‘It’s an email from the forensic accountant.’ She quickly opened it up. Maybe there would finally be some good news. As she read, her excitement grew. ‘She’s managed to find out that the Cypriot company – you know, the anonymous one that owns the farm – paid a huge invoice three years ago, transferring all the profits to another company. Based in Anguilla in the Caribbean.’
‘So, she’s found out who’s behind it?’
Kate’s shoulders slumped as she read on. ‘No . . . “Unfortunately the Anguilla commercial registry does not disclose director details. I’ve written to the relevant clerks but it’s unlikely – impossible, I should say – that they will be able to give me any names. I’m afraid that this would be the last task that I could complete without issuing further invoices.”’ Kate sank into her chair and dropped the phone on the table. ‘A dead end.’
‘I’m guessing you can’t ask her to do any more . . .’ said Tim.
‘I’m completely broke. Doesn’t matter how much overtime I do, I still can’t keep up with these payments.’
Every way she turned, she seemed to hit a brick wall. She was exhausted and running out of ideas. A movement outside caught her eye.
‘What the . . .?’
There was a man in Iris’s front garden hammering a ‘For Sale’ sign into the grass. Kate leapt up and rushed out the house.
‘What’s going on?’ she demanded.
‘On the market,’ said the man, unfazed.
Kate went up to Iris’s front door and rang the bell, urgently. After a while, she could see Iris through the glass, ambling towards the door, less urgently.
‘Is there a fire?’ said Iris lightly, then saw the man over Kate’s shoulder. ‘Oh. They weren’t supposed to put that up until later. I wanted to speak to you first.’
‘You’re moving?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, Kate, I can’t stay here forever. Not as I’m getting older. It’s harder every day. Who’d have thought we revert back to toddlers, always on our backsides,’ she mused.
‘I told you, I can help.’
‘And I told you, that’s not practical,’ said Iris in a firm voice. ‘And I don’t want to be a burden,’ she added.
The postman called up the path. ‘Package for you, darlin’.’ He handed over a large envelope to Iris.
‘It’s my welcome pack,’ said Iris, smiling brightly. She indicated the logo on the envelope. ‘I’ve found a lovely place. Not far from here. That Sunshine Royal Oaks, you know, I mentioned it? It’s not for the completely infirm, I’m not there yet, but they’ve got a warden on duty. So, if I fall, I just click my tag and – hey presto! – he appears! Just like a genie.’
‘I wish you’d talked this over with me first.’
‘Well, I was going to . . .’ said Iris and Kate was reminded of how she hadn’t been able to stay the other day. ‘And then I knew you’d just try and persuade me not to go. And I had to make my own decision. So, I got myself a taxi there yesterday, got the grand tour. And you’ll never guess what?’
‘What?’
‘My old friend, Christine Sturley, is there. You know, the one who worked at the taxi office for a bit, then when she and her husband retired, they moved to Spain? Well, she’s recently widowed and back. Missed the seasons.’
‘Sounds like you’ve made your mind up.’
‘I have.’
‘Well, at least I have a few months while you find a buyer.’
Iris looked awkward. ‘Actually . . . they’ve got a room for me now. Someone else was lined up to have it but they ended up moving closer to their family. You have to take them when they come up or the wait could be endless.’
‘So, when are you going?’ asked Kate in trepidation.
‘The thirteenth.’
‘Of what? August? That’s only a couple of weeks away!’
Iris gave an apologetic smile. Then she sniffed, and her eyes began to well up. ‘Don’t think it’s not difficult to leave,’ she said. ‘I’m going to miss this place, and you. Mostly you.’
Kate’s own chin began to wobble, and she threw her arms around Iris. The two women held each other for a while.
‘Life changes,’ said Iris. ‘Things move on.’
FORTY-SIX
Friday, 24 February 2017 – the day of the accident
Terence was sitting across from Becky, scribbling on a piece of paper. A summary of her answer to the interview question: ‘How do you deal with conflict?’ She’d outlined how she would manoeuvre her way around a tricky personality, diffusing friction where she could and getting the subject on side, mentally brushing aside her increasingly impatient responses to Piers.
