by Roberta Kray
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Epilogue
Also by Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
The Villain's Daughter
ROBERTA KRAY
Hachette Digital
www.littlebrown.co.uk
Published by Hachette Digital 2010
Copyright © Roberta Kray 2010
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1629 4
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Hachette Digital
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Chapter One
The two men strode through the door at precisely five o’clock, bringing with them an unwelcome rush of chill November air. They were both tall, in their thirties and dressed in smart dark suits. One was sporting a blue tie and the other a red. From the similarity of their sharp-featured faces, Iris guessed they were related.
Blue tie approached the desk and gave a cursory nod. ‘We’re here to see Lizzie Street.’
She returned the greeting with her recently acquired ‘professional smile’, not too slight, not too wide. ‘I’m afraid there’s someone with her at the moment. If you’d like to take a seat and—’
‘Who? Who’s with her?’ red tie interrupted rudely.
Iris gave him a look, her eyebrows lifting. She didn’t much like his attitude or his tone but was careful to keep her own response polite. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting, just for a few minutes?’ She gestured towards the shabby collection of chairs, the once plush fabric worn thin by years of use.
It was blue tie who replied. ‘Thanks, but I don’t think so.’ He glanced deliberately at his flashy gold watch. ‘We’re a little short on time, darlin’. We’d like to see her now if it’s not too much trouble. Chris and Danny Street.’
‘Ah,’ Iris said uneasily. So these were the sons. She had heard of them, of course, but had never had the pleasure of meeting them before. They both had reputations, but the younger one, the red-tied Danny, was particularly renowned. The kindest description she had heard was ‘short-tempered’, the worst something she didn’t want to dwell on. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.’
Chris Street nodded again.
But the uptight Danny wasn’t quite so forgiving. ‘What’s the hold up, ginger?’ he said, leaning down to push his face aggressively into hers. He slammed his fist down on the desk. ‘We ain’t got all fuckin’ day!’
Iris jumped back.
Chris Street placed a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Cool it, okay? It’s not the lady’s fault.’ He stared at him and then looked back at Iris, his thin lips shifting into a smile. ‘I apologise for my brother. He’s a touch . . . upset about things.’
With her stomach shifting, Iris tried her best to remain calm. In her mind, however, there was ‘upset’ and there was just plain deranged. She’d been in the job three months and had never encountered anything quite as alarming as this. What was she supposed to do? As she reached for the phone, intending to pass the problem on to someone more senior, the two of them suddenly took off and headed down the corridor. Jumping up, she anxiously followed in their wake. ‘Hold on . . . you can’t . . . look, if you could just wait a minute . . .’
But it was too late.
They crashed into the lounge.
It was only ten minutes since she’d shown the man called Wilder in. He turned, frowning at the intrusion.
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Danny Street snarled at him.
As the two men advanced towards each other, Iris didn’t hang about. Rushing back to reception, she hammered on the door to the director’s office and quickly pushed it open. ‘Mr Grand? Mr Grand, we’ve got trouble!’
‘What?’
Without waiting to explain, she dashed back to the room.
By the time she returned, it had already kicked off. The three men were involved in a grunting, fists-flying, all-out punch-up. She had more sense than to try to intervene. At five foot five, and skinny with it, she was hardly likely to make much of an impact. Two against one was hardly fair, but Mr Wilder, at least for the moment, seemed to be holding his own. As they smashed against a table, she winced at the sound of splintering wood. Then all three of them, along with two large vases, crumpled in a heap to the floor.
Gerald Grand came storming in, followed by one of his gofers. His mouth dropped open. ‘Please, gentlemen!’
As they rushed to separate the brawlers, Iris glanced across at the woman who was clearly at the centre of it all. Elizabeth Anne Street, known to her friends as Lizzie, was in her late forties and was wearing a hip-hugging, silky blue designer dress, sheer stockings and a
pair of Manolo Blahnik high heels. She had diamonds in her ears and her tinted blonde hair had recently been waved. As if more amused than disturbed by the bust-up, a hint of a smile played around the corners of her scarlet lips.
Iris shook her head. Lizzie Street was well known in certain circles - the kind of circles that it paid to keep away from. For the past ten years, ever since her husband had been jailed, she had been running, and rapidly expanding, his business interests. Perhaps ‘business’ was too respectable a word; if the rumours were true, the Streets were behind most of the violent crime, drugs and prostitution in the area.
