He placed his briefcase on the floor and sat down. ‘Just water. Thank you.’
She went over to the kitchenette, trying to stem the rising feeling of panic. Why was he here? Did he know what she’d done?
Water slurped over the edge of the glass as she carried it over to him, her nerves betraying her. ‘So, how can I help you, Mr Falk?’
He put his glasses back on and laid his briefcase across his lap. ‘As you know, we’ve been looking into the matter of undeclared assets for you and your husband—’
‘Ex-husband.’
He peered over the top of his glasses.
‘We’re no longer married.’
‘My mistake.’ He removed a document from his briefcase. ‘Further evidence has come to light with regard to a life insurance policy taken out for you and your husband.’ He handed her a document. ‘Are you familiar with the policy I’m referring to, Mrs Aldridge?’
‘It’s Ms Ryan.’ She took the document from his outstretched hand. ‘And no, I’m not.’ She carried the document over to the table and sat down.
‘If you would care to look at the policy details and the withdrawal section on the back, you’ll see both documents bear your signature.’
She gazed down at the document in her hand, a document she’d never seen before. The Royal Sun Alliance policy appeared to have been taken out in August 2014, shortly after they were married. Both of their names were listed. Why the hell didn’t she know about this?
The investigator cleared his throat. ‘I note from your interview with Mr Dickens, the official receiver, on 9 February 2017, that this policy wasn’t mentioned as part of your marital assets. I wonder why that was?’
She stared at the document. ‘Because I never knew it existed.’
‘I find that a little hard to believe. After all, that is your signature on the policy, is it not? How do you account for that?’
‘I … I can’t. What I mean is, I’ve never seen this document before in my life.’
It was clear he didn’t believe her. He removed a pad from his briefcase and scribbled something down. ‘Are you quite sure? Forgetting about its existence would seem a little strange. Especially as you and your husband surrendered the policy shortly before the bankruptcy hearing.’
She felt something hard hit her in the chest. There was no way she’d have forgotten that. She lifted the document closer, studying the handwriting. ‘I … I don’t understand. How can a life insurance policy be cashed in if both parties are still alive?’
‘As I said, the policy was surrendered. The terms and conditions allowed for the refund of premiums paid into the account up until its cancellation. Surrendering the policy would have incurred hefty fees, but there would still have been a substantial payout.’
She stared at the document, trying to make sense of it. Had she really forgotten about it? Surely not. The print was tiny, the list of terms and conditions hard to distinguish, but true enough, there at the bottom of the page appeared to be her signature. She peered closer, trying to fathom why she couldn’t remember signing it. ‘And when did you say it was cashed in?’
He checked his notebook. ‘Third of November 2016.’
The text on the page blurred before her as tears filled her eyes. That was two weeks before Marcus had run off with Cindy. The familiar pain of betrayal settled over her. The realisation that Marcus had been defrauding her since the day they were married was a feeling like no other she’d experienced. She’d been convinced his illegal antics were solely linked to the financial problems of his used-car business. But this was premeditated. A deliberate action designed to scam his own wife. Jesus. Marcus really had been a cheat. In more ways than one.
Trying to contain her anger, she looked at the investigating officer. ‘This is not my signature.’
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Aldridge?’
‘My name is Ms Ryan … and I said, that’s not my signature.’ She flipped over the page, looking for the withdrawal section. There it was again, her signature … but not. ‘The reason I don’t remember taking out this policy, or cashing it in, is because I never knew it existed.’ She got up and handed him the papers.
He raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you saying that your husband forged your signature?’
‘I … I suppose I am.’ She shrugged. ‘All I really know is that I didn’t sign it.’
He scribbled something down in his notebook. A few seconds ticked by before he looked up.
‘Have you been in contact with your husband recently, Mrs Ald … err … Ms Ryan?’
