The Villain’s Daughter (26 page)

‘I doubt it,’ William said. ‘Danny Street’s a piece of work. He’s trouble, pure and simple. You shouldn’t have had to deal with him on your own.’ He laid a hand lightly on her shoulder. ‘I can assure you it won’t happen again. I won’t have my staff threatened by the likes of that man.’

Iris, although she appreciated the sentiment, was immediately worried about what he was planning to do next. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m going to call the police,’ William said. He reached for the phone. ‘Perhaps they can keep him under control.’

‘No!’ Iris objected, quickly putting her hand over the receiver. ‘There’s no need for that.’ Chris Street was hardly likely to be amenable to Guy’s attempts to smooth things over if he thought she’d been grassing up his brother. ‘I mean, do you really think that’s such a good idea? He was out of order, but he didn’t actually
do
anything. Why waste your time? Not to mention the time of the police.’ She looked at him pleadingly. ‘To be honest, I’d rather we just forgot about it.’

William hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘I hate to see him getting away with it. It isn’t right.’ He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘I don’t suppose you have any idea where Toby is?’

‘He had to go out. Some kind of emergency, I think.’

‘Yes, I bet it was. Look, are you all right? You’re white as a sheet. Can I get you anything? A cup of tea? A brandy?’

‘Brandy?’ she repeated, surprised by the suggestion.

‘We usually keep a bottle in. Funerals aren’t the easiest things to arrange and people can get upset. You never know when someone’s going to need it.’

Like when Danny Street started shouting the odds, she thought. She smiled up at William. It was a somewhat faltering smile. His kindness towards her, his clear concern for her welfare, made her want to cry. ‘Thanks, but if you want your letters typed with any degree of accuracy, I’d better keep off the hard stuff.’

‘You don’t have to stay. You’ve had a shock. I’ll understand if you’d prefer to go home. Take the rest of the day off if you like. I can call you a taxi. You’ll be there in five minutes.’

Iris was tempted by the offer - instead of going home, she could go round and see Guy - but decided against it. She couldn’t go running to him every five minutes; he might get the impression that she was one of those hysterical females who fell to pieces at the first sign of trouble. Not that she didn’t have good reason to be afraid. There was no doubt in her mind that Danny Street would have gone further if William hadn’t come back. But if she wasn’t going to see Guy, what was she going to do? Faced with the prospect of spending the rest of the day alone in the flat, she decided to stay put. ‘No, really, I’m fine. I’d rather just get on with things.’

‘If that’s what you want,’ he said. He gave her shoulder one last pat before retreating to his office. At the door, he stopped and turned around. ‘Let me know if you change your mind.’

At lunchtime, Iris went to the kitchen. She toyed with the ham sandwich she’d thrown together that morning, but couldn’t bring herself to eat it. The cold knot in her stomach kept on tightening.

All this because of some terrible mistake her father had made all those years ago. But it was more than a mistake, she thought. A boy had died. And if Liam had been
her
brother . . . well, maybe she wouldn’t rest either until some kind of justice was seen to be done. Her father may not have pulled the trigger, but he had still been there. And being there was clearly enough for the Streets.

Iris took her mobile out of her bag and laid it on the table. At the very least she should call Guy, keep him in the loop. If he was seeing Chris Street today, he needed to know what had happened. Tentatively, she turned the phone on, instinctively flinching in case it suddenly started ringing again. But the only sound was the double beep of a text message.

Iris pressed the buttons and found a short note from Vita:
Hope all OK. R sent red roses to the office! Vx

She frowned at the words, recalling her earlier misgivings. Roses didn’t come cheap. Had Rick used the money he’d got from . . . but she immediately stamped on the thought. No, she had to stop this. There were a hundred-and-one ways he could have got hold of that cash. And would Michael really have told him about her father’s presence at a murder? Surely some family secrets stayed firmly locked in the closet. They had certainly been hidden from her for long enough.

She put her head in her hands and sighed. Vita, of course, knew all about her father, but she couldn’t have been the one to have passed the information on. Iris had only told her the details last night - a good seven hours or so
after
Duggie had taken the wallet.