Still, even if she’d felt inclined, there was nothing much Lizzie could have done to prevent this particular row. Two weeks ago a bullet had passed clean through her heart. Now, laid out in a top-of-the-range polished coffin, she had no choice but to lie back and witness the consequences of her death.
Iris refocused her attention on the room, or the viewing lounge, as her boss always insisted on calling it. Personally, she didn’t care for the term. It reminded her of airports, of departure lounges and people flying off to foreign places. But that, perhaps, was the intention: the cold harshness of death being somehow tempered by the prospect of a warm, blue-skied, idyllic destination.
She sighed as she surveyed the damage. As well as the shattered table, a pair of heavy velvet drapes had been dragged down from the window. The jagged remains of the vases were scattered across the carpet, and the beautiful lilies lay crushed and scattered around them. There were even splashes of blood on the walls - not a good look for a funeral parlour. However, all the men were safely back on their feet.
Gerald Grand, his forehead gleaming with sweat, was fussing around the two brothers, his obsequious hands busily sweeping off the dust from their shoulders. ‘I can only apologise,’ he murmured. ‘I have no idea how this could have happened.’
Iris raised her eyes to the ceiling. Gerald had no idea either as to who had actually started the fight, and probably didn’t give a damn. Placating the Streets was his only interest. Not that she was surprised; the funeral taking place tomorrow was the biggest, and by far the most expensive, the firm had seen in years. As she glanced down again, she saw Wilder standing in the corner. He had a red-stained tissue pressed against his nose. She had the impression he was grinning but couldn’t be sure; his hand was obscuring his mouth.
Gerald Grand threw Iris a sideways, accusatory look as if this was all her fault. He jerked his bald head towards Wilder. ‘Get him out of here!’ he hissed.
Iris didn’t know whether he meant from the room or from the building entirely, but as Wilder was still bleeding she didn’t have the heart to show him the door. Instead, she led him out into the corridor and then through to the staff area. Her first act was to switch the kettle on. If there was one thing her mother had taught her, it was the comforting value of a cup of tea.
Wilder lowered himself on to one of the cheap plastic chairs and put his elbows on the table. ‘Sorry about all this.’
Iris took the first-aid box out of the cupboard, tore off a large wad of cotton wool and passed it over. ‘There’s no need to be sorry. From what I saw, it wasn’t down to you. That Danny was itching for a fight from the moment he arrived.’
‘Family reunions,’ he said wryly, dabbing at his nose.
‘Family?’ Iris could see no physical resemblance between those two crude dark-haired thugs and this sleek blond man. Well, admittedly not quite as sleek as when he’d first come in, but still a cut above the Streets.
‘Lizzie Street is my mother.’
She stared at him, amazed. He hadn’t mentioned it when he’d arrived for the viewing and his name had given her no clue. ‘They’re your brothers?’
‘Stepbrothers,’ he quickly corrected her. ‘She married their father, the delightful Terry Street. So no blood relation, thank God.’
‘I’m sorry. I mean, about your mother.’
‘Don’t be. She was a scheming bitch.’ He gave a laugh as he caught her expression. ‘Don’t be shocked. You wouldn’t be if you’d ever met her. She dumped me with my gran when I was seven and moved in with Terry and his three brats. That was twenty-five years ago. Still, I thought it only right to come and pay my last respects.’
Iris was sympathetic. She knew how it felt to be abandoned by a parent. However, she didn’t know what to say next, so turned away to make the tea. ‘Do you take sugar?’
‘Just milk, thanks. Are you sure you should be doing this? I don’t think your guvnor would approve.’
‘It doesn’t much matter what Gerald does or doesn’t approve of; I’m only working here short term. Anyway, I imagine he’s too busy sucking up to your . . . your stepbrothers to be worried about what I might be doing.’
‘True enough.’ He transferred the grip on the cotton wool to his left hand and held out his right. ‘The least I can do is to introduce myself properly. Guy Wilder. Nice to meet you.’
‘Iris,’ she replied, taking the hand. Noticing the grazes on his knuckles, she was careful not to shake too hard. ‘Iris O’Donnell.’
‘Irish, I take it.’
‘Historically,’ she said, ‘but I was born here.’
He smiled. ‘Irish Iris. I wouldn’t like to try repeating that too many times when I’d had a few.’
