by Graham Hamer
“How?”
“I flaunted it all over the house when you weren't there. He used to sweat buckets at the slightest sign of a length of leg. I used to make sure he saw a lot more than just my legs. But by that stage, he knew better than to do anything more than just look.”
“How? How did you get it to stop?”
Sandy smiled. “One day, I decided enough was enough and took a sharp knife from the kitchen. Later, when he crept into my room, I held the knife in one hand and grabbed hold of his dick with the other and threatened to cut it off if ever he came anywhere near me again. He thought it was funny until I gave him a deep cut to show I meant business. He had to go to the hospital for stitches. God knows what he told them had happened.”
Nick Ferris shook his head and tutted. “Is that how you got to taking dope?” he asked.
She laughed, though the subject had been taboo for many years. “I've never taken anything stronger than an aspirin in my life.”
“But what about all the stuff Ron used to buy from Tweedle for you?”
“Oh I just did that to make him feel guilty. And to waste his bloody money. It all got flushed down the pan where it belongs.”
“You crafty little cow.”
“Yeah, and who taught me.”
He smiled and said nothing.
Sandy reached into her handbag and took out an old, worn photograph. “Remember that, Dad?”
He examined it then handed it back. “Sure do. Morecambe, you me and Ron about fifteen years ago.”
“Seventeen.”
“Very precise.”
“That's when it all started,” she said. “I was nine and the filthy bastard did things to me that still make me cry when I'm on my own at night. I've lived with it all this time and I always knew it could only end in one way.” Sandy closed her eyes and listened to the seagulls as they bickered and quibbled over scraps of food. The sounds had been the same that day in Morecambe. She could hear the horses clip-clopping their way along the promenade, the jangle of pennies as they tumbled from the fruit machines, the laughter of other children like her on the beach. She could smell the hotdogs and candy floss and doughnuts and —
—and then her jaded spirit soared as she realised that she was free again to enjoy her once-lost innocence. The nightmare was finally over.
“Do me a favour will you, Dad?” she said, opening her eyes.
“Sure. Anything you want, love.”
“Buy me an ice cream. A big runny one.”
* * *
Denise replaced the receiver and sat next to Pete, on Claire's settee. “What a bloody mess,” she said.
“Go on,” Pete said.
“It seems that Richard and Scott milked everything out of the Company - every last penny possible. It was all stashed in the bank until a couple of days ago, then it was transferred to Richard's private account.”
“And?”
“Well that's the problem. Richard's bank can't release any details until probate's been granted. That's likely to take months because the death wasn't natural. The bank did indicate that the account had been emptied, though. The manager had a quiet word with Sean and said that the money had gone to some offshore account, but he wouldn't say where - not without the official papers.”
“Can't someone apply through the courts or something like that, for the information?”
“Sean said it would take forever. He said that Scott's bank manager had been a bit more liberal with information and it seems that Scott's account was emptied too.”
“So why did Sean need to speak to you so urgently, Den, if there's nothing that can be done for months?”
“It seems that, since I'm Tweedle's only known heir, I am now the proud owner of a load of useless Three Leggs shares. And they've been hocked to the bank anyway. Poor old Sean has hardly slept. He said he's prepared to give it his best shot, but the Company's close to being bankrupt.”
“You're right, it is a bloody mess,” Pete said. “What was the news on Tweedle and Scott?”
“They're dead.”
“I know that, you prat. What happened?”
“The police are still trying to piece it all together. The gun was in Scott's hand, so their first assumption is that he shot Richard and then topped himself.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Search me; I'm not a bleedin' detective. But I guess it'll be down to me to organize Richard's funeral. He might at least have left me the money for it.”
“It doesn't sound like he had dying in mind, Den.”
“Well you'd have thought there would have been a bit of money somewhere. They got someone to open his safe, but even that was empty.”
“So there's nothing? Not even a few bob in his pocket?”
