‘Go on,’ he said, his eyes distant, yet with an underlying look of . . . what? She didn’t know, even though she knew him so well. Disgust perhaps.
‘Right. Well, I believe now’s the time to provide for Nicky’s school and university fees. The trust contains provisions under which we’re allowed to do that, doesn’t it? Pay for her education?’
‘Yes. That is so.’
‘So. I’ll take out two-fifty thousand now and get the education brokers to do the necessary.’
‘Julia? You look terrible. Why don’t you sit down? Take off that wet jacket.’
She shook her head. She needed this to be over now.
He sighed, took a step towards her, then seemed to change his mind and walked to the far side of the room. ‘The situation is crystal clear,’ he said. ‘This trust is watertight. We have two and a half million sitting there with Melbourne Kennedy which they’ve invested in stocks and shares for the benefit of Nicky and she’s going to get it when she’s eighteen,’ he said, swinging round to face her.
‘You mean you’re turning down my request?’
He pursed his lips, looked down at the floor, then back at the rain spattering on the window.
‘Why, Ben?’
‘Because it’s a damn rotten idea. Reducing the trust fund when Nicky’s only six. When her present school fees come easily out of your earnings. When the income the trust is earning now would undoubtedly cover future school and university fees even if they trebled. Are you losing your marbles, Julia?’
She stared at him in disbelief. ‘I shouldn’t have to beg for something that is Nicky’s by right. I should be able to have money from that trust for any reason I think fit. I’m the child’s mother, for God’s sake. I should be able to ─ ’ She put her hands over her face. She was fully aware of her own irrational and unprofessional behaviour.
‘Why? What’s got into you, Julia? What is all this about?’ He walked towards her.
She edged backwards. ‘I’ve already told you why.’
‘Nicky’s education? I’m supposed to believe that. That’s rubbish. And why didn’t you tell me this on Monday, for God’s sake? Why the big secret when you first mentioned it?’
She blinked her eyes and, as she did, another vision loomed. Not a tall, lean, emaciated wraith, grey of countenance, desperate to wreak revenge by dragging her into the quagmire of his own pathetic life, but a small knobbly-kneed child with a shock of blond hair flopping over big blue eyes, whose body had warmed hers when only one threadbare blanket had left her shivering in the night . . .
‘Why should I always tell you . . . everything?’ she said, confused by her own ping-pong thoughts.
He walked back to the window, hands thrust deep into his pockets. He stood watching the rain, then swung round to face her again.
‘I think it’s time you took a holiday. I don’t know what’s come over you. I’m not quite sure why I have to spell it out to you like this, but the settlement was made by Nicky’s grandparents with Simon, you and me as trustees, under which Nicky is to have the capital when she turns eighteen. And they chose the age of eighteen for good tax reasons, didn’t they, Julia, rather than twenty-one or twenty-five. They got expert advice. She can’t have it under eighteen, unless it’s for some exceptional need. As you damn well know.’
Julia rubbed her eyes. Oh yes. It’s an exceptional need, all right, but nevertheless she felt very foolish. This is what Sam Smith is doing to me, she thought. Forcing me to search for loopholes which I knew before I started did not exist.
Plan B then, is all I have left.
‘You know I’ve always been very close to the Grant family,’ Ben went on, almost as though he were seeking atonement for his outburst. ‘At school with Simon, shared digs at university, best man at your wedding, carried his coffin . . .’
He breathed in deeply, then cracked his knuckles one by one. ‘And now,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m your . . . your partner.’
He walked to his desk, leaned on his hands so that his eyes were level with Julia’s and it was impossible for her to look away.
‘I know what’s going on,’ he said.
She gripped the desk. He can’t possibly know. He’s just saying that. Nobody knows except Paul and even he doesn’t know everything. Damn. Why didn’t I think this whole thing through properly. Ben knows what goes into my bank account every month, knows what Nicky’s little private school costs. If I was going to tell lies about wanting money, I should have thought of something more immediate than education. I knew he wouldn’t buy this, but what else is there?
She forced her face to remain expressionless, her hands to be still. ‘You know Nicky has to have the best education. Simon wouldn’t have settled for less. It should have been a discretionary trust.’ Aware that her voice could be heard through the thin dividing walls, she repeated more quietly, ‘A discretionary trust, under which the trustees make up their minds as they go along about what’s going to happen for the good of the child.’
‘But it’s not a discretionary trust, Julia. So forget this wild scheme, this whatever it is you’re planning with Moxon. Okay? Forget it.’
- 60 -
Julia sat down at her desk. She was on her own now. Completely on her own. She’d been foolish to try. Jealousy makes people say and do things quite out of character, and she should have made allowances for this. She should also have thought of something more plausible than school and university fees. She looked at her watch. She was due in court five minutes ago but she’d just have to be late. This was priority number one.
It was a good thing the shares were registered in a nominee name of the stockbroker. It saved signing a lot of share transfers when time was vital, and all that was needed now to instruct their broker to proceed was a letter signed by them both.
By herself.
And by Ben.
She swivelled round to face her computer.
