Tough Love (3 page)

‘Don't bring my mum into it.'

The copper looked at her. She knew that he knew she was as high as a kite.

She began to scratch. She wasn't itchy, just felt that she needed to get out of her skin. Her mind
raced. They were going to find the stuff and all Gaz's hard work would be down the drain. She'd be put in prison and Izzy would be taken into care and it would be all her fault. Karina was trying to keep calm, but her already racing heart was thumping in her chest.

The coppers swaggered back into the living room where Karina was standing, sure that this was the moment when she would be arrested. ‘Well, looks like it's your lucky day,' the copper said. ‘We can't find anything.'

Relief flooded through her. ‘I told you,' she said defiantly.

‘Anyway, say hello to that lovely sister of yours, won't you, from all the lads? Can't have her posters up any more – the political-correctness mob's gone mad. But she's up here.' The copper tapped his temple.

‘You make me sick,' Karina said, as the coppers let themselves out, smiling. But it wasn't just them who made her sick. Her sister, bloody Leanne – Leannecrompton, everyone said it as if it was one word, like Madonna – made her nauseous too. With her fancy clothes and her smart life and her bleating all the time about being down-to-earth. She could afford to be, Karina thought. I'd be down-to-earth if I had a Mini Cooper S and four holidays a year.
Bloody Leanne
. She felt the stab of envy she often experienced when she thought about
her sister. Not that she'd tell her. Leanne was too good a meal ticket for Karina to start falling out with her now.

*

Jodie leant over the bar and made sure that her low-cut top gave Dave, one of the regulars, a good look at her ample cleavage. ‘And your own, love,' he said, as he always did. Jodie got the best tips at the Beacon. There was a fight every night and there were more boards than windows on the outside of the building. She didn't particularly like the place, but it was a good stopgap for the time being – and she got the attention from the male regulars that she craved.

She had worked there for a year but knew she wouldn't have to stay much longer, not if Brian Spencer had anything to do with it. He had walked into the pub a week ago and asked the manager, Val, where the lovely younger sister of Leanne Crompton could be found. Jodie had shimmied across to him, swung her long blonde hair over her shoulder and announced, ‘You're looking at her.'

He had managed two seconds of eye contact before his gaze came to rest on her chest. Jodie didn't mind. She knew, as her sister had found, that they were going to be her fortune. Brian had slid his business card across the bar. ‘Call me. I think I
could represent you,' he had said, then ordered a Campari and soda. Val had taken the ancient bottle down and sniffed it slyly. Nobody had ordered Campari at the Beacon for at least three years.

Jodie had looked at the card with delight: Brian Spencer Management. She had tried and failed before to get someone to take her seriously as a glamour model. When she was younger she had thought things would be as easy for her as they had been for Leanne, who'd been an overnight success. But when Jodie had sent her amateur pictures to Leanne's horrible manager she had been told, ‘Yeah, love, I see where you're coming from but you're not the full package like your sister. You're a bit of a barrel and your features are too clustered. Don't get me wrong, sweets, you're a pretty little thing, you just ain't Leanne.'

She had shelved her ideas of fame and fortune and instead had gone on an extreme diet, slimming down to a size six. Her mum had noticed that she was often sick in the middle of the night, but Jodie had passed it off as a bad stomach, and as her mum didn't think about much other than herself for any length of time, she carried on being sick. Every time someone told her how good she was looking, Jodie thought it was all worth it. She could see in the mirror now that her once-chubby face had been transformed. Her eyes were huge and blue and her cheekbones were sharp. Her hair had been
brown when Jodie had sent her pictures to Jenny, but now it was blonde, well coloured and styled – she had made a deal with JoJo at the hairdresser's: JoJo did her highlights for free and in return Jodie shoved her as many Bacardi Breezers as she could get down her face on Friday and Saturday nights at the Beacon.

Until Brian had walked through the door, Jodie had been annoyed with Leanne. She thought her sister could have helped her more. OK, she'd taken Jodie to celebrity parties where she'd met Calum Best and Duncan out of Blue, but so what? She was still living at her mum's and pulling pints at the Beacon. Leanne should have made Jenny take her on, or at least give her a chance.

Anyway, she was going to show that Jenny. She was going to go all the way with Brian Spencer managing her. She didn't know whether Brian could manage a piss-up in a brewery but that didn't matter to her. She wanted the kudos of having a manager. And that was what Brian was.