“Bugger all. I don't know what he did with it all. He and Frank inherited a fortune.”
“There's always his house.”
“Seems he sold it but got himself shot before the sale completed. That will take months to sort out. Anyway, I wouldn't want to live there, would you?”
“No chance. I'm happier in our cottage.”
“Same here,” Denise said. “There are too many bad memories in Richard's place for my liking.” She allowed herself a smile. “Mind you, it seems that the police want to know if he was a transvestite or something.”
“Why's that?”
“Because they found a load of kinky gear tucked under his bed. Stockings, bras, suspenders, leather, bondage - the lot.”
“You're joking?”
“No, honest. Fancy him being into that.”
“Who's into what?” Claire asked, as she came out of the kitchen.
“Tweedle,” Pete said. “He was into ladies' underwear.”
“So what?” she said, chuckling. “Your Dad's just been trying to get into mine.”
“He's stopped feeling sorry for himself then?” Denise asked.
“Yes, he's suffering from dented pride but that's all.”
“Have you told him anything yet?”
“Told me what?” Ian asked, as he entered the room, carrying an opened bottle of champagne.
“That you're a pillock for imagining we'd forget your birthday.”
Ian shrugged. “I made a mistake, that's all. Claire didn't mention it during the week. I sort of hoped for a call from you, Pete, during the day, and didn't get one. Then just when I was thinking that Claire and I could have a nice little celebration drink together, she said she had to go out and wouldn't say where. So I went down the road and practised my French on the barman. I only had a couple of beers before heading back.”
Denise beamed at him. “We're all glad you did, otherwise we would have had to have drunk that champagne ourselves.”
Ian smiled as he filled the glasses.
“Happy Birthday, Granddad,” Denise said, raising her glass.
“Hey, I might have aged in the last few months, but I'm not that old.”
Claire kissed him on the cheek. “Sit down, Granddad. Denise and Pete have got something to tell you.”
FRIDAY 12 DECEMBER
Old Kate Qualtrough adjusted her new sunglasses and stepped back into the bright sunlight on Fort Street.
That's better; no-one'll recognize me now, will they. It's nice here, isn't it. I've never been anywhere further than Llandudno before and that was only a day trip way back in the year dot. It's all a question of money, isn't it. My pension and a few hours each week cleaning are enough to get me by, but it doesn't leave much for life's little luxuries, does it. Particularly a holiday like this. Well — it isn't really a holiday, is it. But since I'm here, I might as well enjoy myself a bit. I mean, what's the point of getting old if you can't let your hair down once in a while?
Oooh look, there's a knicker shop, I wonder if they've got any nice woolly vests? Not that they would have much need of them over here. Oh, I say, just look at that. My word, it's indecent. I shan't be shopping there. I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things. Ah, now that's wha
t I call a sensible dress. Pretty little roses, aren't they. Perhaps I'll treat myself before I go back. I'd better keep a few pounds back in cash.
Must press on and do what I came to do and then I'll be able to curl my toes and push the daisies up in peace. I knew things would straighten themselves out in the end. Everything comes to those who wait. I do hope those young people will show some appreciation this time. I've tried to be discreet about things, but youngsters nowadays just don't seem to be able to take a hint, do they. Why didn't they do anything with that note I gave to young David? Anyway, if I can help them, I will.
Oh my! Look at that brazen hussy. That's no way to dress, even for the beach. You can see all her bottom. I'm sure our Denise would never wear anything as showy as that. She's a nice girl, our Denise.
I'm glad the family's back on the rails. I know everything was my fault, but it all seemed right at the time. Harry was going to marry me, I'm sure of that. He couldn't help dying on me, could he, bless him. But why our Moira turned out like she did, I'll never know. I did my best for her, but I guess it wasn't enough, was it? Perhaps if my Harry had lived, she wouldn't have been such a strong-headed girl. A father's influence and so on.
