The Villain’s Daughter (42 page)

It was only as she was rising to her feet that Iris was struck by a thought so obvious she couldn’t believe it had only just entered her head. ‘Are you sure this was an accident? You said the driver didn’t stop, right?’

PC Matlock raised his brows. ‘Do you have any reason to think it might not have been?’

‘Yes,’ Iris said, the accusation tumbling from her lips before she had time to think twice about it. ‘You want to talk to that nutter Danny Street, find out where he was at midnight last night. You know who he is, don’t you?’

‘We’re aware of the Street family,’ Matlock said. ‘Was your uncle involved with them in some way?’

‘Not like you’re thinking,’ Iris snapped. She knew what he was hinting at, knew that they’d probably checked him out on the computer already. ‘Michael hasn’t been in trouble for years. He had a fight with Danny Street about a week ago. It was in the Hope & Anchor. My uncle took a beating. You don’t need to take my word for it; there were plenty of witnesses.’ Her throat felt tight and strained. She stopped for a second and gulped in a lungful of air. ‘And then last Tuesday, Danny Street came here and started threatening me. William knows. He saw him.’

This was clearly news to Gerald. His face took on a pinkish tinge and he stared at his brother. The two PCs looked at William too. ‘Is this true, sir?’

‘Well, yes, Danny Street was here. I didn’t actually hear what he said, but Iris was upset, very upset. I could see that he’d frightened her. I asked him to leave and he did.’

It was then that Toby piped up, ‘I know he’s a bit on the crazy side, but perhaps we shouldn’t jump to any hasty conclusions.’

Iris’s mouth fell open. Hadn’t she just explained about the fight, the threats? What was wrong with him? She couldn’t understand why he was trying to protect that nasty, vicious creep. ‘And what would you know about it?’

Toby pushed his hands in his pockets and gave a light shrug. As if it was only
her
interests he had at heart, he smiled at her sympathetically. ‘I’m sorry Iris, but you’ve had a shock. I just think you should be careful about making any wild accusations. I mean, where’s the actual evidence?’

‘When you say threatening you?’ Matlock asked.

The two questions came at her virtually simultaneously. Iris realised that she couldn’t give a convincing answer to either of them without explaining about her father. Was now the time to come clean about everything? But if her dad was out there, and if Danny Street had murdered Michael, then he was in more danger than ever. A warning voice whispered in her ear:
Think about it. Don’t make any reckless decisions. What you say now can never be taken back.

Shunning Toby - she had no idea what he was playing at - Iris addressed her response purely to Matlock. ‘He was just being intimidating, throwing his weight around. It wasn’t anything specific.’ She knew how thin it sounded, how pathetic, like a grieving relative desperately grasping at straws. ‘All I’m saying is that you should talk to Danny Street, check out where he was last night.’

Toby gave a small heartfelt shake of his head as though in her present state she couldn’t, and shouldn’t, be taken too seriously.

‘I’ll get your coat,’ William said.

 

The morgue, on the east side of Kellston, was only a ten-minute drive away. For the duration of the journey, Iris sat very still and stared blankly through the windscreen. She was faintly aware of the traffic, of the bright glare of the snow in the gutters, but most of her senses seemed to have shut down. Cocooned in a web of disbelief, she was having trouble even breathing. William had the sensitivity to keep quiet, to give her the time she needed to prepare, but when they arrived she still felt a jolt of surprise. It was as if only seconds had passed since they’d left Tobias Grand & Sons.

The morgue was an anonymous grey brick and steel construction that she had passed a hundred times without ever taking in what it was. Iris released her seatbelt but made no further attempt to move. Her eyes raked the car park. She saw the two PCs get out of their blue Peugeot, glance over their shoulders and head into the building. Now, suddenly, it all began to rush in on her again. Michael was in there. Michael had been hit by a car that hadn’t stopped. Michael was dead.