‘Val says you've got yourself a manager,' Dave said, still staring at her boobs.

‘Yeah, that's right. He's got an office in town. I'm calling him soon to get some pictures taken.'

‘Want me to take some pictures for you?' Dave leered.

‘Why don't you pop off to the toilet and have a wank, Dave? Get it out of your system.'

Val looked on and smiled approvingly. She didn't want to lose Jodie as a member of staff. She might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but her tongue was like a razor.

Leanne pulled out her credit card and handed it to the girl behind the counter, willing it to work. The girl looked at the name and then at Leanne, obviously recognising her but not letting on. Leanne was used to that. Sometimes she preferred the people who charged across the street to say, ‘You're that Leanne Crompton, aren't you?' to the ones who smugly ignored her.

‘I'm sorry. Your card seems to have been declined.' The girl gave her a disingenuous smile.

Leanne felt her cheeks redden. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I can't think why.'

The girl looked at her with
faux
compassion. ‘Maybe one of your others will go through,' she said, sticking the knife in.

Leanne bundled her purse into her bag. ‘No, it's fine. I'll ring the bank and find out what's going on.' She grabbed Kia's hand and fled the shop. She felt completely foolish.

‘You OK, Mummy?' Kia asked.

‘Yes, darling, I'm fine. Come on, let's get a cab.' Leanne had twenty pounds in her purse and she knew Jenny owed her some money but she wasn't sure how much or when she'd get it. ‘Actually, just for fun, shall we get the Tube?'

‘What's the Tube?' Kia asked.

Leanne looked at her daughter worriedly. Unless she could sort out something quickly, Kia's bubble would burst. And Leanne didn't want that.

*

Scott heaved the box of knock-off clothes out of the boot of his C reg BMW and struggled to his mum's front door. He glanced round and saw his girlfriend, Charly, getting out of the car as if she was expecting a team of paparazzi to be there. She had on a denim mini-skirt, her spray tan was perfectly applied and her vest top showed just enough cleavage. She was clutching an oversized handbag that would have cost nine hundred quid if Scott hadn't got his mate, Johnny, a security guard at a local warehouse, to nick it and sell it on to him for two hundred. That was a lot of money for a bag, Scott had thought, but he didn't care if it kept Charly sweet. She was his darling and he'd spend whatever he earned to keep her happy.

She slid her Chanel sunglasses on to her face and
gazed at Scott's mum's house half in disgust, half in despair. ‘Five minutes, Scott, I mean it,' she said as her dog, Mitzi, a yappy little Shih Tzu, jumped out of the car. ‘Mummy won't keep you in this shit-hole with the nasty woman for long, baby,' she said to the dog.

‘Fuck off, Char. Anyone'd think you grew up in fucking Cheshire, not Canterbury Avenue.' It was the toughest street in Bolingbroke. And Charly's family was the hardest on it.

‘Don't tell me to fuck off,' Charly said, all precious.

Scott bit back the retort that flew to his lips. He didn't want an argument, he never wanted an argument, but he got one every day with Charly. There was no love lost between his mum, Tracy, and Charly, but Scott loved his mum and it was the only thing he asked of his girlfriend that, once a week, she would go round to Tracy's with him for a cup of tea and to hand over the week's contraband. Tracy thought Charly had ideas above her station and was bleeding her son dry, and Charly thought Tracy was a scumbag who'd sell her own kids. Scott hopped about hopelessly between the two main women in his life, trying unsuccessfully to keep the peace.

Now he hammered on the boarded-up door. He'd have to get it fixed, he thought.

Tracy opened it. ‘'Ello, son,' she said, standing
back to let Scott in. Charly shimmied up to the door. Tracy gave her a withering look, but the girl walked straight past her. ‘Morning, Princess,' Tracy said.

She shut the door and walked into the living room. ‘Come on, then, let the dog see the rabbit.' She began to rummage through Scott's box.

‘Fuck me, Mum! Give me chance to get through the door.' He bustled past her.

‘Kettle's on, what more d'you want?' Tracy pulled out a Louis Vuitton clutch bag, a Sergio Tacchini tracksuit and a number of watches that had Rolex stamped on them but had never been anywhere near a Rolex factory. ‘Fucking minter,' she said gleefully. ‘I've got ten orders for these trackies down at the Beacon and no fucker can get their hands on them 'cept my Scotty.' She pinched her son's cheek.

