Tuesday's Gone

by Nicci French

  ‘That’s all right, Ma.’ Jeremy patted her hand as if she were an old dog. ‘It wasn’t your fault. The man was controlling you. You didn’t know what you were doing.’

  ‘Mary,’ said Frieda, ‘are you comfortable talking about this?’ Mary Orton nodded but didn’t speak. Frieda looked at Jeremy. ‘Please explain. About the will.’

  ‘I told you. I was going through Ma’s papers. I found letters from a solicitor. They were about drafting a new will. Ma has the house and her portfolio, so it was quite a big deal. Fortunately she saw the light.’

  ‘Mary changed her mind?’

  ‘No,’ said Jeremy. ‘The solicitor didn’t go through with it. Raised objections. She probably smelt a rat. I wish someone had done that a bit earlier. Now, getting a poor old woman to change a will in favour of someone she barely knows, is that a crime?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Frieda. ‘Have you met her?’

  ‘I read the letters. And I asked Ma about her. She was taken advantage of.’

  Frieda wanted to say, ‘Your mother is in the room.’ Jeremy Orton was treating the old woman as if she were slightly stupid and didn’t understand English properly. But pointing this out would only humiliate her even more. ‘Can I see the letters?’ she asked instead.

  She was addressing Mary Orton, but Jeremy nodded at his brother, who took a file from his bag and handed it across to Frieda. She opened it and flicked through the official-looking letters. One was an invoice. She felt someone close to her: Robin was reading the letter over her shoulder.

  ‘Three hundred pounds,’ he said. ‘Three hundred pounds for not doing a will. I wonder what they’d charge for actually doing it.’

  Frieda saw the name at the bottom of the letter. Tessa Welles. She wrote it down and the address. ‘It sounds like a bargain,’ she said.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ agreed Robin. ‘At least someone was looking out for my mother.’

  ‘Have you only just discovered this?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Did neither of you know about the will before?’

  ‘No,’ said Jeremy.

  ‘No,’ agreed Robin, adding, ‘Of course not.’

  The kitchen door opened and Josef came in. He seemed tired but he smiled when he saw Frieda. ‘I did not know,’ he said.

  ‘I was about to come up.’

  ‘So, what have you been doing?’ said Jeremy.

  ‘The roof is fixed,’ said Josef. ‘Not fixed, proper fixed, just a patch to stop the water.’

  ‘Did you give my mother an estimate for the work in advance?’

  Josef gazed at Jeremy with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Come to that,’ Jeremy continued, ‘I’m not sure what you’re doing commissioning work in my mother’s house.’

  ‘There was a hole in the roof,’ said Frieda, ‘and you were in Manchester.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Jeremy’s tone turned harsher. ‘You mean that you and this man were looking after my mother and I wasn’t?’

  ‘Please, Jeremy,’ said Mary. ‘They were just –’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘What would you feel like, if someone did that to your mother?’

  ‘What did you feel like?’ said Frieda.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I am sorry,’ said Josef. ‘I am finished.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Mary, ‘there are some other things I hoped you could look at. The boiler’s making a funny noise and there’s a window upstairs that won’t shut properly.’

  Josef glanced warily at Robin and Jeremy.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Jeremy. ‘It’s not my house.’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Mary and Josef left the kitchen together, and Frieda looked down at her notebook, at the solicitor’s address. ‘Princes Road. Is that nearby?’

  ‘It’s just round the corner,’ said Robin. ‘Poole just took Ma up the road to the nearest person he could find. It must have seemed so simple.’

  ‘Can I use your phone?’ said Frieda.

  ‘Don’t you have a mobile?’

  ‘Not with me.’

  Robin waved her towards the phone in a holster on the wall.

  It took several calls and repeated explanations, then Frieda sat for forty minutes of mostly uncomfortable silence before Yvette arrived in a car and picked her up. She didn’t seem happy to see Frieda. ‘You need to tell us,’ she said, ‘if you’re going to talk to witnesses.’