He looked up. ‘Is there anything you would like to ask me?’
‘Yes,’ said Becky. ‘When will you be making your decision?’
‘By the middle of next week.’
Becky’s stomach fluttered in equal amounts of extreme nervousness and extreme excitement. She still had time to get her story to Terence before he picked his candidate for the job. But what if, when she met Adam tomorrow, he didn’t tell her anything of any real consequence? What if he did? She felt her whole future rested on this one meeting. Becky had booked another nondescript hotel, texting Adam on his ‘temporary’ number to rearrange.
‘Anything else?’
Becky shook her head and went to get up.
Terence held up a hand. ‘Just a minute.’
She was surprised. Sat back down again, a flicker of apprehension running through her as Terence came from behind his desk and perched on the edge of it next to her.
‘I’ll get to the point,’ he said, matter-of-factly. ‘It’s been noticed you’ve spent quite a bit of time out of the office the last few weeks.’ He raised an eyebrow, watched her. ‘Most of that time seemingly to coincide with when I’ve not been here.’
Becky felt a hot flush rise up in her cheeks. Piers.
‘I . . .’ began Becky. How was she going to explain this away? She decided to come clean. ‘That’s right.’ There was a hint of defiance in her voice.
He nodded, and she detected – what? He was subtly impressed? He was waiting for her to continue, but she didn’t want to say any more. Not yet. Damn Piers for putting her in this position.
‘Want to explain why?’ said Terence.
‘Not really.’
Terence’s tea paused halfway to his lips.
‘What I mean is, I will,’ said Becky. She saw his frown and knew she had to concede a little. ‘There’s a story . . . I’ve been researching it for a while. And there’s another part to the puzzle. I’m finding out tomorrow.’
‘Care to tell me what you know so far?’
She felt frustration creep in. She didn’t. She really wanted to get the full picture, the hidden grenade she knew Adam had. She looked at her boss.
‘I take it that’s a no,’ said Terence. He paused, and she waited, wondering if she was about to get a massive bollocking.
‘I’m fine with a bit of skiving,’ said Terence. ‘All the most resourceful investigative journalists go AWOL from time to time.’ He paused. ‘But don’t do anything stupid.’
Becky looked up, hope in her heart. Was this his way of giving her permission to carry on?
‘And most importantly, know when to speak up.’
She grinned, buoyant. ‘I will. I mean, yes, I know. I’ll be careful.’
Terence frowned, and for a moment, Becky thought he was going to change his mind.
‘I’ll tell you everything on Monday. First thing,’ she promised and shifted forward on the sofa, poised to leave the room.
Terence thought for a moment, watching her, then nodded – the most beautiful sign in the world, thought Becky. The ‘go do it’ nod. She beamed and stood up.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her hand on the door handle, and before he could say another word, she left the room.
Her joy was short-lived. She saw Piers as soon as she step
ped out of the office. She walked over to where he was making a tea in the kitchen area.
‘Ellis!’ he said as she approached. ‘So nice to see you.’
‘Really below the belt, Piers. What kind of journalist is a grass?’
He looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
He frowned. ‘You’ve really got to explain this one. Honestly, I’m in the dark.’
She poked a sharp finger into his muscly, white-shirted arm. ‘You’ve been on my case ever since the job ad went out. Sneaking around, following me. Trying to sabotage me. Where do you draw the line, Piers? What lengths will you go to to ensure I don’t get this job? Gonna do my legs in so I can’t even get here?’
He was keeping up the pretence of being bemused, and she shook her head in disgust and turned away. Went back to her desk. She saw him return to his work area and glance over to her every so often. She didn’t want to speak to him, so put on her headphones and opened up her laptop.
Becky soon became engrossed in her work and it was a few rings in before she heard her phone. She paused her music and went to answer it. It was a number she didn’t recognize.
‘Becky Ellis.’
‘Hello, Becky. This is Justin Holmes.’
