm’s way. But when she saw Dee’s plush motor again – God forgive her – she couldn’t take it back; just couldn’t do it. Watch all her dreams drive off into the distance? That was too much to ask a girl from The Devil. So she’d decided to leave everything in motion and see where things ended up. Mind you, she had almost spilled the beans to Jen when they drove back to The Devil, but when they were distracted by the cops outside their mum’s, the moment had passed. She’d then decided to confess all to Jen if the girls weren’t at Dee and John’s. But they had been, so Tiffany had kept her mouth shut. Dee had written off her beloved car and moved on. So had Tiffany – to a mega payout that was going to set her up for life.

‘Sometimes you only get one chance to change your life, sis.’
That’s what she’d told Jen while they were in the B ’n’ B. And, as far as Tiffany was concerned, this was her chance and she’d taken it.

Tiffany popped the radio on and grinned hearing her favourite track of the year blaring out. Swaying, she started singing at full blast to OutKast’s ‘Hey Ya!’

Seventy-One

‘Happy birthday to you.

Squashed tomatoes and stew.

I saw a fat monkey,

And I thought it was YOU!’

The gathered crowd roared the last word and then raised the roof with thunderous applause. Babs beamed as she watched her granddaughter Courtney chuckling away, starry-eyed at the surprise birthday verse. The house was packed with children, streamers, balloons and party food. Babs was as pleased as punch to see her Dee’s Nicky at the stereo system, ready to take control of the music. At a nod from Babs he hit the music and the kids started running around, some dancing while others played a rowdy game of catch. Babs was so pleased to see Courtney get over her earlier sulk. She’d been gutted when she found out Dexter Ingram wasn’t invited to the party, and just didn’t get it when her mum muttered about him having ‘bad blood’. The poor girl couldn’t understand why the boy she was sweet on wasn’t allowed anywhere near her. It did seem unfair. But then, that was life; you couldn’t have everything you desired and the sooner Courtney learned that, the better her life would be.

Babs walked over with pride to where her three daughters stood chatting with each other. Things had gone a lot more smoothly than she’d anticipated. Sure, she still had to take the heat sometimes from Dee wanting to know about her father, but getting to know Jen and Tiffany had mellowed her eldest out some. Babs was keeping her fingers crossed that it stayed that way.

‘Shall I get the cake?’ Babs whispered to Jen. They’d got a gorgeous pink-and-white cake with Courtney’s name written across it in gold and silver glitter, especially made by Percy Ingles. Oh, little Courtney’s face was going to light up when she saw it.

Instead of answering, Jen gazed around the beautiful front room where the party was being held. ‘I still can’t believe that Mrs Jackson let you use her wonderful house. This place is just cor blimey gorgeous.’

Babs had spoken to Mrs Jackson, one of the clients she cleaned for, who lived in one of the huge houses in the Georgian Square, across the road from The Devil’s Estate. Well, that’s the story Babs had told her daughter.

‘I’d better go and get that cake then. Get Nicky to turn the music off in thirty seconds flat.’ And with that she hurried into the kitchen at the back. She placed ten candles on the cake and, when she got the signal (the music stopping), she headed, with a big grin, towards the main room. She thought it was a bit strange that she couldn’t hear any noise. She hoped her daughters hadn’t told everyone to shush-it because then Courtney would know her cake was coming and Babs so wanted it to be a surprise. Never mind.

But when Babs got inside and saw the man standing near Courtney and Jen, she realised why it was so quiet. The cake slipped from her hand with shock and crashed to the floor.

‘Babs, I can’t believe you never sent me an invite to my own granddaughter’s birthday,’ announced Stanley Miller.

Acknowledgements

Blood Sister
would never have been written without the spot on expertise and encouragement of my super editor Ruth Tross and the amazing editing machine Zelda. Thanks also to Becca and Lucy for all the PR and marketing. Total kudos and thanks, as always, to my incredible agent Amanda Preston.

A special thanks to all you wonderful readers for all your loyal support and for spreading the word.

Thank You!

Thank you for reading
Blood Sister.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed that you enjoyed it. If you did I’d love to hear about it – you can get in touch with me by:

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[email protected]

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@DredaMitchell

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I always love to be linked to reviews and ratings on your blogs or online!

If you enjoyed BLOOD SISTER, look out for the gripping new novel in the FLESH AND BLOOD trilogy

BLOOD MOTHER

1972

Babs is a girl in trouble. But when she falls for charmer Stanley Miller the trouble gets worse. Much worse.

Coming February 2017

Read on for an exclusive sneak peek.

Blood Mother: Sneak Peek

1972

‘You’re a whore! And a murderer!’

As if the spitting rage coming from the normally quiet and gentle Doctor McDaid was not enough, there was worse to come. Babs Wilson had, unfortunately, left the door to his surgery open as she fled out of it back into his waiting room so that several rows of patients could all hear him tearing a strip off her.

A few minutes earlier she had been sitting among them, waiting her turn, fists clenched white, hoping against hope that there was some mistake in the test results she’d got yesterday. In his surgery McDaid had soon killed that off; fear and last-minute hope turned to horror and a thin film of sweat appeared on her face. Then, when he turned on her in fury, she’d gone into shock. Now she stood in front of the other patients like an actor who’d forgotten her lines.

Some of her audience looked away in embarrassment, while others watched her with curiosity. Among them were several proper gossips who were already eagerly trying to work out what was going on so they could spread the word. She could imagine what their malicious patter would sound like once it started doing the rounds: ‘
Did you hear about the Wilson girl? I was down the quack’s when Doctor McDaid called her a whore and a murderer. Old Jim McDaid was in a right two and eight, I can tell you. I wonder what that was about. As if we didn’t know  . . .
’ Babs caught the eye of the Jackson woman, aka Dirty Laundry Jackson, who lived on her street. She’d be straight to work on the gossip mill, no doubt adding her own poisonous flavour and flesh to the story. The old bitch.

