Inheritance Read online

  Edith leant over the handrail. “I will if I don’t have a choice. I’ll just have to see if it’s still running.” Her threat was clumsily thrown. She wasn’t sure if she was still after the money or convincing herself that it would be possible. “Either way, I’m doing it. Dad’s asked so I’m giving it a go.”

  Sunny stopped. Her shoulders tensed and she turned to mount the stairs. The whole walk to the top step she said nothing. Centimetres from Edith face she whispered. “You don’t give things like this ‘a go’. Trust me. You have no clue what you might be getting yourself into. Knowing Dad, it could be anything.”

  Edith searched for Sunny’s hands and cradled them in her own. The money had gone from her mind. Thoughts now settled definitely on pursuing the case. “I can do it with you, or without you. If you lend me your car now I will keep you informed. If not, I’m going it alone.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Edith!” Sunny yanked her hands free and raised her palms outward. “Fine, you can borrow my car. If you’re that desperate to get yourself killed.”

  Edith smiled and hugged her sister ostentatiously. “Thanks! You’re a star!”

  Sunny shouldered away the hug and reached into her bag for the car keys. Edith held out her hand.

  Sunny jabbed the key into her palm.

  “Oww!” Edith yanked back her hand. “What did you do that for?”

  “Because I’m angry, and because you’re not listening to me. Edith, I would do anything for you. You need to know that. But I won’t do a thing for that sack of shit masquerading as our father.”

  Sunny turned to leave. After three steps down the stairs she looked back over her shoulder.

  “I hope you never have to find out why.”

  The white Punto slid round the corner while Edith glanced at the map on her phone. The car rocked as a lorry sped by uncomfortably near. Then another, even nearer, made her throw the phone onto the passenger seat.

  There was a turning on the left. It might be the road she wanted. It might not. A slow approach. A peer round. She hadn’t been down this one yet. Had she? It was worth a try.

  The road came to a dead end after two hundred metres. She pulled the car round in a tight circle and parked half on the pavement, straddling the kerb. Time for another look at the map. This was a new place she had managed to find herself lost but the same old result. It was three forty–five. She had been careering around Trafford Park for an hour and was still no nearer to finding her destination.

  Every road on the industrial estate looked the same, flanked with the same grey, metal sheds, surrounded by wide yards stuffed with vehicles and containers. The frustrating difference was that while some roads cut off suddenly and without warning at the gate to a factory or a warehouse others looped round in circles coming back upon themselves. Half the junctions met at odd angles throwing any sense of direction awry. It was hard to know which way to turn when you didn’t know which direction you were facing.

  Only once, when she spotted Old Trafford football ground looming up on her right hand side, did she manage to get her bearings: she was heading toward the city, away from the industrial estate. A full circle at the roundabout sent her back into the maze. Once or twice, when she went too far over the other side, she saw the green dome of the Trafford Centre in the distance. It would have been easier to give up and go shopping. Though there was no money to spend and the only way to rectify that situation was by finding Faircote Paints.

  “Excuse me, love, you’re in the way.” The man pointed to his truck pulled up nearby then at to the gate that Edith had blocked with the Punto.

  “Oh, god, I’m sorry,” she put the car into gear, ready to drive away, “wait, you don’t happen to know where Faircote Paints is? I can’t find it and I’ve been looking forever.”

  The man grinned and then laughed as he pointed once again at the blocked gate. “You silly cow, it’s right there!”

  Sure enough, right beside her, a large and rather obvious sign read, ‘Faircote Paints’.

  “Oh.” She sank in her seat before driving in without offering the man her thanks.

  The factory’s small office building sat to the front, dwarfed by a huge metal shed behind. Inside, Edith introduced herself to the receptionist and received suitable chastisement for her lateness. She might well have had an appointment to see Mr Faircote, half an hour ago. Now he was in a meeting. No, the receptionist couldn’t say when he would be free. No, she couldn’t say if he would still see her.

  Edith took a seat shielded from the receptionist’s desk by a swiss cheese plant and sulked like a naughty child. She texted Andrius as a distraction. Sunny’s mocking had struck her as a reasonable suggestion that he would be good for a meal or two. Beyond the food already in the house it wasn’t clear where future meals would come from now her card was in overdraft. If Andrius fed her a few times it would buy a few more days to figure something out.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in a while?’ Her opening gambit. Andrius would have seen her every hour of every day if he could.

  The reply took a few minutes to come. ‘Not my choice, is it?’

  ‘Would you like to do something?’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Dinner this evening?’ She didn’t need to be coy. He would offer to take her to the best restaurant in town.

  ‘I’m in New York.’ Wrong town.

  ‘Never mind. Will I see you when you get back?’

  ‘Of course.’ A moment passed then a second text came. ‘Assuming you want to.’

  She slipped her phone into her bag and rested her head back against the wall. Was Andrius a boyfriend or a meal ticket? A pang of guilt swept over her. It wasn’t the first time she had treated him as the latter. It was his fault though. She had never promised him anything. He let himself be used. His choice.

