Revenge

by Martina Cole

  The pain Michael had caused his wife with his words was evident. She was white-faced, her eyes so big and wide she looked like a bush baby. He had hurt her badly, but he didn’t care. His daughter, for all she might be, was missing and could be dead, and he couldn’t play this game with his wife any more. He was sick of pretending that everything was normal. He couldn’t protect her from the truth any more – he didn’t want to. Josephine needed a reality check, and it had been a long time coming.

  As she dropped her eyes from his, and turned away from him – acting like she was the only one of them who was hurting – he felt his anger building up inside his chest once more. She really knew how to play the victim.

  ‘Do you know what, Josephine? I can see what you’re doing, acting the innocent, as always. Poor old Josephine, who can’t be expected to do anything useful, not with all her problems, eh? Well, do you know what? You can go and fuck yourself because, unlike you, I’ve done everything in my power to locate Jessie. I know that and, more to the fucking point, you know that.’

  Josephine Flynn was aware that she had finally used up all the goodwill that her husband had always shown to her. She was feeling thoroughly ashamed of herself. She had always known that Michael had given her more love than she had ever deserved from him. He had been losing patience with her for a while now, and she didn’t know how to make it better, how to make him understand that she couldn’t help herself, that she hated herself for her weakness.

  ‘Please, Michael . . .’

  He turned away from her, waving his arms in dismissal. ‘I can’t listen to you, Josephine. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go.’

  Chapter One Hundred

  and Nineteen

  Declan wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, but he couldn’t, in all good conscience, ignore the woman’s request for a meeting any longer. Nor could Michael either – he was already on his way to the meet.

  She had contacted him personally, and she had waited a long time to be heard, refusing to discuss her business with anyone but Michael. She had been ringing his offices for over a week, but hadn’t explained why. Declan had finally called her back, and realised from her tone she might have important information.

  He smiled at the woman sitting opposite him, sipping her cup of tea, and she smiled back at him, a serene smile, that made him feel better about everything. No matter what the outcome might be, she was at least being genuine. What more could anyone ask for?

  Michael arrived at the address he had been given by Declan, and he parked his Range Rover carefully outside the house in question. This was his old stomping ground; he had grown up round the corner from this street, and he was pleased to see the change in it. East London was now a desirable place to reside. The houses that were once barely one step above slums, were now changing hands for exorbitant amounts of money. It was a fucking joke – everyone else dreamt of getting away from the area; now it seemed certain people were determined to buy a property there. Wonders would never cease.

  He was already feeling guilty about turning on Josephine, even though he knew she had been asking for it for a long time. But he did love her, and he felt as much to blame for the way she lived as she was, because he had never once challenged her about her lifestyle. Until now.

  Michael got out of his Range Rover, and locked it behind him. He walked up the short pathway to the front door of the house, and rang the doorbell. The front door was opened by Declan Costello, and Michael was ushered inside the tiny house.

  This was what used to be called a parlour-type house, and Michael knew the layout off by heart. He followed Declan down the narrow passageway into the front room. Mrs Singh, as he had always known her, was waiting for him patiently. She was sitting on a small two-seater sofa in a deep burgundy colour, and the two armchairs that matched it sat either side of the fireplace. There was a light wood cabinet against the party wall, and a matching coffee table in front of the fireplace. The carpet was expensive, a good Axminster, and where the only real money had been spent. The sole ornaments in the room were photographs of her family, and these were plentifully scattered round.

  Michael took the woman’s hand gently in his. ‘It’s very good to see you again, Mrs Singh. It’s a long time since I’ve been in here.’

  She stood up to greet him. She was as tiny as he remembered, under five feet tall, as thin as a rake, her thick dark hair streaked with grey now, but she still had the power to make him feel like a kid again.

  ‘Sit down, Michael, it’s lovely to welcome you here once again.’

  Michael and Declan both settled themselves into the armchairs by the fireplace. Mrs Singh poured Michael a cup of tea, and he took it from her carefully.