Her left eye began twitching again. She moved away and tore off a wodge of kitchen roll, wrapping it around her finger, which had started to bleed again. ‘Marcus and I are divorced, Mr Falk. He’s with someone else now and currently residing in Spain. Thanks to his incompetent finances and illegal business ventures, I lost my home and suffered substantial financial hardship.’ She glanced around the office. ‘My business is all that I have left.’
‘That’s not what I asked.’ He watched her carefully. ‘I asked whether you’d been in contact with him recently.’
Her cheeks started to burn. She had two options. Deny all knowledge and be rid of him or admit that her ex-husband was currently rummaging around in her storage basement looking for a holdall containing twenty-seven thousand pounds.
A more pressing thought struck her. ‘How much was the insurance pay-out?’
He paused before answering. ‘Twenty-seven thousand pounds.’
Oh, cripes!
Time slowed … and then sped up, causing her stomach to dip.
So that’s where the money had come from … She’d assumed it had come from the sale of her Franz Gerste collection. Only it hadn’t.
A mixture of anger and dread filled her gut. Once again, Marcus had shafted her. But she was equally annoyed with herself. That single momentary lapse of judgement nine months ago was coming back to haunt her. And now she was paying the price.
But she’d been in such a desperate place. She was still reeling from discovering that Marcus was sleeping with his PA and had a gambling addiction. And then the court bailiffs had turned up at her home to seize goods. She’d had to endure a humiliating court hearing, employ an expensive solicitor to argue the gallery’s exclusion from the bankruptcy and borrow money from her sister Tasha to pay for it.
She’d won her case, but every other asset had been sold to pay off Marcus’s business debts, leaving her with a frozen bank account, a poor credit rating and no home. All because Marcus’s business hadn’t been a limited company, leaving them personally and jointly liable.
And she’d accepted her fate. Through it all she’d been stoic and honest – she’d even assisted the official receiver in complying fully with the insolvency regulations. But the discovery that Marcus had failed to bank the money from the sale of her Franz Gerste collection had sent her over the edge.
When she’d gone to the house to collect the last of her belongings before the enforced repossession, she’d stumbled across a black holdall containing twenty-seven thousand pounds. All the promises she’d made to be trustworthy and law-abiding evaporated. She took the money and didn’t declare it.
Despite her overwhelming guilt, she’d reasoned that the money had come from her paintings. Paintings that belonged to the gallery so weren’t a joint asset and therefore shouldn’t have been included in the bankruptcy. But getting the official receiver to agree to that would have involved another expensive court hearing, which she couldn’t afford.
She’d considered using the money to pay off her debts, especially the money she owed to her sister, which she’d now cleared. But she’d decided against it. Mainly because she was still within the twelve-month bankruptcy period and the official receiver was monitoring her personal finances. He would have wanted to know where the money had come from and she hadn’t wanted to drag Tasha into her mess.
So, instead of declaring what she’d found, she’d kept quiet and used it to purchase the Woman
at the Window painting. It was supposed to be an investment, compensation for her suffering. But however much she tried to justify her actions, she’d still broken the law. Not to mention using her art dealer credentials to cover her tracks and avoid any suspicion of money laundering.
And now an investigator was threatening to expose the one tiny chink in her otherwise flawless existence.
She needed time to think. She also needed to throttle her scumbag, cheating liar of an ex-husband, who was currently in her basement.
‘In answer to your question, Mr Falk, I’ve not been in contact with my ex-husband.’ The twitch in her left eye increased.
‘Hmmm.’ He removed a business card from his pocket and stood up. ‘We’ll investigate your claims further, Ms Ryan. But perhaps you’d be good enough to contact me should you hear from him. We have several questions we’d like to ask Mr Aldridge.’
He wasn’t the only one.
He handed her the card. ‘Thank you for your time. Good day to you.’ He collected his briefcase. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
She followed him over to the door, trying to keep a neutral expression. ‘Good luck with your investigations.’
‘Luck has nothing to do with it, Ms Ryan. The truth will always out in the end.’
And that was what worried her.