‘Gerroff,' Scott said, pulling back. Now he looked at his mum properly for the first time since he'd come in. She had a big purple bruise above her cheek and her eye was swollen. ‘Fuck's done that?' he asked. Charly raised an eyebrow, unseen behind her huge shades.

‘Don't start, Scotty,' Tracy said. ‘It'll just make things worse.'

‘Mum, tell me!' he demanded.

‘Your dad was round the other day.'

‘I'll fucking murder him.'

‘I never said he did it …' Tracy said, her eyes filling with tears.

‘I'll knock his fucking teeth down his throat.'

‘Don't, son.'

‘Where is he?'

Tracy shrugged. She didn't know.

‘And what's Kent done about it? Fuck all, I bet.'

‘You know Kent. He's not a fighter.'

‘No? He's a fucker, in't he? Giving it all that when it suits –' Scott put up a hand in the shape of a crab claw to indicate a lot of yapping ‘– but when the shit hits the fan, where is he? Behind the fucking couch, that's where.'

‘Don't, Scotty,' Tracy said mournfully. ‘He's a good man, Kent is. I don't want to bother him with all my shit.'

‘No? Well, I do, he's a pussy. He should be standing up for you.'

Tracy dabbed her eyes and Charly sighed. Tracy threw her a dirty look.

‘Well, if he won't, I will.' Scott grabbed his mobile phone.

‘Who you calling?' Tracy asked, sounding worried.

‘Our Markie. He should be out by now. He'll find out where Dad's gone. Then I'll go and see the old bastard and warn him off.'

Tracy hugged her son. ‘You're a good lad to me, aren't you? What would I do without you?' Her
chin rested on his shoulder as Scott hugged her back. She was looking straight at Charly, unknown to Scott, who was busy trying to get through to his brother.

Charly slipped her glasses down and eyeballed Tracy coldly. Tracy eyeballed her back and mouthed, ‘Twat.' Tracy Crompton was not a woman to be messed with. But then again, neither was Charly.

*

Markie walked out of Strangeways, Manchester's notorious city-centre prison, and down the road to the busy street he had watched from his cell as he counted down the days until he'd be a free man, able to stand down there, eat, sleep and piss when he liked. About ten minutes later he came to a car he thought would do the job. Old enough not to have an immobiliser, new enough not to break down three minutes after he'd started it. He looked around to see if anyone was watching, and it seemed no one was. He pulled a coat-hanger out of his bag and slipped it deftly down the inside of the door. The button popped up on the inside and then he was sitting inside the T reg Astra, ready to hotwire it within a minute of laying eyes on it.

He fired the vehicle into life and put it in gear.
Sluggish, he thought, not like the Subaru Impreza or the Range Rover he was used to, but it'd do for the time being. And, anyway, he just wanted to get from A to B. He didn't need his collar feeling today. He had an important day ahead of him soon and he needed to keep his head down between now and then.

His phone began to ring. ‘Scott' came up on the screen. Markie ignored it. He loved his brother, but he was as daft as a brush. If Markie'd let him, he'd ring him to ask him how to get out of bed in the morning. Markie had had two years of relative peace, with no access to his mobile in prison, but as soon as he was out Scott was calling. His brother must be psychic. He did feel sorry for him, though, pussy-whipped by that bird of his. Markie didn't like her and the ice-queen routine didn't wash with him. She was a Canterbarbarian, as they called them on Bolingbroke. A scrubber from Canterbury Avenue. No amount of Chanel gear was going to cover up
that
fact. He'd talk to Scott when he was ready. First things first, Markie thought as he pulled up outside Pandora's massage parlour.

He parked the car round the back, pretty sure that the police in Manchester had better things to do than look for a stolen shit-heap. That was what he liked about Manchester: it was anonymous. No one getting up his nose and knowing his business, unlike Bradington where everyone wanted to know his
inside-leg measurement and talk about the latest wank they'd had over his sister, Leanne. Not that many people dared talk about Leanne to Markie. He'd always been protective of her. But since she'd moved to London they'd grown apart. It wasn't anyone's fault. London was a long way away and Markie hadn't been able to visit for a while since he'd been staying in Manchester at Her Majesty's pleasure doing his two-year stint.