The Villain’s Daughter

by Roberta Kray

  After the warmth of the bus, the air felt even colder than it had before. She rubbed her hands together, pulled up the collar of her coat and set off for home. This part of the long High Street was virtually unknown to her. The majority of shops lay in the middle section and Tobias Grand & Sons was at the northern end. It was only as she was crossing the road that she noticed the blue neon sign in front of her: Wilder’s. She almost stopped dead in her tracks - not the wisest thing to do when cars were hurtling towards you - but somehow, amidst the blaring of a few angry horns, she managed to make it to the other side. Iris understood now why Guy hadn’t given her the name of the bar he owned; he must have presumed, after introducing himself, that she’d put two and two together.

  Trying not to look too obvious, she gazed casually in through a narrow transparent strip in the otherwise opaque window. It was busy. She searched the faces for Guy Wilder, but couldn’t see him. And then, just as she was about to go, he walked straight into her line of vision. Dressed in the kind of suit that must have cost more than she earned in six months, he stood out from the crowd. But it wasn’t just his clothes that made him shine; he was the kind of man who had a certain aura about him.

  Guy had stopped to talk to a couple sitting at a table and Iris watched as he leaned down, chatting and laughing with them. She knew that she should walk away, go straight home, but couldn’t resist lingering for a few seconds longer. There was no harm in looking was there? It was only when he glanced up that she realised what a mistake that had been. As his eyes met hers, she jumped swiftly back. She could feel her cheeks blazing red. Mortified, she quickly moved off.

  Iris had only gone five yards down the street when she heard the door to the bar opening. A brief snatch of music, of voices, floated through the air.

  ‘Iris O’Donnell. Is that you?’

  She could have ignored him, but she didn’t. She could have kept on walking, but she didn’t. Instead she turned around and smiled.

  Guy Wilder smiled back. ‘Not running off, are you? I believe I owe you a drink.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Inside, the place had a laid-back lounge bar type of feel. The red walls were covered with old black and white movie-star photos: Bogart and Bacall, Cary Grant, Bette Davis. A number of soft leather sofas and chairs were arranged around low tables. The lighting was subdued, the music smooth and the atmosphere easy and relaxed. Most of the patrons appeared to be in their late twenties, early thirties, but there were older people there too. It was the kind of establishment where anyone could wind down after a long, hard day at the office.

  Guy Wilder led her through to a more private area at the back. She was aware of several female heads turning to watch them; the eyes were mainly concentrated on him with just a few fleeting glances in her direction - as if to judge and assess the possible competition. As she took off her coat to reveal the little black dress, he gave her an admiring glance. ‘You look amazing.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, gracefully accepting the compliment. Then, as she sat down, a horrifying thought leapt into her head: what if he imagined that she’d got all dressed up for his benefit? ‘Actually, I was at a Christmas party. I was a bit tired so I decided to call it a night but, of course, I couldn’t find a cab. A bus came along, so I jumped on that, but I missed my stop and ended up down here. That’s why I . . . I was just . . .’ Iris realised she was starting to ramble and abruptly shut up.

  But Guy, if he noticed her discomfort, tactfully glossed over it. ‘Well, God bless London Transport. It seems the fates have conspired to bring you to my doorstep. Let me get you that drink. A glass of wine or would you prefer champagne?’

  Iris had drunk enough champagne for one night. She thought about asking for a coffee, but changed her mind. Perhaps she was in need of something stronger. ‘Thanks. A glass of red would be nice.’

  Guy disappeared for a minute and then returned with a bottle of Cabernet and two glasses. She stared at the bottle; she had only been intending to stay for the one. He must have seen her surprise because he smiled. ‘Don’t worry, we’re not obliged to drink all of it.’

  Iris wondered just how transparent she actually was. ‘So, how have you been?’

  ‘Oh, getting by. Doing my best to contain my grief.’

  She gave him a look.

  He winced. ‘Sorry. I’ve got in the habit of doing that, of hiding behind sarcasm. It’s not an attractive trait, is it?’