Raising her face, Iris decided that the only way forward was to do something positive. She’d go mad if she kept on chasing shadows. Accordingly, she took a deep breath, scrolled through the menu on her phone and called Guy Wilder. She swallowed her disappointment as she heard it switch instantly to voicemail. Then she hesitated. Should she leave a message? She decided not. The bar was open at lunchtime and he was probably busy. She’d try again later.

There were still fifty minutes left of her break. She twisted the phone between her fingers. What next? She tried Michael’s number, but that was turned off too. This time she did leave a message. Trying to sound as cheery as possible, she said: ‘Hi Michael, it’s only me. Call me back, let me know how you are.’ She had no intention of telling him about Danny Street’s visit - he was so hot-headed he’d probably go off at the deep end again - but she did need to talk to him. She had to find out exactly
who
he’d told about her father.

Having drawn a blank on her first two calls, Iris was convinced that her third would have the same result. Still, she may as well give it a go. After pressing 1 on her keypad, she heard Luke’s phone start to ring. It seemed strange to think of it ringing all those miles away. She wasn’t really expecting him to answer and when he did was entirely unprepared.

‘Hi, babe! Great to hear from you. How are you?’

Iris could tell from his voice that he wasn’t entirely sober. ‘Oh, yes, hi. I’m okay. I’m fine, thanks. How’s it going?’

‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘In fact,
very
good.’

She could hear the chink of glasses, of chatter and music in the background. ‘That’s great. You’ve clinched some profitable deals then?’

‘On the brink,’ he said. ‘Here’s hoping. And hey, I’m sorry I haven’t called. I was going to catch up with you tonight. It’s all been a bit manic here. You know what it’s like.’

Iris
did
know what it was like. That was the trouble. She’d made a few business trips of her own in the past, spending half of them in various bars and restaurants. She remembered the easy atmosphere, the generous flow of wine and conversation. She remembered the men who had smiled and flattered and chatted her up. There had been plenty of opportunities if she’d wanted to take them. Of course, back then, she hadn’t wanted to - Luke was the only man she’d been interested in - but she knew how much temptation there was when you were far away from home.

‘Are you still there?’ he said, hearing the silence.

‘Yes,’ she said breezily. ‘So it’s all going well?’

‘Brilliant.’

He sounded happy, upbeat, like the Luke she’d fallen in love with five years ago. There hadn’t been much sign of him over the last six months. She felt a tiny tug inside. His improved mood was probably down to the booze, to the heady excitement of deals being made, but maybe some of it - she couldn’t pretend otherwise - was because he was away from her. Hearing his name being called, followed by a soft peal of laughter, her heart turned over. ‘Who’s that?’

‘It’s only Jasmine,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. We’re about to head in to lunch.’

Iris remembered the girl at the Christmas party, the girl she thought had been called Jade.

‘Jasmine?’ she repeated.

But if he’d heard the question mark, he didn’t respond to it. ‘Look, I’ll give you a ring later, okay? I’ve got to go. You take care.’

‘You too.’

‘Bye then.’

‘Take care,’ Iris repeated softly as she put the phone back down on the table. He had no idea how much those words meant to her at the moment.

Alice pulled up the hood on her red anorak as she scurried along the street. The snow was coming down in great swirling drifts, flying into her eyes and obscuring her vision. Not that she needed to see to find her way. She had made this journey so many times she could have done it blindfold. As she clutched her mother’s dry cleaning to her chest - it was enclosed in a thin plastic cover that might not be entirely waterproof - she felt her throat making tiny gulping motions. She was trying hard not to cry.

Alice was almost overwhelmed by guilt. It was not an unfamiliar emotion - Janet Avery had made sure of that - but on this occasion it was more tangible than usual, the result of a
real
event. She had let herself down but, even worse, she’d betrayed a colleague too. Alice bit down on her lip. She had been halfway up the steps when she’d heard the voices coming from reception, and had instantly stopped dead. Consumed by fear, she had left Iris to face the wrath of Danny Street alone.

