by Linda Coles
“Still. It’s a puzzle, isn’t it? And Mum’s upset and that’s not right. She should be grieving her loss, not being angry at the man for having a secret.”
“Do you think she’s safe? We’re safe?”
“Eh?”
“That they’ll come after Mummy or us for the money? You hear of these things.”
“Drama Queen Julie,” said Chrissy, rolling her eyes. “The man’s dead. End of story. Surely.” Despite herself, there was a slight question in her voice. Surely?
“You don’t sound convinced yourself,” said Julie. “And I’ve been thinking since I found out. . .” She sounded a little cagey, almost embarrassed to say what she had been thinking about.
“What about?” A beat passed. “Spit it out, then.”
Julie turned towards the manicured back garden so her back was towards her sister. Maybe she was embarrassed after all. Chrissy waited and watched a sparrow land on the lawn, its tiny beak pecking the ground, looking for food. With a couple of hard tugs, a couple of inches of worm dangled from its beak as it prepared to devour it. It swallowed its meal and then pecked for more.
“Do you think he could have been killed over it?” Julie said at last. “He is dead, after all. And it’s a lot of money, remember.” Julie turned back to face Chrissy. Her brow was wrinkled slightly, Chrissy noticed. That in itself was unusual. Botox was hard to wrinkle. Chrissy wore the wrinkles for them both.
“Dad had a bad heart, Julie. He died of cardiac arrest. He had an electrical malfunction and nature took its course. Nobody knocked Dad off. You’ve been reading too many crappy books.”
“Well, I think we should have a post mortem,” Julie said haughtily. “He could have been drugged and it caused the heart to stop. I’ve heard of it before—minute traces of a substance that go undetected. Spies use it. Bond used it.”
Chrissy couldn’t help smiling. “Well, if James Bond uses it, it must be real. You’ll be telling me you’ve seen it on Facebook next. Because everything on Facebook is true.”
“Spies do use it. And double agents,” Julie said petulantly, putting out a perfectly collagen-filled lower lip.
Spies, eh?
“Look, if you’re worried, we can talk to the doctor and see what he says,” Chrissy said, relenting. She walked over to her sister, arms outstretched for a hug. Even chalk and cheese could be pals, after all, and she had no wish to fight with her sister right now. As the two women connected, Chrissy squeezed tighter than usual, sensing her sister could really use the support she was offering. Citrus fragrance filled her nostrils and she tried not to sneeze. At least it was fresh smelling and not cloying, like her mother’s would be.
“Let’s go back to Mum, eh? There’s plenty to sort out for Dad’s day, and we need to get her involved somehow. It’s not good for her to send him off angry, so no more mention of the letter. Agreed?”
Her sister’s stiff blonde waves bobbed up and down. They opened the conservatory door and, arm in arm, walked back to their mother.
Chapter Four
In reality, their mother had little to do with their father’s arrangements and had sat speechless for most of the afternoon, quietly sipping gin and tonic and staring at nothing in particular. It hadn’t gone unnoticed. The two sisters carried on regardless; someone had to organise his funeral. At just after 4 PM, they had done all they could and were now chatting about things other than fillings for the sandwiches and what type of sherry would be available. The local pub would be the venue, it was decided; it had a large bar area and back room to accommodate those who wished to mingle. Gerald Baker had been a popular man.
Though it seemed at least one person would disagree.
Chrissy checked her watch. Adam would be arriving shortly.
“I think we’ve covered the most of it. Are you happy with everything, Mum?” she asked. She got barely a nod back, but at least their mother was communicating.
“Don’t worry,” Julie said. “She’s stopping with us again tonight; probably until the funeral is over, I expect. Which reminds me, there’s probably flowers backing up at her front door. I should get a notice organised to bring them here.”
“Good idea. I’ll drop by on the way home. Find me some card, will you? I’ll make it up.”