  Iris gave a light shrug. ‘You’ve not had the easiest of times. I guess it comes down to whatever gets you through.’

  Guy poured two glasses of wine and passed one over to her. ‘Cheers,’ he said. His blue eyes gazed intently into hers. ‘Here’s to . . .?’ He paused. ‘To new beginnings, new friendships . . . and buses that never stop where they’re supposed to.’

  Iris laughed as they lightly chinked their glasses together. She glanced around. ‘I’ve never been here before. It’s nice.’ She inwardly flinched at the word she had used. Nice? Who on earth would want to hear their bar described in such an insipid fashion? ‘I mean, it’s very . . . stylish. I like it. I love the décor. To be honest, I wasn’t even aware that it was here. I haven’t been down this end of the High Street since I moved back to Kellston.’

  ‘And when was that?’

  ‘A year ago,’ she admitted. Iris was aware that she had used I instead of we and immediately thought of Luke. But she wasn’t deliberately hiding anything. Or maybe she was. Maybe, just for a few minutes, she wanted to be a different Iris O’Donnell, a woman who wasn’t burdened by all the pain and grief of the past six months. ‘I grew up here, but we moved away when I was seven. I’m glad to be back, but the area has changed a bit over the years.’

  ‘And not necessarily for the better,’ he said. ‘So where are you living now?’

  Iris pulled a face, feeling a need to apologise for her choice of accommodation. ‘Silverstone Heights.’

  ‘Ah, one of the chosen few. So how does it feel to be up there on the hill looking down on us poor minions?’

  Iris felt a hot glow spread through her cheeks. She bent to pick up her glass, taking a large gulp of wine before she answered. She knew how the locals felt about the flats, that the people who lived in them believed they were a cut above the rest of the population, and she couldn’t blame them for thinking that way. The development, with its locked gates and hi-tech security systems, said as much about the people who chose to live there as those they were trying to keep out. ‘It wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I needed somewhere in a hurry.’

  ‘You don’t have to justify it,’ Guy said, grinning. ‘There are plenty of times when I’d have welcomed that kind of protection. I’ve been broken into twice this year. You’d have thought, with my mother being who she was and all, that they might have given me a wide berth, but no such luck. The junkies have no respect for anyone, not even the hard-working sons of local villains.’ He stopped and took a breath. ‘Talking of which, I should apologise again for that unfortunate scene you were forced to witness. I’m sorry, really sorry. I hope the Streets didn’t give you any trouble over it.’

  Iris, recalling her disturbing conversation with Chris Street outside the Hope & Anchor, hesitated before she answered.

  A frown crunched on to his forehead. ‘They didn’t have a go at you, did they?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘It was nothing like that.’

  ‘But?’

  Iris wasn’t sure if she should tell him. He had his own problems to deal with and his own simmering resentments. She knew how he felt about the Streets and didn’t want to add fuel to the fire.

  Guy leaned forward to refill her glass. Iris, surprised by the fact she’d already emptied it, made a mental note to drink this one more slowly. So much for only staying for the one. She glanced at her watch; it was almost midnight. Still, Luke wouldn’t be back for ages yet and even if he did get home before her she could always claim that she’d run into Vita. The moment the excuse entered her
head, she baulked at it. What she was doing was completely innocent and yet she was already thinking like some cheating girlfriend, busily making up excuses in case she got caught out.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,’ he said.

  Iris lifted her eyes and what she saw made her heart shift. It wasn’t just his good looks or his charm - she felt a weird, inexplicable connection to him, something she couldn’t explain. ‘It was nothing to do with you.’

  He sat back, crossing his legs. ‘Well, contrary to whatever impression I may have made - and I’m sure it hasn’t been a good one - I am capable of discussing subjects other than myself.’

  ‘I . . . I didn’t mean that.’ She knew he was just teasing her, but couldn’t bring herself to respond in the same light-hearted tone. Suddenly, making a decision, she said, ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Jenks? He’s an oldish guy, looks kind of scruffy. He was in the Hope & Anchor on Wednesday night, you know at the . . . the wake. He said something to me . . . he . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ Guy said.

