by Roberta Kray
But Guy simply shrugged. ‘The same as you, probably.’
She let out a sigh of relief. ‘So what should I do next?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the police are going to be making inquiries. Should I tell them about it? Should I tell them how Chris Street was asking questions about him?’
‘No,’ he said sternly. ‘You don’t. Absolutely not. There’s nothing to directly connect the Streets to what happened to Jenks.’
‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘And you can’t be sure of the opposite either. Look, the Weasel’s been working for them for years. Why should they suddenly turn on him?’
‘I don’t know. Why do villains usually turn on each other?’
Guy shook his head. ‘It’s not a good idea to start pointing the finger. The Streets are powerful people. You don’t want to get on their wrong side.’
Iris lifted her brows. ‘Says the man who was rolling around on the floor with them a couple of days ago.’
He smiled at the quick retort. ‘Yeah well, I haven’t got the brains I was born with. You, on the other hand, are an intelligent woman and should know better. Keep your head down and your mouth shut. Believe me, it’s the best advice you’re going to get.’
‘But come on,’ she said insistently, ‘the old man arranges to meet me and then gets murdered. Is that just a coincidence?’
‘Yes, more than likely it is. I’m sure he had his grubby little fingers in lots of pies. You wouldn’t have been the only person he was trying to screw over.’
Iris didn’t even try to keep the disappointment from her voice. ‘Do you think that’s all it was? Some kind of con?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but if you want to find out, then you’re going to have to be smart about it. If Jenks knew something, then other people must too. Tread carefully and you might find out. Making an enemy of Chris Street, however, is not going to open any doors for you. Honestly, I know what I’m talking about.’
‘So what do I do?’
‘You play it cool. I may be able to help, point you in the right direction at least.’
Iris looked hopefully at him, her spirits rising. ‘Could you? Are you serious?’ And then, as soon as she had asked, she felt guilty about the excitement she was feeling. A man had died and all she was thinking about was herself.
‘Don’t expect too much. I can’t promise anything.’ From his pocket Guy took out two of his business cards along with a pen, and passed them over to her. ‘Here, keep one of these and write your number on the other.’
Iris scribbled down her mobile number and was about to add the number at the flat when she thought again. What if he called and Luke answered the phone? If she told Luke the truth - that she was searching for answers about her father - he would only get into one of his black moods again. He was convinced, like her mother, that Sean O’Donnell was dead and thought Iris’s preoccupation with his disappearance both maudlin and unhealthy. For a second she sat with the pen poised over the tiny oblong of card. Then, in case her mobile was switched off, she quickly added her work number.
Guy took the card, looked down at it and nodded. ‘And will you swear that you won’t do anything without talking to me first?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Promise me,’ he said.
‘Okay, I promise.’ She glanced at her watch; it was getting on for twelve-thirty. She’d better make a move before Luke got home. She got to her feet. ‘Thanks for the drink, but I have to go. It’s getting late.’
‘I’ll order you a cab.’
She waved the offer aside. ‘No, don’t bother. I can walk. It’s only down the road.’
‘Not at this time of night,’ he said firmly. ‘Do you really think I’m going to let you wander around on your own? This is the East End, Iris. Tough as you are, I don’t fancy your chances against some of the lowlifes out there. There’s a cab firm just round the corner. I’ve got an account with them. They’ll send a car in five minutes.’
Iris, on reflection, decided not to argue. She’d made enough rash decisions for one night. It was time to start acting sensibly.
Chapter Fifteen
Iris had not slept well, tossing and turning throughout the night, her brief interludes of sleep invaded by nightmares where a bloody and beaten Albert Jenks was leering maliciously down at her. At three in the morning she had woken abruptly, recalling Vita’s offer to make some inquiries about him. Panicking, she had leapt out of bed and gone to find her phone. Vita often worked on Saturdays and if she innocently started asking questions about a man who had been murdered . . .
