The Villain’s Daughter (19 page)

‘So why didn’t Terry Street come after you? I mean, when he got out of hospital. You’re my dad’s brother. He must have—’

‘No,’ Michael interrupted. ‘I’ve got Lizzie to thank for that. She told him I’d been drinking in the Hope all evening - there were plenty of other witnesses too - and managed to persuade him that I couldn’t have had anything to do with it. She made him promise that he wouldn’t take it out on me or your mother. If it hadn’t been for her . . . well, fuck knows what Terry would have done.’

It crossed Iris’s mind, and not for the first time, that he and Lizzie might have been closer than Michael was prepared to admit. Then she thought about the awful situation her dad had landed other people in. While he’d gone on the run, her mum and Michael had been left to face the music.

Michael raised his glass to his lips again. ‘Terry had his priorities. He knew who’d pulled the trigger that night. He knew who’d killed his son, and it wasn’t Sean.’

‘But he was there. He was still a part of it. And it strikes me that Terry Street isn’t the type to walk away from
any
kind of payback. An eye for an eye and all that. By hurting you or Mum, he could at least have got some revenge.’

Michael pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how Lizzie persuaded him - and I never asked. Perhaps Terry needed to have her on side. She was the one, after all, who was going to have to keep things ticking over while he was stuck in that hospital bed. He was relying on her to take care of the kids
and
the business. If she asked a favour of him, he was hardly in a position to refuse. Anyway, however she did it, I never had any trouble.’

Iris wasn’t entirely convinced by the explanation, but sensing that Michael wasn’t going to elaborate, she changed the subject. ‘Did Terry Street ever catch up with Tyler?’

It was getting dark outside and the kitchen was filling with shadows. Michael stood up, walked across the room, and turned on the light before sitting down again. Iris had the feeling he was playing for time.

‘Did he?’ she asked again.

Michael gave a thin smile. ‘Why do you think he’s been inside for the last ten years?’

Iris sucked in her breath, feeling her heartbeat starting to accelerate again. ‘He . . . he . . .’

‘It took Terry years to track him down, but he never stopped looking. The great Spanish dream didn’t work out too well for Davey Tyler and eventually he came home. It didn’t take long for Terry to hear about it and when he did . . .’

‘He made him pay,’ Iris said.

‘When the two of them finally met up again, there was a fight. You don’t need to be a genius to guess the outcome. Terry claimed self-defence, but the jury wasn’t having it. He was found guilty of murder and the judge sent him down for fifteen years.’

Iris had only a vague idea of how the system worked, but had a notion that most people only served about two-thirds of their sentence. On top of that, she remembered how she’d heard that Terry was due out soon. She took a large swig of her whisky before asking the next question. ‘Do you think he killed my dad too?’

Michael hesitated, but only for a second. ‘Look, I’m not going to lie to you, love . . . not any more. I don’t believe Sean would have kept silent for all these years, not unless he hadn’t been able to get in contact. And there’s only one reason why he couldn’t have done that.’

Iris took a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had an edge of bewilderment. ‘So why the hell was I threatened today? If Terry
did
kill him, then Chris and Danny Street must know that.’

‘Perhaps someone’s been stirring, telling them he’s still alive.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’ Suddenly, despite all her earlier ill-feeling, Iris felt an instinctive rush of hope at the thought she might actually see her father again. ‘Surely, if they’re reacting like this, it means that Terry
didn’t
kill him. He couldn’t have. Dad could still be out there somewhere.’

‘Or someone’s just winding up the Streets. Just because you leave a man for dead, doesn’t mean that he actually is. Maybe someone’s been whispering in their ear.’

‘But why would anyone—’

Michael sighed. ‘God, Iris, you’re talking about a family that has pissed off more people than the fuckin’ Mafia. Claiming that your dad’s still alive could just be a way of winding Terry up - especially as he’s coming out soon.’

Iris, although she didn’t want to believe it, could see the logic in his argument. ‘So what do we do next?’

‘
We
don’t do anything,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ll sort it.’

