house near Ely was the first to be flogged off. Cash was king as far as she was concerned and what was the point in keeping the place on? She’d dwindled the proceeds away to the point that now she was nearly skint. And the regular poke she’d received from Tatum for using her son on the burglaries had now gone. Having pissed off half the site with her temper tantrums, she was down to no friends, with just herself and a bottle of Grey Goose for company. But even that had recently been replaced with a cheaper bottle of vodka.
She looked out of the window and watched as Cora, Tatum’s wife, stood gossiping with two other women. Holding bags of knocked-off T-shirts, Cora was now confident enough to have the women running around for her. It was once Jackie’s job: she had the contacts and the suppliers and could make a few bob. However, one supplier got a bit cheeky, so Jackie slapped her. Word spread what a bitch Jackie could be, and hence, slowly but surely, the suppliers and the runners backed away.
Cora turned her head to look right through Jackie’s window, allowing Jackie to see the smirk that slithered across Cora’s face.
Firmly under Tatum’s thumb, Cora had led a somewhat oppressed life. Even though they’d had six kids together, Tatum still had the energy to look elsewhere for sex, and he didn’t have to look very far. He and Jackie had compatible sexual appetites, and so whenever he could – which was often – he would find an excuse to see her and they would fuck ’til the cows came home.
Selling her arse to Tatum had been a good money earner for Jackie, but that all stopped too when he went inside.
Jackie had to admit that after a few trips to the beauticians and to a few high-end shops, where she could purchase some decent clobber, Cora did look pretty good. In fact, the woman scrubbed up better than she did. And because Cora’s kids were older now and mostly off her hands, giving Cora more time for herself, she had the means to have a life she wanted. It was an everyday insult to see Cora flashing the cash while she had zilch.
Slamming the glass tumbler down on the table, Jackie walked away from the window and stormed into her bedroom. Furious, she looked around. Her once brand-new caravan was, at one time, the best on the site. She’d bought it when she’d moved to Ireland, and it was still the best model when half the site, herself included, moved over to Essex.
But everything was changing around her, and Jackie felt angry and jealous. Not only were the younger travellers buying top-of-the-range caravans and four-by-fours, but even Cora – the bitch – was swanning around in a brand-new Land Rover, courtesy of her own business.
Jackie looked at her wardrobes and gritted her teeth. Two doors were leaning against the frame. She couldn’t exactly remember how that had happened, but she knew she’d probably pulled them off their hinges when she’d overdone it with the drink. Rifling through her now old-fashioned gear, her frustration increased.
It was time she sorted herself out – got out of her pyjamas, dyed her roots, and put on a bit of slap. She could always turn a pound into a tenner. With her looks and her cheek, it used to be a doddle, but that wasn’t the case now. She wasn’t getting any younger, and Botox was expensive. She’d already sold most of her jewellery and designer rig-outs.
After pulling every last item of clothing from the wardrobes and throwing them onto the bed, she stepped back and gazed, wondering if among them there was something decent enough to go out in. She noticed a wine-red coloured velour tracksuit, one that she’d never worn before. With her hair dyed black and curled, she could probably pull it off.
An hour later, she was showered, dressed, and had added the finishing touch of hairspray. As she opened the drawer in which she kept her tobacco, she noticed she was down to her last packet but then clocked the small drugs parcel. She’d forgotten all about that.
When Tatum had arrived at Maidstone Prison, he’d called her and set up a meeting for her with a man named Leon Khouri. He gave her the parcel to take into the prison, but the handover had never taken place. Her son Ricky had been expected to take the drugs on the visit, but he’d flatly refused, and she’d been left shitting herself. Luckily, she’d managed to get away from the visiting room with the parcel still concealed in her oversized hair bun.
Her mind went into overdrive: there was always money in drugs, she thought.
***
Before leaving her caravan, she had called Leon, in the hope that he would see her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Heading over to South-East London, Jackie pondered what she would say when she met the man. She was aware that he was seriously dangerous because Tatum had already given her the heads-up when she’d picked up the parcel. His deep, intense glare had been concerning enough. Compared to her husband, Mike, though, he was probably only small fry, but she’d escaped that relationship twelve years ago and hoped that Mike had given up looking for her and Ricky. Little did she know that Ricky had met up with his father in prison.
The sun beaming down turned her car into an oven. Dressed in the velour tracksuit more suited to colder weather, Jackie was sweating buckets. She peered into the rear-view mirror and cursed; her eyeliner was embedded into the wrinkles around her eyes and her drawn-on eyebrows had smudged. Her hair had lost its lustre and gained a frizzy halo. As she looked away from the mirror and straight ahead, she suddenly had to slam on the brakes. A tall, slim woman, wearing a flowy dress, stepped onto the zebra crossing. Jackie gritted her teeth. She’d once looked like her, but the last twelve years had left her tired, and although she hated to admit it, she was looking old. Without the money to get her lip fillers and Botox, she was bordering on ugly.
Once the woman had crossed the road, Jackie set off again. Turning into the long, overgrown drive that eventually widened into a dusty track, Jackie could smell the dryness in the air. A few chickens ran out in front of her, making her slam on the brakes again. At that moment, she felt nervous. This place was miles away from anywhere, and no one knew where she was going or would even care for that matter. She hesitated. It would be sensible just to turn around and head back. But behind her was another car, a large black BMW, and so she continued along the drive.
The farmhouse looked like an unsuspecting old cottage, with rambling roses and a wishing well by the front door – a typical pensioner’s palace. Then, as she parked the car, she noticed more vehicles behind the cottage. Her heart began to beat even faster. There was no way she could go back because the Beemer had blocked her in. She would have to hold her head up and not show she was nervous. Her whole body shook anyway, from all the drinking, but clutching her fake Chanel bag, she managed to steady her hands.
Jackie didn’t need to knock at the door because the man who had followed her in his car placed a thick, muscly arm over her shoulder and pushed the door open.
She turned enough to nod politely and was met with a cold stare. She didn’t recognize the tall, heavily built man and wondered if he was a business associate of Leon’s or someone higher up the chain. He certainly wasn’t a copper. The tattoo on his neck and across his chunky knuckles confirmed that little notion.
Stepping inside, she was surprised at the layout. What was probably once the main living room was now an office with just a few essentials. However, the room kept its rustic charm, with exposed oak floorboards and a beamed ceiling. To the right was a large wooden desk and directly in front of her were two brown velvet sofas. The random mismatch of dining room chairs and a coffee table with magazines on it reminded her of a dentist’s waiting room.
The previous meeting had been brief. All she’d done was to knock at the door and give her name and take the parcel. At the time, she just assumed it was the dealer’s house. She hadn’t realized that the cottage held any special significance. Judging by the hard-faced men in the room, though, she had clearly been mistaken.
Sitting
