The Villain’s Daughter (3 page)

‘I did. I told you weeks ago.’ He tilted his head towards the calendar stuck to the fridge. ‘I even wrote it down.’

‘Then why didn’t you remind me? I said last night that I’d booked a table.’ She realised he couldn’t have been listening to her - just as she had not been listening to him. It was symptomatic of the general breakdown in communication between them. ‘So what are we going to do?’

‘You’ll have to rearrange. Tell him we can’t make it.’

She shook her head, annoyed. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not? We can change it to Saturday.’

‘It won’t be his birthday on Saturday.’

Luke shrugged. He could see she was upset, but refused to feel bad about making the suggestion. Michael O’Donnell was fond of a pint and, with nothing better to do, he’d probably spend most of the day in the pub with his mates; by seven o’clock he’d be completely smashed. Even if the dates hadn’t coincided, Luke wouldn’t have relished the prospect of spending the evening with him. As it was, there was no way he was going to pass over one of the most important networking occasions of the year for a cheap meal with a lousy drunk.

‘I thought you liked him.’

Luke stared at her. He could see the direction this was going in and tried his best to cut her off. ‘I do. Of course I do. For heaven’s sake, it’s got nothing to do with that.’

‘Hasn’t it?’ Iris narrowed her eyes and stared back. ‘You haven’t seen him in ages. Every time I go round, you make some excuse. You’re always making excuses and now—’

‘That’s rubbish. I’ve just been busy.’

‘You find him embarrassing.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he snapped.

But Iris knew it was true. She couldn’t deny that Michael could get a little loud when he was on the booze - it didn’t take much encouragement for him to burst into song or to start regaling total strangers with some of the more colourful stories of his life - but he had a good heart and was the nearest thing she had to a father. ‘He’s been good to me.’

Luke shrugged. When he’d first encountered Iris, he’d been completely bowled over by her. Infatuated, even. With her slim figure, long red hair and green-grey eyes, he had thought her the most stunning girl he had ever met. And it wasn’t just her physical attributes, or her zest for life, which had fascinated him so much: he’d also been intrigued by her association, if only marginal, to the villainous underworld of London. Back in Manchester, he’d even bragged to his pals about it. But things had changed a lot since then. Now he preferred to keep his mouth buttoned about some of the less savoury pastimes of her relatives. ‘This party’s important; it’s my job we’re talking about.’

‘Michael’s birthday is important too.’

‘I’m sure he’ll understand.’

Iris bridled at his dismissive tone. ‘Understand what? That I’d rather swig champagne with a bunch of overpaid, immature morons than spend the evening with my own uncle?’ She bit down on her lip. It was an unfair retort and she instantly regretted it. She had only spoken so rashly because she resented his presumption that Michael should take second place to his glittering career.

‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ Luke said, abruptly standing up and snatching his jacket off the back of the chair. His eyes flashed with anger. He got as far as the kitchen door, glanced along the hall and stopped. ‘I’m going to the study. I’ve got work to do.’

Iris pushed aside the bowl and put her elbows on the table. She knew he would have flounced out of the flat if he hadn’t been so worried about all the muggers lying in wait for him.

Iris turned up the collar on her coat as she walked through the gates. She was glad to be outside; the atmosphere over breakfast had been as frosty as the winter air. Luke hadn’t come to bed, making a point by spending the night in the spare room. He was not a man who dealt well with conflict and for all his newly acquired sophistication was still more than capable of behaving like a sulky teenager. He had eaten his toast in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking up to stare at her accusingly. She had felt the tension between them like a thread pulled tight and about to snap. In the end, unwilling to have the argument hanging over them all day, she’d offered up another of those compromises.

‘What if I call Michael and see if I can arrange to take him for lunch instead?’

He had thought about this for a few seconds before replying, ‘I’ll be at work. I won’t be able to make it.’

‘I know.’

But even in victory, Luke was incapable of being gracious. ‘If you’d just listened to me in the first place . . .’

Iris frowned as she crossed the road. She was sure Michael would understand, but she didn’t want him to have to. He’d been good to her since she’d come back to Kellston.

