Pippa sucked hot summer air into her lungs and lifted her head from her knees. She splayed the letter out against them and began to read.
It wasn’t a goodbye after all. It was a promise.
Her mother hadn’t deliberately crashed the car, as Pippa had always believed. She’d been running away. Or rather, running to. Running to a new life she would set up for them both, in a sleepy coastal town to the north where her husband would never think to look and where Philippa could swim and surf and make friends. Philippa’s father would go on a binge when he discovered his wife had left him, and Philippa just needed to stay out of his way, go to school as usual for a few days while her mother sorted out somewhere for them to live. Then she’d be back to collect her.
I’ve saved some money, sweetheart, enough for us to get by. I’ll get a job and we’ll rent a little house and in the afternoons after school we can go to the beach. Just wait a few days, darling, and Mummy will pick you up from school and we’ll go. Just a few days, Pippa, and I promise it will all be over.
Well, she was right about that, it had all been over, though it didn’t take a few days. If she’d only taken Pippa with her in the first place, it could all have been so different. The tears smudged her vision, choked her throat, dripped onto the ageing paper and immediately blurred forever the hastily scribbled words.
Vaguely Pippa became aware of a pair of polished brogues halting beside her feet, then a pair of suited knees hunching just inside her peripheral vision.
‘Philippa? What’s happened?’
She couldn’t look at him. She had not a skerrick of energy left to protect herself from Matt’s unexpected arrival, nor his habitual probing, so she stared instead at the letter, turning the cheap lined paper over and over, blotting the wettened ink, smoothing the creases, refolding, unfolding. She felt rather than saw him sit beside her in the gutter. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him pick up the envelope in those long, lean fingers; he balanced it between his palms then flipped it over and read the minute code she’d missed in one corner.
‘O.P.T,’ he said.
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘OPT. Office of the Public Trustee. Although they’ve changed the name now, of course. Must be an old envelope.’
Philippa choked her answer. ‘Yes. Twelve years old.’
‘Uh-huh.’
He didn’t say anything more, just sat silently beside her until Pippa thought her nerves would crawl out of her skin. His silence was worse than his probing. Finally:
‘It’s a letter from my mother.’
‘And you’ve just received it?’
‘I’ve just found it. It was among Dad’s things. I almost threw it out with all the other rubbish. I wish …’
‘Go on.’
‘Nothing. I just wish I’d found it sooner.’
‘Would it have made a difference, do you think? Finding it sooner?’
Pippa had already thought through that question, had been arguing with herself about it. ‘No, not in any real sense. Not practically. It might have made a difference to the way I thought of her, though. She was leaving him. She’d had enough and was leaving him. She’d saved some money and we were going to run away; she was going to find somewhere for us to live and then come back and collect me. But then she had the accident and was killed before she even left town.’
‘And how did the OPT come to have the letter?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But they sent it to your father? Why didn’t he give it to you?’
‘Because he was a cruel, manipulative bastard. Maybe he knew she was leaving him, and he wanted me to think she was leaving me, too. I don’t know. I never understood half the things he said or did.’
Matt was silent for a long moment.
‘It’s odd that it came from the OPT. Did your mother leave a will? Perhaps it was included with that?’
Pippa shook her head. ‘No. It couldn’t have been. See? She wrote it the same day she died. And anyway, she didn’t have anything to leave in a will. She’d saved her escape money, her letter says she’d been saving that for years, but Dad looked after all the family finances; there’s no way she’d have put that in a will if there was a chance Dad would find out about it.’
‘Hmm. Well, let’s find out, shall we?’
‘Sorry?’
Bewildered, Pippa offered no resistance when Matt slid his hand under her elbow and hauled her to her feet. He was punching numbers into his phone and held up his hand briefly to silence her when she questioned him again.
‘Brax? Matt Mason. Can I bring somebody to see you? Now. Don’t give me that, mate, your office closes in fifteen minutes, what else could you possibly be doing today? I’ll see you shortly.’
And just like that, Pippa found herself packed off to see Braxton Gale, the Public Trustee.
