by Roberta Kray
Iris immediately understood how just being in the right place at the right time could put everything else into perspective. She had been stressing too much recently. Although she still had questions about Albert Jenks and his approach to her, they were questions that she suspected would never be answered now.
As Luke stopped to study a row of Christmas trees - he always took an eternity before choosing anything - she hung on to his arm and gazed around. Her eyes alighted first on a row of winter pansies. The velvet flowers in shades of golden yellow, deep red and purple made her smile. It would be nice, she thought, to have a home with a garden rather than living in a flat. On the stalls to their left was a selection of tall, leafy ferns, bamboo and bay trees, and to their right a selection of brightly coloured gladioli. Further along she could see roses, white chrysanthemums and a dramatic display of exotic orchids.
Iris sighed with pleasure. It wasn’t just the wonderful array of flowers and plants that made her feel so good, it was the whole atmosphere of the place. This was the East End she had yearned to return to with its hustle and bustle, its heart and soul. This was where she’d been born and where she belonged.
‘So what do you think?’ Luke said. ‘This one or this one?’
They appeared much the same to Iris. ‘I don’t mind. They’re both nice. You decide.’
But Luke, as ever, couldn’t quite make his mind up. Iris let go of his arm as he poked and prodded at the two trees. Then, as she could see that a decision wasn’t likely to be made soon, she said: ‘Look, while you’re doing that, I’ll nip across to the deli. I’ll only be five minutes.’
‘Okay,’ he said.
Iris walked down the street, weaving in and out of the crowd, breathing in the fragrance of the market. There was a short queue at the deli. While she waited, Iris examined the goods on offer and when she got to the counter bought a hunk of blue brie, fresh bread, three homemade chicken pies and a carton of stuffed olives.
It was as she was leaving the shop that Iris and a tall, broad man in an overcoat accidentally collided. Or at least she thought it was accidental. A second later she knew better. The man’s hand gripped the upper part of her left arm causing her to drop the carrier bag. As the food spilled out across the pavement, he quickly pushed her back against the wall. Leaning down, he stared into her face.
‘What are you doing?’ she said, confusion quickly being replaced by panic. She struggled to free herself.
But his grip only tightened. ‘I’ve a message for you, Iris O’Donnell,’ he hissed.
She instantly stopped struggling. He knew her name. How did he know her name?
Iris stared up at him, her eyes wide and scared. Her assailant, in his forties she thought, had soft, almost flabby features, as if the weight of his skin was too heavy for his face. But there was no disputing his strength. She could feel his fingers digging angrily into her flesh. ‘What do you want?’
The big man paused. As if revelling in the fear he was creating, a tiny smile crept to his lips. He glanced to his left and right in case anyone was watching. It was at that very moment that she recognised him. He was the man, she was sure, who’d been hanging around outside work yesterday.
He bent even lower until his jowly face was almost touching hers. She could smell onions on his breath. ‘Tell yer daddy that we’re waiting for him.’
Iris swallowed hard. ‘W-what?’
‘You ’eard,’ he said. ‘Just do as you’re told and pass the message on. And pass this on too - if he wants his precious daughter to see another Christmas, then he’d best start cooperating. He gave her arm one final squeeze for good measure. ‘You got that, love?’
Her heart was thrashing in her chest. ‘But—’ she began. He didn’t give her a chance to finish.
‘No fuckin’ buts, sweetheart. This ain’t a bleedin’ debate. And don’t even think about going to the law. If you do, you’ll regret it - and yer old man will regret it too.’ He let go of her arm, straightened up, and took a step back. ‘Keep yer gob shut, eh? We’ll be in touch soon.’ Then he turned and walked away. A few seconds later he was lost to the crowd.
Iris stood rooted to the spot, gently rubbing at her arm. Her lungs were pumping out her breath in short, fast, frightened bursts. Jesus, what had just happened? She was barely able to process it. It was like a loop going round and round in her head. Especially those words he had uttered at the start: Tell yer daddy that we’re waiting for him. Could it be possible that he was still alive, after all? That Albert Jenks had known where he was? And then the full thrust of the stranger’s threat suddenly registered in her brain. They expected her to contact her father and she didn’t have a clue as to where he was.
