Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Read online

  Born and bred in the East End of London, Dreda Say Mitchell has seen it all from the inside. After a string of jobs as a waitress, chambermaid and catering assistant she realised her dream of becoming a teacher. During this time she saw a new generation of East Enders grappling with the same problems she had but in an even more violent and unforgiving world. Dreda’s books are inspired by the gritty, tough and criminal world she grew up in. She still lives in London’s East End. For more information and news, please visit Dreda’s website:

  www.dredasaymitchell.com

  Follow Dreda on Twitter: @DredaMitchell

  Find 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

  The Flesh and Blood series

  Blood Sister

  Blood Mother

  Blood Daughter

  One False Move

  Blood Mother

  Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two

  Dreda Say Mitchell

  www.hodder.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Hodder & Stoughton

  An Hachette UK company

  1

  Copyright © Mitchell and Joseph Ltd 2017

  The right of Dreda Say Mitchell (Emma Joseph) and Anthony Mason to be identified

  as the Authors of the Work has been asserted by them 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 62569 3

  eBook ISBN 978 1 473 62568 6

  Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.hodder.co.uk

  To all the fantastic readers who have supported me for years. Cheers!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: 1972

  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-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Part Two: 1978

  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

  Part Three: 2003

  Sixty-Two

  Sixty-Three

  Sixty-Four

  Sixty-Five

  Sixty-Six

  Sixty-Seven

  Sixty-Eight

  Sixty-Nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-One

  Seventy-Two

  Seventy-Three

  Seventy-Four

  Seventy-Five

  Seventy-Six

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  2003

  ‘What’s taking them so long?’ Jen asked her two sisters impatiently.

  Tiffany shrugged. ‘You know Mum, she’s probably still putting on her slap.’

  Their half-sister, Dee, was watching the increasingly restless crowd. People had been waiting for things to kick off for quite some time now.

  ‘Oi,’ she called, spotting someone she didn’t know. ‘Get your mitts out of the mini sausage rolls. No one starts on the nosh until she gets here.’

  The person quickly whipped their hand away; Dee Black was a woman who didn’t stand any nonsense.

  Dee turned back to her sisters. ‘I told you we should’ve had it at an upmarket venue. Somewhere plush and cultured.’

  Tiff rolled her eyes. ‘Bloody hell, you’re not still rabbiting on about that? Give it a rest will ya.’

  Dee blinked her false eyelashes furiously. ‘Everyone’s so low rent here. Look at ’em.’

  The crowd was a motley crew of people, mainly from The Devil’s Estate.

  Jen said, ‘This is where a lot of her mates are.’ She leaned forward and whispered, ‘It must be that surprise we laid out on the way that’s keeping them. I bet Mum’s gobsmacked.’

  They all looked as pleased as Punch with themselves at the thought of the surprise.

  Nicky, Dee’s boy, who was keeping a lookout, suddenly and dramatically raised his hand, signalling for silence. But then he frowned and said, ‘Hold up.’ He peered through the window. ‘That can’t be right . . .’

  His mum snapped, ‘What are you going on about? It’s either them or it ain’t.’

  ‘It’s . . .’

  Before he could finish, the door opened and Jen’s daughter Courtney came in. Alone.

  ‘Where’s your Nanna Babs?’ Jen asked. Then she looked closely at her daughter and scowled. ‘Where’s your coat?’

  Courtney swallowed, her face pale. ‘I fell . . . it got dirty . . . Nanna Babs kept it.’

  ‘So where’s your grandmother?’ Dee asked her. ‘Are you alright? You look a bit peaky.’

  Courtney swallowed again as she nodded. ‘Nanna said she’s just coming over.’ She looked up at her mum. ‘Can I use the loo?’ She scarpered without waiting for an answer.

  Jen stared after her. ‘She didn’t look right. Maybe I should—’

  ‘She’s coming! She’s coming!’ Nicky called out excitedly.

  The lights popped off and they fell silent.

  Half a minute later, the door opened. The lights flew back on and the crowd gathered at Babs Miller’s surprise fiftieth joyfully cried, ‘Happy birthday!’

  But the happiness was sucked out of the room at the sight of the blood on
her face and white dress.

  ‘Something terrible has happened,’ she said, ‘someone needs to call the coppers.’

  PART ONE: 1972

  ‘You could do worse than Stanley Miller. A lot worse.’

  One

  ‘You’re a whore! And a murderer!’

  As if the spitting rage of 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 the waiting room, and now 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. But Doctor McDaid had soon killed that off; fear and last-minute hope had quickly turned to horror. Then, when he’d 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 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 quacks when Doctor McDaid called her a whore and a murderer. Ol’ 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 to the story. The old bitch.

