by Roberta Kray
‘No. No details at least. But I got the distinct impression that he has been seen. Maybe it was Jenks who tipped them off. He never forgot a face; even after nineteen years he’d still have remembered him. Probably got a few quid from the brothers for the info and then decided to take another bite of the cherry by approaching you.’
‘But if Jenks told them where he was, why haven’t they found him?’
‘Maybe the old Weasel was smart enough to keep something in reserve. He could have claimed that he’d seen him, but for one reason or another, hadn’t been able to keep on his tail. That way, if he had followed him, he could play you off against each other - whoever offered him the most got to find out where your father was. That could be why Chris got so jumpy when he saw Jenks approach you at the Hope.’
Iris gave an inner groan. With Jenks now dead, she had lost her best lead to where her dad might be hiding. It was a horrible, selfish thing to be thinking, but she couldn’t help herself. ‘I’m so damn stupid. If only I’d gone after him.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. He was a complete stranger, and a dubious one at that. He took you by surprise. In your shoes, I’d have probably done the same.’
Iris, although she doubted it was true, appreciated the sentiment. ‘Thanks for everything. You’ve been a star. God knows how I’d have coped if you hadn’t—’
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘That’s what friends are for. Don’t go all slushy on me, girl. You take care, right, and we’ll catch up soon.’
Iris said goodbye and put down the phone. She was grateful for all he’d done, but worried about it too. The Streets wouldn’t have liked giving in to Guy’s demands. In fact they’d have been downright furious. How long before they took the opportunity to get their own back on him? And it would all be her fault. She had drawn him into this mess and now he was in as much trouble as she was.
For a while she sat staring blindly in front of her. She didn’t see the faded paper, the row of framed certificates or the old East End prints that lined the walls - her head was too full of other pictures. How easy it must be, if you were so inclined, to kill another person. You didn’t even need to touch them. One tiny squeeze on the trigger of a gun and . . . A shiver ran through her. What was she getting into? There was still time to leave, to get the hell of here. If her father wanted to reach her, he could do it through Michael.
But then she felt ashamed of her cowardice. Guy had put himself on the line for her. The least she could do was to show some bloody backbone! It was time to stop being so feeble. There and then she made a decision: whatever the cost, she was going to continue in her search. If her father was out there somewhere, she was going to find him. And a couple of gangsters, no matter how psychotic, were not going to stand in her way.
Chapter Forty-one
He breathes in the cold evening air as he tramps along the street. It gets to his chest, hurts his lungs, but he pushes the pain aside. He’s waited too long for this return and the goddamn British weather isn’t going to spoil it for him. Pushing his hands deep into his pockets, he carries on regardless. No one knows he is back. Well, not for certain. There may be rumours, but the East End is always full of those.
He stops, ostensibly to look in a shop window, but really just to catch his breath. Kellston has changed since he was last here, but only on the surface. It might look respectable, but underneath it still writhes with a sickness that can never be cured. There’s been too much history, too much neglect, for the place ever to recover. History has left its mark. It’s left its scars on him too.
He smiles as he sees the trays of jewellery: gold chains, diamond earrings, rubies and emeralds. Perhaps he should get something for Iris. What would she like? He feels a rush of shame at not knowing. He searches out the more subtle pieces, his gaze alighting on a sapphire bracelet. She always used to like the colour blue. Later, he swears, he will come back and buy her something beautiful.
As his eyes shift focus, he sees himself reflected in the glass of the shop window. The image startles him. An old grey man with lines on his face. Where have all the years gone? He aches for everything he’s lost. He’s like a ghost now, a man come back from the grave.
Moving slowly on, he meanders past the busy café. There’s a sign outside advertising fancy coffees and freshly made sandwiches. Connolly’s had been a greasy spoon in his day, all bacon and eggs and hot strong tea, with a pall of fag smoke hanging over the tables. He’d like to go inside, to sit down for a while, but it’s too risky. Anyone could recognise him and this wasn’t the time to be taking those kinds of chances.