Iris stared at him. She snorted. ‘And how exactly are you going to do that? By having another go at Danny Street? As I recall, that didn’t go too well last time.’

Michael automatically raised his hand to touch the bruises on his face. ‘I won’t have them hassling you.’

‘Yeah, well,’ she said, ‘maybe there are better ways of sorting this out than trying to beat someone’s brains to a pulp.’

‘What do you mean?’

She had an idea, but wasn’t in the mood to share it. ‘Just promise me you won’t do anything until we talk again. Swear to me, Michael. I need time to think.’

Iris set off for home, her head full of the robbery and the terrible things her dad had done. She was halfway down the street when she realised that she hadn’t even asked about her mother’s phone call. There were so many other questions that needed to be asked too, so much more to be explained. Michael may have revealed some of the story, but she wasn’t convinced that it was everything. This, she was certain, was only the beginning.

It was nine-thirty on Monday morning. Iris was sitting at her desk in reception, trying to concentrate on the copious amount of paperwork Gerald Grand had miraculously managed to generate from his sickbed. However, her mind was preoccupied with other matters. The conversation with Michael was still revolving in her head; she hoped he wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

She had Luke to worry about too. It had been after five when she’d finally got back to the flat. For the second time that day, she’d arrived home to discover a scribbled note sitting on the kitchen table. Luke’s had said simply:
Back later.
There had been no further explanation or any indication of where he had gone. Clearly irritated by her absence on the eve of his departure to Brussels, he had taken off in one of his all too familiar huffs. Iris had wandered into the living room. The Christmas tree, still bare and undecorated, had stood accusingly in the corner, listing a little to one side.

Iris could have, maybe
should
have called him, but had chosen not to. He probably wouldn’t have picked up anyway. In the event, he had strolled in at around ten o’clock, looking more cheerful than she’d expected and claiming to have been for a drink with his old friend Martin. Iris had her suspicions. Unless the macho, rugby-playing Martin had taken to wearing a particularly pungent perfume, she may well have something else to worry about.

Iris sighed and stared down at her desk. Was it possible that Luke was cheating on her? She recalled the sleek blonde girl at the Rufus Rigby Christmas party and screwed up her face. There had been something about the girl, about the way she had reached out and touched Luke’s arm. Or was that just paranoia talking? Iris couldn’t deny that their relationship had been rocky recently. Well, not only recently if she was being strictly honest . . . she couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt truly close to him. And she wasn’t only thinking about sex. They seemed barely able to have a conversation these days without it degenerating into a pointless, petty squabble.

Iris looked up at the computer, typed in a few more lines and then pressed the delete button to correct her mistakes. Her fingers were refusing to co-operate today. ‘Come on,’ she muttered to herself, ‘concentrate.’

But again her thoughts drifted off. On her way back from the Mansfield Estate, she had made the decision to tell Luke everything, to stop keeping secrets, but last night hadn’t seemed like the right time. This morning hadn’t felt any better either. It was best, she’d decided, to leave the revelations until he came home. He didn’t need her problems distracting him while he was trying to work. Anyway, by the time he got back everything might be sorted out.

Did she really believe that? Probably not, she admitted. Problems like these were too big to go away in a hurry. Which was why she needed some serious help. Having run through the rather short list of possibilities - quickly eliminating both Michael and the police - she had eventually picked up the phone and called the one person who might be able to give her some useful advice. There was no love lost between Guy Wilder and the Streets, but at least he understood how they operated. She had called at eight o’clock last night and if Guy had been surprised to hear from her so soon after their exchange on Friday, he hadn’t shown any evidence of it.

‘Something’s happened,’ she’d said. ‘I can’t talk now. Would it be possible for us to meet up tomorrow?’

‘Of course. Come to the bar. About six? Is that okay? We shouldn’t be too busy then. You can tell me all about it.’

Iris scowled at the computer screen. No matter how she tried to justify it, she still felt a sense of guilt over not coming clean with Luke. How much of that decision had actually been down to trying to protect him, and how much to avoiding the inevitable row? He wouldn’t have been pleased that she’d failed to mention the threats made at the market. Even less pleased, perhaps, that she’d dropped into a bar after the Rufus Rigby party and shared a bottle of wine with a virtual stranger. She could imagine the questions that would follow: why didn’t you tell me? What were you trying to hide? And if she’d told him she was meeting Guy Wilder again . . .

