The Villain’s Daughter (17 page)

Luke came into the room and stared at her. ‘He’s a grown man,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t need you fussing. Why don’t you give the poor guy some space?’

Although what he really meant, Iris thought, was that he was glad Michael had gone and didn’t want her encouraging him to return. ‘You know what,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m just going to nip round. I bet he hasn’t even got any food in.’

‘Are you kidding?’ Luke said.

And seeing his expression, Iris knew he wasn’t going to forgive her in a hurry. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’ She thought about asking if she could borrow the car, but then changed her mind. Leaving any decent car in the vicinity of the Mansfield Estate was tantamount to asking for trouble; the kids who lived in those blocks would have it away before she’d even crossed the threshold. Luke could have offered to drop her off, but he didn’t. He simply pulled a face and then retreated to the living room.

Iris grabbed her coat and made for the door.

 

She walked with her head down against the cold winter air. In her hurry she’d forgotten her scarf and gloves, but she wasn’t going back for them now. While she advanced up the High Street, her freezing hands bunched deep in her pockets, Iris rehearsed what she’d say to Michael. It would be no good if the words were to tumble out in any old order. She had to be smart about it; she had to be prepared.

Over the years, things had been kept from her - she was certain of it. However, getting Michael to reveal them could be tricky. But then again, she had just been threatened. Surely no family secret was important enough to put her life in jeopardy? She shivered, remembering what the thug had said.

Suddenly Iris became aware of how stupid it was for her to be walking alone after what had happened. She quickly glanced to her left and right, before looking back over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be following. Anyway, they wouldn’t have another go so soon - would they? No, she decided. She was safe for a while. They would give her a few days’ grace, time to contact her father, before putting any more pressure on her.

Ten minutes later, as she passed Tobias Grand & Sons, Iris thought she glimpsed a light behind the opaque glass. It was only there for a second, as if a door had opened and then swiftly closed again. She paused, wondering if she’d imagined it, but then noticed Toby’s racing green Toyota parked in the street. Perhaps there had been another call-out. With Gerald ill, and William possibly occupied elsewhere, it would have been left to Toby to step into the breach. Iris gave a wry smile. He’d have been none too pleased at having to drag himself out of bed after a late Saturday night. At any other time she would have stopped to stay hello, to see if he needed a hand, but today she was too busy with her own problems.

Iris went into the Co-op on the corner and picked up a basket. Whizzing down the aisles she grabbed milk, bread, butter, eggs, bacon and cheese. To these she added a selection of ready meals. They weren’t exactly a healthy option, but even Michael could manage to remove something from a packet and throw it in the microwave. As she was about to pay, she noticed the bottles of spirits lined up behind the counter. She shouldn’t be encouraging him to drink, but if there was one sure way to loosen Michael’s tongue . . .

It was still early afternoon, but already it was growing dark. The sky was low, a soft grey blanket beginning to wrap itself around the three looming towers of the estate. Iris stepped up her pace as she walked through the gateway; this wasn’t the kind of place to loiter even in broad daylight. Michael lived in Haslow House to the left. She glanced up at the rusting balconies, the cracked and peeling paintwork, and thanked God that he was on the second floor. At least she didn’t need to use the lift.

It was only as she was jogging up the worn stone steps that it occurred to her he could be out. She should have stopped off at the Dog on her way here. More than likely, he was propping up the bar. But, surprisingly, and much to her relief, she saw a light in his window as she turned the corner on to the walkway.

Iris knocked on the door and waited. There was no response. She pressed her face to the window glass, but the mustard yellow curtains were pulled tight. She tried knocking again. Pressing her ear against the wood, she listened for the sound of any signs of movement from inside. Nothing. Putting the carrier bags on the ground, she knelt and opened the letterbox. ‘Michael? Michael, it’s me, Iris.’

She peered in at the small gloomy hallway. Nothing stirred. ‘Michael?’ she called out again.