Becky immediately sat up. The farm manager. From Ramsbourne.
‘Hi,’ she said, questioningly.
‘That story, the one you came to see me about.’
‘Yes?’
‘Have you written it yet?’
Becky didn’t answer.
‘If you have, delete it.’
Becky was silent for a moment. ‘Is that you telling me or asking me?’
‘Warning you. I have a bad feeling about it.’
‘Well, you see, the thing is, I think it’s a story that needs to be told.’
‘You’re wrong. Don’t do it.’ He paused. ‘There are people who won’t like it.’
‘By people, you mean you?’
‘No . . .’
‘Who?’
‘Look, despite the fact you came onto my property and ambushed me, I like you. So please listen to me. It’s really not a good idea. And do not mention this call to anyone.’
‘How do these people know I’m writing this story? I’ve only spoken to you.’
There was a silence down the phone.
‘Who have you told?’ demanded Becky.
Silence.
‘Can I speak to them?’
‘You need to stop. Now.’
Becky twisted in her seat. She thought of Grace and Arnie and Abby and found herself getting riled. ‘Who are you to tell me what or what not to write?’ she said. ‘There is a story here that neither you nor anyone else has the right to stop.’
‘But there is no story. Nothing that anyone hasn’t heard already. Speculated about before. You have no proof.’
Becky smiled to herself. Adam.
‘Well, that’s where I think you’re wrong,’ she said emphatically, and she hung up. She sat watching the mobile on her desk, half expecting it to ring again. But it didn’t. It stayed silent.
FORTY-SEVEN
2018
‘Happy birthday to Kaaa-ate. Happy birthday to you!’ Tim and Iris (with a little bit of Donny thrown in between wrapping pieces of haddock in paper) finished singing to her.
Kate beamed. ‘Thank you.’ She blew out the candle that was stuck into a separate chip that Donny had put on a small plate. Tim had originally planned to take her and Iris to the new Mediterranean ‘fusion’ restaurant on the high street. But she hadn’t wanted him to. Truth was, she was still feeling guilty about how much more he’d taken on financially at home as she’d been so strapped for cash. And anyway, Iris thought ‘fusion’ sounded like something you did with a soldering iron.
‘Make a wish,’ insisted Iris.
Kate closed her eyes. I need a miracle, she thought. ‘All done,’ she declared.
‘Then let’s get stuck in,’ said Iris, picking up a piece of fish with her wooden fork.
Tim reached under the table for the large, wrapped box they’d all been pretending wasn’t there and slid it across the floor to Kate. ‘This is for you.’
Kate smiled and ripped off the paper.
‘I love it!’ she said of the top-of-the-range bread machine.
‘It’s so you can make your own. Organic. Because, you know . . .’
‘Thank you,’ said Kate, beaming.
‘And now,’ said Tim with a deep sigh, ‘I can finally come clean.’
‘About what?’
‘Do you remember, the day of the break-in, you came to meet me for my last shift?’
Kate nodded.
‘That’s why I wasn’t there. I was shopping.’ He looked at her. ‘I always got the feeling you were suspicious.’
She had been, a little. Kate blushed. ‘Not really.’
‘So, as you can see, it wasn’t me breaking into the house and sending dodgy emails,’ he said, smiling, although Kate could detect an edge to his voice. She flicked her eyes in warning towards Iris who had been ping-ponging her gaze between them.
Iris pushed a small box across the table. ‘And this is from me,’ she said.
Kate delicately unwrapped it. Inside was a jewellery box. She looked up at Iris before opening it, and Iris waved her on. Kate lifted the lid of the box and gasped. Lying on a bed of black velvet was a pair of 1950s Hollywood-style diamanté drop earrings, each with five strings of glass stones cut to look like diamonds.
‘They were given to me for my twenty-first,’ said Iris.
Kate snapped the box shut and held it back over the table. ‘I can’t take them,’ she said, immediately.
‘Now, don’t talk nonsense. Who else am I going to give them to? You’re the closest I’ve ever had to a daughter. I want you to have them.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. Now put them on.’