She hunched her shoulders, scowling at her own cowardice. All she could claim in her defence was that she might have made things worse if she’d joined the fray. But she knew it was a feeble excuse. What she’d been really afraid of was that he might turn on her, that in his drug-induced state he might let something slip about what had taken place in the basement. She shuddered at the thought. But still her conscience continued to nag. How could she have been so weak, so pathetic? If she had any backbone at all, she would have pushed through that door and stood beside Iris. She would have to try to find a way to make it up to her.

Alice’s feet, following the well-travelled route, took a left and then a right. She had tried to call Toby but he hadn’t picked up. She had left a breathless, warning message about the visit. Oh God, what would she do if Danny Street caught up with him and . . . Quickly, she shook her head, too afraid to finish the thought.

A few minutes later she arrived at Valentine Court. Why anyone had chosen to call a retirement complex by such a name was beyond her. The bland redbrick construction was four storeys high and overlooked a supermarket car park at the back. The only vaguely romantic thing about it was the layer of snow beginning to cover the scrubby patch of lawn.

Most of the apartments were occupied by women. She had only occasionally seen a man around. A few of these widows and ‘spinsters’ (as her mother insisted on calling any female who had not been fortunate enough to marry) appeared to spend a disproportionate amount of time staring aimlessly out of the window. In fact, there were several noses pressed to the glass at this very moment. Alice was aware of being watched, of being scrutinised. It made her even more self-conscious than usual.

Hurrying towards the glass doors, she jabbed in the security code. As Alice stepped into the entrance hall, she wrinkled her nose; a series of smells - none of them pleasant - assailed her nostrils. There was the slight odour of damp, of old cooking, and both of these were overlain by the cheap scent of an overly flowery air freshener. She walked across the lino floor and summoned the lift. While she waited, she glanced down at the large wooden table. There was a heap of leaflets sitting on it advertising Saga holidays, classes in yoga and Spanish, cheap meals at local restaurants, pizza takeaways, forthcoming theatre productions and private health insurance. There were even a few Tobias Grand & Sons flyers.

As she rode up to the top floor, Alice found herself pondering on the fate of those faces at the windows. They reminded her of prisoners trapped in their cells. The thought that this might one day be her own destiny filled her with horror.

Her mother was not one of the lonely watchers. Even as Alice knocked on the door she could hear a babble of voices coming from within. Her heart sank. The cronies, a vicious trio of witches, were regular visitors; their primary interest in life was the spreading of rumour and gossip, and this they did with alarming enthusiasm.

Janet Avery opened the door with a scornful expression. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she remarked, as if her daughter’s visit was not only unexpected, but unwelcome too.

Alice held out the dry cleaning. ‘You asked me to pick this up.’

Mrs Avery made no attempt to take it from her. Instead, she turned her back and walked off into the living room.

Alice had no choice but to follow. Gathered on the sofa were three women in their late sixties. Alice privately referred to them as The Coven. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see them dressed in black and dancing round a cauldron.

‘Hello,’ Mrs Boyd said. ‘You’re looking different, Alice. Have you had your hair done? I think you’ve lost a bit of weight, haven’t you?’

Alice forced a smile. Mrs Boyd was a thin, sharp-faced woman who only ever threw out empty compliments. Before Alice had a chance to reply her mother jumped in.

‘She’s got herself a new young man, but she’s being very secretive about him.’

‘Oh,’ Mrs Wilkinson said.

‘Indeed!’ Mrs Boyd said.

Alice knew that the term ‘young man’ was not meant literally, but still she felt a flutter of apprehension. Was it possible that her mother had found out about Toby? No, she couldn’t have. They’d been too careful. ‘I haven’t,’ she insisted quickly. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Well, you’ve never shown much interest in your appearance before.’

Alice glared at her mother.

Sensing a spot of daughter-baiting, the other women sat forward, their beady eyes eagerly darting between the two protagonists.

But Alice was determined not to rise to it. After placing the dry cleaning over the back of a chair, she looked at her watch. ‘I can’t stay. I have to get back to work.’