Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (12 page)

Her mum looked worried as she took in Dee’s slapdash clothing and messed-up hair. ‘You don’t look too good. Not ill are you? Not got that nasty bug that’s been doing the rounds?’

The only nasty bug at the moment is you.
Dee felt bad as soon as the thought stormed through her head. The reason she’d found her mum was to get to know the woman and, if she was honest, discover why her mum had given her up.

‘I’m fine. Like I just said, what are you doing here?’

Her mum stepped inside and gazed around her gaff. ‘Just wanted to see where my baby is living.’

‘I’m not your
baby
,’ Dee answered in a voice that could chill the sun. Dee so wished now she hadn’t given this woman her address, but she’d come over all ‘Surprise Surprise’ when she was reunited with her mum; as sentimental as heck. She’d even dreamed of them taking a Caribbean cruise, sipping cocktails in the bar, watching the beautiful sunset together. Well, the sun hadn’t set when they’d met for the second time. That’s when Dee found out that her newly discovered mother was going to keep the door shut on much of her past, including the first few months of Dee’s life.

Dee wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with this right now. ‘I’m on my way out so you can’t stop for long.’

Dee didn’t offer her a seat, too conscious that she needed to go over to her mate’s to pick up her toddler. Whatever her mum wanted she needed to hurry it along.

‘You’ve turned into a really gorgeous girl. Look just like . . .’ Her mum shut up.

Dee stuck her fists on her hip. ‘Like my dad? The same dad that you won’t tell me anything about?’ She desperately wanted to know who her father was. Although her mum was white, all the world saw when they looked at Dee was a black woman and so it was natural that she wanted to know more about her black dad. She wasn’t stupid enough to have built him up to be a saint, but just to know his name would be something very special for her. But her mum wasn’t playing ball.

Her mum’s voice was soft. ‘Dee, let’s not do this, honey. We’ve already been around the houses about this. All I want to do is get to know you.’

‘Well I’d like to get to know the man who shoved a load of sperm up you.’ Dee knew she was being crude, but this woman didn’t deserve her respect, not if she didn’t have the common decency to cop to who her father was. ‘All I want is a name.’

But her mother ignored her question as she strolled from the passage into the front room. ‘Own this place do you? Or renting from the council?’ She turned back to Dee and smiled. ‘Because you look like a girl who’s on her way up.’

‘No thanks to you, since you didn’t bring me up. What was the trouble, Mum? Scared shit of bringing home a – what was it some of the kids at school used to call me – oh yeah, a half-caste little bastard?’

The other woman’s face sagged. ‘I’m sorry, so so very sorry that happened to you.’

Dee didn’t want her pity; all she wanted was her gone. ‘Well I’m a big girl now and anyone who has the brass balls to fling crap in my face will get a fistful of rings.’

‘Any chance of a cuppa or something stronger? Let’s sit down and have a nice little chit-chat about—’

‘Sorry, Mum, you need to leave.’ Dee headed for the door and held it open, ‘I’ve got business to take care of.’

Her mum gave her flat one last look and then walked to the door. As she stepped out she said, ‘I really wish I could tell you his name—’

Dee slammed the door.

The muffled sound of her mother’s voice came through the door. ‘We still on for Friday then?’

Dee leaned against the door. ‘Yeah.’

As the other woman’s footsteps faded away, Dee just stayed rooted to the door. Just seeing her mum drained all the energy from her. She’d grown up in a good family with a woman who took her job as surrogate mum seriously, but somehow that didn’t make up for not being held close to her own flesh and blood. Dee shook off thoughts of the bad times, headed back to her bedroom and stared at the photo of the Italian sports car. She couldn’t wait for the day when that woman saw her driving it and Dee would make sure she understood that her baby-dumping self would never get to ride in it.

As much as Dee bad-mouthed her mum in her head, she couldn’t let her go. Once found, how do you let go of the woman who gave birth to you? The idea that her mum would think she was some no-hoper was crushing. Dee was going to show her what a success she’d made of her life and that meant reeling in the loaded John Black. Dee got her brain back into gear with the plan she was going to carry out – getting John’s current gangster groupie, Trish, out of the way.

