‘I was in the shop a few weeks ago. I rarely spend that much time there these days, but I still pop round once or twice a week. My eldest son Davinda and his wife took it over after my husband died, as you know. Anyway, I saw a man in there, and I could see he wasn’t right, that he was, you know, what the cockneys always called “radio rental”? A bit mental? Remember how Mr Singh always loved the rhyming slang? But I knew this person. You know when you see someone and you can’t place them? That is how I felt. He bought forty Lambert and Butlers, and a bottle of cheap vodka. My son Davinda served him and, as the man was leaving, he looked directly at me, and he smiled. It was a strange smile, Michael. I can’t explain it. Anyway, it took me a day or two, but then I remembered who he was.’
She pushed Michael gently away from her, and she sat back on the settee. Michael could see the turmoil in her face, knew that she was worried about what she was going to say to him. ‘It’s so many years ago but I’m sure that it was Steven Golding.’
Declan Costello was quietly watching everything that was happening, and he saw the way that Mrs Singh looked at Michael as she told him who she thought she had seen. He also saw Michael Flynn’s face drain of all its colour.
‘I hope I was wrong, Michael, but I really don’t think I was. Then I heard that your Jessie was missing.’ She sighed heavily. ‘I really don’t know if any of this is related. I just thought that you should know.’ She looked at Michael steadily, saying quietly, ‘I always wondered about it, Michael.’
Michael was shaking his head slowly. Declan could see he had been thrown by the woman’s revelations. It was absolutely amazing to witness this first-hand.
‘I never planned it, I swear. It should never have happened.’
Mrs Singh opened her arms wide, she was crying now. ‘I always knew that, Michael, I never doubted you.’
Michael enveloped the tiny woman in his arms, hugging her to him tightly, and she hugged him back. Declan watched with disbelief. He knew one thing, though – he should have brought these two together at the start, when she first rang them, asking for Michael Flynn, instead of fobbing her off. He had a terrible feeling that this might be too late now.
Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty
Declan opened the door to his penthouse, and stood aside to allow Michael to enter before him. Once inside he shut the door and locked it. He followed Michael into the lounge, turning on the lights as he went.
Michael was standing by the patio doors that led out on to a large terrace. He was looking over London, and Declan left him to it for a while, going into his kitchen – a large airy room, twenty feet by sixteen – and pouring them each a large drink. The kitchen was state of the art; the cooker alone wouldn’t have looked out of place in an expensive restaurant. Not that he had ever used it, of course, just like the American-style fridge or the two dishwashers. He made instant coffee and a slice of toast at a push. The black granite work surfaces he used as a bar. He didn’t care to use the gadgets, but he liked to own them; they gave the place class.
He brought the drinks into the lounge, and he passed one to Michael. ‘So, Mrs Singh? Nice lady.’
Michael tossed his drink back in one. ‘How long was she trying to get hold of me, Declan?’
Declan tossed his own drink back then; he needed it. ‘Since last week, I think. But be fair, Michael, we had no idea who she was or what she wanted. It was only because she was so persistent that I called her myself. And then came to you. I realise the error of my ways now, we should have been on top of it. But it wasn’t deliberate, you know that.’
Michael held his empty glass out, and followed Declan out to the kitchen, where he waited for him to pour them both more Scotch.
‘She is a nice lady, Mrs Singh.’
Declan nodded his agreement. ‘I could see that, Michael. I could also see that you really think a lot of her, and her husband as well.’
Michael Flynn took out his cigarettes and lit one. ‘She was very good to me, both her and her husband were. I went to school with Davinda, their oldest son, we were good mates. They are Sikhs and, years ago, the Sikhs and the Muslims sent their kids to a faith school – in other words, a Catholic school. So we all grew up together. It was nice. Davinda – Dave, as we called him – was a real fucking brainiac. He went on to university – that was Mr Singh’s dream, you know? Education. He saw it as the jewel in the crown of the United Kingdom. He used to say, “Remember, boys, this country has the best education system in the world, and it’s free.” I didn’t appreciate that until it was too late. But I used to spend a lot of time round there when I was a kid. Mrs Singh looked after me when my mum was working.’
Declan listened to his friend without interrupting. He knew he had to let him say what he needed to in his own time.
‘When I went to work for your brother, I lost contact with the Singhs and a lot of the people I had gone to school with. That was deliberate on my part. I wanted to pursue my own agenda but, to be absolutely honest, I also didn’t want Davinda or anyone to get dragged into any of my shit, if it all went tits up.’
Declan shrugged. ‘I can understand that, Michael. There’re people we don’t bring into our working lives. That’s par for the course. But I have to ask you, who the fuck is Steven Golding?’