Apportionment of Blame (12 page)

Looking round, I realised there was little to see. The walls had been papered, but not very well. A picture hung on a wall, but there was nothing else which could be called decoration. And there was certainly no clue as to who she was.

She stood facing me across the room, her arms folded. Classic pose, I thought.

“Do you live here alone?” I asked her. You have to start somewhere.

“Yes.”

“Have you been here long?”

“No.”

This was fun. Banal questions with monosyllabic answers. Useful though. She said she had not been there long, yet she was there long enough to feature in the phone book. So not long was at least a year.

She was watching me very carefully. Perhaps she was shy and felt a little inadequate with company. But there was a certain uneasiness about her.

“Do you like country life?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

“I won't be here long.”

“Oh?”

Now I was being monosyllabic, and getting nowhere fast.

“It's too quiet here,” she said.

“Where did you live before?”

“London.”

“Ah. There's more life there.”

She almost smiled. I continued to feel the water soaking from my trousers into my legs and on down.

“I wanted to see if I would like the country.”

The whole sentence took me by surprise.

“And you don't?”

“No. It's peaceful and all that, but it's so dark at night.”

She hadn't moved, and I could see no point in catching my death of cold waiting for this intractable woman to say something useful.

“Look. I won't stay.”

I held out the towel, but she still didn't move. So I draped it over a chair.

“Thank you for this. I'd better go and get out of these wet clothes.”

She moved then, past me, through the doorway and down the hall. I squelched after her, and on the little table I caught the briefest glance of an envelope. I looked up quickly, saw her back was still towards me, and looked down again.

Then she had the door open and I stepped back out into the deluge. As I turned to thank her yet again, the door closed in my face.

I ran to the car, and as I was wondering if I could ever be any wetter, dropped the car keys in my haste and had to bend to retrieve them. As I was crouching another car passed through a puddle and finished the job of soaking me.

But I didn't care. I had my next clue. The envelope had been addressed to Miss I. Chambers and was headed Grace, Swindle and Little. The firm who handled the will. So I. Lamont was Ilse Chambers, or so it seemed.

Chapter 7

A
s
I stood in a hot shower, twenty minutes later, I began to consider my next step. I had to figure out how to work my way back into that house.

It occurred to me that if I let on that I had found Ilse Chambers, a lot of anger would come her way from both of Joyce's parents, and perhaps from Joyce herself. This might easily queer my pitch, as the only way to the truth about the will and perhaps Helen's death would come through stealth.

Furthermore Miss Chambers must not know my suspicions, so I must not let on to Joyce's family that I had found her.

I dried myself and regained the comfort of warm, dry clothes. Then I phoned Joyce.

“Hi, it's me.”

“Oh, hello.” She sounded decidedly low.

“I thought I'd follow up that solicitor's letter. No doubt they'll talk about client privilege, but your grandmother's will is one line of enquiry that seems promising. There's no harm in trying to find out more.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Do you remember the name of the solicitor who read out the will?”

“No. Just a minute. I'll find out.”

I waited as she went to look.

“Dad says it was Jocelyn Swindle, and could he meet you for a drink tonight?”

“Yes, of course. Put him on and we can arrange where to meet.”

Later, I was glad the rain had stopped when I left the house for The Bull's Head. Joyce's father was nursing a pint in front of the fire when I entered the Lounge Bar. He didn't look happy as I walked across to him.

“Hello,” I said. “Can I get you another?”

“Thanks. It's the special bitter.”

I went to the bar and bought two pints and a bag of dry roasted nuts.

We sat in silence and drank for a minute or two. If he wanted to talk to me, I would have to wait till he was ready. I resorted to small talk, not something I'm particularly good at.

“I got soaked this afternoon in all that rain. It's good to be sitting by a fire. Much more comfortable.”

“Mmm,” he replied. Then out it came.

“Look, Greg, I know you're spending a lot of time trying to help us, and I know you have only recently set up your business.”

He paused and took another sip of beer.

“It's just that we can't afford to pay you very much. Things really are a bit difficult at present.”

“I am not doing this for the money. I'm doing it as a favour for Joyce.”

“Yes. That's all well and good, but I'm not entirely happy with not paying you anything. A fair day's work for a fair day's pay, I've always thought. You've just got going. You should be working to generate new business and getting things off the ground. We're only holding you back.”

“Listen, Mr Hetherington.”

“Oh, call me Oliver, for God's sake.”

“I've been fortunate to get the money to set up my business. We both worked in the City. We had high powered jobs, well paid, all the extras; more than I needed really, if I'm honest. You were made redundant and I left of my own accord. Now, while I'm able to afford it, I'd like to help.”

“Pam's in a hell of a state,” he said. “I feel responsible for that. I lost my job and I don't seem able to get another.”

“What's happened to you all in the past year or so is not your fault.”