  ‘I wasn’t exactly talking to witnesses,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef is working on Mary Orton’s house and he rang me because there was a problem with her sons. I didn’t think it had anything to do with the case.’

  Yvette was sitting in the passenger seat and Frieda was in the back. She felt like a child being driven somewhere by two disapproving adults.

  ‘You can’t just act on your own,’ said Yvette.

  Frieda didn’t respond. The car pulled up outside a line of shops. ‘Should I come with you?’ she asked.

  ‘If you want,’ said Yvette, shrugging.

  The two women got out of the car. The location of Tessa Welles’s office wasn’t immediately obvious. Number fifty-two was a shop selling tiles and vases, jugs and coffee cups. Number fifty-two B was a small green door to the left. Long rang the doorbell and they were buzzed inside. The two of them walked up the narrow stairs. At the top there was an anteroom with a desk, a computer, neatly stacked piles of papers and a chair. Beyond it, a door swung open and a woman stepped out. Frieda guessed she was in her late thirties, with thick, reddish-blonde hair, long and tied loosely back, as if to keep it out of her way, and a pale face that was bare of makeup, with faded freckles over the bridge of the nose. Her eyes were grey-blue and shrewd, and she was dressed in a charcoal-grey shift dress, thick, patterned tights and ankle boots. She gave a slightly harassed smile. ‘I’m Tessa Welles,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come through? I’ve just made a pot of coffee, if you’d like some.’

  She took them into a much messier main office, with a window overlooking the street. Files were piled on her desk and shelves held other box files, legal books. There were certificates on the wall and photographs: Tessa Welles in a group of people at a restaurant, Tessa Welles on a beach somewhere, Tessa Welles on a bike among a group of cyclists with mountains in the background. There were also two paintings that Frieda wouldn’t have minded on her own walls at home. Tessa poured them coffee and Yvette introduced herself, then Frieda as a ‘civilian assistant’.

  ‘Do you work alone?’ said Yvette, sipping her coffee.

  ‘I’ve got an assistant, Jenny, who comes in half-time. She’s not here today.’

  ‘Mrs Welles,’ said Yvette.

  ‘Ms.’

  ‘Sorry. Ms. In mid-November, you met a woman called Mary Orton and a man called Robert Poole. It was about drawing up a will for her. Do you remember?’

  Tessa gave a very faint smile. ‘Yes, I remember.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Yvette. ‘Is something funny?’

  ‘No,’ said Tessa. ‘It’s not really funny. But is this about some kind of fraud?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I don’t know. What I mainly remember is that that man made me uncomfortable. He seemed like a bit of a chancer. What’s happened? Is this a fraud inquiry?’

  ‘No, it’s a murder inquiry,’ said Yvette. ‘Somebody killed him.’

  Tessa’s expression changed to one of shock. ‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I had no idea. I –’

  ‘A chancer, you said.’

  ‘No, no.’ Tessa made a gesture of repudiation. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty. I don’t know anything about him.’

  ‘What did you mean?’

  Tessa took a deep breath. ‘When someone alters a will in favour of a beneficiary who is not a family member, it always rings an alarm bell.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  Tessa frowned with the effort of recollection. ‘I think I just talked it through with them … well, with th
e woman in particular. I asked for her reasons in making the change, why now, whether she had thought it over, discussed it with her family, and so on.’

  ‘And what did Mrs Orton say?’

  ‘I can’t remember exactly,’ said Tessa. ‘I got the impression that she felt abandoned by her family. I think this man had taken their place.’

  ‘What was Poole saying during the meeting?’

  ‘Not much. He was like an attentive son, in the background, supportive.’

  ‘So what was the problem?’ said Frieda.

  Yvette frowned at her.

  ‘What?’ Tessa seemed puzzled.

  ‘You’re a solicitor,’ said Frieda. ‘If someone wants to change a will and comes to you, isn’t your job just to draw it up for them?’

