The Villain’s Daughter (8 page)

As she waited her thoughts began to race. Michael, his mouth loosened by drink, had once hinted at another kind of trouble as regards her father but, when she had questioned him, had instantly backtracked, admitting only that Sean may have had some financial problems. Her dad, she knew, had been no angel - in his younger days he had spent time in jail for theft - but had cleaned up his act when he’d got married. Or had he? His criminal record was something else that her mother didn’t like talking about.

Iris checked her watch again. It was bang on half past six. Where was Jenks? She had already decided that when he arrived she wouldn’t do anything stupid like going to a quiet place with him. Whatever he had to say, he could say to her in public. That’s if he ever turned up. She was starting to worry about that.

And she wasn’t the only person who was worried. Although one of the girls had been met by her boyfriend, the other still remained. She was a blonde skinny teenager, only fifteen or sixteen, dressed in blue jeans, a denim jacket and the kind of cut-off slogan T-shirt that exposed her bare midriff to the elements. Her wide black-lined eyes briefly met Iris’s but then quickly veered away again. She placed a hand on her hip and tried to look casual. Iris could understand how she felt; being stood up was bad enough, having it publicly witnessed was a humiliation too far.

Another ten minutes passed.

By now Iris was starting to despair. She suspected the worst: Jenks wasn’t going to show. If she had any sense, she’d cut her losses and leave. But what if he’d been held up? What if he was on his way? The chance was slight, but it wasn’t impossible. She’d give him another five minutes.

A lanky teenage boy appeared, offered a sullen muttered apology to the remaining girl and led her into the cinema. The girl glanced back over her shoulder as she went inside. Iris couldn’t tell if the look she gave her was pityingly sympathetic or simply gloating.

She stamped her cold feet on the ground and raised her eyes to the sky. This was ridiculous. She should go. But still she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Instead she cut across the square and walked very slowly, almost at a snail’s pace, around its perimeter. The snow fell softly around her. She made several more circuits until her watch read seven. By now she knew it was pointless. Jenks wasn’t coming.

Despondently, Iris wrapped her arms around her chest.

It was time to give up. It was time to go home.

Albert Jenks was backed up against the wall, his mottled hands raised in a shaky gesture of defence. His face was still stinging from the slaps. A steady trickle of blood flowed from his nose; he could taste it on his lips, on his tongue. His breath was coming in short, fast bursts and each exhalation increased the pain in his chest.

‘Yer . . . yer old man won’t be ’appy about this,’ he managed to splutter.

Danny Street cocked his head and grinned. ‘Oh, no need to be worrying ’bout that, Weasel.’ He left a disconcerting pause. ‘Who do you think sent me?’

An icy chill swept down Albert’s spine. He cowered in the corner, his eyes never leaving Street’s. ‘I don’t get it,’ he whined.

‘Lizzie can’t protect you no more. She’s six foot under, case you ain’t noticed. Poor old bitch. Always thought she were so fuckin’ smart but . . .’

Albert opened his mouth, but quickly snapped it closed again. Usually, he could worm his way out of any tricky situation, but at the moment everything he said only increased the younger man’s hostility. Danny Street wasn’t normal. You couldn’t reason with him; he wasn’t right in the head. Best not to give him an excuse to lash out again.

Danny frowned, took a few steps back and gazed critically around the room. It was sparsely furnished with a battered green sofa, a table, an old tasselled lamp and a couple of chairs. The carpet was threadbare. A pair of flimsy curtains, pulled tight across the window, prevented anyone from seeing in. The room was overly warm - the central heating was on high - and the heat accentuated the stinking odour of fear and sweat. ‘Bit of a shithole, Weasel, if you don’t mind me mentioning it. You didn’t spend all that extra cash on home improvements, eh?’ He snorted at his own joke. There was an overflowing ashtray balanced on the arm of the sofa and he reached out and deliberately flipped it over. His voice had become low and menacing. ‘You think he don’t know what you’ve been up to?’

Albert shook his head, the action increasing the terrible ache in his temples. He drew his sleeve across his nose and looked down at the blood. ‘W-what do you mean?’

‘Don’t fuck me about!’ Danny’s eyes flashed bright with anger. He took three fast strides, his right hand raised and clenched into a fist.