But I could see the weight of family responsibilities on Oliver's shoulders. His eyes drifted away from me and seemed to stay fixed on nothing in particular. It was clear that he was recalling a painful event and thinking about his family; all the hopes and expectations that had been lost.

Joyce described to me later what had happened.

Her mother had arrived home very excited that day, having been to a travel agent and brought back several brochures for cruises.

Oliver had finally promised to take a two week break in the summer and they were determined to do something they'd often talked about, but never got round to.

She dumped the brochures on the coffee table and went to the kitchen to make some tea. Then she called up the stairs.

“Joyce. Are you home?”

Joyce had returned to live with them following the termination of her teaching contract. Having left the school under a cloud, she had not been able to find an alternative post.

For her parents it was a mixed blessing having both their children back with them. They loved each other's company and money was not a problem. Furthermore, Helen had a good job, and was therefore able to pay her own way.

What they missed was the time together which they had so valued in their early years together. Not that the girls were intrusive, but all parents look forward to the time they become empty nesters and their lives become their own again. Joyce's parents had expected this, but it never happened, or at least it hadn't happened yet.

Joyce came into the kitchen to join her mother.

“Tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“I've been to the travel agent's. You know that cruise your dad and I have always promised ourselves, well it's going to be this summer. And nothing can get in the way this time.”

“Great!”

“I wanted your thoughts on the Greek islands. You saw a few on that school cruise, didn't you?”

“You haven't called me down to talk about that, have you? You know I don't like to think about it.”

“I only thought you could tell me where you thought it was worth visiting, or if I should think of somewhere else altogether.”

“I don't know. I had too much on my mind, what with the children, and everything else.”

Her mother's expression changed.

“I'm sorry. In my excitement I forgot all that. Don't think about it. I'll talk about it with your father when he gets home.”

She looked across and sympathised with her daughter's downcast demeanour, knowing there was nothing she could do about it.

“What are you doing tonight? Anything?”

“I don't know. The gang will probably gather at The Goose. Perhaps I'll go and join them.”

They continued to chat over their tea and the afternoon passed as most others, quietly and pleasantly.

When Oliver left the train, four hours later, even a total stranger would have known something was wrong. He walked to the car park as if in a dream, and then sat in his car, not sure if he wanted to go home.

Briefly he considered the pub, but knew that was only delaying the inevitable. What he had to say when he got home was better said sober and clear headed.

He started the car, pulled the lever to drive and made his way down the long ramped approach to the roundabout. Then he turned right and accelerated up the hill towards home.

As his car curved round the gravel area in front of the house, the security lights came on. He turned off the ignition and just sat for a few minutes, composing himself. Should he pretend nothing had happened? Would it be possible to brave it out and maintain a smile? He thought not.

Best get it over.

He pushed his briefcase off the back seat, locked the car and went into the house.

“Oliver? Is that you?”

His wife came from the kitchen to meet him.

“You didn't call like you usually do.” Then she stopped. “What's the matter?”

“Come into the living room.”

“Oliver. What's happened?”

He took her hand and walked her over to the sofa, then sat down next to her.

“What?” She stared at his expression.

“They've let me go.”

“Let you go where? What do you mean?”

“I've been given the sack.”

“What? Why?”

“The takeover. They don't need me anymore. I'm probably too expensive for the new owners.”

“But!” she didn't know what to say. “How many years have you been there?”

“All my life, it seems. Apparently it means nothing. Quite simply they don't need two Managers for the Asian Portfolio, so I'm surplus to requirements.”

“But that's terrible. What will you do?”

“I don't know.”

“Have they been generous?”

“I have a month, and severance pay. Not bad, I suppose. But all those years, down the drain.”

“But you'll find something else.”

“That's the point. I'm not so sure. You know how old I am. The City is full of takeovers and talk of takeovers. It's a place for the young, up and coming executives. You don't see many older than me around Canary Wharf.”

His eyes focussed on the pile of brochures on the coffee table.

“What's that?”

“Oh, Oliver. We were to have that cruise, weren't we? I went to see the agents. It seems it's never meant to be for us.”

“We could use some of the severance money and go anyway.”

“If you were advising someone else, would you say that?”

“No. I don't suppose I would.”

“Come here.”

She opened her arms and he fell into them, resting his head on her shoulder.

At that moment Joyce appeared.

“What's going on?”

“Your dad has lost his job.”

“Oh God! And just today you were talking about going on a cruise.”

“I know. Oh well. I've said before. It's never going to happen for us.”

Later, when Helen returned home, they all sat together and talked over drinks until Pamela went to the kitchen to prepare dinner. The same question formed the recurring theme. What will you do?

Oliver had no idea. He had expected to continue for many more years with the same bank and he was now at an age when it would be difficult to start again.

They ate their meals largely in silence, the severity of the shock overwhelming any desire for light conversation. Oliver felt numb. He had a measure of pride in his ability to provide a comfortable life for his wife and daughters. Suddenly it was gone and he had a month to find an alternative.