  ‘I appreciated you coming to my husband’s funeral, Michael, it would have pleased him so much. He always thought a lot of you. I’ll never forget that, you know, never forget that you remembered the people from your childhood.’

  Michael sipped his tea, embarrassed now. ‘You and your husband were always very good to me. He was a good man, a decent man.’

  She nodded in agreement. ‘He was. I was very lucky.’ She smiled widely. ‘I always knew, Michael, that it was you who stopped the trouble we were experiencing at the shop. The threats and the hate all stopped overnight. Mr Singh always said that it could only be you. We were aware of how you had got on in life, and we were pleased for you.’

  Declan Costello sat back in his armchair and relaxed; this was a woman Michael obviously respected, who he was happy to listen to.

  ‘I did nothing really, Mrs Singh, I just put out a few feelers, explained that you were dear friends of mine. But if it helped you both then I am very pleased about that.’

  She looked at him kindly with her deep brown eyes; she was a shrewd woman, that much was evident.

  She was wearing a deep-green sari, and she looked to Declan as if she had dressed for the occasion. She looked well-to-do, like a woman of substance, her jewellery was gold, very heavy, and well made. She had diamonds in her ears, and in the rings on her fingers.

  ‘I have been trying to contact you for a while now, Michael. I heard about your Jessie going missing, and I heard you were looking for information about her.’

  Michael immediately sat forward in his armchair, he knew this woman wouldn’t have asked him here without good reason.

  ‘Go on. I’m listening.’ Michael’s voice was quiet, interested.

  ‘I must explain, Michael, I don’t even know if this is anything of relevance. All I can say is, I found it odd and, considering what’s been going on, I just thought I should let you know about it.’

  Declan butted in quickly, ‘There’s also a fifty-grand reward for any information that leads to Jessie.’

  Michael Flynn’s head snapped sideways, looking at Declan with complete and utter disgust.

  Mrs Singh shook her head slowly in denial. Holding her hand over her heart she said with real meaning, ‘I can assure you, Mr Costello, that means very little to me.’ That she was deeply offended by what Declan had said to her was more than obvious.

  Michael Flynn was out of the armchair he was sitting in within nanoseconds and, kneeling down on the carpet in front of his old friend, he grabbed Mrs Singh’s hands in his. Squeezing them tightly, he said, ‘Ignore him, Mrs Singh, he’s fucking ignorant at times. Just tell me what you know.’

  She grasped Michael’s hands, pulled them to her chest, knowing that he would listen to what she had to say.

  ‘I was in the shop a few weeks ago. I rarely spend that much time there these days, but I still pop round once or twice a week. My eldest son Davinda and his wife took it over after my husband died, as you know. Anyway, I saw a man in there, and I could see he wasn’t right, that he was, you know, what the cockneys always called “radio rental”? A bit mental? Remember how Mr Singh always loved the rhyming slang? But I knew this person. You know when you see someone and you can’t place them? That is how I felt. He bought forty Lambert and Butlers, and a bottle o
f cheap vodka. My son Davinda served him and, as the man was leaving, he looked directly at me, and he smiled. It was a strange smile, Michael. I can’t explain it. Anyway, it took me a day or two, but then I remembered who he was.’

  She pushed Michael gently away from her, and she sat back on the settee. Michael could see the turmoil in her face, knew that she was worried about what she was going to say to him. ‘It’s so many years ago but I’m sure that it was Steven Golding.’

  Declan Costello was quietly watching everything that was happening, and he saw the way that Mrs Singh looked at Michael as she told him who she thought she had seen. He also saw Michael Flynn’s face drain of all its colour.

  ‘I hope I was wrong, Michael, but I really don’t think I was. Then I heard that your Jessie was missing.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I really don’t know if any of this is related. I just thought that you should know.’ She looked at Michael steadily, saying quietly, ‘I always wondered about it, Michael.’