Albert instinctively cried out and covered his face, waiting for the blow that never came.

Only inches away, Danny stopped and laughed again. Leaning forward, he hissed into Albert’s ear. ‘Didn’t take you as the nervous sort, Weasel. You gettin’ jumpy in your old age?’

Albert knew he’d been rumbled. It had been a mistake, a bloody big mistake, to get involved with the likes of Lizzie Street. He should never have told her that the O’Donnell girl was back living in Kellston. He’d been greedy; that was the beginning and end of it. He’d seen a chance to make a few extra quid, and with Terry off the scene . . .

‘How much did she pay you?’ Danny whispered. ‘What’s the going rate these days for a double-crossing, lowlife grass?’

‘I never told her nuthin’ important. I swear.’ Albert laid his hand on his thumping heart. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jumping wildly in his throat. ‘She just . . . just . . . she said Terry never talked no more, didn’t tell her stuff.’

‘And why do you think that was?’

‘Dunno,’ Albert muttered. Then, as he caught sight of the big man’s fist twitching again, he sensibly added, ‘Because he don’t trust her.’ He looked up pleadingly. ‘It was only a few quid, son. I shouldn’t have done it, I know I shouldn’t, but things have been tight since your old man went away. I’ve only got me pension.’

‘He’s still paying you, paying you to keep yer big gob shut about his private business.’

Albert nodded. He couldn’t deny it. But the small monthly allowance he received was barely enough to pay his bar bill. Once he’d been Terry Street’s eyes and ears, doing the rounds of the local pubs and clubs, listening in to conversations and picking up all those tiny but essential snippets of information. Not much on their own, but if you had the nous to put them together . . . And Albert had always had a talent for that. He could sniff out something dodgy in a matter of seconds. Not only had he possessed the crucial ability to merge into the background, but had also known, at least by sight, every local villain in the neighbourhood. If there was a job going down, it had never taken him long to suss it out - and his employer had paid generously for the information. But that had been then. Times had changed and it was getting on for ten years now since Terry had been banged up.

Danny Street shoved his face into Albert’s and glared at him. ‘You never ’eard of loyalty, arsehole? You betrayed him. Dad told you to keep her away from her. And what did you do?’

Albert shrank back, taking refuge in repetition. ‘It weren’t like that. It weren’t. I were only playin’ her along. I never told her nuthin’ important.’

‘So what did you tell her?’

A series of sharp stabbing pains rolled up Albert’s arm and through his chest. His breathing felt shallow and constricted. While he struggled to reply, Danny turned his attention to the room again.

‘You hear about people dying in dumps like this. Not being found for weeks, months even. Getting eaten by cats and all. You got a cat?’ He pulled a mock sympathetic face. ‘Ah, shit no. You ain’t got no one, have you, Weasel? No friends, nuthin’. No one gives a fuck about you. You could be rotting here for years before the council finally turn up to collect the rent. Although I suppose the smell might eventually bother the neighbours.’ He gave a light shrug of his shoulders. ‘But then again, would they notice the difference? You’ve been stinking out the place for the past twenty years.’

Albert had one last chance and he had to make the most of it. He took a deep breath and heaved the words out. ‘Lizzie only wanted to know about the girl.’

Danny stared back at him. He looked genuinely baffled. ‘What are you talking about? What fuckin’ girl?’

Until this point Albert hadn’t been certain about how much Danny knew, but now the answer was clear - sod all! He didn’t have a clue. This simple fact not only revived his courage, but also gave him the leverage he needed, something to bargain with. His hopes immediately revived. There was still a chance of getting out of this with his skull intact. For the first time that evening, a tentative smile found its way on to his lips. ‘Ain’t Terry mentioned her?’

‘You’re talking shite,’ Danny said. His eyes were beginning to blaze again. ‘Why should he be arsed about some bloody girl?’

‘For the same reason Lizzie was.’

Danny took a threatening lunge forward. ‘Meaning?’

Albert jumped back, his spine pressing hard against the wall. He was too old, too tired for this kind of stuff. Even in his youth he’d relied entirely on his wits. His voice leapt up an octave or two. ‘You’ll never find out if you don’t listen, son.’