Dee got into her small run-around and headed over to her mate Marsha’s. She’d always owned a car, whether she was skint or flush; it was not a good look to be seen on public transport. Marsha had initially refused point-blank to loan her toddler Kyle, but when Dee explained that she’d been claiming child benefit for a kid that didn’t exist and the social were coming round to check in an hour, Marsha hadn’t felt able to refuse. Dee was narked at having to give an explanation but when Marsha brought her son out for the loan and she copped an eye on the angelic child, she melted into joy and smiles. It was something she had in common with John; they both had a weak spot for kids. For a few moments, while she lifted the boy into her arms, Dee forgot why she was there. She desperately wanted a child of her own, to create a person that she could rely on one hundred per cent. But she needed the right bloke, and that meant one with the right type of bank balance.

Down on the street Marsha fixed the child into the front seat, fussed over him and made sure his seat belt was secure.

‘I want him straight back here afterwards, Dee, you understand?’

Dee reassured her with one of her heart-stopping smiles. ‘A couple of hours, tops – you know what the social are like; they’ll soon get fed up and piss off. They only want to see a kid in my drum. They’re not going to question Kyle are they? Even they’re not that sadistic.’

It was a very different Dee that drove little Kyle across London. She sang songs with him, told jokes and rolled the car on the road to keep him amused. It was only when they got to their destination that she became serious again. She led him up the stairs of a new-build block of flats and when she reached a front door on the top floor, she picked him up and hugged him in her arms.

‘Now, Kyle, we’re going to play a little game called Let’s Pretend. I’m going to pretend to be angry and my friend is going to pretend to be upset. Do you get it?’

Kyle got it. He knew all about Let’s Pretend. So did Dee.

She knocked on the front door. A woman in a red, silk dressing gown answered it with a towel wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She was just what Dee was expecting: a bottle blonde chick in her twenties, with peachy skin; slim, but well upholstered and with all the fittings that a simple man like John would appreciate.

Trish looked at Dee and then at Kyle. ‘Who the hell are you?’

Dee made her voice shake with overblown emotion. ‘You might well ask who I am. I have the dubious honour of being your boyfriend’s wife and this is our son Tarquin. I suppose you’re going to tell me you didn’t know about us – you home-wrecker.’

Some of the colour drained out of Trish’s face. ‘His missus? You’re joking; he hasn’t got a wife. He said he’d rather stick his todger in a mincer than do the going-to-the-chapel lark again.’

Dee hugged Kyle tighter. ‘That’s what he told you, is it? You realise that’s what he tells all his slags, while me and little Tarquin are sitting crying a river at home. And you were dumb enough to believe him? What kind of idiotic fuckwit are you anyway?’

Trish was nearly snow white. ‘I didn’t know.’

Dee took a deep breath. ‘But you do now. And I’ll hope you have the decency to tell my husband that you won’t be seeing him anymore and that you won’t mention my visit. I’ve still got my self respect.’

Trish didn’t answer but Dee noticed with alarm that some of the colour had returned to her cheeks. Trish folded her arms and firmness returned to her voice. ‘Hold on a minute, that kid’s white, you’re black. And where’s your wedding ring?’

Dee considered explaining that she was mixed race and that, with her and John’s gene pool mixed together, Tarquin might well have looked white. But instead she decided that was enough of Let’s Pretend. She lowered Tarquin/Kyle to the ground and explained in a whisper and with a smile that they were now playing a new game. This one involved him closing his eyes, putting his fingers in his ears and singing ‘The Wheels On the Bus Go Round and Round’ to himself. When he did so, Dee was triumphant; she always knew she was great with kids.

She rose back to her full height, grabbed Trish by the lapels of her dressing gown and forced her back into the flat and up against the wall. She whipped the towel from the other woman’s body and lashed it against the wall next to her. Trish cringed with a squeal.

‘Right, bird brain, you listen to me.’ Dee smacked the towel against the wall again. ‘It doesn’t matter to you whether I’m his wife or not, or whether little Tarquin is his kid or not. You’re to give him a bell tonight and tell him it’s over. Do you get me?’ She lashed the towel with such menace and force next to Trish’s face that tears sprang into the other woman’s eyes. ‘Because if you don’t, I’ll be popping round here again without the kid and that’ll clear the decks for some assault and battery – you know what I mean? – as it will if you mention my little visit to him. I’m pretty nifty with a blade and you don’t want to end up looking like the Bride of Frankenstein.’’

