The Streets, page 1
To Wayne Brookes, editor extraordinaire.
Thank you for believing in me. It means the world. J x
Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead . . .
Benjamin Franklin
CONTENTS
TEN YEARS AGO
NOW CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
CHAPTER 46
CHAPTER 47
CHAPTER 48
CHAPTER 49
CHAPTER 50
CHAPTER 51
CHAPTER 52
CHAPTER 53
CHAPTER 54
CHAPTER 55
FIVE MONTHS LATER
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
TEN YEARS AGO
‘Move it now! Come on . . . Martin, move yourself!’
Groggy, Jo Martin pushed herself up on her elbows in the single metal bed, feeling the springs of the stained mattress digging into the back of her thighs. She flicked a gaze at her alarm clock; it was only six a.m. From underneath her fringe she stared in bemusement at the screw standing in the doorway of her cell. ‘Ain’t you ever heard of good morning? Or better still, how about a little morning kiss . . . Oh that’s right, I forgot – you don’t swing my way, do you, officer? Though as I keep telling you, the offer’s always here if you ever change your mind. Once you’ve tasted pussy, there ain’t no turning back.’
She winked and Officer Barrow’s cheeks flushed red. ‘Move it, Martin. I haven’t got time for your filthy mouth today.’
Noticing a dribble of egg yolk on the lapel of the officer’s uniform, Jo licked her lips, tasting the sticky dry spit at the corner of her mouth, a side effect from the medication she’d been put on. She smirked. ‘Fucking hell, someone’s got out of the wrong side of bed, ain’t they? Or have you found out that your old man has been playing away? Is that it? Has he been dipping his dick where he shouldn’t?’ Still smirking, Jo could hear the venom in her own voice.
She knew full well anything other than a yes miss, no miss would get right under the skin of Officer Barrow and no doubt there’d be consequences. There always was. But she didn’t care, not anymore. Or rather, she did care, she cared so fucking much it was untrue, but there was no way she was ever going to let a fat, spiteful, bitter bitch like Barrow ever know that.
Swinging her feet onto the cold floor, Jo glanced away from the officer, watching the rain dripping down the rusting bars of the window. Barrow had made her life a living hell for the past four years, ever since she’d arrived here at Granger Hall. For some reason she’d never quite worked out, the officer had made it her personal mission to try to fuck her over, break her: solitary confinement, keeping her banged up for days on end, turning a blind eye when the other women on the wing had added crushed-up bits of glass to her food. Once, she’d even found a used tampon mixed in with her plate of ravioli. Though, like she’d told a grinning Barrow at the time, the prison food was so bland, it probably had added to the taste.
Oh God yeah, she’d had it all, thanks to Barrow, who’d always reminded her of a hyena, waiting hungrily for a reaction. But she’d never given her one. Never. And so far, much to Barrow’s fury, it hadn’t broken her; she’d survived everything the officer had sent her way . . . Just.
She’d even managed to get through last summer, sharing a cell with some crazy mare who’d killed her father while he’d been watching football: twelve, deep bloody blows with an axe to the back of his skull. The killing hadn’t been the problem; in fact Jo had actually enjoyed hearing how the man squealed like a pig when the axe split his head in half. She’d giggled about that for a long while afterwards. Truth be told, Jo wished she’d done the same thing to her own family . . . It was a shame she’d never taken the chance.
No, the problem had been, at least once a week when the temperatures soared well into the eighties and the heat had crept in through the window like it was looking for shade, the woman had dirty-protested, smearing her own shit all over the walls. And Barrow, well, she’d made Jo sit there in the cell, surrounded by crap, hour after hour, the stench climbing into her nose and seeping into her pores . . . She’d felt like an animal. But that’s what the public had wanted, hadn’t they? Taking away her freedom hadn’t been fucking enough for them. They’d wanted to strip her of everything . . . and they’d almost succeeded . . . Almost.
Four years ago, when some snotty journalist had found out she was serving her sentence in a cushy closed condition prison, after a series of public outcries, she’d been moved here, Granger Hall, a CAT-A jail where she’d been ever since.
Looking back, it’d seemed the whole country had wanted to know she was suffering. Somehow, she reckoned it had made them sleep better in their beds, knowing she was locked up with the real scum of society. They’d even discussed her on TV, on some breakfast chat show; tea and toast along with a slice of public opinion.
Everyone was out for her blood after reading what the newspapers had written about her. It had made her laugh what they’d said: vicious, heartless, wicked, depraved, nefarious (that one she’d had to look up). If she had it her way, all of them, all those people who ever judged her, would end up squealing like pigs, because they didn’t know. They didn’t know her and they certainly didn’t know what had really happened that day. No one did, except for her . . . and him.
Quickly, Jo inhaled, feeling like her chest suddenly had a crushing weight on it. She wasn’t going to go there, and she hurriedly shut down her thoughts. One thing she’d learnt not to do in a place like this was think too hard.