  Iris ran her tongue along her lips. They felt parched and dry. How much should she tell him? ‘It’s nothing really, he just said that he might have some information about my father.’ She briefly lowered her eyes before lifting them to meet his gaze again. ‘He disappeared years ago. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you with it. I shouldn’t have taken any notice, but you know what it’s like when someone catches you off guard. There are all these things you think about later, about what you should have said, should have asked, but I was too shocked at the time. He wanted me to meet him on Thursday evening. I didn’t say yes or no but . . . well, I went along but he didn’t turn up.’ She paused and took another sip of wine. ‘Anyway, all that aside, Chris Street approached me after I’d left the pub and started interrogating me as to what Jenks had wanted.’

  Guy stared hard at her. ‘And what did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I told him he’d only asked me the time.’

  He let out a long relieved sigh. ‘Thank God for that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I take it you haven’t heard.’

  She could tell from his face that this wasn’t going to be good news. Her heart began to hammer. ‘Heard what?’

  At that very moment a tall, elegant black man walked by the table and nodded at them. Guy beckoned him over. ‘Noah,’ he said, ‘have you got a moment? This is Iris, Iris O’Donnell.’

  Noah leaned across, smiled and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Noah, for his sins, is my partner in the business,’ Guy said. He looked up at him. ‘Could you do me a favour and get Iris a brandy.’

  Iris frowned, shaking her head. ‘What? I don’t want a brandy.’

  ‘No,’ Guy said, ‘but I think you’re going to need one.’ He nodded at Noah. ‘You’d better make that two.’

  ‘Sure,’ Noah said. He glanced briefly at them both before retreating to the bar.

  ‘What is it? What’s going on?’ Despite the warmth of the room, she could feel a chill running through her. Recalling what he’d mentioned just before his business partner had arrived, she said, ‘What haven’t I heard?’

  Guy seemed reluctant to pass on the information. ‘It was in the evening paper.’

  ‘I haven’t read the evening paper.’

  ‘It’s about Albert Jenks,’ he said carefully.

  And now, seeing the expression on his face, the chill in Iris turned to ice. ‘What about him?’

  She knew the answer even before he gave it. Her hands were clenching, gripping her thighs, even as he spoke.

  ‘I’m sorry but . . . he was found dead last night.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ she murmured. She bent down towards the table. A long strand of her hair came loose and fell down around her face.

  Noah arrived with the brandies, put them on the table and discreetly left again.

  ‘W-what happened to him?’ she eventually managed to stammer out.

  Guy reached out and touched her gently on her arm. ‘Someone broke into his flat yesterday afternoon. He was beaten up, but it seems he died from a heart attack.’ He picked up the glass and pressed it into her hand. ‘Take a sip,’ he said. ‘It’s good for shock.’

  Iris did as she was told. Her head was spinning as she felt the warmth of the brandy slide down her throat. And she remembered drinking another glass of brandy the night before, the night she’d been supposed to meet Jenks at the Monny. She had sat there in the kitchen, cursing him for not turning up, when all the time he’d been lying dead in his flat. She shuddered. ‘Who could do that?’ she asked. ‘He was an old man. Who could do something like that?’ As she tried to make sense of it, a terrible thought came into her head. She could see Chris Street’s eyes boring down into hers. ‘You don’t think . . . you don’t think it could have been . . .?’

  ‘It could have been anyone,’ Guy said. ‘Don’t go jumping to any conclusions. Jenks was trouble, Iris. He may have been old, but that doesn’t mean that he was good.’

  ‘He still didn’t deserve to die that way.’

  ‘Probably not,’ he said.