Now she was starting to get worried. What if he’d suffered a delayed reaction to the blows from the fight? What if he’d collapsed and was lying helpless on the floor inside? Iris had a spare set of keys for emergencies. She stood up straight, pulled them out of her bag and stared at them. Did this qualify as an emergency? He could have simply come back, pulled the curtains against the cold, left the light on and gone down the pub. Really, she ought to check the Dog out first, but she didn’t relish the thought of dragging the shopping back down the steps. And what if he wasn’t there? She’d have to come all the way back up. All of which was a crazy waste of time if Michael
was
in need of help.

Iris tried his phone one last time. She leaned in against the door again and listened for the sound of ringing, but there was none. Eventually it went to voicemail. With no means of knowing whether his phone was actually turned off or if he was just sitting in a pub and avoiding her calls, she decided to take the bull by the horns. Michael might not be overjoyed by the fact she’d let herself into his flat, but she’d rather risk his displeasure than his life.

She took a breath, unlocked the mortice and then turned the key in the Yale. Pushing open the door, she called out again. ‘Michael?’

As soon as Iris stepped foot inside, she sensed that the place was empty. She closed the door behind her and listened again. The flat had a curious quality to it, a kind of stillness even though it was not entirely quiet: the radiators gurgled, the fridge hummed and the clock on the wall emitted a soft, steady tick.

Even though she knew it was pointless, Iris made a rapid check of all the rooms. It was only when she’d established that there was no body laid out on the floor that she allowed herself to relax. Going through to the kitchen, she put the carriers bags on the table and started to empty them. The fridge, she noticed, was almost empty. She piled in the food and put the bottle of whisky on the counter by the sink.

Iris paused, deciding what to do next. What she
should
do was head straight over to the Dog, but a little voice was whispering in her ear. Why not take the opportunity to have a quick look round? Perhaps, somewhere in the flat, was a clue to the whereabouts of her father. Iris pulled a face. It wasn’t right to snoop - but then lying wasn’t right either. And she was sure that Michael had lied to her. This morning’s scrap with Danny Street had been about more than good manners.

Before she could let her conscience get the better of her, Iris started on a fast sweep of the flat. The place was untidy but relatively clean. Starting with the kitchen, she checked all the cupboards and drawers but found nothing more than a few tins of baked beans and a pile of old bills. In the living room, she rooted through the newspapers lying on the coffee table and then opened and closed the scratched mahogany cabinet. There was nothing in there either apart from an almost empty bottle of vodka. It was only when she came to examine the small round table by the sofa, the table which had the phone standing on it, that she noticed the scrap of paper. It had a number scrawled across it and Iris knew that number by heart. It was her mother’s!

Iris’s heart gave a start. So far as she was aware, her mother and Michael hadn’t spoken in years. So why on earth was her number written here?

Iris leaned over, picked up the phone and dialled 1471. She listened to the BT message reciting her mother’s number. Michael had been called yesterday morning at a quarter to eleven. Although she had no means of knowing whether he had actually taken the call - he could have written down the number later - it seemed too much of a coincidence that half an hour after it had come in he’d been on his way to pick a fight with Danny Street. She tried 1571, but there were no recorded messages.

Iris was still pondering on what all this might mean when she heard the key turning in the lock. Smartly, she backtracked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took some of the contents out.

‘Michael,’ she called out. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only me.’

He came through to the kitchen, looking bemused.

‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘Only I was worried about you. I brought some food round and when you didn’t answer the door, I thought . . . well, to be honest I panicked a bit so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.’ As if she had only just arrived, and was still in the process of unpacking the bags, she started to put the food back in the fridge. She felt guilty at the subterfuge, but not entirely sorry.

‘I popped into the Dog for a quick one,’ he said.

‘You weren’t answering your phone.’

‘Oh,’ he said, taking it from his pocket and staring at it. Iris, still feeling awkward, forced a smile on to her lips. ‘It doesn’t work if you don’t turn it on.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Well, thanks for the food. You needed haven’t bothered. I was going to nip out later.’

‘It’ll save you the bother. You should be resting, not running around.’ Iris nodded towards the whisky. ‘And I bought you a bottle. I thought you might be in need.’