A bitter wind sweeps along the High Street, making him grit his teeth. He moves on again, crosses the intersection with Station Road and keeps going south. He’s almost there now. The next road is Beeston and the one after that is Silverstone. He takes a left when he arrives at Silverstone Road and quickens his pace. The building looms suddenly out of the darkness, a high-walled fortress illuminated by spotlights. He stops in surprise. He hasn’t expected anything quite so dramatic.
He walks up to the entrance and stares through the tall wrought-iron gates at all the rows of windows. So this is where his daughter lives. This is Silverstone Heights. It had been an asylum once, he recalls, and some of the original structure is still there, a small squat block to the right and the ornate redbrick arch over the front door. But most of it is new. Scanning the third-floor windows with their neat little balconies, he wonders which ones belong to her flat. There’s no way of knowing.
Still, he’s glad she’s so well protected. It will help him sleep more peacefully tonight. He’s tempted to shake the gates, make sure that they’re as secure as they look, but can see the CCTV cameras poised on the pillars either side of the gates. He shouldn’t hang around. Best to take off before some jumpy security guard picks up the phone and calls the filth.
Chapter Forty-two
A freezing wind was whipping through the dark streets of Kellston. Iris shivered, her hands raw with cold, as she stopped to cross another number off the list. She was getting used to the odd looks she received as she enquired at each house or flat for a man called Fin. This wasn’t the kind of area that welcomed casual callers or too much curiosity about the people who lived there. She’d already had a few doors slammed in her face.
It was three days now since she’d talked to her uncle and the third time she had come out to roam the district with Guy. Michael hadn’t been too keen on sharing what he knew and it had cost her four pints of Old Peculiar and a spot of gentle blackmail to finally squeeze the information out of him. Didn’t he owe her something for all the secrets he’d kept, all the lies she’d been fed?
Out of the short list he’d provided of her father’s closest pals, they’d been able to eliminate three of them immediately: Jimmy Neal had been killed in a car crash, Bob Layton had emigrated and Paddy Morris was currently residing at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Only one had remained as a likely prospect. Finlay - more commonly known as Fin - had been her dad’s best mate since school. What Michael wasn’t so sure about, however, was whether Finlay had been his Christian or surname. And he couldn’t (or so he claimed) recall exactly where he’d lived.
‘Somewhere off the High Street,’ he’d said unhelpfully. ‘I dunno, love. I went there once but it was years ago.’
Iris had got out her pocket A-Z, found the right page and reeled off a dozen street names, but no joy. If anywhere had rung a bell with him, he hadn’t been prepared to say. She knew what Michael thought - that she was wasting her time - but she refused to be deterred. Following up any lead was better than doing nothing. It might be a shot in the dark, but it was still worth a go.
Of course, she had done the logical thing first and rung round all the Finlays she could find listed in the phone book. It had been a futile exercise, yielding no results. So many people were ex-directory these days or only using mobiles. And then, apart from the fact that Finlay might not have been his surname, there was also the distinct possib
ility that he could have moved away. She had tried the electoral register too, noting down the addresses of any local Finlays. They had managed to talk to some of these, but still no fifty-year-old Fin had come to light.
Iris looked up at Guy and pulled a face. ‘I’m starting to get that needle in a haystack feeling.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The technical name for that, hun, is coffee deprivation. Come on, let’s find somewhere to rest out feet and review our options.’
Iris wasn’t going to argue. They’d spent three hours on Thursday evening and another three on Friday slogging round these streets and knocking on doors. All to no avail. Today was Saturday, getting on for five o’clock, and her spirits were beginning to sink. They had been on the go since twelve.
As they tramped along the snowy pavements, Iris was careful to watch her footing. Only a few days ago a twenty-year-old girl had slipped on the ice and banged her head against the kerb. It had been a freak accident and a fatal one. One moment Jenni Brookner had been happily looking forward to the festive season, the next she’d been whisked off in an ambulance. Now she was down in the basement of Tobias Grand & Sons awaiting Alice’s attention.