  Tessa smiled, then looked thoughtful. ‘I’m a family solicitor,’ she said. ‘I do conveyancing, wills and divorces. Buying houses and getting married and dying. I remember being told when I was a student that if you like law as a kind of theatre you should become a barrister. But if you want to discover people’s secrets, their deepest feelings and passions, you should become a solicitor.’

  ‘Or a psychotherapist,’ said Yvette.

  ‘No,’ said Tessa. ‘I can really help people.’

  Yvette glanced at Frieda with a secret smile. Tessa noticed it. ‘Oh, God, you’re not …’ she began.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Yvette.

  ‘Sorry, it was a cheap thing to say. I didn’t mean anything.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Frieda. ‘You were talking about helping people.’

  ‘Yes. I see couples who are divorcing and sometimes they talk to me in a way they can’t talk to anyone else. Not even each other.’

  ‘So why didn’t you just draw up the will for Mary Orton?’ said Frieda.

  ‘I don’t “just do” things for people,’ said Tessa. ‘I always talk to them and find out what it is that they really need.’

  ‘And what did Mary Orton really need?’ asked Frieda.

  ‘She was lonely, that was clear, and in need of support. I suppose what she really needed was her family. And I suspected that this man had come into the vacuum and was taking advantage of her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call the police?’

  ‘She didn’t call the police,’ said Yvette, ‘because changing your will is not a crime.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Tessa. ‘I tried to talk to Mrs Orton about why she wanted to do this. She seemed to find it embarrassing, distressing, even. I felt sorry for her.’

  ‘What did Robert Poole say?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘He said it wasn’t his idea, that it was something Mrs Orton wanted to do and that it was important to her.’

  ‘He had a bloody nerve,’ said Yvette, abruptly, then bit her lower lip. ‘What else did you say?’ she asked more calmly.

  ‘I told Mrs Orton that she was taking a large step and that it was something she ought to think about. I probably also said that if she left everything away from her family, then the will might be subject to legal challenge.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘That was all,’ said Tessa. ‘They left and I didn’t hear anything more.’

  ‘Were you shocked?’ said Yvette.

  Tessa pulled a face and shook her head. ‘I used to be. The first few years of hearing what husbands say about wives and wives say about husbands and what people do to their own families, I lost every illusion I had. Sometimes I feel like I’m faced with huge, dangerous engines that are falling apart, and all I can do is put little pieces of sticky tape on them and hope they hold for a while.’

  ‘What did you make of Robert Poole?’ asked Yvette.

  ‘I told you. Although he was very polite, and Mary Orton obviously trusted him, I felt there was something wrong about him. I did what I could but, of course, I knew it was possible he’d find someone else to do the will, or even that they’d just draw it up between themselves and find a stray witness. There’s a limit to what you can do for people.’

  ‘What did you think when you heard he’d been killed?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ said Tessa. ‘I’m shocked, of course. I can’t believe it.’

  ‘Why do you think it happened?’

  ‘God, I don’t know. I don’t know anything about his life.’

  ‘But you saw him in action,’ Yvette said. ‘What if he did something like that to the wrong person?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Tessa. ‘But I had one brief encounter with him and then I forgot all about him until now. I can’t throw any light on his murder, if that’s what you’re looking for. What did Mary Orton’s family think?’

  ‘They weren’t pleased,’ said Frieda. ‘They weren’t pleased at all.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Most people seem to have found him charming,’ said Frieda. ‘Were you charmed by him?’

  Tessa gave another faint smile. ‘No. I probably met him in the wrong context to be charmed by him.’

  Yvette stood up. ‘Thank you, Ms Welles,’ she said. ‘I think that’s everything for the time being.’

  Frieda remained seated. ‘I want to ask Tessa something,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with the inquiry. Is it all right if I join you outside?’ Yvette glared at Frieda, who added mildly, ‘I’ll only be a minute.’

  Yvette turned and walked out. Frieda heard her thumping down the stairs. Tessa looked at her with concern. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘A bit of friction. I’ve only just been appointed.’

