by Anna Maxted
‘What?’ he’d said, eyes narrowed.
At this point he’d always be struggling with guilt about Maria. About the mistress! About having betrayed her! He’d feel guilty for having fucked his wife! She always enjoyed watching his face at this point.
‘Don’t feel bad,’ she’d said, stroking his chest. ‘It’s good for the children to know that we still … love each other.’
He’d made a noise like a pig. ‘Oh yes,’ he’d replied. ‘And how will they know? Are you going to send them a tape?’
She’d giggled. ‘Actually I’m being interviewed by Harper’s next week. I’ll find a way to drop it in.’
‘Don’t,’ he’d said.
She’d tilted her head, as if considering. ‘Very well, darling. As you wish. I shall claim that the marriage bed is cold,’ so as not to upset your little tart.
He’d seemed gratified, and she’d coiled a strand of his hair around her finger and wriggled closer. ‘Darling,’ she’d said. ‘Of course I won’t upset you by being … indiscreet about us. But I am serious about Emily. And, er, Claudia. I hope you aren’t planning to do anything … silly with your inheritance. You know, darling, that I am going to leave everything I have to you’ – an easy promise, she had years on him! And a second, amended will cutting him out like a cancer – ‘because ultimately, I want to leave everything to the girls.’ A lie, but a white lie. ‘And I know of no better guardian of their fortune than their father.’
She’d taken a sip of Barolo to disguise her anxiety.
He’d twisted the Hermès crystal goblet out of her hand and yanked her towards him by her favourite necklace: a lizard made of hundreds of emeralds, with ruby eyes and claws of white gold, scampering on a criss-cross grate of black diamonds. It had cost over a quarter of a million pounds, and it was her little friend.
He had crushed his lips to hers, and she’d felt a pleasant stab of desire and repulsion. Then, roughly, he’d pushed her back, and stared into her dark eyes.
‘As I’ve always said,’ he’d declared, ‘I will leave everything to my wife.’
She’d closed her eyes in a shiver of delight and writhed her body joyfully over his. ‘Let me’, she’d whispered, ‘take you on another guilt trip.’
I will leave everything to my wife. You couldn’t speak plainer than that. If he had actually said it, then it was true. Jack was a man who lied by omission. It was not his style to tell a blatant fib. That had been three months ago, and nothing had changed, so why did she have this niggling doubt? Perhaps it was just in her nature to distrust. All the same, she wanted to see the will with her own eyes. Only then would she be satisfied. She checked her watch, shoved a stick of gum in her mouth, yawned widely. Hang around in this Victorian slum for another … Christ, hour and three-quarters … and then leave, delicately wiping away a single tear for the front pages. Her handkerchief would be pink – better not to look too like a mournful widow, that would be construed in the gossip pages as jumping the gun.
There was a bang, the door burst open and the room swarmed with uniformed police and the blinding light of television cameras.
‘Oh my God,’ she shrieked. ‘What are you doing? There’s a man trying to die in here! Get out!’
‘Miss Innocence Ashford?’ said a senior-looking pig with acne scars and grey hair. ‘I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Mollie Tomkinson and Maria Radcliffe, and the attempted murder of Jack Kent. You do not have to say anything …’
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1998
Innocence
It had been the proudest day of Caroline Cartright’s life, joining the Met. She’d wanted to join the Force since she was five years old. She’d been crap at ballet. What was it the teacher had said? ‘Like a horse stamping round a paddock.’
She was cut out for this job; yes, she was. She was tough, but fair; always had been. There were enough bent coppers, but she wasn’t one of them. She liked helping people, and she could break up a fight in a pub. She had a nice easy manner; she didn’t rub people up the wrong way. She was five foot nothing: when she said, ‘Come on, lads,’ the biggest, scariest geezers stopped beating seven shades of shit out of each other, mainly out of surprise.
