No one said anything at all to her when she arrived and she walked into Mrs Patel’s old office, determined to concentrate on her work for the minister.
Tom’s consultant could not tell her anything when he eventually rang her, and he sounded irritable when she asked her unanswerable questions.
‘Is he going to live?’ she said at one moment, needing to put her worst fears into words.
‘We hope so. We are doing all we can to ensure it, but I cannot give you any guarantees at the moment. When there is something to tell you, you will be told. Until then, there really is nothing more I can say. We are doing all we can.’ The impatience in his voice was barely controlled by his undoubted sympathy.
‘I know. Thank you. I’d like… I would like to know more details of the actual damage his brain and chest have suffered.’
‘As soon as there is any news, you will have it.’
‘If I were to come in at lunchtime would you be available to talk?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. I’ll be operating. I could see you briefly…’ There was a short pause. ‘Yes, the day after tomorrow at nine-thirty if that’s any good to you, although there’s no guarantee that we’ll know any more by then.’
‘I understand that. Thank you. I’ll be there at nine-thirty. Goodbye.’
Breathing deeply, Willow pulled forward the notes she had written the previous day and tried to make sense of them. Her brain seemed to be quite useless and it was not until much later that she even remembered her meeting with the minister or that she had asked him to arrange for her to see the remaining confidential information about Fiona Fydgett.
By that time Kate had gone out to lunch. Willow decided that she, too, might as well go out, even though once again she did not particularly want to eat anything.
Returning to the office from a steamy café, where she had lunched on a cheese-and-salad sandwich and a can of Diet Coke, she discovered that Kate was still not back in her office. Len Scoffer was at his desk, sitting with a Tupperware box in front of him, eating his way through a solid looking pork pie. There was a tomato awaiting his attention beside a small bar of chocolate and a glossy green Granny Smith apple. He put the half-eaten pie down in the box when he saw her and wiped his mouth and his hands on a paper napkin before saying, ‘Yes, Miss King?’
‘I believe that an instruction has come through that I am to have access to those parts of Fiona Fydgett’s file that were weeded yesterday, and also to files concerning the other investigations you’re carrying out at the moment.’
‘I have had no instructions about the Fydgett files, but Kate asked me to give you those.’ One short bony finger was pointing towards a new pile of folders on top of his green filing cabinet. Willow picked them up. ‘You’ll find that they’re all investigations that Kate set up when she first came here. A few have already been resolved, rather oddly in some instances; others not yet. She’s about to have a go at transport—mini-cabs, taxis and private bus firms—but until now she’s been targeting the building trade.’
‘Really?’ said Willow, noticing that Len was being more forthcoming than usual. She wondered why. ‘Why should she do that?’
‘Come on, you’re not that naive. Hasn’t a plumber ever quoted you two prices: one in cash and a higher one for a cheque, which he’d have to record in his accounts and on which he would have to pay tax?’
The patronage in his voice irritated Willow out of her apathy and she said, ‘No. My housekeeper deals with all that sort of thing. Thank you for these. I’ll be back for the Fydgett papers later.’
She did not wait for any reaction and returned to her own room to read through the first batch of new files, acquainting herself with the realities of financial life as a self-employed plumber, electrician, roofer and carpenter. Their letters were both less and more informative than Fiona Fydgett’s. None had her way with words and yet through many of their papers came personalities that were much more distinct than hers.
The electrician, whose name was Daniel Hallten, was apparently facing bankruptcy, but he had eventually entered into an Independent Voluntary Agreement, under which he had agreed to pay his creditors a monthly sum over a period of three years. If he failed to make any of the payments he could be made bankrupt, but provided he kept them up he would be allowed to continue to trade, and in the end he would have paid his creditors only thirty pence in each pound he owed.
Willow thought that behind the aggression of some of his letters he was a worrier and intended to do right by the tax inspectors once he understood the system. He simply found it hard to grasp the way they worked and they seemed unable to find words that would explain it to him.