Now, let's just have another little look at that card - make sure I've got the address right. Yes, that must be it, over on the corner — Independent Banking Corporation. Yes, that's it. Now, what was that man's name? Blaydon, Tom Blaydon. I wonder if I should call him Tom or Thomas?
Right, better keep the card to hand, otherwise I'll forget his name again. Silly me, I nearly forgot to bring it with me. Mind you, I wrote everything down somewhere didn't I? Oh yes, on my best notepaper. Ah, but then I gave that to young David didn't I. Yes, it is a good job I picked up the card from Tweedle's, otherwise the police might have found it and then I wouldn't know the number would I?
He was a wicked man, that Tweedle. Fancy taking our Denise's money off poor old Mister Frank. I'm glad Scott shot him. Mind you, he'll never get that stain out of the carpet. You've got to soak blood in cold water straight away, you know. It's a good job I went back for my umbrella - or was it my glasses? Not that it matters. Or does it? My memory's not what it used to be. I think my hearing's getting worse as well. Those big chimneys at Tweedle's house used to make things sound louder, but you can hardly walk around with one of those stuck on your ear, can you? Mind you, they did used to come in useful when Tweedle and Scott were doing their scheming.
Lordy me, look at his muscles! A woman wouldn't know where to start, would she? Oh, heavens, he smiled at me. Perhaps I will go and buy that pretty dress after I've seen Mister Wotsisname. What was his name again? Harry? Oh no, that was our Moira's dad, wasn't it. Oh she did turn out to be a bad girl. She never took any notice of me. I told her she'd end up in trouble and I was right. I told her that mother knew best, but she thought she did. First she had little Sandra out of wedlock with that Nick Ferris. I met him once a long time ago, but I didn't take much of a liking to him. Mind you, at least he saw the baby right. Looked after her he did when our Moira went off with the Tweedles. Perhaps I'll get to find out where little Sandra is one day. She'd be pleased to know she's got a sister. My word, our Moira was wilful. I mean, you'd think she would have learned first time, wouldn't you. We can all make one mistake. Well I suppose I know that because I should have married my Harry before we er — well never mind, we didn't did we. Get married that is. But I never did it again, did I? Not like our Moira. If my Harry knew that she never got married and had two children from two different fathers, he'd have a heart attack. But then he did, didn't he. Have a heart attack I mean. Poor Harry.
What was the name of that bank? Oh yes, it's the big blue building on the corner, isn't it. The one with the big black door. That was the colour of our Moira's hair, black. And little Sandra, and our Denise. Oh, but Denise will be pleased when I tell her what I've done. So will that nice Mr Legg. He took me to our Denise's wedding, didn't he. I mean, I've done everything for our Denise, haven't I. Watched over her after that Scott man killed our Moira. Well at least his eye wasn't twitching last time I saw him. Funny, though, that he should kill himself. Perhaps he disliked himself as much as everybody else did. Maybe if he'd washed his shirt more often he'd have been more likeable. But it's true, isn't it. All these years cleaning for Tweedle, and all to make sure our Denise was safe and well after our Moira died. Well, alright, I know I didn't stop after our Denise moved out, but that's because — well, because there were lots of interesting things going on. It's a good job I've taken an interest in people really, otherwise I wouldn't be here now, and our Denise would have lost her inheritance. And Mr Legg's company would have to close, so our David wouldn't get his job back.
Right, what was his name again? Blaydon? Yes, that's it. Thomas Blaydon. I think I'll just take the card out to be sure. I'll need the account number anyway, won't I. Now, better check I can still do Tweedle's signature like I've been practising. Perhaps I should have one last try when I get in the bank - before I see Mister Wotsit. Anyway, he'll understand if it's a little bit different, all old ladies sign things a little bit different from time to time. Oh, and I shall need to tell him Denise's bank account number - so he can send the money there. I'm sure it can't be too difficult to send it. I mean, Tweedle wasn't a clever man, was he, and he did it. Now, where did I put that piece of paper I'd written Denise's bank number on? I wonder if I should tell her that I'm her grandmother when I get back.
