The Villain’s Daughter (14 page)

William looked surprised to see her again.

‘I . . . er . . . forgot my phone.’ Back in the safety of the undertaker’s, Iris felt suddenly stupid. Perhaps she had just imagined it all. Nerves did funny things to the psyche. But still she glanced towards the door, worried that her pursuer might follow her in. Going over to her desk, she opened a drawer and pretended to retrieve her mobile. Then, sitting down, she quickly made a call to Luke. Even if this was all in her imagination, she was too scared now to walk home alone.

‘Hey,’ she said when he finally answered. ‘I’m all done. Why don’t you come and meet me? We can grab some lunch on the High Street.’

‘I’m already cooking. I thought I’d surprise you. It’s only spag bol but—’

‘No, that’s great.’ She took a small, despairing breath. ‘I’ll come straight back then. I’ll see you soon.’ What she had wanted to say was
Please come and fetch me
, but if she had done that, she would have had to explain why - and explaining why she thought some thug might be following her was all too complicated. She sat and stared at the wall.

‘Is everything all right?’ William asked.

Iris glanced over at him. She was feeling a growing panic about having to go outside again. ‘Yes, I’m just . . . er . . .’ Then she made a decision: paranoid or not, there was no way she was walking home alone. ‘You don’t have the number for a local cab company, do you?’

If William was surprised by the fact she wanted a taxi to take her the short distance back to Silverstone Heights, he didn’t show it. Instead, he grabbed his overcoat and gestured towards the street. ‘Come on. You don’t want to be wasting good money on cabs. I’ve got the car outside. I’ll give you a lift.’

‘But that means there won’t be anyone here.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘they’re hardly clamouring at the doors, are they? I think I can be spared for fifteen minutes. And after what you did this morning, it’s the least I can do.’

Iris couldn’t tell if he was simply being kind or if he’d somehow picked up on her anxiety. Perhaps William Grand was more perceptive than she’d thought. Either way, she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice filled with gratitude. ‘That would be great.’

As they left the building, Iris’s eyes raked the High Street searching for her shadow. She looked all around, but there was no sign of him. Still, just because she couldn’t see him didn’t mean he wasn’t there. She kept close to William as they headed for the car.

There were two things Alice Avery was thoroughly ashamed of: one was what Toby had persuaded her to do the previous week; the other was her loathing for her mother. As she stood in the kitchen, wearily stirring the pan of tomato soup, she tried to close her ears to the constant barrage of whining and complaints. Quite what her mother had to moan about was beyond her; she was in good health (despite her constant protestations to the contrary), had a nice flat in a friendly retirement complex, a good social circle and was relatively comfortably off. George Avery, a man who Alice couldn’t even remember, had died when she was only a baby. She couldn’t help wondering if he had gone to his grave with a grateful smile on his face.

Janet Avery was not an easy person to like. She was a bitter, disappointed woman and, as she never failed to point out, most of that disappointment was rooted in her only child’s failures - her failure to be beautiful, to be witty, to have a stunning career or to get married and provide the grandchildren that she felt were due to her. Alice regretted all these things too, apart from the lack of kids. She had no desire to pass her own flawed genes on to another generation, or to have those innocent souls tormented in the same way she had been.

That Alice had not succeeded in life was hardly surprising. All she could recall, right from childhood, was impatience, derision and a continuous mocking. This had grown even more intense when, at the age of seventeen, she had hit that moment of teenage blossoming. She had never been exactly beautiful - she had inherited her father’s blander features - but, with her youth, auburn hair and ivory skin, she had briefly shone. It was a time she should have been able to make the most of, but even then, perhaps
especially
then, her mother had gnawed at her confidence, laying seeds of doubt in her mind and preventing her from taking the chances that might have changed her life.

‘Is that soup ready yet?’

Alice flinched at the sound of her voice. ‘Two minutes,’ she called back. Leaning down, she took the hot rolls out of the oven and placed them on a warmed plate.

Her mother came into the kitchen, frowned and glared into the pan of soup. ‘You haven’t overheated it, have you?’

‘No,’ Alice said.

‘You haven’t let it boil? You know it spoils the taste if you let it boil. I can’t cope with boiled soup - you know what it does to my digestion.’