Joe Wraggeley, the plumber, had no such troubles. He seemed a far more insouciant character and his business appeared to be fairly successful, not least after the ferociously cold winter before his last set of accounts. Len Scoffer had disputed his figures for that year. It was clear that Wraggeley had been under surveillance of some sort, for Scoffer had challenged him to produce details of various specific jobs that had not figured in his accounts at all.
Could it ever be worth while, Willow asked herself, to have such a man watched for the sort of debts that were claimed by Scoffer? Wouldn’t it cost more to trap the plumber than his unpaid taxes were worth?
Recognising a most unsuitable reaction for a civil servant, she reminded herself of her long-held and unchangeable belief that people who live in a country ought to pay its legitimate taxes and ignored the final pathetic letter in which the plumber undertook to pay the whole of the last assessment together with the accrued interest and penalties, but begged to be allowed to pay in instalments over several years.
There was no time to look at any of the other cases before her meeting with Serena Fydgett, and so Willow quickly locked away the files in the deep bottom drawer of Mrs Patel’s desk.
Willow waved at Cara Saks as she left and was glad to see her smile more confidently than usual. Turning away, Willow found herself face to face with Jason Tillter.
‘So how’s it going?’ he asked her with his usual wide but unconvincing smile.
‘Interestingly,’ she said. ‘I’m glad to have run into you because I’ve got another question which I suspect you will answer more frankly than most others here.’
‘Yes?’
‘Is there any acknowledgment among inspectors of the basic unfairness of a taxpayer’s treatment depending so much on the personality of the inspector dealing with his or her case?’ Seeing that Jason was looking at her blankly, Willow added: ‘Clearly some inspectors are a great deal harder to deal with than others. Doesn’t it seem unfair that some taxpayers therefore have to suffer much more than others before their cases are settled?’
‘No. It seems funny.’ Jason produced one of his most dazzling smiles.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Willow could not see anything at all funny in the idea.
‘Since all taxpayers are dishonest, it’s a matter of the greatest amusement to us when one of them comes up against a real screwball like… well, no names no pack drill. You know who I mean.’
Willow looked at him. After a moment she said quite coldly: ‘Are any of your cases under investigation at the moment?’
‘Naturally. We’re targeted to investigate a certain percentage of cases and we get paid bonuses for cases settled, though not, of course, for extra tax collected. Why do you ask?’
‘I’ll need to see the files of those cases. I’m going through a batch of Kate’s just now, but I’ll be through with them in a day or two. Will you have yours ready please?’
‘I’ll have to—’
‘Kate is fully aware of what I’m doing,’ said Willow before he could complete his objection or explain why he was suddenly looking so angry. ‘Good evening, Jason.’
SHE REACHED the Temple half an hour later and walked into its leafy calm with a sense of relief. The peaceful and civilised air of the place was illusory, she knew, for the barristers who worked there coul
d be quite as ruthless in their own way as any tax inspector. But the quiet of the narrow roads between the beautiful old buildings was a great deal pleasanter than the great barrack-like building on the Vauxhall Bridge Road with the traffic thundering up and down outside and pumping acrid fumes into the air.
It took her a while to identify Plough Court, which was not a building she knew, but she found it in the end. Inside it proved to look very much like other sets of chambers she had visited, with cream-painted walls and stone stairs edged with plain, black-painted iron banisters.
Serena, too, proved to look very much as Willow had expected. She had removed her wig and gown, but Willow thought she would have known her anywhere as a barrister. She was a big woman, tall as well as broad shouldered, and there was a flamboyance about her ostensibly severe clothes and a firm confidence in her well-rounded voice that seemed quintessentially of the Bar. Plenty of barristers were not at all like their stereotypes, Willow had found, but enough of them were to provide amusement in easier times.
‘Do sit down,’ Serena said, gesturing towards a comfortable-looking leather chair opposite her desk.