Michael’s eyes instantly lit up. ‘Ah, sweetheart, that was good of you.’

Iris suspected that he had only left the pub because he’d run out of cash. Her uncle had not worked, at least not legally, since an accident at the car factory over ten years ago. Having sustained a back injury, he was now living off disability benefit. She had witnessed no particular evidence of any lasting damage - he had no problem playing endless games of pool - but it wasn’t her place to pass judgement.

Iris picked up a couple of glasses from the draining board. ‘Hey, why don’t we have a quick drink before I go?’

Michael, perhaps questioning her motives, narrowed his eyes a little. But seeing as she had bought the bottle, he could hardly refuse. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Why not?’

Iris added a generous splash of water to her whisky, but Michael took his neat. They sat down at the kitchen table and she waited until he’d taken a few sips. ‘So, how are you feeling now?’

‘Not bad,’ he said, his fingers tentatively lifting to touch the cuts and bruises on his face. ‘Not so bad at all. I think I’ll live.’

Iris nodded. ‘That’s good, Michael, because we’ve still got some talking to do. We never did finish our conversation, did we?’

‘Didn’t we?’ he said, acting all innocent.

‘Don’t give me that,’ she said, smiling again. ‘I can read you like a book. You rushed off the minute my back was turned. And I know when you’re lying. Tell me the real reason why you were fighting with Danny Street.’

‘I’ve already—’

‘The
real
reason, Michael, not that pile of old crap you told me earlier.’ She leaned across the table and looked hard into his eyes. ‘Because something happened in Columbia Road today, something nasty, something that scared the hell out of me. So I want the truth and I want it now. I’m sick of being lied to!’

He stared back at her for a moment. His voice, when he replied, sounded brittle and fearful. ‘Ah, Jesus,’ he said. ‘What happened?’

Michael jumped up after she had told him and started to pace the kitchen. ‘The bastards! The fuckin’ bastards!’

Alarmed by his reaction, Iris stood up and grabbed his elbow. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘This isn’t achieving anything. Just sit down and tell me what you know.’

‘Did he hurt you? Did he—’

‘No,’ she said. In truth her arm was still aching from where the brute had dug his fingers into her flesh. She made an effort not to rub at it. Her priority now was to calm Michael and find out what was really going on. ‘Please sit down,’ she said again.

This time he complied and sank wearily into the chair. He put his elbows on the table and covered his face with his hands. ‘Shit,’ he murmured.

‘I need the truth,’ she said. ‘I’m entitled, aren’t I? Whatever your reasons for lying and I understand that it was probably to try to protect me - well, it’s too late for that now. I’m already involved. I’ve been threatened. And I need to know why this is happening.’ She took a deep breath. There was still the all-important question she had to ask. ‘Is my dad still alive?’

‘No,’ Michael said, immediately removing his hands. He left a short pause and shook his head. ‘No, he can’t be.’

Iris felt her heart leap. ‘You’re not certain?’

He knocked back his drink, reached out for the bottle and poured another generous measure. ‘It’s been nineteen years. Don’t you think he would’ve contacted me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Iris said. ‘I don’t have any clear idea of why he left in the first place.’ Recalling what the man at the market had said, she added: ‘Was he in trouble with the police?’

Michael was obviously surprised by the question. There was a short silence. ‘The police?’ he repeated slowly.

But his surprise, she decided, was more down to the fact that she knew he’d been in trouble than out of any kind of incredulity. ‘He was, wasn’t he? And it must have been something serious or—’

‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Michael said. He rubbed his face again and ran his hands through his dark curls.

Iris felt her heart shift again. ‘So the cops
are
interested in him?’ She took another drink. The whisky was so diluted she could barely taste it. Perhaps she’d skip the water on the next round. That there would be a next round, she was now in no doubt at all. Michael was up against the ropes, struggling with what he should and shouldn’t say, and she intended to knock the truth out of him. And if that meant staying until every last drop of the whisky had been drunk, then so be it!