It had been too late to ring, and so she had sent an urgent text instead. Plse don’t mention Jenks to anyone. V important. Will call later. Iris x
Then, feeling too anxious to go back to bed, she had curled up on the sofa, switched on the TV and watched an old film until she finally dozed off again. She had woken, cramped and aching, at around eight o’clock. Since then she had taken a hot shower and made some breakfast.
Luke, who had not come home until after two, had just got up. Unaware of the restless night she had spent, he was now nursing a hangover in the kitchen. She passed him a bottle of aspirin and put the kettle on. Outside the snow was falling again, drifting down in a squall of fast, steady flakes and making even the shabby rooftops of Kellston look like something from a fairytale. She stood by the window and watched as the world turned white around her.
Luke made a soft groaning sound as he rubbed at his forehead. ‘Oh God, why did you leave me there, babes? You should have made me come home with you.’
Iris turned and smiled. ‘I’d have liked to have seen your face if I’d tried. I got the feeling you were in the middle of trying to clinch a deal.’
‘Was I?’ he said, frowning. ‘I don’t remember much about it. Did you get home okay? Well, obviously you did, but I shouldn’t have let you come back alone. What was I thinking of?’
‘Hey, don’t worry about it. I’m old enough to take care of myself.’
As she went over to him, he reached out and wrapped an arm around her waist. ‘Yeah, I know you are but—’
‘It was still early and I was tired. There was no point in you leaving too.’ Iris didn’t want him feeling guilty, especially when her own conscience was bothering her so much. She felt bad about keeping secrets; it was hardly the ideal foundation for the fresh start she’d been planning on. Perhaps she should come clean about what had happened last night, about seeing Guy Wilder. But then he didn’t even know who Guy was. And if she did start explaining, she would have to tell him about going to meet Jenks too. And that was a conversation she felt way too tired to have.
Iris bent down to kiss the crown of his head and at that very moment her mobile started ringing. Jumping at the sound, she quickly freed herself from Luke’s embrace. Grabbing the phone from the counter, she flipped it open and stared at it. Even though she knew it was too early to expect any news from Guy Wilder, she was still hoping that it might be him. Or even Vita. Instead, it was her work number flashing up. She thought about not answering it, letting it go to voicemail, but then wondered if it was Toby. And if it was Toby, his new friendship with Danny Street might prove useful to her.
‘Hello?’
But it was only a very apologetic William Grand on the other end of the line. ‘I’m really sorry to disturb you on a Saturday.’
Iris wished she hadn’t picked up. There was only one reason why he would be calling her and she didn’t want to hear it.
‘I’ll understand if you’re busy,’ he continued. ‘I know that it’s short notice. And I wouldn’t ask, I really wouldn’t, only Gerald’s in bed with the flu and I’ve had a call-out that I need to attend. I’ve tried getting hold of Toby, but he isn’t answering his phone.’
Smart Toby, she thought. As William obviously wasn’t going to cut to the chase any time soon, Iris did it for him. ‘You want me to cover, right?’
‘If
it isn’t too much trouble, and only for an hour. There’s a viewing booked for eleven. Mrs Bayle’s coming in to see her husband and I might not be back in time. I suppose I could put her off, try and schedule it for later in the day but . . .’
Iris sighed. The prospect of viewing the body of a loved one was traumatic enough without having the appointment postponed at the last minute. Did she really have it in her heart to refuse? ‘No, its okay, it’s fine. I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks. That’s really good of you. Everything’s prepared here; you can show her through whenever she’s ready. Oh, and I’ll leave the keys next door with Janey. If I’m not back before you leave, you will remember to lock up, won’t you?’
As she put the phone down, Luke - having caught the gist of the conversation - scowled at her. ‘Why on earth did you say yes? I was hoping we could spend the day together, maybe go out and grab some lunch. You haven’t forgotten that I’m off to Brussels on Monday?’
Sensing the onset of another row, Iris immediately tried to lighten the mood. Rushing over to him, she wrapped her arms around his neck. ‘No, of course I haven’t forgotten, sweetheart, but it’ll be a while yet before you can face any food. Anyway, it’s only for an hour. I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘Those people take advantage,’ he said resentfully.