As Willow obeyed, the light from the window behind the desk fell on her face and Serena gasped. In a much less fruity voice, she said, ‘You look ill. Are you up to this? Would you rather we put it off?’
Willow shook her head. ‘I’m better working, I think, while I…’ Remembering Tom’s perceptive assessment of her inability to wait, workless, for news of her agent’s reactions to her new novel, Willow was afraid that she might burst into tears. Determined not to give way to a habit she had always despised, particularly in front of a stranger, she concentrated hard, once more biting the scraped insides of her cheeks. When she could speak again, she said: ‘You know that I’m looking into the Revenue’s conduct of your sister’s case.’ To her regret her voice came out cool and almost uninterested. ‘I gather that you had serious reservations about the tax inspector’s behaviour. Can you tell me why?’
Willow watched the barrister frown and remembered that it was only a matter of weeks since her sister had killed herself. She said more warmly: ‘I’m sorry if it troubles you to talk about it. I do realise that it’s all very recent and that you must feel raw still. But—’
‘Of course it troubles me,’ said Serena impatiently, ‘but the sooner it’s sorted out the better. I believe that Scoffer was unnecessarily aggressive in his dealings with my sister, that he allowed his personal feelings to affect the way he treated her, and possibly that he threatened her with an annual investigation that would eventually cost her far more in accountancy fees than the tax he was claiming.’
‘Why is that no more than a possibility?’
‘Because the only evidence I have is a copy of a letter that she wrote, protesting about an oral threat he made during a meeting. There’s no corroboration. That wouldn’t be anything like enough to stand up in court.’
Serena covered her eyes for a moment. Willow, feeling almost as embarrassed as though she herself had burst into tears, said quietly: ‘Shall I go?’
‘No, don’t.’ Serena looked up again. There were no signs of distress on her face, only anger. ‘In some ways, I think, it actually helps to talk. I…’
When it was clear that Serena was not going to finish her sentence, Willow tried to prompt her. ‘Tell me. I’m here to help investigate what happened to your sister and why, so that the minister can ensure that nothing like it ever happens again.’
‘Yes, I know. And, believe me, I am grateful, particularly since you don’t look to be in any state to be investigating anything.’
‘I’m all right. What were you going to say just then?’
There was an uncomfortable silence. After a while Willow said: ‘If it helps at all, I think I can understand something of what you must be feeling. My husband is badly injured in hospital at the moment, and—’
‘Well, unless you caused his injuries, you won’t understand,’ said Serena harshly. Seeing that Willow was looking blank, Serena added as though to a rather stupid child: ‘I feel guilty about what happened to my sister.’
‘Guilty,’ repeated Willow, whose naturally suspicious mind had been seething with memories of faked suicides. Hoping that she sounded merely interested, she said: ‘Why?’
‘Because I ought to have known how they were treating her and done something to help. But I’ve been snowed under with work. I…’ Serena visibly took control of herself, and added in her court voice, ‘You can’t live other people’s lives for them, but I could have done more to help.’
Nor die their deaths, thought Willow in a sudden panic, completely distracted from her extravagant suspicions. I most concentrate on the Fydgetts and stop thinking about Tom for the moment. I can’t. I must.
‘I still don’t understand,’ she said, trying to keep her mind on her job.
Serena sighed and fiddled with a Mont Blanc pen that had leaked ink all over a document in front of her.
‘If Fiona had only told me what was happening, I could have protected her from the worst effects of what Scoffer was doing. I don’t take tax cases myself, but I know plenty of people who do. We could have sorted it all out easily enough without any of the anguish that she seems to have suffered.’
‘In that case, why didn’t she tell you what was happening?’
Serena shook her head and then looked back at Willow. ‘That’s what’s tormenting me,’ she said, sounding puzzled by her own lack of reticence. ‘If only I hadn’t been so angry with her about something else, I’d probably have heard all about it. As it is, all I can do now is make certain that her estate doesn’t pay a penny more tax than is due and take care of Robert for her.’