‘Why don’t you sit down, Mum, and I’ll bring it over.’ Alice was only able to keep her cool because of Toby. Knowing that he was there for her, the one bright spot in her otherwise dull and dreary life, gave her the will to carry on. She took a deep breath, trying to think of the good things in her life rather than the bad. Toby Grand was at the top of the list, but the fact she had her own place, small and cramped as it was, came a close second. At least she had some privacy, a chance to get away from her mother’s watchful gaze. Even though she was forced to visit almost every single day, and was always subjected to the same nasty snipes and criticisms, the knowledge she had a bolt-hole kept her spirits just about intact.

Alice put the bowls of soup and the rolls on the table. She sat down and attempted a smile.

‘Let’s eat, shall we?’

‘If you can call it eating,’ her mother said. ‘It’s not exactly substantial, is it?’

‘I thought you liked soup.’

‘I
do
like soup, just not every day.’

‘You don’t have it every day,’ Alice said impatiently. Juggling her work commitments in order to be free for lunch was a constant problem. Why wasn’t she ever the slightest bit grateful? ‘We had a casserole yesterday.’

Janet Avery pulled a face as if her daughter was being deliberately argumentative. ‘I only mentioned it. There’s no need to get in a huff.’

‘I’m not . . .’ Alice managed to stop herself in time. Rising to the bait would only give her an excuse to have another go. Not that she needed an excuse; the old woman had been getting under her skin for the past forty years. She could still recall her mother’s glee when she’d given up nursing, a profession she had never wanted her to enter in the first place.
What did I tell you? You’re not a people person, dear. You need to find something more
. . .
suitable.
Alice, however, had managed to find a profession that disgusted her even more. That was probably the reason why she’d stuck with it for so long.

For a couple of minutes they slurped their soup in silence.

Eventually, the day never being complete unless she’d managed to provoke her, her mother put down her spoon and stared. ‘So what are you looking so pleased about? I suppose it’s some man or other.’

Alice blushed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

‘I don’t know why you bother. They never stick around, do they dear? Here today and gone tomorrow. You’re not wife material. You’re hardly girlfriend material either. I’d have thought you’d have learned that by now.’

Alice tore her roll into several more pieces. As her fingers clawed at the bread, she tried to keep hold of her temper. ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

Janet Avery shook her well-groomed head and smiled. It was the kind of smug, self-satisfied smile that gave Alice the urge to hurl the remainder of her soup over her. She silently counted to ten. It didn’t matter what was said, she would not give her the satisfaction of reacting.

But her mother wasn’t giving up. ‘So what’s he called then, this latest
beau
of yours? Someone to do with work, is it?’ She gave a long sigh. ‘I suppose he’s married, that’s why you want to keep quiet about it. He’ll only use you, Alice, use you and then cast you aside. They’re all the same. You should have learnt that by now.’

Alice stared at her mother, examining the newly waved grey hair, the sagging cheeks and tight prim mouth. Only she could use an old-fashioned word like beau and then go on to suggest that she was involved in some sordid affair. ‘I’ve told you. There isn’t anyone.’>

‘I hope it’s not that Gerald Grand. I’ve always had my suspicions about him. He’s got a lecherous look. Oily, if you know what I mean.’

As it happened, Alice did know what she meant. The idea of Gerald’s hands roaming over her body was enough to make her shudder. ‘Oh, please,’ she said, ‘give me some credit.’

Her mother, disappointed, turned her attention back to the soup.

Alice thought about Toby and a warm glow crept over her. Secrets were all very well, but there were times when she wanted to shout from the rooftops, to tell the whole world that
she
was the one he had chosen to be with, that
she
was the one he slept with at night. Well, perhaps not for all of the night, but she understood why that wasn’t possible. Toby was only protecting her, protecting them both from his father’s disapproval.

‘I saw the funeral on the news. I suppose you sorted out that Street woman.’

By ‘sorted out’ Alice knew she was asking whether she had embalmed her or not. She also knew, from the gleam in her mother’s eye, that she was eager for some juicy gossip on the subject. It would give her something novel to pass on to the other old crones who were part of her cynical, malicious group. ‘No,’ she said abruptly, ‘I didn’t. There’s been a murder inquiry in case you’d forgotten. All that was dealt with before she came to Tobias Grand & Sons
.
’

‘But you still saw her. You must have done.’