The women were meaner and more vicious. But even then, most of them had a weak spot for kindness. She was calm, she was patient. She never called them ‘ladies’ – patronizing, like a red rag to a bull – and she preferred to give them an option, not an ultimatum or a threat. She gave them the choice of keeping their dignity: ‘Let’s try and sort this out another way. Here, are you all right, love?’ There was something deeply calming about being called ‘love’, like your nan might say. People’s anger tended to melt, and it made her think that most of them hadn’t had enough kindness in their lives.
Caroline prided herself, in a quiet way, on being able to handle any human being, no matter how drunk, violent, or psychotic.
Miss Innocence Ashford was her first failure.
They’d brought her in to the station in handcuffs, and it had still taken six male officers to restrain her. Caroline had never seen anything like the pandemonium of jostling, screaming reporters that chased her to the door – she’d felt sorry for the woman at first – they were like a skulk of foxes after a chicken. But Caroline’s compassion soon drained away. She was one of the interviewing officers, and the entire time the woman had stared at her with such coiled venom, it had taken every ounce of will not to flinch. She was mortified, and just a bit resentful. No one likes their balloon popped. Even though Ashford was handcuffed to her chair, and that chair was nailed to the floor, and they were under observation, Caroline couldn’t shake the feeling that she might lunge through the air, chair attached, like one of the no-good vampires in Blade, and bite through her neck.
The aura of evil intent was potent.
‘I want my call,’ the woman had said, and Caroline had jerked in her seat. There was a sudden guttural edge to the woman’s voice, and the words she’d used … Scum, she thought, before she could stop herself. This woman might have all the trappings of wealth and class but at her core she was the underclass, and, as such, she had nothing to lose. She had the desire, the desperation, the capability of committing any crime, no matter how brutal, to drag herself upward.
Miss Innocence Ashford had rung her solicitor. Caroline had hoped it would calm her.
Not exactly.
The conversation had been short, but explosive.
The woman had dropped the receiver and started screaming. Caroline and another officer had run into the room in alarm, thinking she was fitting. It was like watching someone morph into a demon before your eyes. Whatever the bloke had said, it had caused her to go stark, raving mad. She was thrashing about like a soul possessed, spitting with rage, and screeching uncontrollably, to the point where, if she didn’t watch it, she was going to get a whack.
The woman was babbling and shrill, but the gist of what she said was clear enough: ‘I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him, I’ll slit him open and cut out his heart, I’ll pull out his entrails like fucking spaghetti and ram them down his throat. How dare he do this to me, how dare he – oh my God, from the day he met me – how dare he treat me like this, how dare he do this to me!’
‘Language,’ Caroline had murmured mildly. ‘I’ve heard what you’re saying, we all have, and you’re doing your case no good at all – it could all be admissible. Sit down, lip up, and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’
Well, the woman had just flown at her. She was swarmed just in time, but even the combined weight of DC Barton and PC Kruger, and DI Russell – all pastry fans – could barely contain her. As she was bundled into her cell in plastic handcuffs, the woman had spat a response. Caroline felt like wiping her memory clean with a bar of soap! As her nan would have said, pursing her lips more in sorrow than in anger, ‘And that’s all the news that’s fit to print!’
LONDON, NOVEMBER 1998
Emily
Emily sat by her father’s bedside and tapped he
r foot. ‘You bastard,’ she said.
There was no response. He lay there, supine, his mouth open, dried spit at the corners, his breath quiet and rasping. Puffing hard, she leaned across the bed and hissed in his ear, ‘I hate you. I just hate you. You’re the worst dad ever. You don’t care about me. Everything I’m going through is, like, your fault.’
She clenched her jaw. You couldn’t even sulk when your dad was in a coma. It was, like, the ultimate ‘whatever’. She didn’t care if he died. OK, she cared a bit – if he died then she would be even more alone than she already was. He’d already abandoned her, because he didn’t approve of her lifestyle (ironic, considering his own) and he’d abandoned her because he was a selfish, spiteful, lying bastard, and it would be so typical if he decided to bloody die and abandon her for ever.