‘Robert?’ said Willow, once more diverted from all the things she ought to have been asking.
‘Her son.’ Serena looked surprised, as though she had expected Willow to know everything about the Fydgett family. ‘He’s fifteen. His father deserted them both before he was born. Fiona’s had many… Fiona often fell in love, but she never married again. We’re a cousinless family and both my parents are dead. Apart from me, Rob has no one.’
Willow closed her eyes, trying not to think of what would happen to her if Tom died.
‘What is it?’ asked Serena with such concern in her voice that Willow trembled. ‘Is it your husband? I’m sorry if I sounded unsympathetic just now. It’s difficult just at the moment to remember that our tragedy isn’t the only one in the world.’
Unable to hold out any longer, Willow blew her nose hard, and explained about the shooting. Serena put a few skilful questions and Willow did not stop talking again until she heard herself explaining about the permafrost in which her emotions had been encased for her first thirty-eight years, and the way that Tom had thawed them out. Horrified to be opening her private life to a stranger, whom she had no reason to trust—or to bore—she finally put a mental gag on herself and managed to stop talking.
Serena, who had been listening in silence, said, ‘I heard about the shooting on the news last night, of course, but I hadn’t made the connection between him and you. I am so sorry. It must be appalling for you not knowing whether he’s going to survive.’
Taken aback by the other woman’s bluntness, and yet at the same time relieved that she had not commented on any of the emotional outpourings, Willow just nodded.
‘Where is he?’
‘Dowting’s. I’ve every respect for them there. If anyone can help him, they can.’ Willow shook her head. ‘But that’s not what we’re here to discuss.’ She tried to think of something relevant to ask and, failing, added: ‘Tell me more about the boy, your nephew.’
‘He’s at St Peter’s in Chelsea; a boarder,’ said Serena readily, not pointing out that Robert was not germane to the enquiry either. She seemed as relieved as Willow to be able to talk about something else.
‘A London boarding school? Isn’t that a bit odd given that your sister lived so close?’
‘Not really. F
iona was—often preoccupied, and she had to travel so much that it seemed best for him to board, even though her house is only about ten minutes’walk from the school. From what I picked up from them both, it always sounded as though he’d been reasonably happy there.’
‘Been?’
‘Yes. As you can imagine he’s quite different now.’
‘Deeply unhappy, I’d have thought.’
‘I’d have thought so, too, but he’s gone cold on me. I don’t know that I expected him to cry in my arms exactly, but he won’t let any feelings out at all… He actually quite frightens me at the moment.’ She frowned.
‘Why frightens?’ asked Willow.
‘There must be so much going on under the surface,’ said Serena quickly, ‘and not knowing what he’s thinking at all worries me. He seems hostile, and yet he doesn’t appear to think it’s my fault that she’s dead, and so I don’t understand it. I suppose the hostility might just be a mask, but for what? He’s a big lad, too, for his age,’ she added with apparent irrelevance.
Willow was about to ask a question when Serena shook her head so violently that she loosened one of the hairpins that skewered her dark hair into a bun at the nape of her neck.
‘I’ve had him out of school each weekend since it happened, so that he knows he’s still got a home and…well, some kind of support. But so far it seems as though I’m doing no more than driving him even further into himself.’ Serena coughed. ‘I can’t think why I’m telling you all this.’
Willow smiled at that, feeling for the first time that day as though she did not have to pretend about anything. ‘Perhaps because I let go and told you far too much about myself. It’s a weird feeling, isn’t it?’
Serena only nodded.
‘It’s going to be difficult for you, though, isn’t it: altering your life to fit a schoolboy into it, particularly a hostile one?’ Willow went on, only too glad to be distracted from her own troubles and forgetting all the questions she ought to have been asking. ‘Is he likely to do well academically? That might help.’
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