Dreda Say Mitchell, who grew up on a housing estate in East London, is an award-winning novelist, broadcaster, journalist and freelance education consultant. For more information and news, visit Dreda’s website:
www.dredasaymitchell.com
Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell
Friend her on Facebook: /dredasaymitchell
Also by Dreda Say Mitchell:
Running Hot
Killer Tune
The Gangland Girls trilogy
Geezer Girls
Gangster Girl
Hit Girls
DI Rio Wray series
Vendetta
Snatched
Death Trap
Blood Sister
Dreda Say Mitchell
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2016
Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
1
Copyright © 2016 Dreda Say Mitchell
The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the
Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
Paperback ISBN 978 1 473 62566 2
eBook ISBN 978 1 473 62565 5
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankement
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
Contents
Prologue
Part One: 1993
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Part Two: 2003
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Sixty-Four
Sixty-Five
Sixty-Six
Sixty-Seven
Sixty-Eight
Sixty-Nine
Seventy
Seventy-One
Acknowledgements
Thank You!
If you enjoyed BLOOD SISTER, look out for the gripping new novel in the FLESH AND BLOOD trilogy
Prologue
2003
Jen picked up a fearsome-looking bread knife and turned to face her sister, who stood behind her. She shook with fury. ‘This is your fault,’ she spat. ‘It’s all your fault. It was your bloody idea in the first place and now . . . now . . .’ Her voice broke with emotion, ‘And now they’ve taken my kids. You’re a bum and a crim, Tiffany; you always have been, and I must’ve been off my nut to think of listening to you. Now get out of my fucking way.’
She slipped the bread knife into her belt and put a smaller one in her handbag.
Tiffany moved closer to her. ‘No one’s been taken. It’s a—’
Jen pulled the knife back out of her belt so quickly her younger sister didn’t see it until it was waving like a sword in her face. ‘So where are they? Where are my girls? Answer me that.’
‘Let’s give Mum a ring.’
‘On what? Two tin cans with a bit of string?’ It was true, their mum didn’t own a mobile. In fact their mum thought a landline was a bit racy.
Tiffany was terrified. She’d never seen Jen like this before. ‘She’s probably taken them up Vicky Park or something, or down The Roman, you know. Please Jen, put that knife—’
Slap. Tiffany reeled from the impact of her sister’s open palm against her cheek. Pain and shock stung her face.
‘Victoria Park or Roman Road Market with all that’s going on? You stupid, silly bitch.’
A raging Jen left the kitchen and headed to the toilet. Moments later, Tiffany heard the chain being pulled and Jen emerged with a glint in her eye, heading for the front door.
‘Oi, where are you going?’ Tiffany followed her sister, her palm rubbing her reddening cheek.
‘To get my children. I know where they are.’
Tiffany’s stomach churned as she realised what Jen was planning on doing. ‘You can’t go up there, if that’s what you’re thinking. Those people are killers; you’ll come out in a box. The girls aren’t gone. Look, if you’re worried, talk to the cops.’
‘Talk to the Bill?’ Her sister didn’t stop her manic pace as she headed downstairs. ‘Why? What are they going to do? Those people you’ve just called killers have probably got the police on their payroll.’
The two women emerged from the damp, dark, piss-stained stairwell into the cool daylight. Jen pulled her car keys from her bag and got into her motor with grim determination. Unable to think of what else to do, Tiffany quickly slipped into the front seat beside her. ‘Please, think about what you’re doing.’
‘Get out.’
‘No chance.’
‘Please yourself.’
Jen turned on the ignition and the car lurched backwards before shunting forwards again, heading off towards the Mile End Road. When they reached the junction, she didn’t hesitate but put her hand on the horn and pulled out in front of the oncoming traffic. Cars braked and swerved to avoid her before sounding their own horns in response to her honking. Jen ignored them, attempting to nose in front of any vehicle in her way, flashing her lights and shouting abuse as required.
Tiffany realised that her sister meant it. She laid her head against the rest. She had an hour, maybe more, maybe less, to come up with a plan. Otherwise . . . She looked at her sister’s grim face and the tight icy grip she had on the wheel.
There was no doubt about it. Someone was going to get killed.
PART ONE: 1993
‘She’s going off the rails and breaki
ng my mum’s heart.’