‘Gerald’s got flu, William’s had an urgent call and some poor woman wants to see her husband before he’s buried. I could hardly say no.’
But from the expression on his face, she could see that he’d expected her to.
Iris still had twenty minutes to spare before Mrs Bayle was due to arrive. She decided to stay in the florist and talk to Janey, the owner of the shop. In all honesty, she didn’t relish the thought of being alone in the building next door. Although, as she considered it more, she realised that it was actually the fact she wouldn’t be alone that made her feel so queasy. She had not yet grown accustomed to the silent contents of the basement.
Janey, oblivious to her fears, was breezily chatting away about Lizzie Street’s funeral. Had Iris seen that actress off the television? She wasn’t quite so good-looking in real life, was she? It only went to prove what those make-up artists could do. Still, it gave hope to the rest of the female population. And what about Terry Street? ‘He’s got old, hasn’t he? I feel sorry for him. You’d have thought they’d have let him off the last few weeks of his sentence, compassionate whatsit and all; I mean, you can’t be needing more compassion than when your missus has just been murdered.’
Iris, keeping one eye on the door to Tobias Grand & Sons in case the widow arrived early, was happy to simply stand and listen. Janey was in her mid-forties, a tall, stick-thin woman with a wide mobile mouth. She could talk for England and the only encouragement she needed was the occasional nod or comment of agreement. Her curiosity about the event was understandable; there wasn’t much of interest that ever happened in Kellston. Also, with all the floral wreaths and arrangements that had been ordered, the funeral had provided a much-needed boost for the shop.
‘I hear that son of hers didn’t even bother to turn up.’
Iris’s attention was instantly focused. ‘What?’
‘Her own son,’ Janey continued. Her voice was a mixture of astonishment and accusation. ‘Her stepsons were there, but not her own flesh and blood. How could anyone be so callous?’
Iris, recalling what Guy had said - and what she had witnessed - felt an instinctive urge to defend him. ‘I don’t think it’s that straightforward. He did come to see her.’
‘Did he?’
Iris regretted having spoken. What went on next door was private, confidential - or at least it should be. She was aware of Janey’s eyes gazing greedily towards her, eager for a juicy snippet of gossip. She could also imagine Gerald’s reaction if he ever got to hear that she’d been passing on information about what had happened on the day before the funeral. Her only option, she decided, was to backtrack as quickly as she could. ‘Well, I think so,’ she said casually. ‘I’m not completely sure. Maybe I’ve got it wrong. But families are complicated, aren’t they? You never know all the facts.’
Janey looked disappointed. She had no interest in the facts; it was only rock-solid hearsay that she craved. ‘So you didn’t actually see him?’
Iris, without lying outright, gave an ambiguous half shake of her head whilst making a show of glancing at her watch. ‘Blimey, is that the time? I’d better open up.’
She took the keys, made a hasty exit and unlocked the door to Tobias Grand & Sons. Stepping inside, she paused for a second, breathing in the quiet. At the same time she expelled a sigh of relief. That had been a close call; she would have to learn to keep her big mouth in check in the future, especially if she wanted to keep Guy Wilder on side. He’d be none too pleased if he found out that she’d been talking about him. Not to mention how Gerald would react. Discretion, as he never stopped telling her, was an essential part of the business.
After placing her coat on the back of her chair, Iris went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. She wondered if she should check on Mr Bayle, make sure that everything was okay, but only got as far as the door before her nerve failed her. It wasn’t as if she’d never seen a dead body before, but she had never viewed one alone. Feeling slightly guilty, she took one look at the coffin and turned away. She could trust to the excellent ministrations of Alice; no one could make a corpse look more peaceful.
Mrs Bayle, with the punctuality of the older generation, arrived at precisely five to eleven. She was a local woman, small and wiry, in her late sixties. Her iron-grey hair was cut short and her face was etched with the kind of lines that spoke of a less than stress-free life. She was wearing an old tweed coat that had clearly seen better days.