  Michael was shaking his head slowly. Declan could see he had been thrown by the woman’s revelations. It was absolutely amazing to witness this first-hand.

  ‘I never planned it, I swear. It should never have happened.’

  Mrs Singh opened her arms wide, she was crying now. ‘I always knew that, Michael, I never doubted you.’

  Michael enveloped the tiny woman in his arms, hugging her to him tightly, and she hugged him back. Declan watched with disbelief. He knew one thing, though – he should have brought these two together at the start, when she first rang them, asking for Michael Flynn, instead of fobbing her off. He had a terrible feeling that this might be too late now.

  Chapter One Hundred

  and Twenty

  Declan opened the door to his penthouse, and stood aside to allow Michael to enter before him. Once inside he shut the door and locked it. He followed Michael into the lounge, turning on the lights as he went.

  Michael was standing by the patio doors that led out on to a large terrace. He was looking over London, and Declan left him to it for a while, going into his kitchen – a large airy room, twenty feet by sixteen – and pouring them each a large drink. The kitchen was state of the art; the cooker alone wouldn’t have looked out of place in an expensive restaurant. Not that he had ever used it, of course, just like the American-style fridge or the two dishwashers. He made instant coffee and a slice of toast at a push. The black granite work surfaces he used as a bar. He didn’t care to use the gadgets, but he liked to own them; they gave the place class.

  He brought the drinks into the lounge, and he passed one to Michael. ‘So, Mrs Singh? Nice lady.’

  Michael tossed his drink back in one. ‘How long was she trying to get hold of me, Declan?’

  Declan tossed his own drink back then; he needed it. ‘Since last week, I think. But be fair, Michael, we had no idea who she was or what she wanted. It was only because she was so persistent that I called her myself. And then came to you. I realise the error of my ways now, we should have been on top of it. But it wasn’t deliberate, you know that.’

  Michael held his empty glass out, and followed Declan out to the kitchen, where he waited for him to pour them both more Scotch.

  ‘She is a nice lady, Mrs Singh.’

  Declan nodded his agreement. ‘I could see that, Michael. I could also see that you really think a lot of her, and her husband as well.’

  Michael Flynn took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘She was very good to me, both her and her husband were. I went to school with Davinda, their oldest son, we were good mates. They are Sikhs and, years ago, the Sikhs and the Muslims sent their kids to a faith school – in other words, a Catholic school. So we all grew up together. It was nice. Davinda – Dave, as we called him – was a real fucking brainiac. He went on to university – that was Mr Singh’s dream, you know? Education. He saw it as the jewel in the crown of the United Kingdom. He used to say, “Remember, boys, this country has the best education system in the world, and it’s free.” I didn’t appreciate that until it was too late. But I used to spend a lot of time round there when I was a kid. Mrs Singh looked after me when my mum was working.’

  Declan listened to his friend without interrupting. He knew he had to let him say what he needed to in his own time.

  ‘When I went to work for your brother, I lost contact with the Singhs and a lot of the people I had gone to school with. That was deliberate on my part. I wanted to pursue my own agenda but, to be absolutely honest, I also didn’t want Davinda or anyone to get dragged into any of my shit, if it all went tits up.’

  Declan shrugged. ‘I can understand that, Michael. There’re people we don’t bring into our working lives. That’s par for the course. But I have to ask you, who the fuck is Steven Golding?’

  Michael Flynn looked Declan Costello straight in the eyes, and Declan knew that whatever had happened with this Steven Golding, Michael had buried a long time ago.

  Michael lit another cigarette, and he drew on it deeply. He needed to calm himself down, needed to remind himself that he had come a long way since those days. He was at the top of his game, and there was no one with the strength to challenge his position.

  ‘Steven Golding was one of the first jobs that your brother ever gave to me. Well not him, but his father. His father was Daniel Golding. Ringing any bells now, is it?’

  Declan nodded; it had all just slipped into place. ‘That was you? Fucking hell. I knew Patrick had something to do with it, but you’d only just come onboard. I never thought you’d be involved.’

