The Legacy (4 page)

‘Mr Wallberg, Colonel and Mrs Spannier; cousins of Richard's.'

‘How do you do?' Said in unison and accompanied by a bone-crushing handshake from both.

Christina explained. ‘Mr Wallberg is a lawyer from Sweden. He's working here with our solicitors in London.' The Colonel examined him. ‘Really? Finding the law here very different, I expect.'

‘Very different,' he agreed, ‘but interesting.'

Jane Spannier turned to Christina. ‘My dear, you've been wonderful the way you've coped. I just feel we could have done more to help, but our son Harry's coming home at the end of the month, thank God, and we've been getting one of the cottages ready for him. He's going into Peter's agricultural suppliers business and helping to manage the farm.'

‘Jane, please, you couldn't do anything better than come today and support us. I'm so glad your boy's coming back, I know you've missed him.'

Peter Spannier snorted. ‘Boy! He's thirty-five, but Jane thinks he's still a schoolboy. She's been running round like a broody hen getting the nest ready.' He smiled at his wife affectionately. She was born a Farrington, but she was the exact opposite of her cousin, Richard. Forthright, sensible, perhaps lacking a little imagination, he conceded privately, but dead straight and lion-hearted in her loyalty. They had been happily married for nearly forty years.

‘I'll tell you what,' Jane said, ‘when Harry comes home we'll invite ourselves to stay. I'd love him to meet you and Belinda, and see RussMore again. Would that be a good idea?'

Christina said, ‘It'd be wonderful. Just call me when you want to come.'

‘I will,' Jane promised. ‘We'll get ourselves another cup of tea and a sandwich and then I'm afraid we'll have to be off. It's a hell of a drive home.'

She turned briefly to Wallberg. ‘We live on the Norfolk coast,' she explained. ‘Hope you enjoy your time in London. Come along, Peter. Goodbye, Christa dear. Look after yourself, and for heaven's sake, ring up if you feel like a chat.' She kissed her briskly on the cheek.

As they moved away, Christina said, ‘They're very nice; they're not close relations, but they were very supportive when I was first married. Thank you for looking after Lindy; she told me she likes you.'

‘She's a charming girl,' he answered, ‘and very direct. She's frightened her half-brother is going to hurt you and take the house away, but I told her Mr Stone and I wouldn't let him.'

He has the coldest eyes, she thought; there wasn't a flicker of human warmth in them. ‘I think she must have believed you. She's over there, eating cake and talking to some more cousins. She didn't mention that awful thing he said at the end. I don't know why I didn't slap him right across the face!' She flushed red as she said it. Not all softness and vulnerability. There was anger there, and a maternal instinct that could turn ferocious. ‘For the same reason that I didn't punch him,' he said calmly. ‘It would be playing his game, and we're not going to do that.'

‘We?' she questioned.

‘Yes. Humfrey didn't have time to tell you, but I shall be working with him on your affairs. I shall do my best for you; I promised your daughter, and I never break my promises to children.' He nodded, dismissing himself, and walked away, out of the door.

Humfrey Stone came up to her. ‘I'll be going now, Mrs Farrington. Is someone staying with you tonight?'

‘No, several people offered, but I said no. Lindy and I will be together; there's the housekeeper and her husband. We'll be fine. I'm actually so very tired.'

‘I'm not surprised,' he nodded. ‘It's been a terrible ordeal, quite disgraceful. I'll be in touch tomorrow and we can arrange a meeting in London. In the meantime, we do nothing.'

‘Aren't you going to send Alan the documents?'

‘No, let him ask for them; and I shall take my time. Give someone like that an inch and they'll grab a mile. It seems we're going to have a fight on our hands, but we'll fight it at our pace. Trust me.'

‘I do,' she said, ‘but tell me about Mr Wallberg; he says he's going to be working with you.' Humfrey noticed the slight frown and guessed that she and Wallberg were not compatible.

‘It's Ruben's idea,' he explained. ‘Rolf Wallberg is one of the best young legal brains in Stockholm, and not only there; he's worked in France and Germany and he's very highly recommended.' He smiled briefly. ‘I'm quite glad he's not going to be permanent. He's far too sharp for my liking; we'd all have to watch our backs. But seriously, he'll be a real asset; he wouldn't have been assigned to work on your affairs otherwise.'