She let him out, locking the door behind him. As fast as her heels would allow, she ran across the gallery showroom and charged downstairs. ‘Marcus? MARCUS! Did you forge my bloody signature?’
He was nowhere in sight.
He’d obviously been searching for the holdall, because his belongings were scattered on the floor, a trail of discarded clothes leading to the rear doors … which were left open. Bastard! She had a stack of valuable paintings stored down here, including a recent shipment from the Wentworth estate in Scotland, and Marcus had left the place unsecured. Arsehole!
And then she spotted his note next to the empty black holdall:
I WANT MY MONEY.
Chapter Two
Tuesday 29th May
Oliver Wentworth took the opportunity of his sister’s phone ringing to take a breather from playing the dutiful carer. The distress at witnessing his pregnant sister being trampled on by an irate Shetland pony had sapped all of his energy. Thankfully, apart from a fractured fibula, she and the baby had escaped relatively intact.
As his sister answered her phone, he listened to her attempting to calm her distraught husband, reassuring him she was okay and relaying the story of how she’d toppled over the feeding trough when the aptly named Goliath had upended her. Having spent several years trying for a baby, he couldn’t imagine Harry taking the news of his wife’s injury too well. Poor bloke.
When the conversation switched from Louisa’s health to declarations of love, Olly tuned out. He adored his sister, but he didn’t need to hear about the intimate details of her marriage.
Instead, he gazed out of the taxi window and admired the scenery outside.
Medical services were few and far between in the Highlands, so they’d ended up at the Broadford Hospital on the Isle of Skye. The treatment had been first-rate, but it was a slow drive back to Shieldaig, the lanes winding and narrow. At least it allowed him time to recover from the trauma of Louisa’s accident and absorb the sight of his heritage passing by bathed in the May sunshine.
Shieldaig was sixty-eight miles west of Inverness in the Wester Ross region of Scotland, a quaint village with a miniscule population but with a huge influx of visitors during the summer months. It was both beautiful and brutal. Mountainous landscape dominated the view, framing the expanse of lochs and villages nestled between. It was the stuff of postcards, picturesque and enticing. But it was also challenging – as many an inexperienced walker had discovered when attempting to conquer Beinn Eighe ill-equipped. Even more so as the area had a poor phone signal.
As an adult, he could appreciate the appeal of the rugged terrain, where land merged seamlessly into sky. But as a kid, he’d hated the place. It had been a prison. A punishment. A place from which he’d been desperate to escape. And although he still harboured painful memories from those early years, he was hopeful of finally shedding his dislike of the place and reconnecting with his siblings.
As the taxi driver negotiated the narrow lanes, Rubha Castle came into view. The grey stone construction sat ominously against its tranquil surroundings. It was strange to think this was his home. There’d been a castle on the site for over eight hundred years, but the Wentworth family had only been resident for four hundred. His grandfather had briefly opened the castle to the public during the Sixties, hoping it would generate an influx of cash, but closed it again when the venture failed to prove cost-effective. They still hired out the venue for weddings and special occasions, but it wasn’t enough to maintain its continuing upkeep – a current bone of contention between his two sisters.
As the current Earl of Horsley, Olly was expected to take over running the family estate, socialise with blueblood aristocracy and sit in the House of Lords – something he had absolutely no interest in doing. Thankfully, recent reforms had abolished automatic hereditary rights, so he was off the hook in terms of his peer duties. And Louisa was more than happy running Rubha Castle, so he was superfluous to requirements.
Okay, so he was the Edward VIII of the family. The wayward black sheep who’d shirked his ancestral duties in favour of chasing pipedreams. It had been his parents’ favourite accusation, thrown at him many times during his adolescence. And they’d been right, of course. Even as a kid he’d craved freedom, a desire to see what the world had to offer. But his departure from their lives at barely eighteen was entirely down to their doing, not his.