Meeting the jailbird uncle she hadn’t seen in years, whom she only barely remembered, had been a daunting prospect, but he’d instantly put her at ease and made her feel not just welcome, but cared for too. Now a week didn’t go by without them seeing each other or talking on the phone.

As she cut down on to the High Street, Iris began to think about her father. She still automatically scanned the faces of every passing male of a certain age, hoping to catch a glimpse in their features of the man who had disappeared nineteen years ago. Would she recognise him? She was sure she would. Unlike her mother, she refused to believe that he was dead.

Kathleen O’Donnell hadn’t been happy about her only daughter moving back to Kellston. She had screwed up her eyes, put her hands on her hips and stared at her. ‘I don’t think it’s a good idea. You’re both earning good money. There are plenty of nice places you could live.’

‘What’s wrong with the East End?’

‘It’s not safe, love. It’s full of . . . well, junkies and the like.’

Which had been pretty much Luke’s opinion too until Iris had managed to persuade him otherwise. She smiled wryly. That was back in the days when she could persuade him to do pretty much anything. She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and tried not to think about the call she would have to make to Michael.

Iris gazed around as she walked, taking in the familiar landmarks: the infant school she had attended, the small expanse of the Green, the old sweetshop on the corner that was now an organic farm store. She passed Ruby’s, the jewellers, and noticed how smart it had become. Yes, things had changed in her absence, but not beyond recognition.

It wasn’t hard to explain the pull this place exerted on her; it was where she’d been born and where she had lived for the first seven years of her life. Most of her memories were happy ones. Having spent so many of the subsequent years moving around, shifting from one part of the country to another, she was desperate to find somewhere that would finally feel like home.

Iris stepped up the pace, feeling the cold start to bite. She took a deep breath. It was weeks since Bonfire Night, but she could still detect the lingering smell of fireworks. It was one of those smells that conjured up her childhood, her father’s fingers wrapped tightly around hers, that distant time - maybe the only time - when she had felt completely safe and secure.

Tobias Grand & Sons lay in the less developed, northern end of the High Street, the premises jammed between a florist and a charity shop. Here all the establishments were a little scruffier than their southern counterparts, and the exterior of the funeral parlour, like its neighbours, was in sore need of a lick of paint. As Iris approached, she noticed that a small crowd had already gathered at the entrance. Two plumed black horses, along with a Victorian-style glass hearse, were also standing in wait. Some of the people had probably been drawn by the spectacle - this was going to be a traditional East End funeral - others, including members of the press, by the prospect of seeing Terry Street come to bury his murdered wife.

Iris slid between the onlookers, opened the door and quickly closed it behind her. She shrugged off her coat. It was warm inside and the heady scent of lilies wafted through the air. The reception area was in the process of being cleared, all the furniture being pushed back against the wall to create a wide open space for the mourners to congregate before proceeding to the church. At the back there was another smaller room where the grieving widower, with his prison escort, would be able to spend some private time with his sons.

Gerald Grand, dressed in full funeral regalia, was strutting around, barking out orders. He gave her a brief nod as she came in. His long, rather hang-dog face looked even more lugubrious than usual and a pale sheen of sweat glistened on his bald head. It was a big day for Tobias Grand & Sons and the consequences, should anything go wrong, could be more than financial. He was right to be anxious. Neither Terry Street nor his offspring were the forgiving sort.

Iris took her coat and bag through to the kitchen area. She checked her reflection in the mirror, smoothed down her hair and hurried back to help. Within half an hour she had despatched the order of service cards to St Mark’s, made sure all the flowers had been delivered and sorted out the refreshments. As requested by the Streets, she placed a pot of strong ground coffee in the private room, along with a jug of fresh milk and a bowl of sugar. The best china was out on display. For the reception area, there were two large urns, one of tea, one of hot water. There was also water, orange squash and instant coffee for anyone who could be bothered to make it.

It was five to nine when Iris next checked her watch. Everything was quieter now, everything in place. A sense of calm had descended on the room. As she glanced around, she noticed Toby leaning idly against the wall with a Starbucks cup in his hand.