Dear Fred,
Ben and I have decided to raise two hundred and fifty thousand pounds out of the trust. Please, at your discretion, sell sufficient to raise that money.
With education costs rising so rapidly we have decided it would be better to provide for Nicky’s education without further delay, so we authorise you to proceed immediately.
She paused. That’s all very well, but what should Melbourne Kennedy do with the money? Ordinarily it would be paid into the firm’s Client Account.
She pressed the delete button, then started again.
Dear Fred,
Ben and I have decided to raise two hundred and fifty thousand pounds to pay for Nicola’s Nicky's education.
Ben and I have agreed that I will make the arrangements for a dedicated insurance policy through a reputable firm of brokers that deal with school and university fees insurance.
So please credit the money to my private bank account by inter-bank transfer as we don’t want to get this confused with our Client Account.
She read it over, made a few changes, added a suitable ending and printed it out. She was counting on Fred being so busy that he would not dig too deeply into the reason, which now that it was in writing seemed flimsier and more ludicrous than ever, but with time running out there was nothing else she could do. How long, she wondered, would it take to sell those shares and get the money?
She picked up her phone and dialled Fred’s direct number.
He answered after the first ring. ‘It’s Julia Grant, Fred. How are things?’
‘Fine, Julia. How can I help?’
‘Just some information, please. I’m a bit out of touch. What’s the Stock Exchange account date these days? I heard the rolling settlement had come down.’
Last time she’d had any dealings it was ten days, and that was ages ago.
‘It changed some time ago, Julia. It’s three days after instructions now.’
She thanked Fred and put the phone down, cursing her lack of foresight. Damn, if only they’d kept ten percent of the trust money in cash.
&
nbsp; Three days. But it would be three working days. Today was Thursday. Sam Smith’s deadline was Monday. Oh God. One day short.
She clamped her teeth together. One day short was better than no money at all. She signed the letter then tore off a small piece of paper from her pad.
This was the point of no return.
BWA Lloyd, she wrote, pressing down with the pen the way Ben always did.
She wrote it again. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand.
Forgive me, Ben. I’ll explain as soon as it’s safe to tell you.
She looked at the signature from every angle. Yes, it was a perfect facsimile. Before she could change her mind, she pulled the letter towards her. Next to her own name she signed BWA Lloyd, folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. On the front she wrote:
Mr F Kennedy. Melbourne and Kennedy. Personal and Confidential.
She sealed it and put it in her handbag. She would deliver it herself on her way to court.
This is for you, Nicky. For us. Our future.
She put on her hat and stuck the pin through the fold-up front, took the pistol out of her handbag and locked it in her desk drawer.
She felt sick and dizzy but strangely content. Now all she had to do was stall Sam Smith for one extra day.
- 61 -
Kevin Moorsley looked across the desk at his boss. His face was taut and he knew what that meant.
‘Let’s take Sagoe in again, Kevin. Bang him in cells at Stockport.’
‘What are the charges, boss?’
‘Further investigations. Smith shot Avril near Sagoe’s house. That’s enough for me. And don’t tell me I’m grasping at straws.’
Kevin sighed. ‘We got nowhere with him last time.’
He stood up and walked to the door. When the boss said nothing it meant there was no point in arguing. But as he well knew, sometimes the seemingly haphazard hunches of DCS Paul Moxon triggered the solution to the most insoluble of crimes.
- 62 -
My lucky break, Julia thought as she put down the receiver. Joe Sagoe. The one person who might have news of Smith, his physical condition and where he was hiding, asking for me, rather than the duty solicitor. She hadn’t risked going to Sagoe’s house in case it was still under surveillance, so this was a golden opportunity.
She removed the pan of soup she’d been heating for her supper, then dialled Wendy’s number. If only the girl would move into Hillside House instead of sharing that tiny flat with her friend, she wouldn’t have to drag her out at all hours whenever she had to see clients urgently.
But, as usual, Wendy didn’t mind. ‘I’ll come straightaway,’ she answered cheerily. ‘Is Nicky asleep?’
‘Out for the count,’ Julia told her. ‘You should have seen her and Duchess. Up and down the stairs like tornadoes, the two of them.’ She glanced at the fluffy bundle in the basket. ‘I reckon a bomb wouldn’t waken this little Poodle now.’
‘Sometimes I could murder that puppy,’ Wendy said. ‘But then I don’t know what Nicky would do without her. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
Julia put down the phone. A sudden movement at the window made her jump. It’s my own reflection, for goodness sake - hair awry, eyes staring, behaving like a fugitive. And no wonder. After what I did today.
‘Smith has done this to me,’ she said aloud.
She shuddered at the thought of what she’d done to him. Why the hatpin, she asked herself. The scream and the kick in the crotch would surely have been enough. Or she could have used any one of the counter-attacking moves she had just learned from Mike. Come to think of it, Smith didn’t lay a finger on me, even though he was invading my space. Maybe he needed to talk to me, to seek my help . . .
Julia’s knowledge of anatomy was limited to what she had learned at school, supplemented with other scraps, haphazardly gleaned as necessary to help her with murder cases and others where bodily mayhem had featured. The hatpin must somehow have missed all his vital organs, yet three inches of steel must have done some damage, even though it had come out of his lean sinewy stomach without a trace of blood.