Suddenly Luke appeared at her side, dragging the tree behind him. ‘Here you are. I thought you said five minutes.’
‘Sorry,’ she muttered, trying to pull herself together. ‘There was a queue. And then someone bumped into me and . . .’ She gazed down at the food scattered on the ground, at the huddle of tiny green olives by her feet. Then she looked up again at Luke, at his familiar face, at the lock of brown hair that fell over his forehead. Surely he would notice there was something wrong? Surely he would notice how scared she looked?
But he was too preoccupied with his recent purchase. ‘You like it?’ he said. As if he’d grown it himself, he gestured proudly towards the tree.
Iris nodded. ‘It’s great.’ This was the point where she should tell him everything. So what was holding her back? A part of her longed to explain, longed to sink against his chest, to feel him hold her safely in his arms. But another part drew back. He was due to go to Brussels tomorrow and all she’d be doing was landing him with a heap of worry. Or maybe that was just an excuse. She was certain that he would insist on going to the cops. And she couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that, if it meant putting her father in danger.
‘We’ll get back then, shall we?’ Luke said, stamping his feet impatiently on the ground.
Iris gave another nod, not trusting herself to say any more than she had. Her legs were still shaking as she linked her arm through his again. As they made their way back to the car, her frightened eyes scanned the crowd for any sign of her assailant. But if he was still there, he was well hidden.
Chapter Nineteen
Iris was aware of a silence in the flat; in the living room the TV was off and the sofa was empty.
‘Michael?’ she called out, but there was no reply.
She walked into the kitchen where she found a scribbled note lying on the table. Ta for everything. Have gone home. M. Iris knew why he’d left in such a hurry - he didn’t want another grilling. But now, more than ever, she needed to talk to him. If anyone had an idea of what lay behind the threats she had received today, it was Michael.
‘He’s gone,’ she said, retracing her steps and flapping the note under Luke’s nose.
‘Well, he probably wants to be at his own place.’
‘But he shouldn’t be alone. It’s too soon.’
Luke shrugged, not even trying to look concerned. ‘He’ll be fine, babe. Don’t worry about it.’
‘Perhaps I should go round, check that he’s okay.’
‘For God’s sake, give the guy a break, can’t you? He just needs a bit of peace and quiet.’
Iris frowned. For the second time she was tempted to tell him about the man in the market. If Luke came with her to see Michael then maybe, between them, they could force him to talk. But she instantly dismissed the idea. The only talking Luke would be doing was to the cops.
‘So are you getting those decorations, babe, or not?’
While he began sorting out the stand for the tree, Iris went to the bedroom and dragged down the cardboard box from the top of the wardrobe. December started next week, but she wasn’t feeling festive. Her mother had never put the tree up until a week before Christmas. Anyway, she had more important things on her mind than baubles and tinsel. At the thought of what had happened in the market, her legs began to
shake again. As her knees buckled she sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands. What should she do? For a minute she was too overwhelmed to do anything. Then, reaching into her bag, she pulled out her mobile and tried to call Michael. It went directly to voicemail. She hesitated before leaving a message, unsure of what to say. She didn’t want to scare him off, to make him think that she was going to start cross-examining him again, but she needed some answers - and quick. ‘Er . . . it’s me. It’s Iris. Will you call me when you get this message? Please. I just want to know that you’re okay.’
Luke came into the room and stared at her. ‘He’s a grown man,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t need you fussing. Why don’t you give the poor guy some space?’
Although what he really meant, Iris thought, was that he was glad Michael had gone and didn’t want her encouraging him to return. ‘You know what,’ she said, standing up. ‘I’m just going to nip round. I bet he hasn’t even got any food in.’
‘Are you kidding?’ Luke said.