She smiled back, gazing into his eyes. They were blue, dark-lashed and curiously intense. ‘You don’t sound as if you’re from round here.’ His voice was as smooth as his appearance, not posh exactly, but . . . She searched in her mind for the right description. Seductive was the first word she came up with.
‘Well, that’s something I have to thank my mother for. “A good education, Guy, that’s what really matters.” So she paid to send me to the kind of school where you get your head shoved down the toilet until you learn to speak like everyone else. Fortunately, I’m a quick learner.’
Iris laughed and then, aware that she was still staring a little too intently into his eyes, quickly lowered her gaze. ‘Has your nose stopped bleeding yet?’
Guy Wilder took the cotton wool away, glanced down at it and nodded. ‘Just about. Thank you.’ He sat back and looked around, taking in the peeling wallpaper, the stained counter by the sink and the general run-down nature of the room. ‘I’m still trying to figure out why Terry chose this place.’
Iris stirred the tea and put the two mugs on the table. ‘Why? You think he’d have got a better deal from the Co-op?’ Suddenly aware that it was his mother’s funeral she was joking about, she felt a deep flush rise to her cheeks. ‘Oh, I didn’t . . .’
‘It’s okay. You can skip the sensitivity. Consider yourself off duty for the next five minutes.’ He paused. ‘I just expected him to go for somewhere more upmarket, more ostentatious. This is hardly the Ritz of funeral joints, is it? And Terry always likes to make an impression, even when his heart is only theoretically broken.’
Iris sat down. She couldn’t tell how much of Wilder’s cynicism was bluff and how much for real. Since coming to work at the small family firm of Tobias Grand & Sons, she had witnessed many different responses to death; not the full gamut perhaps, but enough to inform her that the big, dramatic displays of tears and hand-wringing were not necessarily a reliable indicator of those who were grieving most. She thought of the pain she would be feeling if her own mother had died. ‘It’s not so bad. Maybe he wanted somewhere local.’
‘Or cheap.’
‘Not that cheap,’ she said, recalling the expensive coffin, the flowers and all the other fancy extras the Streets had ordered.
Wilder grinned at her. ‘It will be if he doesn’t pay.’
Now that he had moved the cotton wool, Iris had the opportunity to examine his face more closely. Despite the swollen nose, he was still what she would describe as classically handsome. His cheekbones were high and he had a firm if rather stubborn mouth. It wasn’t, however, an easy face to read. ‘I take it you and Terry Street don’t get along?’
Wilder sipped his tea. H
is eyes suddenly narrowed. ‘If you’re asking if I hate his guts, if I think he’s got away with murder - then yes, it’s safe to say we don’t get on.’
She felt a shiver run through her. Was he suggesting what she thought he was? ‘You mean . . .?’
‘Terry’s due out in less than a month and his whore of a wife didn’t even pretend to be faithful.’
Iris flinched, partly at the description of his mother, but also at the underlying accusation. Her voice was no more than a whisper. ‘You think he . . . he murdered her?’
‘Well, bearing in mind that he was safely behind bars two weeks ago, I can’t hold him directly responsible but, as the saying goes, there’s more than one way to skin a cat.’ He put down the mug and shrugged. ‘But then again, I could be wrong. Dear old Lizzie made plenty of enemies in her life. There were times when I felt like shooting her myself.’
Iris relaxed a little. Perhaps it was only the bitterness talking. ‘And what do the cops think?’
‘That she deserved all she got - although, naturally, it’s not the official party line. That leans more towards a gangland killing. Still, I doubt if they’re putting too much effort into the investigation. No point wasting valuable resources on the likes of my mother.’
There was a short silence.
‘I’m sure they’ll find whoever did it,’ she said.
‘To be honest, Iris, I don’t really care.’
But that, she suspected, was a lie.
Wilder pushed back the chair and got to his feet. ‘Right, I’d better get going. Thanks for the tea and sympathy. You’re an angel.’ He dropped the bloodstained wad of cotton wool into the bin by the sink. ‘Perhaps I can return the compliment sometime. I run a bar on the High Street. Drop in if you’re ever passing.’
She opened her mouth intending to ask what it was called, but then changed her mind. The offer was, in all likelihood, more of a polite gesture than any firm invitation. She stood up too. ‘Wait here a moment. I just want to check that the coast is clear.’