Christina accepted it. ‘I'm sure you're right. So we wait for my stepson to make the next move, if he does decide to make one.'

Humfrey asked in his quiet voice, ‘And do you think he won't?'

‘No, I'm sure he will. Whatever his lawyers advise, he'll fight the will; he's never listened to anyone in his life.'

‘That's my opinion, too,' Humfrey agreed. ‘Well, goodbye, Mrs Farrington. I'm taking Rolf back with me. One of us will call you as soon as we hear anything. And don't worry, however much trouble he causes, he won't win. The trust and the will are unbreakable. Good night.' He shook hands and gave hers a friendly squeeze. He was a nice man, a man with genuine feeling in him. She hoped she would be dealing with him rather than Rolf Wallberg.

‘You're doing ninety,' Fay Farrington protested. The grey Bentley gave no impression of speed. It devoured the motorway miles as silently as if it were on an air cushion. Alan Farrington didn't answer but he eased his speed. She was the only person he ever listened to and no-one in business, friendship or family circles knew what her secret was. But he did; he'd always known, from the first time he met her. It wasn't just that she was pretty, with light-brown hair and big grey eyes, a neat figure … there were countless girls with the same sexy equipment. But this one was different; she was on his side, as simple as that. Whatever he said or did or felt, was right in her eyes. It had made him love her, and it gave her a power over him that nobody else had ever had. With Fay he wasn't alone; he was at war with his father, but she was ready to fight with him. Over the years they had grown closer, more united. There were two small children; he was a doting father and his extravagant indulgence of his boys was balanced by a firm discipline from her. Fay glanced at the speedometer and relaxed. He had nine speeding points on his licence. The Bentley was a provocation to a number of traffic police; his rudeness and aggression always tipped the odds in favour of a prosecution.

‘That bastard,' he said, staring at the road ahead.

‘Which one? Your father or that wimp James?'

‘Both of them,' he said. His mind was on James at that moment. ‘Oiling round them. Pretending to side with us. What a little prick!'

Fay didn't answer. She had never liked James; she felt he was more overawed than loyal and she despised him for it. She laid a hand on Alan's knee. ‘Don't let him worry you, darling, he's not worth it. He'll come crawling back to you, he always has.' Alan might forgive because he was in need of the family love he'd been denied, even from a brother he had dominated since they were children; she accepted that and understood it, but she wouldn't forget. Alan had been good to him, helping him to get the job with the US advertising agency through his own contacts. James had taken the favours and gone to his enemies behind their backs. ‘What are you going to do about this will?' she asked.

‘Fight it,' was the answer. The speed was creeping up again, indicating his hurt and anger.

‘She's responsible,' Fay insisted. ‘She was out to grab everything for herself and that little bitch. As for bringing her to the funeral—I said it was ghoulish! She didn't like it.'

‘She married Dad for money,'—Alan slowed sharply at a roundabout—‘and she stuck it out, waiting for him to die, which he did, and a lot sooner than she expected. I bet she couldn't believe her luck when they diagnosed cancer. And did he have chemotherapy or try to fight it? Not fucking likely! She wanted him to come back to RussMore so she could get at him. He wouldn't have cut me out, Fay, however much he hated me. I know Dad, he loved all that family crap—four hundred years of history … he used to drive Mum and me up the wall talking about it. He wouldn't have broken the tradition if she hadn't worked on him as he was dying. Oh, for Christ's sake!' He cut across a car on the inside and was met by furious gestures from the other driver. Briefly he glanced in the driving mirror, lowered the window and stuck out two fingers. The car sped forward and eased into the fast lane.

‘I never believed that kid was his. Just under nine months after they get married! It took him three years before he got my mother pregnant with me, and he was always at her, she told me, never left her alone. He wasn't that bloody fertile. That bitch conned him and I'm going to prove it.'

‘How?' Fay demanded. She didn't argue, or try to convince him he was wrong. The girl Belinda had a look she recognized, and it was more than the dark Farrington skin and hair, it was movements, mannerisms of the hated old man. Alan didn't want to accept her as his sister; it hurt too much. Belinda was living proof of his father's callousness towards his dead wife; in his eyes it was a form of infidelity. She remembered him breaking down in tears when he told her about it soon after they met, using a weird old-fashioned phrase she'd never heard in her life.

‘Not even cold in her grave … three months and he's fucking someone else!'