Turning back to stare directly into Officer Barrow’s dark, shrew-like eyes, Jo shrugged. ‘Then what’s all the drama about, officer?’
‘I’m not here to play games. For some reason the powers that be have been fooled by your lies.’
Jo scowled. ‘What?’
‘Seems like this is your lucky day . . . You’re getting out of here . . . You must have done a good job on the parole board. What did you do, Martin? Cry? Apologize? Show them your social reports to let them know how bad you’d had it as a kid? Well, whatever you did, it worked . . . So well done, Martin, well done.’ Officer Barrow began to clap slowly as a sneer scraped across her face. ‘Oh, don’t pretend you’re shocked, Martin; life clearly doesn’t mean life anymore, but we both know you should be locked up forever and burn in hell for what you did to those poor, innocent children.’
Internally, Jo flinched, but she knew the only expression Barrow would see was a stone-cold face. No emotion. Nothing. It was something she’d practised since she was a kid.
‘But I thought you couldn’t leave here without a parting gift,’ Officer Barrow continued. ‘It was the least I could do.’
‘What you talking about?’
Officer Barrow stepped back and nodded to the side of her. Within seconds three inmates that Jo had never seen before stood at the door.
The sneer was still on Barrow’s face. ‘Nothing to say, Martin?’
Jo’s heart raced, her gaze darting between the women. ‘Yeah, actually I have . . . Fuck you.’
The officer’s fury was evident. She turned to the three inmates, hatred spitting out of her. ‘She’s all yours, girls . . . Enjoy.’
The night bus trundled along and Jo leant her face against the dirty window, watching the world go by. The cool of the glass soothed her left eye, which was so swollen it refused to open. Her probation officer had offered to drive her to the flat which she’d be staying in for the next couple of weeks, but she’d refused. She needed to remember what it was like to walk along the pavements and get on a bus and taste the evening air.
Jo shifted in her seat to try to get comfortable. Jesus, she was hurting; she could hardly swallow from the cuts in her mouth, her ribcage felt like a dozen boots had trampled on her and she was bleeding quite heavily. Before she’d left the parole office, she’d even had to shove a handful of paper towels down her knickers, but she wasn’t going to worry about it, not this time, because she’d won the lottery . . . She was free.
She laughed loudly at the thought and the bald-headed man opposite looked up from his book, staring at Jo inquisitively. She glared. ‘You got a problem, mate?’ Her words slurred out; her tongue was split and she winced from the razor-sharp sting which shot through her. Pale-faced, the man hurriedly shook his head and shifted his gaze back to his book, causing Jo to snort with laughter again.
No matter what Barrow had said, her release had come as
She supposed they hadn’t wanted the papers and the public to get wind of the fact that she might walk free. They hadn’t wanted anyone to fuck it up for her. And this time, even the courts had come through. They had granted her anonymity. An opportunity to start again, because as the social worker had apparently told the courts, she’d been born into a living hell and never really stood a chance.
Her solicitor had told her most people sentenced for the crimes the stupid, fat-face jury had found her guilty of would be locked up forever. And so there were only a few people, half a dozen in the country, maybe, who’d been granted lifelong anonymity. And now she was one of them.
She’d never felt special before, but she guessed she was.
She was important.
Jo giggled, delighted at that idea, but her joy quickly faded as she thought about him. What he would say if he knew she was free. What he would say about her being special.
Jo dug her fingernails into her palms as hard as she could, forcing herself to think of something else. She wasn’t going to let him spoil today. This was a happy day.
She turned her thoughts back to her solicitor and what else he had said; only a small group of senior officials in the public protection unit at the Ministry of Justice, up to two probation officers and one police officer of commander level working the area of where she’d eventually choose to live, would know of her original identity. So the likes of that bitch Barrow would be kept in the dark.
There weren’t any photos of her really, which was good. There were certainly none from her childhood; her family hadn’t exactly been big on sentiment . . . Then Jo suddenly remembered, the newspapers did have one. It’d been on the front of all the papers. The photo had shown her being led out of a police van like a dog when she’d first been arrested. But she wasn’t worried. It had been too grainy. Even she wouldn’t recognize herself from it. And besides, it had been taken twelve years ago when she’d been only fourteen.
So, she could really make a go of this new life. Start again. She’d have a new name, she’d dye her hair and even her date of birth was going to be changed for her. She didn’t have to be Jo Martin anymore. She could kill off her old life, all without getting any more blood on her hands, and no one would know who she was going to become. And when all the paperwork had been sorted, well, she knew exactly what she was going to do. She was going to go back to London, back to the Streets . . .
NOW
1
‘I’d have got there faster if I was being driven in a fucking milk float,’ Ned Reid growled as he sat irritated in the passenger seat of his blacked-out Range Rover as it cruised along Duke’s Road.
Cookie Mackenzie cut a sideward glance at Ned, hoping it didn’t look too obvious that she was trying to waste as much time as she possibly could.