And seeing his expression, Iris knew he wasn’t going to forgive her in a hurry. ‘I’m sorry. Look, I won’t be long, I promise. I’ll be back in an hour or so.’ She thought about asking if she could borrow the car, but then changed her mind. Leaving any decent car in the vicinity of the Mansfield Estate was tantamount to asking for trouble; the kids who lived in those blocks would have it away before she’d even crossed the threshold. Luke could have offered to drop her off, but he didn’t. He simply pulled a face and then retreated to the living room.
Iris grabbed her coat and made for the door.
She walked with her head down against the cold winter air. In her hurry she’d forgotten her scarf and gloves, but she wasn’t going back for them now. While she advanced up the High Street, her freezing hands bunched deep in her pockets, Iris rehearsed what she’d say to Michael. It would be no good if the words were to tumble out in any old order. She had to be smart about it; she had to be prepared.
Over the years, things had been kept from her - she was certain of it. However, getting Michael to reveal them could be tricky. But then again, she had just been threatened. Surely no family secret was important enough to put her life in jeopardy? She shivered, remembering what the thug had said.
Suddenly Iris became aware of how stupid it was for her to be walking alone after what had happened. She quickly glanced to her left and right, before looking back over her shoulder, but no one appeared to be following. Anyway, they wouldn’t have another go so soon - would they? No, she decided. She was safe for a while. They would give her a few days’ grace, time to contact her father, before putting any more pressure on her.
Ten minutes later, as she passed Tobias Grand & Sons, Iris thought she glimpsed a light behind the opaque glass. It was only there for a second, as if a door had opened and then swiftly closed again. She paused, wondering if she’d imagined it, but then noticed Toby’s racing green Toyota parked in the street. Perhaps there had been another call-out. With Gerald ill, and William possibly occupied elsewhere, it would have been left to Toby to step into the breach. Iris gave a wry smile. He’d have been none too pleased at having to drag himself out of bed after a late Saturday night. At any other time she would have stopped to stay hello, to see if he needed a hand, but today she was too busy with her own problems.
Iris went into the Co-op on the corner and picked up a basket. Whizzing down the aisles she grabbed milk, bread, butter, eggs, bacon and cheese. To these she added a selection of ready meals. They weren’t exactly a healthy option, but even Michael could manage to remove something from a packet and throw it in the microwave. As she was about to pay, she noticed the bottles of spirits lined up behind the counter. She shouldn’t be encouraging him to drink, but if there was one sure way to loosen Michael’s tongue . . .
It was still early afternoon, but already it was growing dark. The sky was low, a soft grey blanket beginning to wrap itself around the three looming towers of the estate. Iris stepped up her pace as she walked through the gateway; this wasn’t the kind of place to loiter even in broad daylight. Michael lived in Haslow House to the left. She glanced up at the rusting balconies, the cracked and peeling paintwork, and thanked God that he was on the second floor. At least she didn’t need to use the lift.
It was only as she was jogging up the worn stone steps that it occurred to her he could be out. She should have stopped off at the Dog on her way here. More than likely, he was propping up the bar. But, surprisingly, and much to her relief, she saw a light in his window as she turned the corner on to the walkway.
Iris knocked on the door and waited. There was no response. She pressed her face to the window glass, but the mustard yellow curtains were pulled tight. She tried knocking again. Pressing her ear against the wood, she listened for the sound of any signs of movement from inside. Nothing. Putting the carrier bags on the ground, she knelt and opened the letterbox. ‘Michael? Michael, it’s me, Iris.’
She peered in at the small gloomy hallway. Nothing stirred. ‘Michael?’ she called out again.
Now she was starting to get worried. What if he’d suffered a delayed reaction to the blows from the fight? What if he’d collapsed and was lying helpless on the floor inside? Iris had a spare set of keys for emergencies. She stood up straight, pulled them out of her bag and stared at them. Did this qualify as an emergency? He could have simply come back, pulled the curtains against the cold, left the light on and gone down the pub. Really, she ought to check the Dog out first, but she didn’t relish the thought of dragging the shopping back down the steps. And what if he wasn’t there? She’d have to come all the way back up. All of which was a crazy waste of time if Michael was in need of help.