“It’s in the desk drawer. You’ll find all you need in there,” Julie said, pointing to the nook at the back of the room. On the desk sat a Mac, which Chrissy knew was more for the children. It had been placed out in the open so that Julie could keep a close eye on what they were researching rather than them being closeted away in their rooms surfing goodness knows what. Chrissy sniggered under her breath. Both children had their own smartphones. Any dubious sites they surfed would be viewed in the privacy of their own palms, and they certainly wouldn’t be sat in the lounge while they gawped. Julie was going to have a shock one day at just how much her young teenagers knew about life. And how life itself was made, no doubt.
Chrissy strode over to the desk and found the card in the top drawer of the desk; she grabbed a roll of sticky tape while she was at it.
“We don’t want prospective burglars to think there’s no one home,” she said to her sister as she began to write. “I’ll simply put ‘Flowers to be redirected to. . .’ and this address.”
“Perhaps add in ‘Other deliveries please knock’? That way it won’t look so much like no one’s home.”
“Fair point.” Chrissy added the extra text. She heard the gate buzzer ring. Adam had arrived.
“Will he stay for a drink, perhaps?” said Julie hopefully.
“No, I doubt it, thanks. We’ll get straight off. I’ll get this done,” she said, indicating the card sign, “and I’ll collect what flowers are already there.” Chrissy rose and went to the door to let Adam in.
“Who’s that?” said a faint voice from the sofa. Mrs. Baker was finally taking notice.
“It’s Adam, Mummy. He’s come to take Chrissy home.”
“Oh. Good. No more funeral talk, then.”
Chrissy saw Julie refrain from rolling her eyes as Adam entered the lounge. She never ceased to marvel at how Adam filled a room with his presence. As usual, he wore a well-cut suit and a grin that would make any GQ model envious. Six feet tall, with strength and width in his shoulders from his early rugby days, he was many women’s hot dream.
Julie had had a couple herself, Chrissy suspected. His entry was always a good excuse for her to get close to him for a moment and, right on cue, Julie stepped forward, arms outstretched.
“Hello, darling Adam. How are you?” she enquired formally, perfect teeth peeking out from perfect lips. Chrissy watched in bemusement as her husband went to her sister and pecked her lightly on the cheek. She caught Adam’s quick wink back at her. They’d giggled about Julie’s crush on him, but they both gamely played along.
“I’m good, thanks, Julie. You look lovely as always.”
Chrissy rolled her eyes.
“Oh, thank you, Adam. Under the circumstances, I’m holding up.”
Heavens above, give me a break.
“Well, you’re doing well.”
Chrissy stepped in. “I’m ready to leave when you are, Adam. I need to make a slight detour on the way back to Mum’s place, though,” she announced brightly. “We’ll collect the flowers from the house. Mum’s stopping here with Julie tonight.”
Adam turned to his mother-in-law, who was still sat on the sofa. He placed himself gently down beside her, reached out for her hand, and squeezed it gently. She turned to him, her eyes moist, and said ‘Hello.’ As it had been all afternoon, there was no power in her voice; it was a defeated sound, full of lethargy.
“You’ll feel much better when the funeral is over, I expect. And we’re all here to support you, remember that.” Her eyes were still locked onto his, though they were vacant, like she had left somehow. Adam squeezed her hand lightly again and held it to his mouth to kiss goodbye. “It’s good you’re staying here with Julie. It wouldn’t do you any good
being at home all alone.” He stood and caught Chrissy’s eye. Time to leave.
As the two of them headed towards the front door, Chrissy called over her shoulder, “I’ll call you tomorrow, sis. Watch out for flower deliveries.”
“Thank you for coming. See you soon,” Julie called back as they started down the front walk. They climbed into the car and Adam started the engine as Chrissy opened the passenger window. Julie was stood on the front step waving like the Queen Mother.
Lady of the Manor.
“Bye!” she called brightly.
When they were safely on the road and heading towards her mother’s place, Chrissy told her husband all about the letter. “What do you make of that, then?” she asked him.