Iris ran her fingers threw her hair. That was the trouble with lies - one small one led to a larger one and before you knew it, you were embroiled in a complicated web of deceit. This knowledge should have helped her to understand why neither her mother nor Michael had been entirely straight with her but, even though she was aware of the hypocrisy, she still felt angry at them both. So angry, in fact, that she hadn’t even been able to call her mother yet. It was best to wait until she was feeling calmer. Some words, said in haste, could never be taken back.

As the door to Tobias Grand & Sons opened, Iris looked up to see Toby walking in. He shook the snow from his hair and grinned. ‘Morning, hun. How are you today?’

Iris, glad of the distraction, glanced deliberately at her watch. ‘What are you doing in at this time? I thought you usually avoided the boring Monday to Friday routine.’

‘Ha ha,’ he said, coming over to perch on the corner of her desk. ‘I’ll have you know that I’m an extremely hard-working member of this thriving family business.’

Iris was about to make another quip when she remembered seeing Toby’s Toyota yesterday afternoon. Maybe, just for once, he had been putting in the hours. ‘Ah, yes, I suppose the boss has been keeping you busy now he’s confined to his bed. I hope he hasn’t been spoiling that hectic social life of yours.’

‘No chance,’ Toby said, laughing. ‘I never let anything as tedious as work stand in the way of a good weekend. In fact, I spent the whole of it in bed - and believe me, it had nothing to do with feeling under the weather.’

‘Ugh,’ Iris said, waving a hand. ‘Spare me the details.’ Then, confused as to why his car should have been parked outside, she added: ‘So there weren’t any call-outs on Sunday?’

Toby laughed again. ‘How would I know? I don’t make a habit of answering the phone when I’m otherwise occupied. Anyway, Grimm Junior would have dealt with anything like that.’ He paused and looked at her. ‘Why do you ask?’

Iris gave a casual shrug. ‘Just wondering.’ Toby wasn’t telling the truth, but she didn’t know why. Maybe there was a perfectly good reason for why he should lie about not being here - except right now she couldn’t think of one. Of course there was always the possibility that he’d lent his car to someone else, but that didn’t seem very likely; Toby’s gleaming green Toyota was his pride and joy. ‘Oh, it’s just there was a viewing on Saturday, and William was busy so I had to come in and cover. I thought you might have been roped in too.’

‘No chance!’ Toby exclaimed. ‘Wild horses wouldn’t drag me into this place at the weekend.’ He swung a leg against the desk, his heel tapping against the wood. ‘Dropping like flies, are they? It must be the cold. Still, we can’t complain. It’s all good for business.’

Iris raised her brows. ‘If you say so.’

She was about to discreetly pursue the matter of the car when William came out of his office and interrupted the conversation.

‘You couldn’t nip downstairs with these, could you?’ he said, placing a sheaf of papers in her hand. ‘They need to be signed by Alice.’

Iris wasn’t over fond of the basement and always avoided it if she could. There was something about its sterility, about that eerie hum of refrigeration that always made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She could cope with dead bodies once they were lying serenely in their coffins, but was disturbed by the procedures that enabled them to look so peaceful. The thought of seeing a pale, cold corpse laid out on the embalming table filled her with horror.

As she hesitated, Toby swiftly got to his feet and said, ‘No worries. I’ll do it.’

Iris, relieved, passed the papers over to him. ‘Thanks.’ As he walked away, she had her second guilty feeling of the morning - by allowing Toby to make the delivery, she was probably condemning Alice to yet another round of his ceaseless teasing. Should she stop him and insist she go herself? No, it was too late for that now. Anyway, Alice would have to learn to fight her own battles. As soon as the thought entered her head, Iris felt bad about it. There were some people who were just too quiet, too reserved, to handle the likes of Toby Grand.

William was still standing over her. Iris looked up at him and sighed.