Kate lifted them out of the box, the stones brazenly dazzling, their capacity for capturing and catapulting light undiminished in the sixty years of their existence. She put them in her ears.
‘Wow,’ said Tim, eyes agog.
‘Feels a bit daft wearing something so stunning in a fish-and-chip shop,’ said Kate.
‘No reason to,’ said Iris.
‘Thank you,’ said Kate, clasping Iris’s hand. She loved them, but the gift was tinged with sadness for her. Iris passing on heirlooms had something reminiscent of inheritance, something she couldn’t bear thinking about. She didn’t want Iris to be tidying up her life. It was bad enough she was moving to sheltered housing.
‘Did you have any other nice birthday treats? Anything from work?’ asked Iris.
‘A twenty-pound store voucher.’
Iris frowned. ‘Get away. Really?’
‘From my boss. My colleagues did a whip round and bought me some flowers.’
‘Thank goodness. Or all you’d be getting from them is a new screwdriver for your birthday. A sign of being truly middle-aged.’ She patted Kate’s hand. ‘Happens to us all. Mind you, what I’d give to be middle-aged again, I’m now geriatric-aged.’
Kate’s phone beeped.
‘Maybe that’s your boss now, sending you details of a large delivery of chocolates to make up for his paltry present.’
‘It’s the forensic accountant,’ said Kate, surprised. ‘She’s the one who’s been helping me find out who owns the farm,’ she explained to Iris. Kate scanned through the email. ‘Oh,’ she suddenly said, her face contorting in confusion.
‘What?’ asked Tim.
‘She says she’s been sent an email in error. From the Anguillan registry clerk.’
Iris and Tim exchanged a look. ‘So, what does it say?’ asked Iris. ‘Has she found out any names?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She’s discovered that the farm’s parent company is owned by yet another holding company. But the name of the dire
ctor has been kept anonymous.’ Kate bit her lip as she kept on reading.
‘And?’ prompted Tim.
‘And that holding company owns not just the farm but other things too.’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Including the agrochemical company Senerix and . . .’
‘What? Come on, I can’t bear the suspense,’ said Iris.
‘Fresh Foods.’
‘Fresh Foods,’ repeated Iris, ‘haven’t I heard that name before?’
‘It’s Greg Hollander’s business,’ said Tim slowly. ‘You know, the man who’s doing the bursary with Kate.’
Kate couldn’t figure it out. Dazed, she looked back at the email. There it was in black and white. Foxgold Ltd, registered in the tax haven of Anguilla, owned Ashdown Farm in Ramsbourne, and Senerix, the chemical company that supplied the farm, and Fresh Foods where Greg worked.
Tim was the first to break the silence. ‘There has to be some connection,’ he said slowly, ‘with Greg.’
‘Does there? Why?’ Kate tried to form some clear thoughts. ‘Just because Greg works there – at Fresh Foods – it doesn’t mean anything. It’s the main holding company we’re interested in.’
‘It’s too much of a coincidence.’
‘But . . . big companies gobble up smaller ones all the time – have loads of separate brands under their umbrella. Unilever for example. What is it, Ben and Jerry’s, Surf washing powder . . . loads more.’
Neither Iris nor Tim said anything. Kate thought of Greg, of everything he’d done. The way he’d pushed to change the trucks, the bursary he’d so generously set up.
‘And Greg wouldn’t be behind, you know . . . all the stuff that’s been happening.’
‘What stuff?’ asked Iris.
Kate shook her head. ‘No. If he was bad news, then why’s he been so helpful, been spending so much time on these projects?’
‘To keep you close?’ said Tim.
She laughed. ‘You make it sound like I’m the enemy.’
‘Well, maybe you are – to him,’ said Tim.
‘What stuff?’ repeated Iris.
Tim spoke to Kate. ‘Did you ever tell him about the case?’
‘No. No, I’m sure I didn’t.’
‘Is anyone going to tell me what’s going on?’ asked Iris.
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