She couldn’t believe, she literally couldn’t believe what he’d done. His latest betrayal was cruel and absolute. If it got out – oh my God – when Innocence was already under suspicion, about to be tried for attempted murder …
Emily could barely take it in. She’d discharged herself from hospital the minute she’d heard of her mother’s arrest (paying the outrageous bill on credit), caught a cab to the police station, and demanded to see her mother. Being a waddling nine months pregnant opened doors, and she’d been allowed a short visit.
Four harassed-looking men in suits were on their way out. Innocence had screeched after them, ‘Six hundred quid an hour, you bastards, and I’m still sitting here. What am I paying you for? Thirty quid a piss?’
‘Nice,’ Emily had murmured. ‘Well, I see you’re fitting right in.’
Her mother had waited until the solicitors were out of earshot. Then she leaped up from her chair and snarled in a hoarse whisper, ‘Jack and I were never married.’ Bizarrely, she was prettier without lashings of make-up and fake tan. She must have lost her voice from screaming so much. She’d shaken Emily by the shoulders and hissed in her face: ‘Your pig of a father never married me!’
‘Don’t be insane,’ Emily had said, breathing hard. The baby had just about halved her lung capacity. ‘Is this because you got married abroad? It still counts.’ Emily knew about marriage law; she’d researched it before marrying Tim in Vegas. She hadn’t wanted to take any chances.
‘No,’ husked her mother. ‘It’s invalid.’
‘Mother, it doesn’t matter if a local farmer cracks a coconut over both your heads. If that’s a legal marriage ceremony according to the local laws and customs, then it is legally binding in Britain as well. As long as you aren’t cousins.’
Innocence had shaken her head wildly. Her hair needed a wash. ‘It wasn’t the ceremony. The ceremony was fine. And the bloke was kosher, accredited, licensed, all that shit.’ She’d swallowed. ‘But the ceremony took place in this little place on the beach – he owned it – he never said – and it wasn’t licensed for marriage ceremonies. He owned it, he knew it wasn’t licensed, and he stored the documentation with that shit of a lawyer of his, to prove it. I was never his wife!’
Emily had gulped. ‘So … what does this mean? Surely you have rights? You lived together …’
‘Are you eating any vegetables or fruit?’
‘What?’
‘Try and eat a mango,’ Innocence had muttered, before shouting, ‘We were rarely under the same roof! We probably spent a total of two years in the same house – it’s not enough for me to have a claim.’
‘So …’
‘He married his MISTRESS!’ Her mother glanced nervously at the door, as if they might be overheard. ‘He left her everything! He tricked me. I knew he was up to something. I confronted him, and with his hand on his heart, he said, “Innocence darling, I am leaving everything to my wife.” Only it was Maria! Fucking Maria Radcliffe! They married in secret, in bloody Tuscany, this year!’
‘But, Mummy, Maria is dead.’
‘Yes!’ Innocence had rasped. ‘And dear dead mouldering-away Maria has left everything to her daughter.’
‘Oh my God. A stranger! A stranger gets all our money!’
‘No,’ Innocence had hissed. ‘No. Claudia gets it! He was only shagging that little cow’s real mother! Claudia gets it all!’
Emily had reeled back in shock. Her mother had shaken her head, and hissed. ‘And that’s the best-case scenario.’
Stammering, Emily had asked, ‘What’s the worst?’
Innocence had pulled Emily close and whispered in her ear: ‘The worst is that this fact is made public, and some greedy fucker who Jack stiffed in the Lloyd’s disaster puts two and two together.’
Emily had shaken her head, not understanding.
Her mother had let out a shrill squeak of fury. ‘If I was never his wife, then when he – I – transferred all his assets into my name, they could claim that it wasn’t legal.’
‘That’s crap, Mother. I’m sure it is. He could transfer his assets to whomever he liked, so long as he didn’t do it with the intent of avoiding his liabilities. If you were the person named in the document, then it doesn’t matter if you were his wife, his aunt or the boy who shines his shoes.’