‘No,’ Alice replied, although it was a lie.

‘Him, then,’ her mother persisted. ‘You must have seen
him
. Did he look like he was grieving? Rumour has it they didn’t get on. You were there the morning of the funeral, weren’t you?’

Alice didn’t want to get into a discussion about Terry or Lizzie Street. In fact the very mention of any member of the Streets was enough to remind her of what had taken place last week. The shame of it brought the redness back to her cheeks. If there was a judgmental God - and she lived in dread that there might be - she would never be forgiven for what she had done.

Luke was looking none too happy as she stepped through the door of the flat. ‘Where have you been?’ he said irately, as if she were hours rather than minutes late. ‘I’ve been trying to call.’

Iris realised that she’d turned her phone off when Mrs Bayle had arrived and had forgotten to turn it back on again. ‘You know where I’ve been. What’s wrong?’ All kinds of ideas, products of her guilty conscience, sprang into her head - that Vita had called and inadvertently mentioned Jenks, that Guy Wilder had dropped round and told him about . . .

‘It’s Michael,’ he said.

From his expression she knew it wasn’t good news. She felt the breath catch in her throat. ‘What is it? Is he all right?’

‘Don’t worry, he’s fine.’ Luke said quickly. Then he paused. ‘Well, not fine exactly, but it’s nothing terminal. He’s in the living room.’

She rushed through to find Michael perched on the edge of the sofa. He had a bowl of red-stained water and a bottle of TCP sitting on the coffee table in front of him and was dabbing somewhat ineffectively at his forehead with a damp cloth. His face was covered in cuts and bruises. Iris crouched down, putting her hands on his knees. ‘Oh God, what happened?’

‘He got in a fight,’ Luke said sharply, as if to discourage her from showing too much sympathy. ‘Down the pub.’

‘Here, let me do that,’ Iris said, removing the cloth from her uncle’s hand.

‘I’m all right, love,’ he said. ‘I can manage. It’s nothing. There’s no need to fuss.’

But she could see how pale and shaken he was and, as he made no further objections, she started to clean his wounds. He winced as she gently cleared the blood away. Iris glanced over her shoulder at Luke. ‘Can you get me some fresh water? And you’d better get a drink for our wounded soldier here. There’s brandy in the kitchen cupboard.’

‘Brandy?’ Luke repeated. His forehead scrunched into a frown.

‘Yes,’ she said insistently, glaring back at him. She could tell that he wasn’t overjoyed at the prospect of having to waste his vintage Armagnac on the likes of Michael O’Donnell. As he left the room she wondered if he’d notice the rather large dent she’d made in the bottle on Thursday night. Still, she had more important things to worry about at the moment.

‘Come on, then,’ Michael said, ‘let’s get it over with.’

She stopped her ministrations and looked at him. ‘What?’

His blue eyes gazed back at her with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. ‘Scrappin’ in a boozer at my age. It’s a disgrace, eh? Tell me I ought to know better.’

Iris gave a soft laugh. ‘I’m not your mother.’ Although she couldn’t claim that she approved, she wasn’t about to lecture anyone - least of all her uncle - on how they should or shouldn’t behave. Everyone did things they weren’t proud of from time to time. She hadn’t exactly been Ms Perfect herself over the last few days.

‘I wouldn’t have come here, love. It wasn’t my idea. You don’t need the hassle, do you?’ He reached out and took her hand. ‘I know you don’t. It was Rick who brought me. To be honest, I didn’t have a clue where we were going. If I had, I wouldn’t have agreed. What, with the knocks and all, I was a bit out of it.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, squeezing his fingers between her own. ‘Rick was right. You’re always welcome - whatever state you’re in.’ Now that she’d established his injuries weren’t too severe, she was beginning to relax. There was a nasty cut above his right eyebrow, but it wasn’t deep enough to need stitches. The rest, although none too pleasant to look at, appeared to be fairly superficial. She glanced over her shoulder again. ‘So where is he? Is Rick still here?’