  Michael nodded. ‘Patrick told me to go to an address in South London and burn the house down. It was about a debt he was owed. He said that if the house was torched, the insurance would pay out and everything would be hunky-dory. I did what he asked of me. I never knew there was anyone in there – I had been told it was an empty property. But, as I found out afterwards, it wasn’t empty. Daniel Golding, his wife, and his two young daughters were in there. Steven survived because he was staying the night at a friend’s. I only realised later that Patrick had known all along that the house wasn’t empty – he had planned for it to go down that way.’

  Declan Costello was looking at Michael as if he was a stranger, as if he was someone who had gate-crashed his way into his home.

  ‘I never knew. I never even dreamt that it might have anything to do with you. Everyone was up in arms about it – those girls were only twelve and fourteen years old. And it was you? You who poured the petrol through the letter box and burned them to death in their beds?’

  Declan was outraged, absolutely disgusted. He was remembering the shock waves the deaths had sent through their community. Daniel Golding had owed money to everyone – like any compulsive gambler he had no real care about borrowing from all and sundry; he believed he could win anything he borrowed back. But no one he owed money to would have taken it out on his family, that just wasn’t done. Daniel deserved whatever he might get, but his kids and wife were sacrosanct.

  Michael Flynn grabbed hold of Declan’s shirt front, dragging him roughly towards him and, looking into his face, Michael said furiously, ‘I did what your fucking brother told me to do! I thought the house was fucking empty. Patrick had assured me of that. Afterwards, do you know what he said? He said, “Typical fucking Danny Golding. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.”’

  Declan pulled himself away from Michael’s grip. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, I know that my brother was a fucking looney. Why do you think I stepped back after we took Patrick out? I loved him as my brother, but I knew that he needed to be culled, like a fucking wild animal. Now you’ve told me, I can see it perfectly. You were a young lad, taking his word at face value, and that would have appealed to him. The knowledge that you were unaware of the truth would have appealed to him.’

  Michael laughed nastily. ‘I swallowed it, I really believed that it was an accident at first, and I put it out of my mind. I convinced myself that it wasn’t my fault. And do you know what, Declan? It wasn’
t my fault. I did what Patrick told me to do. When it went fucking pear-shaped, he stood by me and I appreciated that. But, years later, when I really knew him, I realised he was too shrewd not to have known that the house wouldn’t be empty.’

  Declan Costello poured them both more whisky. Michael took his drink gratefully.

  ‘That was my brother Patrick all over, Michael. I know what he was capable of. That night, when we took him out, deep down I didn’t feel guilty about it. I was relieved – so relieved to know that he was gone at last, and that I didn’t have to police him any more. But, that aside, why would this Mrs Singh warn you about Steven Golding?’

  Michael Flynn looked at Declan warily. He had just told this man the biggest secret of his life. The biggest shame of his life. But he trusted him.

  ‘Mrs Singh saw me that night. I bumped into her husband outside their shop, and she came out to talk to me. She knew by then that I was working for your brother – she even tried to warn me off! She told me that night to get home and have a bath because I stank of petrol. Of course she didn’t know why then but, as the Golding family only lived a few streets away, it wasn’t long before she did the sums. I knew I could trust her. I never told Patrick about her – I knew that he would have seen her as a threat to him, to his world. It never occurred to him that some people might just be naturally loyal.’

  Declan laughed then. ‘My brother never trusted the concept of loyalty, Michael, that was his problem.’

  Michael sighed heavily. ‘I told you all this because you needed to know. But I can only tell myself that I did what I was told to do.’

  Declan felt so sorry for Michael; he knew first-hand just how manipulative his brother had been.

  ‘Look, Michael, what we need to do now is forget this shit, and hunt down Steven Golding. Mrs Singh is a fucking shrewd old bird. I’ll get on to the Old Bill now, see what they can find out. About time they earned their fucking keep anyway. Then we can work from there.’