  The door opposite opened suddenly. She interrupted her thoughts and straightened her head to watch. A man in his late forties emerged. Short and rough shaven, his navy overalls half unbuttoned to show a plaid shirt beneath. He moved aside to reveal Samuel Faircote standing behind. They chatted a few seconds longer, the older man having the greater share of the conversation. Samuel nodded passively as he listened.

  When the older man departed Samuel approached.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.” He held out his hand. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.”

  “No, it’s no problem. I was late anyway.” She smiled and shook his hand. “My name is Edith Pimlico.”

  “Come in to my office.” He guided her with an open hand and softly closed the door behind. “I was just having a catch up with Steve, my operations manager. Though it seems to have dragged on. Do take a seat.”

  Photographs filled the office walls. Old, new. Single portraits and group shots of dozens in orderly rows. The desk dark and heavy wood, from another age. The chairs aluminium and leather, fashionable fifty years ago. Shelves overflowing with files. No, not files, books. Actual books to sit and read. To enjoy. Plants multiplied on the window sill. The only computer, a laptop, lay folded shut on a sideboard.

  “It’s very eclectic. I know.” Samuel watched as Edith surveyed his office.

  “It’s,” she searched for a word, “homely.”

  “Indeed, it is. I’m the fourth generation to manage the company. This is my family’s second home, in a way.”

  She sat. The warmed seat made her squirm in discomfort. He examined her from across the desk. What was he looking for? His eyes and smile were unreadable, neutral. Maybe just cautious. Taking her measure before he spoke. Is this the way her father’s callers were in person? They all had secrets to divulge; it was harder without the anonymity of the phone.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “No. Thank you.” She leant forward, elbows on desk, hands gently clasped. She looked him straight in the eye. She had read somewhere how to appear businesslike. “Let me apologize for turning you away this morning, Mr Faircote. It was rather unprofessional.”

/>   “I understand completely. Oh, and you can call me Sam.” Sam poured himself a glass of water. “Your father—Ben Pimlico is your father isn’t he?” She nodded. “Is probably a busy man. John Delaney said that he could fix anything you needed, the best in Manchester he said.”

  “Indeed.” Her false smile masked the doubt. Nobody knew her father was unable to work. Even after eighteen months of refusing new cases. Did she need to tell everybody outright he was an invalid? Taking this case sent the wrong message. It would only prolong the misery. “My father’s services are in high demand. Which is why he’s sent me to do the preliminary work for your case. He has room for another case. A small one. Your situation isn’t terribly complex, I hope?”

  He tilted his head. Had she been too obvious? He glanced away and his body seemed to relax. “I should hope not. I’m not sure there is really even a problem. Just a doubt, something which keeps tugging on my conscience.”

  “Yes?”

  “I mean,” he exhaled and flicked his hand carelessly aside, “look, I’ve a lot to think about right now and I just want to get this thing off my mind. I can’t deal with it myself. Not at the same time as everything else.” He paused a beat before adding his explanation. “I’m getting married soon, you see.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Oh, thank you.” He fiddled awkwardly, then suddenly shifted forward in his seat and hunched his shoulders over the desk. “Let me tell you why I’ve sought your father’s help. My cousin, Thomas Faircote, was killed in a car crash about three months ago.”

  “My condolences.” It was harder to say those words in person than it was over the phone. They were obviously hollow, mere custom. She reached a notepad from her bag to ease the discomfort.

  “Yes.” He waved away the courtesy. “It was a terrible shock, of course. Thomas was a good man, the kind the world grievously lacks.”

  He stopped his rehearsed speech and blinked back sudden tears. He stared out the window for a few seconds before continuing the eulogy.

  “Thomas spent most of his adult life campaigning for the environment, for nature, for anything really. There was hardly a march or a demonstration he wouldn’t want to join. No cause he would pass by if thought he could help. And he often did help. He was smart and incredibly energetic. Somebody you want on your side.

  “Most of our family are professionals. Lawyers, doctors, teachers. It’s also drummed into us to balance our professional life with charity, giving back to society. To be rounded people. Good deeds, good careers, good lives. Tom only cared for the deeds. Everything to him was about doing good. His life was dedicated to his ideals.”

  Edith nodded, hesitating with her notes. She was unsure of what was relevant to her, even though it all seemed relevant to Sam. “I can tell you thought highly of him. It must have been a tragic loss.”

  “It was. But also not.” He paused again. His mouth stammered for some truth. “We hadn’t seen each other much over the past decade. I’m ashamed of that.

  “For a while in our teens we were close. I spent my days with him. He was three years older; I desperately needed an older brother. He obliged by taking me everywhere, inviting me to his friends’ parties. He let me know about his girlfriends too. I felt as though I meant a lot to him.

  “Eventually his activism got in the way. Rather, everything else got in the way of his activism. It wasn’t overnight, but a slow evolution. He became serious. Less playful. More thoughtful. It had always been there, growing. It simply outgrew everything else.

  “I never begrudged his priorities or the fact that they edged me out. I knew him well enough to understand what they meant to him.

  “Our family felt differently. They said he was throwing his life away, he should find a career. He was good for nothing. I was his only defender, the one who fought his corner. He didn’t bother to fight it himself. It wasn’t worth the effort when he had so many other claims on his time.