Danny’s face crunched into indecision. His instinctive urge was to try to beat it out of him, but some remaining seed of rationality held him back. A dead Jenks wouldn’t be able to talk. Instead, he bared his teeth, wrapped his fingers around Albert’s throat and spat out an order: ‘Tell me!’

‘Let go of me first.’

Danny’s fingers tightened for a second, but then gradually loosened again. ‘Start talkin’, you pathetic streak of piss or I’ll put yer fuckin’ head through the window.’

Albert moved away from the wall, rubbing resentfully at his throat. He staggered over to the armchair and stood behind it. It might not offer much protection, but at least it was something. He stared at Danny. How Terry had managed to spawn such an ignorant piece of scum was beyond him. Terry Street was a bastard, there was no disputing that, but he’d always been a charming bastard.

‘Well?’ Danny snarled.

Albert’s tongue snaked out and made a fast circuit of his dry, cracked lips. He wasn’t sure how much to say. Too little and Danny would squash him like a bug, too much and he would have Terry to answer to. ‘It’s to do with your Liam, ain’t it?’

At the mention of his dead brother, Danny’s face grew even harder. ‘What about him?’

Albert quickly shook his head. ‘I can’t say more than that. Talk to yer old man. He’ll tell you. He’ll put you straight.’

‘And how am I supposed to do that? Give him a bell? In case it’s slipped your mind, he’s not staying in a fuckin’ hotel!’

As Danny advanced on him again, a new, even more violent pain spread suddenly through Albert’s chest. With a choking sound, he jerked back and crumpled. He could feel his knees buckling as he slowly collapsed on to the floor. The room was starting to dissolve.

Danny Street leaned over, his eyes wild and angry. He began to shake him. ‘What are you doing? Wake up, you fuckin’ bastard! Wake up!’

Iris unlocked the door and stepped into the flat. It was dark and silent. She flicked on the light in the hall. No Luke. He was late home again. Was she relieved or resentful? A bit of both, she decided, as she went through to the kitchen and plucked the bottle of brandy from the cupboard. She didn’t usually drink spirits, but this counted as medicinal; her teeth were still chattering from the cold.

She took a hefty gulp, screwing up her face as the strong brandy slid down her throat. Then she poured another stiff measure into a glass. She felt utterly deflated. Jenks had raised her hopes before cruelly dashing them again. Sitting down, she placed her elbows on the table, closed her eyes and groaned. Why hadn’t he shown up? Perhaps Chris Street had been right: Jenks wasn’t all there. But, on the other hand, he was ‘there’ enough to know that her father was missing.

The phone began to ring. Thinking it could be him, she leapt up and snatched the phone from the cradle. ‘Hello?’

Her mother’s voice floated down the line. ‘Hello, darling.’

Of course it wasn’t Jenks. He didn’t even have her number. Iris tried to hide her disappointment. ‘Hi, Mum. How are you?’

‘I’m all right. What’s wrong?’

‘Why should anything be wrong?’

But Kathleen O’Donnell had a sixth sense for trouble, especially when it came to her daughter. ‘Is it Luke?’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with Luke. I was just . . . just thinking about something.’ She paused, but decided there wasn’t any point in lying. ‘Well, about Dad, actually.’

‘Oh.’

Iris could tell from her tone that she wasn’t best pleased about the subject matter. Wincing, she sat down again and took a swig from the glass. She tried to think of a diplomatic way of putting it, but couldn’t come up with one. ‘Why do you think he disappeared? ’

Kathleen gave an exasperated sigh. ‘He didn’t disappear, darling. There wasn’t anything mysterious about it. We split up. He simply packed his bags and left.’

‘And never came back.’

‘No,’ she said shortly.

‘Except people don’t just do that, Mum.’ Even as she said it, Iris knew it wasn’t true. Every year thousands of people walked out of their homes never to be seen again. But she didn’t want her dad to be one of them. She couldn’t bear the thought of it. ‘There’s more to it than that. There has to be.’

‘Why do you want to dig all this up again, Iris?’

But Iris didn’t see it as digging. She hated the expression. She had a right to know the truth, didn’t she? ‘Was he in some kind of trouble?’

There was a brief hesitation followed by a laugh that sounded false. ‘For heaven’s sake! What are you talking about?’ Her voice grew tighter. ‘Has Michael been saying something?’