Dee stretched the towel against Trish’s throat and pressed down. The colour was certainly returning to her cheeks now, but it was a sickening shade of purple.

Trish just managed to choke out ‘Yes’ before Dee triumphantly let her go.

Dee left, skipping along the balcony with Kyle and cheerfully humming Ace of Base’s ‘All That She Wants’.

Fifteen

Jen felt crushed as she exited Mile End Station, her hands limply holding her portfolio. And stupid; she should’ve seen slimy Liam coming a mile off. But that’s what happened when you let your dreams take over. Then she remembered that Nuts said he was coming over to take her out this evening. It was almost eight and if he’d turned up he’d be long gone by now. It wasn’t that she believed he would actually turn up at 7.30 as he’d promised, but she couldn’t be sure. The bloke had more front than the beach on
Miami Vice
.

When she reached The Devil the first thing she saw were two girls slogging it out while a group of lads looked on, laughing. One of the boys was collecting money from one of the others, probably betting on the outcome of the fight. And no doubt the girls were going at it over ownership of one of the boys. Pathetic! The whole spectacle made Jen’s lip curl in disgust. She would never go toe-to-toe over some geezer; if he was putting his John Thomas in some other woman, she’d tell the bastard to keep walking. She didn’t ever want to be so desperate for a slice of good life she resorted to fighting for it in public.

‘A girl like you.’ She couldn’t get Liam’s nasty remark out of her head. Maybe this was what a girl like her really deserved – to live and finally die on The Devil’s Estate.

Dejected, she scanned the car park for Nuts’ flashy motor, but when she saw no sign of it she made her way up the stairs, home. As she walked up, she couldn’t help wishing that he had come. Because, by now the Merc would be on bricks, all its remaining windows would have been put through and half the paintwork would have been keyed off. Unless, of course, it was a blackened wreck (the victim of the second part of third party, fire and theft). Now that would have cheered her up.

But when she got to her front door, she heard the sound of her mother cackling loudly inside. It was obviously not Tiffany causing her to laugh and her mum seldom had visitors. Babs was cautious about who she let into her home: too many light fingers and nosey parkers living on The Devil. Jen backtracked along the landing and checked the car park again. Still no Mercedes there, but she did notice a fuck-off metallic, silver BMW that she hadn’t seen before. Sitting on a wall nearby were two local kids who she suspected had been slipped some ‘guard it with your life’ cash. She walked back to her front door and opened the letterbox. Amid Babs’ laughter was the sound of a highly amused Nuts sharing a story with her.

Jen always tried hard to keep the effing and blinding to a minimum. Swearing to high heaven was so common and didn’t project the kind of sophisticated image she was comfortable with. But she was badly stressed all over again. ‘I don’t fucking believe this.’ Although she cursed she did buff her hair quickly with her fingers thinking about old blue eyes waiting inside.

She drew a breath, opened the front door, placed her portfolio against the wall and walked into their front room. Nuts was spread out across a sofa with a grin and a cuppa in his hand. He wore a smart, tanned leather jacket, stone-washed jeans and a white T-shirt that had a huge black and gold dragon on it. Who did he think he was? Bruce Lee? When he realised who’d just walked in, he hastily sat up straight, got rid of the smile and put the tea down like a naughty school kid.

Babs was all sunshine and smiles. ‘Hello, hun.’ She turned to Nuts and continued with pride, ‘Jen was getting some extra lessons from her tutor. She’s going to be in the fashion—’

‘Can I have a word with you a moment? In private?’ Jen’s eyes snapped at her mother.

The two women went into the kitchen where Jen closed the door. She jabbed a finger at her mother in disbelief as she demanded, ‘Mum – what the fuck? I mean seriously – what the fuck?’

Babs held up a restraining hand. ‘Now, I know what you’re thinking, but the poor boy’s just come round to apologise about the flowers. He knows he’s done wrong, that you don’t want to see him and he accepts that, but he just wants to say sorry.’

Jen reared back, outraged. ‘Sorry? He thieves wreaths, Mum –
wreaths.
’

‘I know and that was very wrong, but if you hear him out he’ll explain why.’ Babs put on that mum tone that she usually only used with her youngest and scolded, ‘You know it’s considered good manners when someone apologises to accept it with good grace.’ Then she acknowledged, ‘He’s a bit of a rough diamond; he admits that.’