The Villain’s Daughter

Table of Contents

 

 

The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women

 

 

 

Reg Kray: A Man Apart

 
 
 

 
The Villain's Daughter

 

 
ROBERTA KRAY

 
 
Hachette Digital

 
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

 

 
This ebook produced by Jouve, France

 

 
Hachette Digital
An imprint of
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DY

 

 
An Hachette Livre UK Company

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.’