Oh, I'm there. Heavens, that is a big door isn't it. “Oh, thank you very much. So kind of you.” What a nice young lady. I suppose that must be her father with her, they look a bit the same. Perhaps they've just been to see Mr Wotsit. Well, here we go —
“Who was that old dear?” Sandy asked, as they crossed the street.
“No idea,” Ferris said. “Why?”
“Oh, I don't know, she just looked familiar.”
“Undercover cop.”
“Oh ha! Cut the jokes, let's just get into that bank over there and open an account.”
“Well don't snap at me, Sandy. It was your idea to go and open an account in a different bank.”
“It'll only take quarter of an hour or so, Dad. It's a good job we didn't get as far as Blaydon's desk. Imagine what idiots we'd have looked when he asked how many carrier bags we'd like, to carry our twenty nine million in.”
“Yeah, a little detail that brother Ron seems to have ignored. But why didn't we just open another account with Blaydon and transfer the money into it?”
“Oh, come on, Dad. You could hardly sign your name R. Tweedle one minute, then change it to N. Ferris the next, could you.”
“Point taken. Mind you, we could have just opened another account in the name of R. Tweedle.”
“Oh yeah, likely, and have you being the only signatory?”
“Sandra! Whatever happened to the word 'trust'?”
A few minutes later, Kate Qualtrough emerged from the cool of the bank into the hot sunshine of the street. Well that was even easier than I'd expected, wasn't it. What a nice man that Mr Blaydon was. Everything transferred back in minutes. I gave him back his little business card so he could use it again for someone else, and he gave me some cash - said there was some interest due even though the money had only been there two days. Maybe I will go and get myself than nice dress with the pretty little roses. I don't think anyone will mind, will they?
* * *
After the 'excitement' of the evening before, followed by a bottle or two of Claire's best champagne, no-one had been in a rush to get up early, and brunch had been an unhurried affair that had drifted past midday. Now Pete and Denise were anxious to have a few hours in Paris “to see what was in the shops” as Denise had explained it. But everybody was still only talking of getting ready to leave, so Ian finished reading the letter for the second time. He touched the bank draft again to make sure that it was real. The contents of the letter had come as no surprise; after all, his father had told him before he'd died who his biological paren
ts were. Maybe that was the real reason why he could never have shot Tweedle. Maybe if Tweedle hadn't been his half-brother, he could have pulled the trigger for real – maybe not. Now he'd never know.
He'd already found out about Nancy and Wormald-Welch's duplicity. So what? He'd got the best of the deal. Claire and he could be happy now, and Nancy and The Worm would just have to live with their lies and deceit.
He glanced across the room to where his family sat chatting around the low glass-topped table. Claire was wiggling her toes as she talked, Pete's smile was broad and frequent and Denise radiated contentment. Picking up the bank draft, he folded it and slipped it into his pocket. It was too much money and would cause too many changes. Things were going to be good from now on – too good to risk being spoilt by a bank full of money. If he invested it, the interest could be both an umbrella for a rainy day and a future for Pete and his family. Maybe Sean would need a loan to get the Company back on its feet. He'd talk to him in the coming days.
Meanwhile, there were two things he had to do before deciding where to invest. First of all a trip to the bank to deposit the draft and arrange a money order to be sent to Ibrahim in Kuwait – enough to get him back to Bangladesh and start his own business. Then the most important thing —
He stood up from the dining table and slid the letter back into the envelope. He tore it in two, then two again.
“What was it Cheri?”
“What?”
“The letter. What was it?”
“Oh just a note from someone.”
“So what did it say?”
“A few details from the past. Nothing I didn't already know. Anyone ready to go round the shops yet?”
Claire looked surprised. It wasn't like Ian to want to spend an afternoon shopping. “What for, Cheri?”
Ian took her left hand and stroked the third finger. “Looks a bit empty,” he said.