Adam was silent for a moment. “Well, let me put it this way. As an investment banker, and knowing Gerald, I’m not at all surprised.”
Chrissy turned and stared at him in surprise. That was not the reaction she had been expecting.
“Oh?” she enquired, her interest piqued.
“He wouldn’t be the first, and he certainly wouldn’t be the last.”
But still, it seemed a little too close to home to Chrissy.
Chapter Five
Half an hour later, Chrissy and Adam pulled up in front of her mother’s house. Judging from the heaps of flower arrangements around the front door, it looked like the florists’ delivery vans had already been busy. And probably sold out of chrysanthemums. Chrissy wrinkled her nose at the sight of them; they were her least favourite flower. Cheap, nasty petrol station bouquets usually bought as an afterthought, but in this case, organised and delivered nicely.
“Looks like it’s started,” said Adam. “What shall we do with them all?”
“Load them up, I guess. Take them home. There’ll be more to come as the week wears on and people hear the news.”
They both got out of the car and made their way up the front path. Chrissy took the makeshift sign out of her bag and taped it to the door.
“There,” she said, standing back to look at it. “That should redirect any more bouquets.”
Adam picked up a wrapped arrangement and poked at a chrysanthemum nestled amongst the irises and freesia. “Are you sure you want these at home? You hate them.”
“I know,” she said, sighing. “I’ll take them out and put the rest into vases. The compost heap will enjoy them.”
Adam raised his eyebrows at her; he hated waste. “Seems a shame.”
“But why display something you can’t stand? It’s hypocritical. Cut flowers die soon enough anyway, so they may as well go and die now.”
Adam raised his eyebrows again. He couldn’t argue with that. Between them, they carried the rest of the flowers over to his Audi and loaded them into the boot. When it came time to close the lid, Chrissy pushed straggling flower heads out of the way so they wouldn’t get chopped off. Chrysanthemums or not. She’d sort them out when they got home. When they were done, they climbed in and set off towards home.
“He was a popular man, judging by that lot already,” Adam stated.
Chrissy stared at the road ahead. “I’ll read the cards later, see who they are all from. The obituary notice is in the paper now. I expect there’ll be a big attendance at the service.”
Traffic was building up as rush hour spewed more and more vehicles on to the road making the journey home slow. And warm. In July, and inside the car with the late afternoon sun streaming through the windows, she was starting to bake. Chrissy reached for the air conditioning, leaving it on low. It would be just enough. The bus directly in front of them chugged out diesel fumes, the dark grey emissions rising in a thick cloud and eventually disappearing. Chrissy watched them rise and drift away, transfixed. Idly, she wondered if the smoke from her father’s cremation would look the same. Dark grey. Would the crematorium wait until everyone had left to burn her father’s body? And what if another service was due directly after theirs? Did they wait and light the fire at the end of the day, perhaps? Did they then all go in together, to save on the gas bill? Could she even be certain they would receive only her father’s ashes? Maybe the funeral home mixed all the day’s ashes together and then doled them out to the families, she thought grimly. The family of a big man would get more ashes back; the family of a skinny woman only a few. It was a sobering thought. She hoped not.
The traffic ahead freed up slightly and it wasn’t long before they were turning down their leafy lane on the outskirts of Englefield Green. Elton John had a place not far away. More like a small park and mansion, actually. And Chrissy and Adam’s two boys attended the prestigious Bishopsgate School nearby, though the education fees made them both wince. Still, the boys enjoyed it, particularly the sport programme. Like their father, they preferred rugby to cricket.
At fourteen and fifteen, the boys, Thomas and Harry ate them out of house and home and were each other’s best mate—unusual for many boys, indeed many families. Chrissy and Adam had raised them fairly, teaching them manners, responsibility, and accountability and showering each of them with quality time doing the things they loved individually. All in all, the Livingstones were a wonderful, happy family.