Babs was eighteen, a proud girl from a proud family. Her father had always told her to keep her head up and walk tall, no matter what. So she raised her head, stared down the gawpers and tried to walk tall. But when everyone heard the doctor call out again, to no one in particular, ‘Whore! Murderer! The shame of her honest family!’ she caved. Her shoulders sagged and teardrops stung her cheeks.

The receptionist called out, ‘Mrs Donovan? Doctor McDaid will see you now. Could you remember to close the surgery door on your way in?’ Then she gestured at Babs to tell her to sling her hook. Babs moved with gathering speed.

Out on New Road in Whitechapel, she pulled in gasps of air. Without realising it, she found herself wandering into the traffic. A car slammed on its brakes and squealed to a halt a few inches short of her. The driver shook his head and pointed at his eyes before shaking his head again and driving round her. For a brief moment, Babs wished the motor had hit her at speed and dragged her down the road into oblivion, because she was a young woman in Big Trouble. In fact she was in Big Trouble twice over.

She might have been able to cope with one or the other but not both. She couldn’t go home to her parents’ house and she couldn’t go and see her friends. But as she tramped the streets of the East End, she realised she didn’t have to. She would just go and see Nev straightaway. He would sort her out. It was almost his catchphrase. ‘There’s nothing I can’t sort out, baby. Nothing – you only have to ask and I make it happen.’

She hadn’t seen Nev for a week or more. He was busy at the moment and couldn’t fit her in. But she was proud of how busy he was. He wasn’t a lazy bloke like some of the lads she’d grown up with. No, her Nev had prospects. Ambition. Perking up without realising it, she began the trek, crossing over Commercial Road, towards the Bad Moon boozer in Shadwell where Nev held court most lunch times, although he’d never taken her there himself. He would sort things out. Then she whispered out loud to no one, ‘He’ll have to, won’t he?’

Nev was Babs’ fiancé. Of course it wasn’t official like; Nev didn’t do ‘official’. He didn’t buy engagement rings or hold celebration parties; that wasn’t his style. He was his own man who went his way and lived by nobody’s rules but his own. That was one of the things she loved about him. But it was ‘understood’ that they were engaged. When she stopped outside jewellers and gave lingering glances at the array of silver and gold rings, Nev would squeeze her arm and say, ‘No need to rush things, baby. We’re happy as we are. All in good time. Everything comes to him who stands and waits.’

So she’d waited. And waited. And waited.

When Rosie Wilson clocked old Ma Jackson coming down her street, wearing her trademark black hairnet, she picked up speed so she could get into her house before the evil old crone collared her and wasted her time spreading the malicious natter that she specialised in. The big slob of a woman was legendary for sticking her snout – misshapen and red from years of stout and gin – into any and everything that wasn’t her business.

Rosie always wore her headscarf when she went out because it was proper for a woman of her age, just like her George wore his tie without fail. The Wilsons were a respectable family, unlike many of those who lived in the streets behind the London Hospital in Whitechapel. That’s why she didn’t care for back-fence talk. Besides, most of Dirty Laundry Jackson’s was made up anyway. But the old dear was too quick for her. As Rosie got her key out, Jackson caught her on the doorstep.

‘Hello, Rosie love. Long time no speak. How’s the family? Everything alright?’ Then she added with a snide smirk, ‘How’s your girl Babs getting on? Everything OK?’

Rosie looked in the old woman’s spiteful, watery eyes. Jackson had the manners of a door-to-door salesman. She was that annoying. Babs cut her short. ‘Yeah, we’re very well, thank you, and Babs is fine. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

But Jackson wasn’t fobbed off so easily. She was an expert at this game. ‘Oh that’s good, that’s very good. So Babs is alright then, is she?’

Rosie pursed her lips, annoyed as hell that this woman wouldn’t take her loathsome business elsewhere. ‘Yes, Babs is fine. I just told you.’ She turned the key in the lock.

Jackson moved in for the kill. ‘Are you sure? You know me, dear, I don’t like to spread gossip . . .’

Rosie interrupted with leaden sarcasm, ‘No, I know you don’t.’

‘. . . But I was down Doctor McDaid’s this morning and your Babs was there having a right old barney with the Doc. He was in a fair old state, thought he was going to burst a blood vessel for sure. Effing and jeffing at her, he was, while your girl gave it back to him like a proper fishwife. He was calling her all sorts of vile names that I wouldn’t like to repeat, dear – then Babs marches out of the surgery giving him the old Harvey Smith.’ She rolled her eyes dramatically. Rosie couldn’t imagine her darling Babs sticking two fingers up at anyone, like that show jumper Harvey Smith had done the year before.

But Ma Jackson cracked on. ‘I’ve never seen the like in my life. So I thought to myself, there’s something not quite Kosher here; I mean old man McDaid is always as quiet as a mouse and your Babs is such a nice girl . . . usually.’

Rosie kept it zipped. The mud that this poisonous old trout liked to sling around was always embroidered – though sometimes, just sometimes, there was a root of God’s honest truth in there somewhere. But Rosie found this particular bollocks story impossible to believe on any level.

Fortunately, the two women were interrupted by the appearance of a striking girl dressed in flared slacks, a cheese cloth blouse and platform heels.

‘Hello Mrs Wilson, is Babs in?’