Iris was concerned that she might be upset or offended at being dealt with by the office junior. Gerald possessed, if nothing else, a certain gravitas and William had a natural compassion. She, however, was merely the receptionist. But Mrs Bayle had more important things on her mind than who was showing her through to the viewing lounge.
‘So, dear,’ she said. ‘Is he ready for me?’
Iris nodded. ‘Would you like a cup of tea before . . .’
‘Ta, it’s nice of you, but I’d just as soon go through.’
‘Of course,’ Iris said. ‘If you’d like to come this way.’
They didn’t speak as they walked along the corridor. Iris opened the door and stood aside. ‘I’ll leave you alone.’
‘Oh, that’s all right, dear. There’s no need to go.’
Iris hesitated, unsure as to whether Mrs Bayle was being merely polite or if she was actually being requested to stay. But then the woman linked her arm through Iris’s and there was no choice but to accompany her to the coffin.
Alice, as expected, had done an excellent job. Mr Bayle looked more peaceful in death than he had possibly ever done in life. There was a faint pinkness to his cheeks and lips. His features showed no evidence of any suffering - perhaps there had been none, she didn’t know - but instead had that easy, rested appearance as if he were merely sleeping.
‘He was a waste of space, really,’ his widow said, gazing soulfully down at him. ‘Still, I’ll miss the old bugger. You get used to having them around, don’t you?’
Iris, who had only been used to Luke for the past five years, wasn’t sure how to respond. ‘Were you married for long?’ she eventually said.
‘Forty years, give or take.’
Iris gazed at the man in the coffin again. She could not imagine how it would feel to live with someone for so long. This was a time, she thought, to deliver some profound and comforting words. Unfortunately, she couldn’t think of any. Instead, she said: ‘Do you have any children?’
Mrs Bayle’s face fell a little. ‘We only had the one. Our Alan’s working abroad. He’d like to be here, but things are tight and with the cost of air travel and all . . .’
Iris experienced a sudden surge of anger towards
the son who couldn’t be bothered to return for his father’s funeral, but she felt guilty about it straightaway. It was not her place to cast aspersions. Maybe she was misjudging him; after all, she had no idea what the relationship between the two of them had been like. Immediately she thought of Guy and his mother. But then again, funerals weren’t just about the dead - they were about the living too, about who was left behind, and this poor woman could have done with some support. Keeping her thoughts to herself, she said: ‘I’m sure he’d be here if he could.’
A soft, barely discernible sound emanated from the back of Mrs Bayle’s throat. It could have been agreement or a stifled sob. Iris instinctively placed her hand over the older woman’s, giving it a gentle squeeze of sympathy.
Eventually, Mrs Bayle reached out and touched the body of her husband. Not on his hands or face, but on the shoulder of his slightly shiny suit. Her fingertips lingered for a few seconds before she withdrew them and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Iris wasn’t sure if she talking to her or the husband. Suddenly, she felt weighed down by a terrible sadness. Part of it was down to Mrs Bayle’s loss, which seemed so profound after all the time the two of them had spent together, but part of it was to do with her own father. If he was dead, had there been anyone to grieve for him? She couldn’t bear the thought of him lying alone in some cold mortuary, unidentified, uncared for, with no one to whisper that final goodbye.
Mrs Bayle turned away, her farewells completed.
Iris, still with a lump in her throat, showed her back through to reception. Although she knew Luke expected her home within the hour, she paused by the door and said, ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay a while, have that cup of tea?’
‘Thank you, dear, but I’d best be getting on.’ Reaching out, she patted Iris on the arm. ‘You’ve been very kind.’
Iris stood and watched as she walked down the snow-filled street, a small, lonely figure despite the crowds. It was Saturday, with only four weeks left to Christmas, and the shoppers were out in force. Even though this wasn’t the popular end of the High Street, there were plenty of bargains to be had in the charity shops. She thought how terrible it must be to walk amongst those people, all of them unknowing and indifferent to your grief. Mrs Bayle would not be having much of a Christmas this year.