He had been so hurt, so vulnerable, and it aroused her to passionate love and bitter hatred in equal measure. Love for this tough strong man who sobbed in her arms that night, and hatred for the father who had brought him to such weakness through sheer pain. And she had a personal cause too: she didn't have a family background like the Farringtons. She came from sound decent people who had worked hard all their lives, brought up three children, educated them and set them on their way, and now lived in modest retirement in a South London suburb.

She would never forget the chill presence of Richard Farrington and his second wife at their small wedding. Christina's attempts to be friendly seemed condescending to Fay, aware of her mother's embarrassment and desire to please her son-in-law's grand family. A friend had said at the reception, ‘Who's the old guy with the smell under his nose?' She had winced and turned quickly away. Then there was the ill-fated attempt to paper over the rift between father and son when they came for a weekend to RussMore. She was young and newly married, nervous for herself and protective of Alan. She had left the house in tears, after a high-octane row between Alan and his father; he had been grossly rude to his stepmother.

He was wrong to do it, and Fay had told him so, but in her heart she understood why, and didn't blame him. She would rather he'd pretended, but he wasn't capable of bending to any wind. She had hated Christina from that moment; hated her for trying to calm the old man down when she'd worked him up in the first place; hated her for playing the peacemaker. And then there was that child; spoilt and pampered, growing up in the world of privilege that was closed to her own boys. The rift had become so deep that they were hardly acknowledged and had never seen their father's family home.

‘How are you going to prove a thing like that?' she asked again. ‘It's impossible. Why not just go for undue influence—you've got a chance there.'

‘I'm going for everything,' he said. They were in London now and the handsome car idled in traffic on their way to Chelsea. ‘As for proving that cow cheated on my father.' At a red light he turned and looked at her. ‘I've got something that could do just that. I didn't go down and stay in a bloody hotel the night before, like a stranger coming to my own father's funeral … I thought something like this might happen …' His resentment glowed.

He, himself, had left home after his father remarried. He had put some money into a small fast-food business, and by twenty-five he was a millionaire. The money he'd made provided them with every luxury: a fine house in Chelsea; a weekend cottage for sailing during the summer; a villa in the South of France. He liked to make a joke of his success at their big dinner parties. Fay provided the props and he basked in the spotlight, centre stage. ‘I may make bucks out of junk food, but I make bloody sure I don't eat it myself!' And the guests always laughed because the food and wine were the best.

A manservant dealt with their luggage. He fell back into a deep sofa. ‘Sweetheart, get me a Scotch, will you?' Fay didn't argue. She'd start protesting after the third drink and she usually won. All she had to say was, ‘Do you want the boys to see you pissed?' and he stopped. His mother had been a drunk, as well as a druggie. There were photographs of her all over the house; old-fashioned soft-lens portraits of a beautiful woman, posing improbably against chiffon curtains or flower arrangements.

That was one area where Fay had no influence. Josephine Farrington was an icon. A tragic victim, driven to an early death by a heartless husband. It wasn't Fay's opinion of her at all, but she knew just how far she could go with Alan, and that was part of her strength.

She gave him the drink and poured a glass of wine for herself. ‘Tell me,' she said, ‘what do you mean you've got something that could upset the will?' He gulped down half the drink, and smiled. Hatred made it an ugly grimace.

‘It's in my pocket,' he said. ‘And after I've had a refill, I'll tell you about it.'

Rolf Wallberg thanked Humfrey Stone for driving him back to London. Stone went off to meet his client and Rolf took a cab to the Dorchester Hotel. He climbed to the first floor; he never used a lift if he could make use of the stairs. It was a simple aid to fitness, and physical training was part of his creed. The big plushy bar was two-thirds empty. He chose a seat by the wall, told the advancing waiter curtly that he was expecting someone, and would order when they arrived. She was on time; he was early, because punctuality was also part of his creed. She paused, saw him, smiled and came over. He got up, and greeted her with a token kiss on the cheek. She was an elegant woman in her thirties, sleek and expensively dressed. She smoothed her long golden blond hair, flicking it over a shoulder and said, ‘How did it go today?' He didn't answer. The waiter was back; he gave Rolf a sullen look, thinking, Rude bastard, typical potato heads, the pair of them, jabbering away. He hated Germans; his family had come over from Italy after the war. Germans had machine-gunned their village and killed his mother's relatives.