Iris wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. She felt a pain deep inside, like a knife slowly twisting. All she could think about were the harsh words that had been exchanged between them. How could she go inside that place? She looked across at William. Her voice, when it finally fought its way out, was barely more than a whisper. ‘We had a row on Saturday night. I said things I shouldn’t. That was the last time I saw him. I should have called. I should have. I should have made it up with him.’

William didn’t ask what the argument was about. Instead, he said, ‘People often have rows, especially when they care about each other. It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘I didn’t even get to say sorry.’

‘I know,’ he said gently. ‘But you have the chance to do that now.’

Iris could feel the tears stinging under her lids and tried to blink them away. She stared at the glass doors of the morgue, trying to gather the strength to move. The minutes ticked by. Then realising that she couldn’t put it off any longer, she roughly wiped her eyes, and nodded. ‘Okay. I’m ready.’

Inside, the building smelled like a hospital. It didn’t feel like one though. There was none of the hustle and bustle, no doctors and nurses going about their business, no solemn visitors steadfastly clutching flowers and grapes. In fact, not that many people at all. The two PCs were patiently waiting and they all traipsed silently down a corridor until they reached the room where Michael was lying. It was explained to her that there was a viewing window she could look through, that she didn’t need to go in, but that was too impersonal for Iris. She quickly shook her head. This wasn’t something to be done from a distance.

Iris looked up at William. ‘Will you come in with me?’

‘Of course I will.’

There was a moment, as the man pulled down the sheet, when she prayed that a dreadful mistake had been made. It was possible, wasn’t it? These things happened. Maybe Michael had been mugged, had his wallet stolen as he lurched drunkenly back from the pub. Maybe this man was just someone who bore an uncanny resemblance to him. But she knew it wasn’t true even before his face was revealed.

Iris gazed down at the man she had grown to love so much over the past twelve months. Apart from the fading cuts and bruises from his run-in with Danny Street, there was no other damage to his face. With her eyes she traced the heavy brows, the strong chin, the wide O’Donnell mouth and thick, dark curly hair. Did he look peaceful? Not really. But then peacefulness and Michael had never been bedfellows. He’d always been the type of man who’d roared through life rather than meekly accepting it.

She looked up at PC Grove, her lips dry and trembling. ‘Yes, it’s Michael.’

William moved closer as if to offer some comfort, but then, uncertain perhaps as to how such support might be received, stopped short of doing anything more.

Iris continued to stare down at Michael.

Eventually she reached out to touch his hand. Her fingertips rested on the cold, lifeless flesh. A memory of him sitting in the Hope & Anchor leapt into her head. She remembered his laugh, the way he’d swept away her worries over cancelling his birthday meal. She remembered the way he’d smiled when he’d talked about Lizzie Street. And then - and she could barely stand to think of it - there was that last terrible time they’d talked in Vita’s kitchen. Oh Christ, why had she said those things? How had it come to this? It was all wrong, impossible.

Leaning down, Iris kissed him softly on the forehead. ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Squeezing shut her eyes, she felt a splintering inside her, a gradual splitting open as though every part of her was being slowly torn apart.
Please God,
she prayed.
Don’t let this be happening.

Iris stood in the bedroom at Silverstone Heights, gazing into the mirror. The face that stared back at her was so pale as to be almost ghostly. She wondered how she’d got through the past ten days. Some parts were a blur, others so distinct that she flinched even to think of them. If it hadn’t been for Guy, she would have fallen apart; he had helped her survive the empty mornings, the bitter afternoons, and the sleepless haunted nights.

The police had been in touch with the results of the autopsy. No big surprises there: Michael had died as the result of severe internal injuries. There had been little progress to date on finding the car involved, thought to be a stolen black Vauxhall caught on CCTV speeding down the High Street. The cameras on Mansfield Road had been vandalised yet again, so there was no coverage of the actual ‘incident’.