Louisa had just ended her call when the taxi bumped onto the bridge joining the castle with the mainland. The driver pulled up in front of the open portcullis but left the engine running, an indication that he wasn’t offering any assistance. Olly couldn’t blame him. Trying to manoeuvre an eight-months-pregnant woman with her leg in an orthopaedic boot out of a car wasn’t going to be easy.
With a sigh, Olly got out the taxi and went around to open the door.
Louisa smiled up at him, her green eyes rimmed with dark circles. ‘Are you feeling strong?’
He grinned. ‘Positively herculean.’
She laughed and took his hands but winced when he tried unsuccessfully to pull her from the vehicle. He could tell she was in pain, however much she tried to hide it. Louisa’s outward fragility concealed an inner strength that enabled her to cope with adversity. Which was just as well, considering the upbringing they’d had.
Assistance appeared in the form of Gilly Jennings scurrying across the courtyard, red-faced and panting. Technically, she was the hired help, a cook-cum-housekeeper, but she’d always been more of a ‘parental figure’, bossy but warm-hearted, filling the gap caused by their own parents’ coldness.
‘Och, you poor love,’ she said, reaching the taxi. ‘Here, let me help you.’
Olly was bumped out of the way. He was about to object, when he realised his seventy-year-old housekeeper had already eased Louisa out of the car, usurping him as primary carer.
He tried not to feel disgruntled. But then he remembered they’d survived without him for eleven years. They didn’t need him. It stung, but it was the price he had to pay.
He paid the driver and unloaded the wheelchair from the boot.
As they made their way across the inner courtyard, Gilly issued instructions, sending him ahead to open doors, clear the stairway and put the kettle on.
Suppressing his frustration at being ordered around, he did as he was told, knowing he was still ‘in the dog house’ and it would be a long time before anyone felt he’d made amends. Gilly only allowed him to push the wheelchair when they reached the steps leading into the west guard tower.
Shortly after Louisa and Harry had married, they’d moved into the private area of the main keep, near the grand banqueting hall and billeting room, which were used
for events. In contrast, upon his return, Olly had been given a small room in the south-west wing, an area previously used to stable horses. That said it all, really.
Having deposited his sister in her bedroom, he went to make drinks.
He returned armed with sugary tea and shortbread biscuits, grateful for Gilly’s baking skills. He’d always had a sweet tooth.
On entering the bedroom, he heard Louisa yelp.
Gilly was trying to roll her onto her side. ‘Her back’s hurting,’ she said, continuing to push.
‘I’m not surprised,’ he said, placing the tray on the Jacobean sidetable. ‘Move over, will you.’ He pulled up short when he saw the hurt look on Gilly’s face. He tried for an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Gilly. What I meant to say was, as my sister is currently the size of a small elephant, it might be better if I do it.’
Louisa threw a pillow at him.
Gilly laughed and stood back to allow him access. Disaster averted. He winked at Louisa, who normally didn’t carry an ounce of fat on her and would therefore forgive him for likening her to a large land mammal.
He eased her onto her side.
‘Look at you, being all tender and caring,’ Gilly teased. ‘Perhaps you should follow your sister’s example and get married yourself.’
He suppressed a shudder. ‘Not going to happen.’
‘Why ever not? A good-looking man like yourself shouldn’t have any trouble finding a lass.’
Finding one? No problem. Holding on to them? Another matter entirely. Of course, it didn’t help that he rarely stayed in one place long. But all that was about to change.
‘I’m sure the right girl’s out there,’ Gilly said, tucking in the bedsheet. ‘Although she mightn’t be too impressed by a man pushing thirty and yet to secure a proper job.’
And there it was, the scolding he’d been waiting for.
He didn’t need Gilly to tell him he was a waste of space. He was painfully aware of his shortcomings.
Emotionally, he still felt like an eighteen-year-old kid backpacking the world while scraping a living. Only he was twenty-nine now and still searching. For what, he wasn’t sure, but something was missing from his life, he knew that much. It was a sobering thought – one that depressed him – so he pushed the notion from his mind.
Secret Things and Highland Flings Page 2