  “At some point there was nothing left to say. None of us had seen him in a decade before his death. It was easier that way.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I shouldn’t bother you with this. It’s not important.” He extended his hand to her pen. She stopped. “I visited him at the beginning of this year. I wanted to ensure he would come to my wedding. Of course, I hoped that I would end up seeing him more often after that.

  “Tom wanted to tell me about everything he had done since we last met. All the myriad of things he was into. He gave me leaflets!” Samuel snorted. “But when I told him I was getting married he shut up. He let me speak. He knew that my one thing was, at that moment, the most important of all.

  “Before I left he told me that my love was an inspiration. That’s the kind of thing he would say. He actually spoke that like. Maybe you would think him odd, many people did. But those were his last words to me.

  “The wedding was supposed to take place in August. When he died I couldn’t face pretending to be happy, barely days after his funeral. So I cancelled it at the shortest possible notice.”

  Edith raised her eyebrows. “I can’t imagine your fiancée was very happy.”

  “Sarah? Oh, she was fine about it, or at least she never let her disappointment show. She loves me and understood. Everybody else thought I was being dramatic. Even Tom’s own parents wanted me to go ahead. They didn’t understand the grief I felt. I was mourning on their behalf and they didn’t care.

  “I’ve spent half my time apologizing and convincing everybody to come to the rearranged wedding this month. I’ve had to promise that I’ll be wed even if it’s the end of the world.”

  He clasped his hands, drawing the introduction to a close. His face dropped to a stern solemnity. “Let me tell you my problem. The inquest into Thomas’s death reported recently and found the most likely cause was alcohol in his blood impairing his driving ability.”

  “That sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?” The idiocy of her remark struck as soon as it left her mouth. If he thought the inquest’s report was reasonable she wouldn’t be talking to him now.

  “Thomas was teetotal. Absolutely no alcohol in maybe ten years. We used to drink together in our youth, but he gave it up. It got in the way of his work. He said he liked to stay in control. I never saw him drink again.

  “When I visited him earlier this year to announce my engagement I thoughtlessly offered to buy him a drink. He refused. He repeated exactly what he had told me years before. I believed him.

  “For the autopsy to report there was alcohol in his blood—and quite a lot, so they said—well,” he shook his head with finality, “I don’t believe it. I can’t.” He raised a hand. “It can be faked.”

  “So...,” she was again scribbling in her notebook. There was much more now which seemed important. This was the case. This was what he wanted her father to do, “you want us to prove the inquest wrong?”

  Samuel let his hand fall to the desk with a bang. “Or right. If Thomas really had been drinking, then fine, I’ll accept that. But nobody has presented any evidence to me, except for the blood alcohol, that he was a drinker. None.”

  She pursed her lips. The case sounded easy. She could do this. There was no way to fail. Either outcome would be acceptable. An honest attempt to gather information would be enough. Report what she found, for or against.

  “We can take this case.” She nodded slowly, matching his seriousness.

  “Good.”

  The pages of her notebook rustled as she pretended to check what she had written. Was that it? Did she just walk out and get on with it? Think. A few follow-up questions would look professional. Attention to detail. Maybe he wanted to ask something of her.

  “Did you have...?”

  “What is the expected fee?” His voice warmed as he switched to business. A practiced ease and charm after the tense personal disclosure. “Naturally, our family is...,” he put two fingers over his mouth and gazed toward the window. “I’m willing to pay whatever it takes. I have the resou
rces to match that desire. I hope you understand.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “I’m not worried about the cost. Not at all. Though I would like a rough guess, if you can.”

  “Well,” She drew a blank. She knew less about the money side of her father’s work than the investigation side, and she knew nothing about that. How much had people paid her father? The financial information she knew about her father was slim. The one bank account she found after his accident had a healthy but unspectacular figure just shy of £15,000. The house had no mortgage. As far as she knew it never had. Dad had never taken her and Sunny abroad on holiday. Or bought them the pony they always wanted. The Jaguar was old now, but he had bought it new. The only pertinent financial detail at that moment was that they had no money.

  Samuel stared at her. An answer was needed.

  “Oh, it’s a sliding scale.” She nodded sharply. Then, as though it might not have satisfied. “Payment by results.” She nodded again. His forehead furrowed. “We consider payment to be, um, client–led.”

  He glanced left and right, considering the multiple possible meanings of her words. “So, basically, I pay you what I think is appropriate?”

  “Exactly!” She pointed her pen at him and smiled. “That’s it. That’s exactly it. Just pay us whatever you think our investigation is worth to you.”

  Day 2: Thursday 2 November

  Edith lay in bed watching the magpie play on the window sill, turning its head, peering in to search for its human friend. The magpie didn’t come every morning, but it came more often than not. Edith wondered if it was the same one year after year. Whether it could tell when she was asleep and when she was awake. Which would be more than she could manage.

  Staring out at the sun as it clambered into the autumn sky Edith hoped that yesterday had not happened. It felt like a dream, a nightmare. There would be money today and no bills, people would not call or email, and definitely not knock at the door. Dad would not expect her to go out and work a case. And Sunny would not be angry at her for doing so.