***
‘I’m afraid that’s the most I can tell you from the file, Philippa. The letter was found in your mother’s handbag at the scene of the accident with her other personal effects, and the police tried to give it to your father when they notified him of her death. He refused them, and as it seems she died intestate, they forwarded them to this office for archiving.’
Pippa looked up hopefully from the spot on the desk she’d been examining, but the trustee shook his head at her silent question.
‘I’m afraid we don’t hold items indefinitely—they would have been destroyed long ago. This letter, though—somebody in the office went to the trouble of identifying that you were her daughter and sending it to your last known address when the rest of her effects were destroyed. As you were still a minor, there would have been a cover letter to your father telling him the letter was for you.’
‘I’m surprised he didn’t burn it,’ Pippa said bitterly. ‘He tried to erase every other memory of her.’
‘Perhaps he had a change of heart?’ Matt suggested gently.
‘More likely it arrived when he was on a bender and he didn’t even see it; just shoved it in the pile with the bills he was never going to pay.’
‘Brax, do you have the police report from the accident?’
‘Give me a break, Matt, you know I can’t divulge that kind of information to a client.’
‘You’re not. She’s not a client. You’re sharing it with a professional colleague. Can I see it?’
Brax sighed, tapped at his keyboard then swung the computer screen to face Pippa and Matt. Matt leaned forward to peer at the document file, his eyes scanning the report faster than Pippa could possibly keep up.
‘This doesn’t make sense. She was travelling south?’
‘Yes, apparently. Got too close to the freeway barrier, clipped it, spun and ended up facing the oncoming traffic. The car was a write-off. She didn’t have a chance.’
‘But she was travelling south?’
Pippa barely heard his question; she was reading over and over the description of the damage to the car, and to her mother. It was instant, at least. After the flash of shock and confusion, she wouldn’t have suffered.
‘Who did the car belong to?’ she asked nobody in particular.
‘It was registered to your mother.’ Brax’s tone was questioning, and Pippa shook her head in bewilderment.
‘She never had a car. Dad would never let her. She wasn’t allowed to drive his except to pick him up from the pub when he was really hammered.’
Brax and Matt stared silently at her for a moment before resuming their discussion. There were a lot of frowns and shrugs and fingers pointing at the computer screen. Pippa let them wash over her. On the one hand, there were too many new details to absorb; on the other, too many unanswered questions. She came back to awareness as Matt stood from his chair and accepted a sheaf of paper from Brax. ‘One more thing. Mrs Lloyd mentioned in her letter to Philippa she had savings. What happened to the money, do you know?’
Brax sat himself back at his computer and tapped again. ‘She had a little cash in her wallet—less than a hun
dred—which went to the trust account. There was also a driver’s licence, some photos, a couple of store cards and a bank debit card. The name on the debit card didn’t match the name on the licence, though.’
‘And what happened to those? Were they destroyed with her other effects?’
‘Yep. If the next of kin wouldn’t accept them, they’d have been destroyed.’
‘What was the name on the debit card?’ Pippa spoke for the first time in ages.
‘Ms Patrice Carolyn Barker. Was that her maiden name?’
‘No. I don’t know that name at all. It couldn’t have been her account, then?’
‘The banking protocols were a little looser then, but she’d have still needed some form of identification to get an account in that name.’
Matt was still studying the computer file. ‘Can you tell if that account’s still active?’
‘I can. It’s long dormant. And before you ask: no, I won’t give you any more details. Apart from the fact a debit card was in Mrs Lloyd’s possession when she died, there’s nothing to suggest you or your client—apologies, Philippa—have any right to the information.’
‘Can we have copies of the licence and other contents of Mrs Lloyd’s wallet?’ Matt asked, brusque efficiency tinged with aggression. Brax rolled his eyes but didn’t argue, simply hit the print button on his computer and stood to collect the copies. As Matt reached for them, Brax gripped the end of the paper tightly.