They stopped outside Connolly’s and peered in through the window. The café was busy, packed with Christmas shoppers, but they could see one empty table. They went inside and Guy took off his thick dark overcoat, carefully hanging it over the back of his chair. Underneath he was wearing black jeans and a pale blue sweater. Iris gazed at him. The sweater complemented the intense blueness of his eyes and she wondered if that was why he’d chosen it. And why not? She wasn’t without vanity herself. He caught her looking and grinned. Iris quickly sat down, picked up the menu and pretended to examine it.
‘Are you hungry?’ he said.
Iris shook her head. ‘Not really.’ Disappointment had blunted her appetite. She thought of all the blank stares she’d experienced over the past few hours, all the undisguised suspicion and downright hostility. Not that she was surprised by any of it. Had some stranger turned up on her own doorstep asking questions, she would have been less than welcoming too.
‘Don’t let it get you down,’ he said. ‘For all we know, we might have already hit the jackpot.’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘If your father is hiding out in one of the houses we’ve been to, he’s hardly likely to show himself, is he?’ Guy put his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers and lowered his chin on to their tips. ‘And this man Fin isn’t going to come clean about his identity either, at least not if he’s been asked to keep shtum.’
Iris thought back to all the places they had visited, trying to remember if anyone had given even the tiniest indication that they knew what she was talking about. No one came to mind. What would she have done if her dad had suddenly appeared? The idea simultaneously alarmed and excited her.
‘The point is,’ Guy continued, ‘that we just don’t know. People in the East End are used to keeping quiet, to being less than trusting of strangers. There’s a chance we’ve already stumbled on the right address but just don’t realise it. If we have - and if your father is there - then by now he’s going to know that you’re searching for him.’
Iris gave a sigh. ‘I’m not even sure I’m doing the right thing, I mean trying to flush him out like this. What if we lead the Streets straight to him?’
‘We haven’t been followed, I’m pretty certain of that. And what other choice is there? If we wait until Terry gets out of the nick, it’s going to be too late. This way we force your father’s hand. He’s going to be worried about exactly the same thing - that the Streets are watching - and if he wants to keep his hiding place secret, he’s going to have to find some way of contacting you, of warning you to stay away.’
Iris nodded. She and Guy had done a lot of talking over the past few days. It seemed more than likely that her dad had come back in response to Lizzie’s death. ‘So you really think he’s planning on confronting Terry?’
‘Perhaps he feels it’s the only way of keeping you safe. Terry’s an old-fashioned kind of villain, an-eye-for-an-eye and all that. He’s dealt with Tyler, but there were two men at his house the night that Liam was killed. He isn’t ever going to let that go. And if he can’t find your father, then . . .’
Iris understood without him spelling it out. Terry had lost a son, and she was Sean O’Donnell’s daughter. There was more than one way of getting revenge. She shuddered at the thought of it.
‘Hey,’ Guy said, seeing her expression. ‘I don’t think you’re in any real danger. And especially not at the moment. But the threat of it, of what Terry might do when he gets out, could well be enough to push your dad into showing himself. That’s probably why Terry’s had the boys hassling you, threatening you just enough to prove they mean business.’
Iris dropped her face into her hands. ‘Jesus,’ she said, ‘I should never have come back. If I wasn’t here then Terry couldn’t—’
‘None of this is your fault, Iris. Don’t start thinking that way. We need to concentrate, stay focused. We have to try and find your dad before he does something stupid.’
Iris couldn’t help speculating on what that something stupid was likely to be. ‘But he must know that Terry’s going to kill him if he ever shows his face. So what can he do?’ She already suspected what the answer was likely to be. Her breath caught in her throat as she said, ‘You reckon he’s going to try and kill Terry, don’t you?’