  Hearing the reservation in his voice, Iris looked sharply up. ‘I take it you knew him rather better than I did.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. ‘I made a point of keeping well away. Unlike my mother.’ He lifted the brandy glass and looked at her over the rim. ‘I suppose you have the right to know this.’ Guy hesitated before he spoke again. ‘Jenks used to work for Terry Street. After Terry went down, she took over the business, along with all his snouts. Jenks was paid to gather information, anything that might be useful. He was good at it, very good, and he didn’t give a damn about who might get hurt in the process. Let’s just say he wasn’t called the Weasel for nothing. He’d have grassed up his granny if there was a few quid in it.’

  Iris nodded. The Weasel. Of course, that’s what Chris Street had called him. ‘So he might not have been lying. He may have known something about my father.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking, Iris, who exactly is your father?’

  If it hadn’t been for the shock she was feeling, she might not have spoken so freely. Guy Wilder, after all, was a virtual stranger. ‘His name’s Sean O’Donnell. He split up with my mum nineteen years ago, but then just disappeared. We never heard anything after that. She reckons he’s dead and . . . I don’t know, perhaps she’s right. Even if he hadn’t wanted to see us again, he’d have kept in touch with his brother. He and Michael were close.’ She took another sip of brandy. It seemed to be having the desired effect. The initial shock had worn off and although she couldn’t claim to be thinking with absolute clarity, she was at least able to string a few coherent sentences together. ‘Actually, my uncle used to know your mother. Michael O’Donnell?’

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells.’

  ‘Well, it was a long time ago. They went to school together, but I think they stayed in touch for a while after that. Actually, I think he had a bit of a crush on her.’

  Guy thought about it some more. ‘Hold on. A biggish guy, dark curly hair?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  His mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Jesus, yes, I do remember. Sometimes he was with her when she came to pick me up from my grandmother’s.’

  ‘Not Terry?’ she said, confused.

  ‘No, never Terry. I couldn’t stand the man - and vice versa. Michael was okay though. Yeah, he was one of the good guys. We used to go the park sometimes, kick a ball around. My God, is he still living here?’

  ‘He’s lived in Kellston all his life. I don’t think he’ll ever move away.’ Iris wasn’t overly surprised that their paths hadn’t crossed again. Michael wouldn’t be seen dead in a bar like this and she couldn’t see Guy Wilder popping into the Dog and Duck for a pie and a pint.

  ‘So you’re Michael’s niece. How amazing is that? I wonder if we ever met when we
were kids.’ He left a short pause and then grinned. ‘No, I don’t reckon we did. I wouldn’t have forgotten you.’

  Was he flirting with her? Perhaps just a little. But then he was in the type of business where flirting with the female customers was virtually obligatory. It probably came to him as instinctively as breathing. Had it not been for the brandy - and the champagne and the wine - Iris wouldn’t have said what she said next. ‘Michael believes that she only left you with your gran to protect you; that she didn’t want you getting involved in all the nastiness of Terry’s world.’

  Something in Guy’s face instantly closed down. ‘Then Michael, no offence, is talking through his arse. What you have to understand about my wonderful mother is that she didn’t have an altruistic bone in her body. The only person she was ever concerned about was herself.’

  Iris could hear the anger in his voice and regretted having spoken. She had clearly overstepped the line.

  There was a short, awkward silence before Guy apologised. He ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. ‘Sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. I’ve been all over the shop recently.’

  ‘It’s okay. I understand.’

  Guy nodded and quickly changed the subject. ‘So what exactly did Albert Jenks say to you on Wednesday night?’

  Iris didn’t have to think about it. The words had been revolving in her head for the past forty-eight hours. ‘He just leaned down and said: Don’t you want to know where your daddy is? That’s all, nothing else - well, apart from to meet him at the Monny at half-six.’

  ‘And you went?’ he said. ‘You went alone?’

  There was an edge to his tone that reminded her of Vita’s similarly incredulous response.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said defensively. ‘It was a stupid thing to do. I’m aware of that. But what would you have done if it was your dad?’ Immediately, she bit down on her lip. Had she put her foot in it again? She had no idea who his father was and strongly suspected that he might not either.