One
One of her favourite tracks, ‘What’s Up?’ by the 4 Non Blondes, was blaring away inside, but Tiffany didn’t like this pub. It was a rat hole that looked like it hadn’t seen a mop and some Flash in years, packed with the type of low life who’d be patting your back as your best mate one day and selling you out on some scuzzy street corner the next. She knew the bloke she was looking for by sight, but didn’t know his name. She’d never spoken to him; she wasn’t allowed to.
She found him sitting on his own at a table in a dark corner, with two heavies sat nearby who were obviously there to make sure nothing stupid went on. The guy totally looked the part. Middle-aged, he wore the kind of flash clobber geezers in his line of work always wear, and was bling-bling with gold cufflinks, a fat belcher bracelet and a tie chain. A Scotch on the rocks topped off his ‘don’t screw with me’ image. His face was heavy and marked, like a boxer’s.
The man and his heavies took their time carefully looking her up and down, then finally he gave her the nod to sit her arse down.
He said nothing for a while but that didn’t bother Tiffany. She knew this silence was his way of letting her know who was running things, so she kept schtum.
Finally, he took a slug of his Scotch and said, ‘Do you want a drink, Tiffany?’
She popped the chewing gum out of her mouth and stuck it on the top of the table. ‘Yeah. I’ll have a vodka and coke.’
The man grinned at her but there was no warmth in his eyes. ‘Vodka? You old enough to be sampling the hard stuff, girl?’
Tiffany pushed her chest out slightly. ‘I’m nineteen.’
The guy’s smile vanished as scorn twisted his features. ‘You’re a lying bitch. You’ve just turned sixteen.’ He looked like he wanted to gob at her feet. ‘That’s not a very good start is it? You trying to piss straight in my eye? You’d better believe I know all about you little girl – everything there is to know and then some.’
Now you wouldn’t be interested in me if I wasn’t up for stretching the truth every now and again. But Tiffany didn’t say that; she kept it zipped. She almost grinned when he told one of his thugs to get her a V&C anyway.
He left another long silence before raising his glass. ‘So, a mate of a mate says you’re looking for work. Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Did he tell you what’s involved?’
‘Yeah.’
The man sighed and stalled for a while. ‘Well, I dunno whether you’re right for it. The way I hear it you’re a bit of a nutter.’ He paused for a long time before adding, ‘I dunno, I just don’t know . . .’
He was trying to rattle her cage, trying to get her to beg for a chance, to convince him that she fit his job description to a T. But because she knew that, she merely said, ‘Well, that’s up to you, isn’t it mister . . . ?’
He smirked slightly at this attempt to get him to tell her his name, but he didn’t give it. He nodded as if she’d passed the test. ‘You got that right, darling. I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a try out.’ He said it as if he was doing her the bloody favour of the century. ‘Go up to that Pied Piper boozer on Saturday evening and pick up a little something for me. You keep it tucked away nice and safe and, if it works out, I’ll put some more business your way. You know where this pub is and where to put the gear?’ She quickly nodded. ‘You understand how messages get passed back and forth between us? You’ve got your cover story straight if you’re picked up the law?’
‘Sure.’
‘Alright.’ He looked at her again and with contempt snarled, ‘Drink up and piss off. I’m a busy man.’
Tiffany didn’t need telling twice. She knocked back her drink, pulled up the chewing gum on the table and popped it back into her mouth, then almost let out a scream as his big, hairy paw gripped her wrist like a vice and yanked her across the table. He had her so far forward he could whisper in her ear. ‘Listen up and listen good, this isn’t Disney World and we’re not playing Mickey Mouse games here. Don’t ever, ever try and get in touch with me. Don’t ever, ever muck me around and don’t ever, ever start blabbing to anyone – because if you do, you’ll pay the usual price and I don’t care that you’re sweet sixteen. I’ve had younger than you put in the ground for taking liberties. Do I make myself clear?’
Tiffany stared back, bug-eyed and trembling. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m no grass. I’m from The Devil’s Estate.’
He let go of her wrist and Tiffany drew herself to her feet. ‘Good. The Plod pick you up, you don’t know me.’
She laughed at him. ‘I don’t give a toss about the cops, I know how to deal with them.’