‘Keeping busy?’ she said.

He raised the cup and grinned. ‘Just steadying myself for the big event.’

Gerald Grand’s son was twenty-six, the same age as herself, but she always thought of him as younger. With his silky blond hair, pale skin and wide blue eyes he had the look of an overgrown choirboy. He was both feckless and charming, a combination that attracted countless numbers of female admirers. Iris, however, wasn’t one of them. Not that she disliked him. Far from it. For all his faults, he was still good company.

Although ostensibly a partner in the firm, Toby rarely spent much time there. Funerals, as he frequently insisted, were not his thing although he didn’t have any objection to picking up a pay cheque at the end of every month. This funeral, however, was different. Lizzie may not have been the most popular woman in the neighbourhood, but she was still the wife of Terry Street. And Terry had enough ‘celebrity’ friends to make this an occasion worth attending.

‘If you want your picture taken, you’d better get out there now before the paparazzi find someone more interesting to snap.’

Toby flashed his white-toothed smile. ‘More famous perhaps, but never more interesting.’

‘You wish.’ She glanced at her watch again. ‘We’ll be opening the doors soon. Think there’ll be a big turn out?’

‘There’d better be or Mr S will be none too pleased.’

Iris moved the Book of Remembrance into the centre of the table, opened it to the first crisp white page and smoothed out the sheet. Beside it she had placed a pen attached by a chain to a solid black holder.

Toby peered over her shoulder. She could smell the lemony scent of his expensive aftershave. ‘He’ll be reading that from cover to cover tonight. Let’s hope our guests can come up with a few good things to say about her.’

 

Terry Street arrived at ten o’clock, securely cuffed to one prison officer and accompanied by another. He was brought in amidst the flash of camera lights. By then the reception area was packed. For the past hour it had felt more like a party than a funeral, a gathering of old friends slapping each other on the back and exchanging stories.

Everyone fell quiet as he walked in and then a murmur of sympathy rippled through the crowd. He stopped to shake hands, to exchange a few words with the assembled mourners. Iris watched from the other side of the room. A lean, gaunt man in his early sixties, Street was impeccably dressed in a dark blue pinstriped suit, white shirt and tie. His thinning hair was grey and swept back off his forehead. She saw his eyes flick quickly around, but couldn’t tell whether he was searching for one particular person or simply checking out the attendance figures.

As he grew closer, Iris heard his voice for the first time. It was unexpectedly soft and low but also slightly raspy as if he was suffering from a bad cold.

Toby leaned forward and whispered in her ear. ‘Shot in the throat,’ he said as if reading her mind. ‘Lucky to survive.’ He gave a chuckle. ‘Well, lucky for him. I’m not sure about the rest of us.’

‘Toby,’ she remonstrated. She was not so much concerned with the content of the comment - there was probably some truth in it - as worried that he might be overheard.

As she looked more closely, Iris noticed the ugly white scars extending up from beneath the collar of Street’s shirt. She glanced away, not wanting to stare and a few seconds later he entered the private room. The door was open and as her gaze slid back, she saw the cuffs being removed from his wrist. He stepped forward then and embraced his two sons.

Chris and Danny Street had arrived twenty minutes earlier. Chris’s other half, a tall leggy blonde with long straight hair down to her waist, had been hanging from his arm like the original trophy wife. There were no signs on the older brother’s face of the altercation that had taken place yesterday. The younger one, however, was sporting a split lip and some bruising to his cheek.

‘Shame I missed the fun at the viewing,’ Toby said.

‘Serves you right for skiving off.’

‘I prefer to call it working from home. I see Deadhead took a beating.’

‘Deadhead?’ she repeated quietly.

Toby lowered his voice too. ‘Danny Street,’ he murmured. ‘A full-on nutter if ever I met one. Crack, H, coke, booze - you name it, it’s all there swimming around in his bloodstream. He takes the bloody stuff for breakfast. That is one crazy guy. Twisted too, if you get my meaning.’