Chrissy needed her own individual time too, but like most mums, she rarely got it. Yes, she couldn’t complain about her life at all, not the life she led with Adam. She hadn’t been entirely truthful with him since … Well, since they’d first met about twenty-five years ago. And that’s how it had always been. She’d never seen a reason to upset the way they worked and lived; there was nothing to gain by filling him in on her past now.
But there was a whole lot to wreck.
Adam believed she worked in sales for a plastic kitchen storage company, a job she ran from her home office. And since she’d always been vague on the details and refused to gossip about her colleagues, particularly as they were nonexistent, the subject of her work rarely came up. And that was a good thing, because Chrissy didn’t work in sales—not quite as she portrayed it, at any rate. No, Chrissy had only ever worked for one employer since leaving university and that was the government.
As a spook. An agent.
But she’d retired a handful of years ago, and never got around to telling her family she’d changed jobs.
Why?
Because she loved her own time. Her time away. Her time abroad. On her own. And it continued to work for her, and no one was any the wiser. It was too late to come clean now. She didn’t like it, but the alternative could be far worse.
“Looks like the boys are back,” Adam said, pointing to the two bicycles laid on the pebbles near the front door. The door itself stood wide open, and two school bags had been tossed onto the lawn. Manners and respect or not, the boys were always in too much of a rush to stand their cycles up properly. At the sound of the car tyres on the pebbles, the two boys appeared in the doorway, both with a peanut butter sandwich in hand. Their mouths worked hungrily, the boys’ mousy brown curls bobbing slightly with the ferocity of their chomping.
“Some things never change, eh? Good job they’re eating now because I’ve no idea what’s for dinner,” Chrissy said wearily. She climbed out of the car and strode to the front door, kissing each boy in turn before going inside herself.
Adam sat behind the wheel for a moment, watching his wife and sons from a distance. He had something rather more pressing on his mind: he’d found an envelope while collecting the flowers and had slipped it into his pocket without showing Chrissy. He pulled it out now. On the front, in flowing handwriting, was one word—Thief.
What had Gerald Baker been up to?
Chapter Six
Adam waited until after dinner and Chrissy was upstairs reading on the sofa in her den. He pulled out the envelope again
Thief.
He ran his fingers over the back of the envelope and, listening to make sure he was undisturbed, carefully opened the flap. There was a piece of paper folded up inside, and he opened it. The writing was just the same as the handwriting on the front of the e
nvelope. And of course, it would be. Why wouldn’t it? It would have been odd had it been different.
He read it to himself. There were only a few sentences, and he quickly scanned to the bottom. It wasn’t signed.
I’ll not let you rest until I have back what is rightfully mine.
And I know I’m not alone.
Others are waiting behind me, ready to stake their claim.
You’re a common thief and nothing more.
It wasn’t a surprise really. He’d heard the rumours about Gerald—that he had been involved in a scheme or two. He’d heard that some folks weren’t exactly happy with their arrangement, their returns, but then Adam worked in finance himself. It happened all the time: gossip, and vocal clients. Gerald’s activities didn’t sound any different from what other financiers he worked with were doing, how they handled their business, and so he’d never given it any further thought. But this letter put a new spin on things. The word Thief felt threatening.
He slipped the letter back into his pocket, for safekeeping more than anything. Would he tell Chrissy? Not yet. Better to wait until after the funeral, he reasoned. No point upsetting her beforehand.
The leather crunched underneath him as he got up off the sofa and stood and stretched. He was a big man, though not overweight; just chunky. Chunky in a way that he liked, chunky in a way that Chrissy liked. Solid, she’d told him.
He opened the den door and headed upstairs to Chrissy’s den. He stood for a moment before rapping on the solid wood door, as was their custom. Since their dens were each other’s private territory, they respected the self-imposed rule and didn’t go barging in like other rooms of the house. Apart from the toilet, of course. In all the years they’d been together, he’d never once seen her sat on the loo, and vice versa. They were a close couple, but there was simply no need to see each other doing their ablutions.