  ‘Appointed to what?’

  ‘That’s a good question. But I wanted to ask you something completely different. I was interested when you talked about the way you worked. About knowing people’s secrets and counselling them …’

  ‘I didn’t exactly say “counselling”.’

  ‘Well, anyway, my sister-in-law is on very bad terms with her ex-husband, my brother, and she needs to get some advice about dealing with the situation.’

  Tessa leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. ‘Whose side are you on in this dispute?’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m exactly taking sides,’ said Frieda. ‘But if I was in a balloon with both of them and I had to throw one of them out, it would be my brother.’

  Tessa smiled. ‘I’ve got a brother. I think I know what you mean.’

  ‘But is this the sort of thing you do?’

  ‘It’s exactly the sort of thing I do.’

  ‘No favours,’ said Frieda. ‘We’d pay, just like any other client, but you could talk to her?’

  ‘I could talk to her.’

  Back on the pavement, Frieda found Yvette and the other officer leaning on the car in conversation. Yvette looked round at Frieda, who could almost feel hostility steaming off her. ‘You did well,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘But leave the detective work to us, OK?’

  Twenty-eight

  ‘I know what you’re thinking.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You’re thinking he must have had some ulterior motive, right?’

  ‘What makes you say so?’

  ‘Look, I’m no fool. I know what I look like to you – an ageing has-been, with a string of failed relationships behind me, now alone, surrounded by mementoes of her not-so-glorious past. I can see myself through your eyes: my dyed hair, my pathetic attempts to hold on to my youth. Am I right?’

  ‘No, you’re not right.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Try: a successful woman, who’s managed to hold her own in a difficult profession and who’s hung on to her dignity and self-respect.’

  Jasmine Shreeve’s face softened. She sat down opposite Frieda and leaned forward. ‘Sorry. I get defensive.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘Do you really think that?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about your life, but it’s another way of looking at it.’

  ‘So you don’t just assume that Robbie was out to exploit me?’

&nb
sp; ‘He seems to have specialized in inserting himself into vulnerable people’s lives,’ said Frieda, thinking of Mary Orton as she’d last seen her – a small, shrunken figure with her two tall sons on either side.

  ‘So you do think I’m vulnerable.’

  ‘We’re all vulnerable, in one way or another. Poole seems to have had a knack for finding people’s weak points.’

  ‘Well, he was kind to me. He seemed to like me.’ Frieda didn’t say anything and Jasmine Shreeve stiffened again. ‘You people think there always has to be something under the surface. That there are meanings beneath the meanings we give things. I say he liked me and I can see your eyes gleam. Every word becomes dangerous.’

  ‘Are you angry with therapists because your own therapy didn’t help you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Perhaps you feel that we promise answers and only give more questions.’

  ‘How did you know I had therapy? Who’s been talking about me?’

  Jasmine Shreeve didn’t just seem angry, but properly scared. Her voice quivered and she put one hand up to her face in a self-protective gesture that Frieda was familiar with from her patients.

  ‘Nobody’s been talking about you. It just seemed likely.’

  ‘What have I said? I’ve said nothing! What else do you know? Go on. Tell me. Don’t just sit there staring at me like that, as if you can see inside me.’

  Frieda sat back and paused. ‘Did the therapy help with your drinking?’

  ‘Not really. I …’ Jasmine stopped. ‘Did you read about it in some vicious blog and store it up to use against me? That’s bloody contemptible.’

  Frieda looked at her curiously. ‘Do you really think I would do something like that to you?’

  ‘It would be a way of getting power over me. How else would you know?’

  Frieda thought about that. How did she know? ‘I just felt it.’ She looked around. ‘You’re surrounded by so many things, everything you’ve collected through your life.’ She gestured at the open-plan room. ‘These little bowls, photographs in frames, china figurines, that little chest open to show its contents. Everything’s on view. But there are no wine glasses, no decanters, no bottles. And it’s nearly seven o’clock in the evening and you offered me tea, not a drink. So …’