Joe Sagoe just might have seen Smith. It was a long shot. He hadn’t phoned today as he promised he would. She needed to know what state he was in. She hadn’t analysed this need, but she knew she wouldn’t rest until she’d discovered what had happened. His silence meant either that a public phone was now too risky, or that he was ill. But if he were ill, if she really had injured him, he would hardly have been capable of rape and murder.
But by all accounts he had done just that. Which meant he was alive and well.
And just waiting to make his next move.
She had to know for sure. And Sagoe just might be her man.
A high-pitched grunt from Duke’s basket made her start. As she bent down and stroked the Poodle, she thought of Duke, his golden coat, his rain-wet smell, his adorable head drooping over the basket as he followed her every move with those loving brown eyes.
Last week Duke was still in that basket.
She closed her eyes. Duke in his basket, when our world was still normal, safe and happy. When Nicky and I could do whatever we liked. When my longed-for brother was the stuff that dreams were made of, to be fashioned in any name or guise I chose. How that world has changed. How I wish I could turn back the clock. But Wendy will be here in a minute and must not see me like this.
She wiped her eyes. A memory flashed . . .
Somewhere. Long ago. Holding back her tears.
If you two little brats don’t stop bawling this minute, I’ll give you both something to cry about . . .
You two . . .
She wished she knew how it was that she remembered some things and not others, and why events were so out of sequence. Are some memories mere imaginings, she wondered. How can I be certain where reality leaves off and fantasy begins?
- 63 -
Julia took the shortcut through Bramhall into Stockport, crossed the Buxton Road into Hillgate, turned into Edward Street and parked her now immaculate red SLK outside the police station.
She ran up the steps and pushed through the heavy swing doors. At the reception area a uniformed WPC, who she knew well, greeted her.
‘I’ll tell the custody sergeant you’re here, Julia.’
Julia thanked her and sat down to wait. She had a sudden crazy urge to nip upstairs for the latest low-down in the Incident Room before she saw Sagoe. Nonsensical, of course, she told herself. And sufficient to have you thrown out of the police station for transgressing the parameters of your job . . .
The WPC caught her daydreaming eye and smiled. ‘PC’s on his way to take you down,’ she said.
Minutes later a member of the custody staff beckoned Julia to follow him downstairs into the custody suite. He stood in front of her at the door, keyed in the security code on the lock and entered.
She walked up to the broad desk and took her file and notepad from her briefcase. Without being asked for it, the custody sergeant presented her with the cumbersome custody record for her client. She spread it in front of her and checked off, almost automatically, the clinical history relating to his arrest: time, reasons, health. She looked up at the custody sergeant’s square, jovial face and wondered why he seemed to extract so much satisfaction from his job. ‘It says here he’s been arrested for murder times two and assisting an escape from lawful custody,’ she said.
He nodded and raised an eyebrow. ‘Correct,’ he said, and I’ve just called Mr Moxon to come and explain the situation and give you disclosure.’
He looked up at the sound of footsteps approaching from behind Julia. She swung round, drop-jawed, and found herself looking into Paul’s eyes. She was momentarily speechless, shocked to find that Paul was becoming personally involved in the enquiry at this level.
Paul flashed a barely perceptible smile. ‘Disclosure, Mrs Grant?’
Julia followed him along the corridor to an interview room, only then noticing that Kevin Moorsley was walkin
g alongside her. The din of raised voices coming from the cell area almost drowned the cacophony of tinny radios all broadcasting different versions of the seemingly same mindless music and made any conversation impossible. Julia tried not to breathe in the smell of urine and disinfectant, though she had to admit Stockport was like a hospital ward compared to some police stations. Jeyes Fluid would make a fortune if they could improve the aroma, she thought.
Once inside the interview room she rediscovered her voice. ‘Mr Moxon, what a surprise to find you here.’ She glanced at Kevin Moorsley and nodded as he pulled out a chair for her at the grey metal table dominating the room.
‘The feeling is entirely mutual, Mrs Grant. With your involvement with Smith I would have thought you would decline to act.’
‘For Mr Sagoe?’ she cut in, making a deliberate show of opening her handbag and putting the packet of Dunhill Extras on the table, together with matches. Sagoe will have had everything taken off him except something to read and his cigarettes, but he wouldn’t have a light. She had given up the weed years ago, but offering him one of hers might make him relaxed enough to answer her discreet question about how Smith had stood up to her impromptu attack. An interview between a client and his solicitor is privileged and its contents cannot be used in evidence, but if their conversation were overheard the consequences would be dire. She looked around quickly for evidence of bugging, though she doubted Stockport would stoop so low. There was the usual microphone on the wall above the table. Behind her the tape-recorder was still and silent. A small panel controlled the ventilation system, a merciful refinement in this windowless room. Nothing else. She was safe.
She smiled at Paul. ‘You won’t mind, I’m sure,’ she said at last, ‘if I feel free to be the judge of that decision. Anyway, let’s get on with it, shall we? Disclosure.’
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