PC Matlock had informed her that Danny Street had provided an alibi, swearing he’d been working at Belles from eight o’clock on the Saturday night until after two the following morning. His brother and other members of staff had backed up the claim - no big surprises there either. Personally, Iris didn’t see that as much of an alibi, but hadn’t voiced her dissent. She had come to the conclusion, and Guy had agreed, that it might be better not to pursue it right now in case some curious copper started digging out old files and trying to work out just
why
the Streets might want to threaten her. If they went back far enough they might spot the connection between Liam Street’s killing and the disappearance of Sean O’Donnell. For the time being she had to do whatever she could to protect her father; he didn’t need the law getting interested in him too. So, if the cops wanted to believe that the cause of Michael’s death was an accidental hit-and-run, she wasn’t going to dispute it. This deception made her feel guilty as if she was turning her back on justice for him. But it was only temporary, she kept on reminding herself. Once she was sure her dad was out of danger, she wouldn’t rest until Michael’s killer had been exposed and brought to justice.

Iris smoothed down her long red hair. Now there was the funeral to endure and after that the drinks at the Dog. The day stretched in front of her, interminable hours of talking, of listening, of forcing her mouth into thank-you-for-coming smiles. She understood the significance of the rituals, but recoiled at the thought of them. What she really wanted to do was to crawl back into bed and pull the duvet over her head.

‘Iris? Are you ready?’

She sighed and turned away from the mirror. Her mother had come down on the train and was now waiting in the living room. Despite Iris’s resolve to never argue again with someone she loved, they’d almost had a falling out last week.

‘The crematorium?’ Kathleen had repeated tightly over the phone. ‘What’s wrong with St Anne’s? It’s still there, isn’t it?’

‘When was the last time Michael ever set foot in a church?’

‘But there has to be a funeral mass.’

Iris was well aware that Michael hadn’t cared much for religion. He may have been raised as a Catholic, but had long ago lost whatever faith he had. She’d been forced to listen to his drunken, although always amusing, ramblings on priests and rites and sin on more than one occasion. ‘I don’t think it’s what he would have wanted.’

‘But it’s important, Iris.’

‘It would just be hypocritical.’

Her mother’s sharp intake of breath had been clearly audible. ‘Well, I think you’re wrong. And I don’t think it’s up to you to make such a serious decision. Unless Michael left specific instructions, put something in writing . . .’

But of course, not having the foresight to know he was about to get run over, Michael hadn’t. He hadn’t even left a will. And Iris couldn’t put her hand on her heart and claim that he’d actually come right out and said what he did or didn’t want done in the event of going to meet his maker. It was more a matter of what had been patently obvious. She’d been about to point out that, as his next-of-kin, it
was
actually up to her to make the final decision, but had had the sense to bite down on her tongue at the very last second. She had spoken in haste before and lived to regret it. ‘Okay, okay, I’ll think it over.’

Iris had discussed it with William - Tobias Grand & Sons were organising the funeral - and a compromise had been suggested: there could be a mass, but with the service taking place in the crematorium. ‘Do you think that would offend him?’ William had asked. It was the first time since Michael’s death that Iris could remember smiling. It was partly because William has referred to him in the present rather than the past tense, but mainly because she suddenly realised that Michael wouldn’t give a damn as to how he was buried so long as everyone had the decency to raise a pint of Guinness to him later.

In the living room her mother was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, her shoulders back and her hands placed demurely in her lap. Even when no one else was around, Kathleen O’Donnell wouldn’t slouch. As Iris gazed at her, she was aware of how physically similar they were: the same height and body shape, the same greeny-grey eyes, even the same colour hair. It was as if she had got all her genes from the maternal side and none from the paternal. Maybe what she had inherited from him wasn’t visible to the naked eye; it was on the inside rather than the out.

Iris glanced down at her watch. There were ten minutes to go, but she had a sudden desperate need to get out of the flat. She felt stifled by its walls, by its memories. The bare Christmas tree, still leaning pathetically to one side, had begun to shed its needles on the carpet. She felt her heart sink as she stared at it; it was hard to believe Christmas was only a week away. ‘We may as well wait by the gate. Guy should be here soon.’

Kathleen’s nose wrinkled at the mention of his name. ‘I still don’t understand why he’s coming. It’s not as though he knew Michael particularly well; you said yourself he hadn’t seen him since he was a child.’