They’d left their large townhouse in D’Arblay Street, Soho, over forty-five minutes ago and they were still only passing Midford Place, a journey which normally would’ve taken them fifteen minutes. But after finding out what Ned’s plans were, she’d hurriedly texted ahead to give warning before making sure she turned up every street with roadworks and got stuck behind every lorry she saw.
‘Put your foot on it, darlin, I ain’t got all day.’
‘It’s cos it’s Friday lunchtime, it’s always busier. The traffic round here is a nightmare.’
Ned started drumming his fingers on the armrest. A habit which usually signalled the beginning of trouble. ‘If I didn’t know you better, Cooks, I’d say you were deliberately going slow. And if that is what you’re doing, it ain’t going to work, you know that? Not only that, you’ll piss me off – and neither of us wants that, do we?’
Ignoring the underlying threat, Cookie saw the traffic lights ahead turn red at the junction of Euston Road. She breathed out a silent sigh of relief and glanced at the clock. She needed more time. ‘That’s ridiculous, babe, why would I want to go slow?’ she scoffed.
‘You know why.’
‘I have no idea what you’re on about.’ Turning to him, Cookie watched Ned absent-mindedly rubbing the long knife scar that started at the corner of his mouth and finished at the top of his ear. The Glasgow smile. Not that anyone had been smiling or laughing when it had happened; even now, it was a subject off limits.
Ned’s green eyes flashed at Cookie, his handsome face – paradoxically enhanced by the scar – darkened. ‘Don’t play innocent, sweetheart.’
Cookie shrugged, hoping her voice didn’t betray what she was feeling as the knot in her stomach tightened. ‘It’s hardly my fault if everyone chooses to do roadworks today, is it? Maybe next time you should drive.’
Ned gave a quiet chuckle under his breath and immediately Cookie felt her shoulders stiffen. She spoke as calmly as she could. ‘Look, Ned, I’m sorry, OK. I never . . .’
At that moment, a call came through, keeping Cookie from what she was going to say. Ned glanced at the car screen as the name popped up on the large display.
‘It’s Simon Draper.’
‘I can fucking read,’ Ned snarled again.
‘You not going to answer it?’
‘Do I look like I am?’
‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ She knew what Simon Draper was like if Ned didn’t jump at his beck and call. Not that Ned would ever admit that’s how it was. He liked to think he was his own boss, untouchable, and to a point he was . . . until it came to Simon, a big-time drug dealer who’d earned his millions and his place as gangster number one through violence and sheer terror. There was a long history between Ned and Simon, something Simon never let him forget.
Still stuck at the traffic lights, Ned locked eyes with her. Though Cookie tried to smile, she couldn’t quite manage it. He turned and glanced out of the window. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, more to himself than her, then banged aggressively on the side of the door with his fist. ‘Get out of the car, Cooks.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me: get out.’
Cookie’s gaze darted around. ‘Come on, Ned. It’s raining, and besides, it’ll take me ages to walk back, and Louboutins ain’t exactly known to be the hiker’s boot of choice, are they?’
He brought his face inches away from hers, until Cookie could smell the peppermint gum he’d eaten earlier. He traced his finger over her cheek. ‘I ain’t asking you to walk home, sweetheart. I want to swap sides. I reckon if I drive, we can get there in less than five minutes. In fact, you can fucking count on it, Cooks.’
At the rumble of menace in his voice, Cookie felt as if her heart was leaping into her throat. ‘Don’t be silly, I might as well get us there now.’
‘Do I look like I’m the sort of guy to be silly?’ Ned whispered.
It was Cookie’s turn to lower her voice into a hush. ‘No, of course not . . .’ And with those words, she reached for the door handle.
Stepping out into the road, she looked up to the grey February skies, feeling the light drops of rain on her face. She took a deep breath to steady herself but suddenly jumped at the sound of the car behind them, beeping its horn.
Instinctively, she spun round to Ned, then glanced at the driver before drawing her eyes back. ‘Leave it, yeah, Ned?’ she said, her tone placating. ‘Ned, please.’
Paying no attention to Cookie, Ned opened his arms wide, staring into the Ford Fiesta. He gave a lopsided grin and his voice was unnervingly menacing. ‘If you’ve got something to say to me, mate, why don’t you get out and we can have a little chat?’
Behind Ned’s back, Cookie gave the tiniest shake of her head to the driver of the Fiesta. The man caught her eye and, maybe picking up her sense of concern, he took his hands off the horn, looking like he was visibly shrinking down into his seat.
Fleetingly, Cookie held her breath, but Ned soon turned his attention back to her. ‘Get in the fucking car! I said, get in the fucking car!’ Stomping to the driver’s side, Ned roared his orders to Cookie and, knowing better than to argue when he was in this mood, she did as she was told. Over the years she’d learned to pick her battles.
Barely giving her the chance to put on her seat belt, Ned flicked the Range Rover out of automatic and into manual, ramming his foot down hard.
