The Know
Authors: Martina Cole
THE KNOW
MARTINA COLE
headline
Copyright © 2003 Martina Cole
The right of Martina Cole 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.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
ISBN 978 0 7553 5078 0
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette Livre UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachettelivre.co.uk
Table of Contents
Martina Cole is the No. 1 bestselling author of ten outstandingly successful novels. When
The Know
was first published in hardback it shot straight to No. 1 on the
Sunday Times
bestseller list and it topped the charts for seven weeks. It was also selected for the
Richard & Judy
book club as one of the Top Ten Best Reads of 2003. Martina Cole’s previous novels have all enjoyed similar success:
Maura’s Game
was the No. 1 bestselling paperback original title for 2002 and
Faceless
was a No. 1
Sunday Times
bestseller.
Dangerous Lady
and
The Jump
have gone on to become hugely popular TV drama series and several of her other novels are in production for TV. Martina Cole has a son and daughter and she lives in Essex.
Praise for Martina Cole’s bestsellers:
‘Martina Cole pulls no punches, writes as she sees it, refuses to patronise or condescend to either her characters or fans . . . And meanwhile sells more books than almost any other crime writer in the country’
Independent on Sunday
‘Distinctive and powerfully written fiction’
The Times
‘Intensely readable’
Guardian
‘Martina Cole again explores the shady criminal underworld, a setting she is fast making her own’
Sunday Express
‘The stuff of legend . . . It’s vicious, nasty and utterly compelling’
Mirror
‘Set to be another winner’
Woman’s Weekly
For Jo and Lesley.
Onwards and upwards, girls.
Love and hugs.
For Avril and Timmy Petherick
(and Gra Geoff and Susan P).
With love to you always,
Minnie x
Also for Adele King.
It was such a privilege to have
you as my friend and as Freddie’s
godmother. I will never forget the
kindness and the friendship I always had
from you and Darley.
Prologue
As Joanie Brewer opened her front door the first thing she saw was police uniforms. She tried, unsuccessfully, to close the door. Something she had done before on many occasions.
When a large foot was planted firmly on her front-door mat, she sighed.
‘He ain’t here, he just went out. But he was here all day with me, so whatever you want him for, he never done it.’
‘Joanie . . .’
The plainclothes officer stared at her for a few seconds before dropping his eyes and staring down at her tiny feet encased in scruffy old mules: pink ostrich feathers and worn-down plastic heels. Her pretty face looked hard in the harsh electric light of her hallway. The faded blonde hair was scraped up on top of her head and her sharp features made her look almost feral. Devoid of her usual makeup Joanie looked older than her age; she looked what she was - used, worn out.
Only her blue eyes showed any real emotion. They were desolate. She knew now why they were here. And she didn’t want to hear what they were going to tell her even as she knew she must.
‘I’m sorry, Joanie love, can we come in?’ said the plainclothes, DI Baxter.
As she opened the chipped and battered front door wide her whole demeanour changed.
‘Better get it over with then, eh?’
None of the three men could look at her. A dark-haired policewoman with high breasts and a disdainful expression on her face took Joanie’s arm gently, only to be shrugged off with such force she was nearly unbalanced.
The atmosphere was taut with tension. None of them wanted to be here and all knew equally they were not wanted.
In her front room Joanie felt a glimmer of satisfaction as she saw a look of collective shock register on their faces. The place was shabby but spotlessly clean. It was the forty-eight-inch TV set and the up-to-the-minute DVD system that had given them one up and she smiled to herself as she said, ‘All bought and paid for. I have the receipts in the kitchen.’
No one said a word in reply.
The policewoman looked through a door and saw the kitchen; she walked towards it, saying: ‘I’ll make some tea, eh?’
No one answered. Joanie sat down and gestured for the others to do the same. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
DI Baxter nodded.
She was holding back tears now, and still none of the men could bear to look at her.
‘She’s dead then?’
The detective nodded again.
Joanie put her head into her hands and sobbed loudly, one harsh desolate sob before she forced herself to be calm. Wiping her eyes, she lifted her head and gazed around the room, battling her emotions as she had done all her life.
She was fucked if she was going to cry in front of this lot. Her eyes lighted on a photograph on the mantelpiece. Her Kira’s last school photo, her blue eyes alive with merriment. She was a beautiful little girl, a dear child, and Joanie’s last. Born out of wedlock like the others, and loved more than any of them.
Joanie could hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears and felt momentarily as if she was going to faint.
‘I told you she wouldn’t run away, but you never listened to a word I said, did you?’ It was an accusation. ‘My baby would never have left me.
Never.
But none of you would listen.’
The detective took a child’s dress from a bag on his lap; it was small for an eleven year old’s. Kira had taken after Joanie. Tiny. Petite. Once the dress had been white with tiny blue flowers on it. Now it was soiled. Joanie knew exactly what had happened to her child.
‘We found this with the body. We need you to—’
She snatched it from him and held it to her face, but all she could smell was dirt - dirt and hatred. Not the flowery, sunshine smell of an eleven-year-old child on the brink of womanhood. A child with her whole life stretching ahead of her. In her mind’s eye she saw Kira once more, laughing and joking. She had been a good child, easy to rear.
The tears came then, and with their arrival the WPC brought in the tea. Even in her distressed state Joanie was glad the girl had used the good mugs kept for visitors. It was important to her to have nice things around her.
Especially now.
They talked to her, she could see their mouths moving, but she could hear nothing. All she could hear inside her head was the sound of her child’s voice, as she called for her mummy and her mummy never came.
She was rocking now, clutching the remnants of the dress and whispering over and over, ‘My baby. My baby.’
One of the PCs said sadly, ‘Shall I get the quack?’
The detective nodded and sipped his tea.
For all Joanie Brewer was, and she was legendary down at the station, at this moment she was just a woman who had had a child brutally murdered.
Bugger tea. He should have brought a bottle of hard, if not for himself then for the wreck of a woman before him.
She wasn’t Joanie Brewer now, the prostitute, drunk, and all-round Mouth Almighty responsible for giving birth to a one-family crime wave. She was a bereaved mother grieving for a child who had been snatched from the street, used and abused and then disposed of like so much rubbish.
He finished his tea in silence.
Joanie was quiet now, staring into space, and he knew they would get nothing more from her today.
Eventually the doctor arrived.
Book One
‘Ladies, just a little more virginity, if you don’t mind
.’
- Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree, 1853-1917
For without are dogs, and sorcerers, and whoremongers, and murderers, and idolaters, and whosoever loveth and maketh a lie.
-
Revelation
, 22:15
Chapter One
It was hot and Joanie Brewer turned up the fan in the tiny bedroom and rolled on more deodorant. The double bed took up nearly all the room and she had to climb across it to get to the overflowing dressing table for a quick puff on her Benson & Hedges Light. She also took a large gulp of vodka and Coke, the acid taste making her belch loudly.
An overstuffed wardrobe spewed clothes everywhere, and the smell of Avon Musk hung heavy in the room. She really didn’t feel like going to work tonight. What she wanted was to sit outside the flats with all the other women and drink and smoke and gossip. It was lovely in the summer here, apart from the stench of rotten rubbish and unwashed kids; it was almost like being abroad. But then again, she mused, she had always had a good imagination. Tenerife it ain’t!