  Babs was nineteen, 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 take his advice. 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 door on your way in?’ Then she gestured at Babs with her head 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 driving round her. For a brief moment, Babs wished the motor had hit her 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 Neville straight away. 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 that. He weren’t a lazy sod like some of the lads she’d grown up with. No, her Nev had prospects. Ambition. Babs perked up and began the trek, crossing over Commercial Road to the Bad Moon boozer in Shadwell where Nev held court most lunchtimes, although he’d never taken her there himself. He would sort things out. She whispered to no one, ‘He’ll have to, won’t he?’

  Nev was Babs’ fiancé. Of course it wasn’t official; Nev didn’t do ‘official’. He didn’t buy engagement rings or hold celebration parties; that wasn’t his style. He went his own 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 to 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 speedily got off her knees to get into her house before the meddling old crone collared her and wasted her time spreading malicious natter. 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 had been cleaning her front steps. She got down on her hands and knees every week to scrub them with water, a capful of vinegar, some Vim, Sunlight Soap and her faithful wooden scrubbing brush. The Wilsons were a respectable family, unlike some who lived in the streets behind the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. That’s why she didn’t care for back-fence talk. Besides, most of Dirty Laundry Jackson’s gossip was made up anyway.

  But the old dear was too quick for her. As Rosie reached for her door, Jackson caught her on the doorstep.

  ‘Hello, Rosie, luv. 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 a manner like a door-to-door salesman. She was that annoying. Rosie cut her short. ‘We’re very well, thank you, and Babs is fine. Now if you’ll excuse me . . .’

  But Jackson wasn’t to be 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 pushed the door open.

  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. He was in a fair state. Thought he was going to burst a blood vessel for sure. Effing at Babs, he was, while your girl was giving it back to him like a proper fishwife. He was calling her all sorts of vile names that I wouldn’t like to repeat – then Babs marches out of the surgery giving him the old Harvey Smith.’

  Rosie rolled her eyes dramatically. She 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 toad liked to sling around was always embroidered. 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, they were interrupted by the appearance of a stunning young woman dressed in flared slacks, a cheesecloth blouse and platform heels.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Wilson, is Babs in?’

  ‘Hello, Denny luv – no, she’s out I’m afraid.’ Denise Brooks was her Babs’ best mate and Rosie liked her. She was a sweet girl, unlike many of the young ones around there who were growing into loud-mouthed replicas of their parents. The only problem with Denny was the unfortunate ‘lights on but no one at home’ expression she usually wore.

  Rosie could see that Ma Jackson was eagerly hoping that this new arrival could shed some light on the incident at the doctor’s. She was disappointed when Denny looked surprised and said, ‘Oh? That’s a shame; she said she’d be in. I thought we were going to the pictures later to see that Steptoe and Son film. Can you tell her I called?’

 
Rosie nodded. Denny turned, sadness clouding her face as it often did lately, and walked back in the direction she’d come.

  Ma Jackson put the needle back on her stuck record. ‘So, Babs is alright? You know me, if there’s a problem and I can help in any way . . .’

  Rosie stepped inside her house. ‘I think you must have got the wrong end of the stick. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Of course, dear.’

  Rosie closed the front door behind her. Her husband George was in his armchair in the sitting room, reading the Evening News.

  He looked up at her. ‘The miners are going on strike. Says here that Ted Heath and his lot are gonna have a state of emergency. They’re talking about cutting the electric. We’ll have to stock up on candles—’

  ‘Stuff the Prime Minister.’ With a mixture of alarm and anger, she asked, ‘Have you seen Babs today? Did she say she was going down Doctor McDaid’s?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ Now George appeared concerned. ‘What’s she going down the quacks for anyway? She’s not ill, is she?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like to know.’

  Rosie walked around the house and pretended to do a few things before marching back into the sitting room and shouting, ‘Where the hell is Babs, anyway?’

  Two

  Even before she pushed open the door of the Bad Moon gut instinct told Babs her fella wasn’t there. ‘I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing’ played around the few punters, while the stocky barman and the busty, hard-faced landlady wiped down surfaces. As soon as she reached the bar, the landlady stopped polishing and asked, ‘What can I get you, pet?’ But she didn’t seem very pleased with her new customer. Babs knew the Bad Moon was a bloke’s pub. That was why Nev always took her somewhere else.

  ‘Has Nev been in today?’ Babs knew her voice sounded desperate, but she couldn’t hold her emotions back.

  ‘Nev? Don’t know any Nevs.’

  ‘Yeah, you know – Neville.’