Iris tried his phone one last time. She leaned in against the door again and listened for the sound of ringing, but there was none. Eventually it went to voicemail. With no means of knowing whether his phone was actually turned off or if he was just sitting in a pub and avoiding her calls, she decided to take the bull by the horns. Michael might not be overjoyed by the fact she’d let herself into his flat, but she’d rather risk his displeasure than his life.
She took a breath, unlocked the mortice and then turned the key in the Yale. Pushing open the door, she called out again. ‘Michael?’
As soon as Iris stepped foot inside, she sensed that the place was empty. She closed the door behind her and listened again. The flat had a curious quality to it, a kind of stillness even though it was not entirely quiet: the radiators gurgled, the fridge hummed and the clock on the wall emitted a soft, steady tick.
Even though she knew it was pointless, Iris made a rapid check of all the rooms. It was only when she’d established that there was no body laid out on the floor that she allowed herself to relax. Going through to the kitchen, she put the carriers bags on the table and started to empty them. The fridge, she noticed, was almost empty. She piled in the food and put the bottle of whisky on the counter by the sink.
Iris paused, deciding what to do next. What she should do was head straight over to the Dog, but a little voice was whispering in her ear. Why not take the opportunity to have a quick look round? Perhaps, somewhere in the flat, was a clue to the whereabouts of her father. Iris pulled a face. It wasn’t right to snoop - but then lying wasn’t right either. And she was sure that Michael had lied to her. This morning’s scrap with Danny Street had been about more than good manners.
Before she could let her conscience get the better of her, Iris started on a fast sweep of the flat. The place was untidy but relatively clean. Starting with the kitchen, she checked all the cupboards and drawers but found nothing more than a few tins of baked beans and a pile of old bills. In the living room, she rooted through the newspapers lying on the coffee table and then opened and closed the scratched mahogany cabinet. There was nothing in there either apart from an almost empty bottle of vodka. It was only when she came to examine the small round table by the sofa, the table which had the phone standing on it, that she noticed the scrap of
paper. It had a number scrawled across it and Iris knew that number by heart. It was her mother’s!
Iris’s heart gave a start. So far as she was aware, her mother and Michael hadn’t spoken in years. So why on earth was her number written here?
Iris leaned over, picked up the phone and dialled 1471. She listened to the BT message reciting her mother’s number. Michael had been called yesterday morning at a quarter to eleven. Although she had no means of knowing whether he had actually taken the call - he could have written down the number later - it seemed too much of a coincidence that half an hour after it had come in he’d been on his way to pick a fight with Danny Street. She tried 1571, but there were no recorded messages.
Iris was still pondering on what all this might mean when she heard the key turning in the lock. Smartly, she backtracked to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took some of the contents out.
‘Michael,’ she called out. ‘Don’t worry. It’s only me.’
He came through to the kitchen, looking bemused.
‘I’m really sorry,’ she said. ‘Only I was worried about you. I brought some food round and when you didn’t answer the door, I thought . . . well, to be honest I panicked a bit so I let myself in. I hope you don’t mind.’ As if she had only just arrived, and was still in the process of unpacking the bags, she started to put the food back in the fridge. She felt guilty at the subterfuge, but not entirely sorry.
‘I popped into the Dog for a quick one,’ he said.
‘You weren’t answering your phone.’
‘Oh,’ he said, taking it from his pocket and staring at it. Iris, still feeling awkward, forced a smile on to her lips. ‘It doesn’t work if you don’t turn it on.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Well, thanks for the food. You needed haven’t bothered. I was going to nip out later.’
‘It’ll save you the bother. You should be resting, not running around.’ Iris nodded towards the whisky. ‘And I bought you a bottle. I thought you might be in need.’