‘Do you think your father’s capable of that?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘If you’d asked me two weeks ago I’d have said no, but now I’m not so sure. I don’t have a clue as to who he actually is any more.’
‘Well, he must have some finer feelings or he wouldn’t have bothered coming back. It’s you he’s trying to protect. ‘
‘Or he just feels guilty,’ she said sceptically. ‘Does that count as a finer feeling?’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so hard on him. Whatever he did, he lost his family through it. That’s a big price for any man to pay.’
Iris knew he was right. It was unfair to pass judgement on someone she hadn’t even seen for nineteen years. She was grateful to Guy for defending him, an action she didn’t seem capable of at the moment. Maybe she was just too scared to admit to herself how much she wanted to see her father - and how afraid she was of losing him again.
The waitress arrived at their table with her notepad. She was a skinny middle-aged woman with the weary, fretful appearance of someone who’d been on their feet since the crack of dawn.
‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘What’s it to be?’
‘A latte,’ Guy said. ‘And a couple of toasted sandwiches. Cheese is fine.’ He looked over at Iris. ‘You can manage a sandwich, can’t you?’
Iris glanced at her watch. It would be another few hours before she got anything substantial to eat, so she nodded. Then, as the waitress hovered impatiently, she tried to decide what to drink. She considered a hot chocolate, but decided she was more in need of energy than comfort. ‘And a large cappuccino, thanks.’
Iris waited until the woman had left and then turned her face back towards Guy. ‘I wish I knew how your mother had managed to persuade Terry to leave us alone all those years ago. Did she ever say anything to you?’
Guy shook his head. ‘You’ll have to talk to Michael about that.’
‘Believe me, I’ve tried. He isn’t shifting from his original story. He just keeps on insisting that because he was at the Hope that night, Lizzie was able to provide him with an alibi. But that doesn’t explain why Terry didn’t have a go at Mum - or me, come to that. I doubt if Terry Street’s got too many scruples about terrifying children.’
Guy, unable to refute the suggestion, gave a light shrug of his shoulders. ‘So what does your mother say?’
‘I haven’t asked her.’
He looked surprised. ‘Why ever not?’
‘Don’t get me wrong, she’s great, she really is, but th
is would only freak her out. It took me over an hour to persuade her that I wasn’t going to fall apart after splitting up with Luke. If I told her what I was doing now, she’d be on the next train down. She’s convinced that Dad’s dead, has been for years, and thinks I should accept it too. She doesn’t even know that Michael’s told me about what he did that night.’
‘Isn’t he going to tell her?’
‘Are you kidding?’ she said. Her mouth broke into a grin. ‘No sane man would willingly bring down the wrath of Kathleen O’Donnell on his head.’
‘Is she that scary?’
Iris gave a soft laugh. ‘Not unless she’s roused, but this would certainly rouse her. She’ll be mad as hell if she thinks he’s been giving away the family secrets. Anyway, I’ve made a deal with Michael - I’ll keep quiet about it if he does. She’s not likely to ring him again in a hurry; she only called him last week because she got worried about all the questions I was asking. At that point he hadn’t told me anything so he didn’t need to lie about it.’
‘But at some point you’re going to have to—’
‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,’ Iris said quickly. She couldn’t afford to have her mother on her back right now. And she couldn’t face that difficult conversation they would need to have either - about why she’d been lied to, about why she’d never been told the full story of her father’s disappearance. She knew what her mother would claim - that it had been done to protect her - but the whole deceit still rankled. Iris had grown up wondering if it was her fault that he’d left. If only she’d been told just a little of the truth . . .
She was about to try to explain this to Guy when the waitress came back with their order. The woman plonked the tray gracelessly in the middle of the table, dumped the bill in a saucer and left without a word.
Guy grinned. ‘Well, you can’t fault the quality of the service.’
Iris picked up her cappuccino, took a sip and smiled. ‘They’re renowned for it. You could learn a lot about customer service from the staff in here.’