Innocence had swallowed. ‘Jesus, Emily. I hope you’re right. Because this is not about money – not any more. It’s about motive. Christ, I need a cigarette.’ She’d paused. ‘This is going to get out before the trial. I know it. And then, Lloyd’s or no Lloyd’s, I’ll be looking at life.’
Emily gritted her teeth to stop a squeak of rage, and glared at her father’s unconscious form.
Bad luck had a way of finding this family.
It would have been far easier for her to accept that a stranger was to inherit her father’s kingdom than it was for her to accept that her sister was getting it all. It wasn’t as if Emily was mean, just that, like, when you’re rock bottom, it’s hard to be happy for your sister’s glorious success. In fact, it’s impossible. You can hardly stand to be conscious for the evil green thoughts that eat at your heart; you cannot help but compare her bloody astonishing good luck to your crap, shitty luck, and even if you don’t totally hate her, her blithe happiness in the face of her frankly undeserved good fortune – when it should have been you – turns you sour against her, and you can’t help but wish her ill.
Look. She would have been fine about a stranger getting it all. Someone she didn’t know. It’s OK if someone is rich and successful and happy whom you don’t know. Then it’s harder to compare your crappy shit life to their fabulous luxury one.
Her life was crappy, and it was shit, and the baby wasn’t even born yet. She was surviving off a pathetic allowance courtesy of her Scrooge of a mother. It felt so wrong. OK! magazine were offering for a Baby Interview – that would pay the Lindo Wing fees – but after that, if she wanted to keep this kid in Ralph, she’d be required to think out of the box. Jesus! Money, money, money! Because she didn’t have any, it was all she thought about. It was like a disease: financial anorexia.
And her husband, who might have helped out by, say, selling that enormous shag pad of his in New York, had literally disappeared in a puff of smoke. The bomb had gone off – boom ! He was gone: infuckingcommunicado.
He’d written, of course. It was undoubtedly the correct thing to do: to correspond with your spouse after her head had nearly been blown off by a large incendiary device.
Tim wrote a good letter, full of concern, assuring her that he was being kept informed of her day-to-day health, that he’d be back to look after her as soon as he could, but he was abroad (she noted he was vague about where, and she didn’t recognize the stamp). His father, he said, had organized it, had insisted that he recover from his ‘emotional trauma’ in a hot place, with private medical facilities.
It was just a lie, she was certain of it, to separate them. There was no way the Earl even knew the phrase ‘emotional trauma’. Emily imagined he would have gagged, trying to say it. Emotional trauma was for whoopsies. An Englishman would fall on his sword before admitting ‘emotional trauma’.
But
here he was, wheeling it out, as an excuse to keep Timmy away from her. It just showed how deeply the Earl disapproved – no, hated their union.
It made her sad and depressed. Was Tim not even going to bother to be there for the birth of his baby? Tim was kind of weak, but when he was on form, he made her laugh. He was good company. He was stunning. He was good in bed. She was chuffed to be married to him. If only he could be strong, and have faith in her, she was sure that they would be a great couple. And if they were a great couple, a fine family, then maybe, eventually, the Earl might relent – and he would get his inheritance, and she would get her castle, and it would all end perfectly after all.
There were a lot of ‘ifs’.
And right now, it seemed that Claudia was hogging all the money, all the luck. Claudia was officially heiress to a billion-pound fortune and not a penny for Emily! It was just the worst thing, ever. Claudia would be getting Jack’s money, whether Maria was alive or dead. It had nothing to do with Maria. It was Jack’s wish that Claudia got the money. She wasn’t even his blood daughter. She was no relation! At least Claudia didn’t know about the inheritance: the lawyer had only told Innocence because it was ‘pertinent to her defence’. Claudia got the money!
Emily looked at her father. There really was no hope of him suddenly waking and being persuaded to change the will.