It was the first time she saw anything remotely like respect as he looked at her: ‘Yeah, I know, I’ve heard that about you.’
Tiffany Miller was so chuffed with herself on the way home that she forgot to bunk the fare on the bus. As she stared out of the window at the once grand houses on Mile End Road, long since gone to seed, she started to softly sing ‘What’s Up?’ Her voice grew louder as she sang the line about getting real high and some of the other passengers turned to look at her. Fuck ’em; let ’em stare. The East End was full of kids like her who wanted to get on the lowest rung of the gangster ladder in the hope that one day they might hit the big time. And now she – little ole Tiffany Miller – had managed it. But this wasn’t about her trying to be some East End hood; nah, this was all about the kicks – anything to break the mind-numbing boredom of life on The Devil’s Estate with her deadbeat mum and her wannabe snob sister.
Two
‘Please, take your sister with you, Jen; I don’t want her ending up down the cemetery.’
Eighteen-year-old Jennifer Miller slammed the hairbrush down on her dressing table by way of reply and then turned to face her mum in her bedroom doorway. Jen had the type of looks that had been attracting the lads on the estate for a long time; not that she had the time of day for them. She folded her arms, defiantly tilted back her head and looked down her nose at her mother. Babs Miller looked tired and weary; it was a look she reserved for when she wanted something, and it usually worked. As her daughter knew, her life was hard enough and Jen was too soft-hearted to make it any harder.
‘Please, Jen,’ Babs pleaded. ‘Take her with you – I’ll make it up to you, I promise. She won’t be any trouble.’
Won’t be any trouble? Who was her mum kidding? Tiffany Miller was built from lumps of trouble left lying around their estate. All Jen wanted was a peaceful Saturday night on the razzle, to spend a couple of hours letting her hair down. A bit of fun, was that really too much to ask for, for crying out bloody loud?
‘No way am I taking her anywhere,’ Jen continued stubbornly.
Her mum groaned. ‘Why not?’
‘Why not? For a start she’s only sixteen and that means the bouncers will keep me and Bex out of any decent bars and clubs. I’m eighteen and me and Bex have enough trouble getting in places as it is.’
‘Your sister could pass for eighteen, easy.’
‘Twenty-one, mum, she has to pass for twenty one – and the way she carries on, she couldn’t pass for ten.’
‘When she’s dressed up, she looks old enough. You know that.’
And it was true; Tiffany Miller did look all grown up, when she wanted to. The shame was that her mind didn’t usually follow, which is why her older sister didn’t want to drag her along. ‘Plus she�
��s got no cash which means she’ll be poncing drinks off me and Bex.’
‘I’ll give her a few sobs. I’ll take care of that.’
‘She swears, she fights and she’s a right show-up.’
Babs sounded hopeful. ‘I’ll have a word with her – tell her to behave.’
Jen shook her head in disbelief. ‘Have a word with her? She won’t listen to anyone. You know that. She don’t listen to you, she don’t listen to me, she don’t listen to teachers, cops, neighbours, shopkeepers. She wouldn’t even listen to the Queen or her flippin’ corgis.’
Babs Miller looked properly washed out. She had nothing to say back; she knew her eldest girl was right.
Jen sighed. She hated it when her mum looked like this – like the weight of the whole, nasty world was on her shoulders. It wasn’t her fault that she’d given birth to a Class A teenage nutcase. Jen got up, walked up to her mum and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She whispered, ‘And you want to know the main reason why I’m not taking her up West with me and Bex? Because she doesn’t really want to go: she’s only saying she does because she knows it will wind me up and fuck my evening out.’
Babs sighed, squeezed her daughter’s hand as she sat on the bed. ‘I know,’ she said weakly, like all the life had drained out of her.
Satisfied, Jen went back to her dressing table, picked up her brush and began combing her long blonde hair, which was styled exactly like supermodel Cindy Crawford’s, all blow-dried volume with a large wave on one side kissing her cheekbone. She wore a knock-off Dior little black dress, from The Roman. The stallholder had promised her the dress was the real deal. Perhaps he was right and it really was; it certainly looked authentic. Together with a pair of designer heels that someone on the estate had sold her – ‘don’t ask me where they came from; it’s against my principles to tell lies’ – she looked the part, ready to strut her stuff in town.