‘You cannot do anything improper with this information, Matt, or god help me, I’ll come after you and what happened with Consolgard will look like a spinster’s tea party.’
If his threatening tone hadn’t alerted Pippa to the tension between the lawyers, the sharp glance Matt flicked in her direction would have. But Matt’s response was placatory. ‘All I’m going to do with them is try to establish some information about my client’s mother, hopefully find some details that will give her some closure. There won’t be any repercussions, I promise you.’
Brax nodded and released the documents into Matt’s hand. He turned to Pippa.
‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help, Philippa. I’m afraid because your mother died intestate, your father would have received the rights to all her property.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Anything left of hers is mine now anyway. I’m glad to know how she died, and that she was happy and excited about starting a new life.’
Matt made an odd noise in the back of his throat and exchanged a look with Brax, which Pippa couldn’t read but she thought looked … severe? A warning? But Brax was holding out his hand to her, shaking hers, seeing them out of his office.
At the elevator she stood silently beside Matt and sensed his eyes travel over her face.
‘You okay?’
She nodded her head, knowing she wasn’t, not knowing how to say so. Something in her face gave her away. Matt gathered her in his arms and rocked her a little, releasing her only long enough to usher her into the lift when the doors opened, then hugged her close again. She felt his lips brush the top of her head and nuzzled closer to his chest, inhaling his familiar scent. It had been weeks since she’d held him, felt like years since the betrayal and anger and desolation had forced her away from him. She’d forgotten that along with the raging desire between them that had made her feel so sensual, there was also this comfort that, despite their history, despite everything, always made her feel so safe.
The lift doors opened to the carpark and Pippa had to force herself forward, out of his arms. He didn’t comment at her withdrawal, simply opened her door. When they were both settled in the car, she found her voice.
‘Thank you. It doesn’t really change anything, but it feels better to know more about what happened to her. And you don’t have to worry I’m deluding myself. I know what it means that she was travelling south.’
‘She was coming back.’
‘Yes. That’s why the letter was still in her handbag, not even in an envelope. She changed her mind. She always came back. She never could leave him. She’d tried before but she never got far. He told her for years she was useless, hopeless, stupid, ugly, repulsive. Sometimes she remembered she wasn’t, but it never lasted. She’d make some insignificant little mistake, forget some little detail, and next thing you know she’d be beating herself up harder than he ever did. I used to hate her for it, but she couldn’t help it. She was always talking about leaving him, but she never meant it.’
‘I think she meant it this time. It takes some planning to organise a bank account in a different identity.’
‘No. I think I know who Patrice Carolyn Barker was. She was Aunty Patsy when I was little, a school friend of Mum’s. It must have been her debit card Mum had in her wallet.’
‘That’s a little … unusual. Was she helping your mother, do you think?’
‘I guess she must have been. I didn’t know Mum was still in contact with her. Dad hated Aunty Patsy, wouldn’t let Mum invite her to our house, wouldn’t let us phone her.’
‘Would you like me to try and find her? We have her name; if she was a school friend of your mother’s we have her birth year, give or take.’
‘I don’t know. It was all such a long time ago. She could be dead by now.’
‘Could be. But if she was your mother’s contemporary, she’s not that old. Let me try and find her. Even if she can’t tell you anything more about what happened, wouldn’t it be great to connect with somebody who knew and cared about your mother?’
It would. She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud until Matt abruptly spun the wheel and made a swift U-turn.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To my office. If you want to find her, don’t you want to find her now?’
***
The foyer of Matt’s law firm was all white marble, white leather lounges and overblown white gardenias in oversized white ceramic pots. Pippa clocked the decorating choice automatically and registered her first smile of the day.
‘White for purity, truth and integrity, right?’
Matt grunted, and led her down a corridor still buzzing with busy-looking professionals. One or two smiled at her; most seemed to recognise Matt’s purposeful stride and tried to convey their own purposefulness a little more blatantly. His office was at the end of the corridor, and Pippa barely had time to register its dark timber and deep grey carpet—she was being introduced to a young man who gestured with the files he was juggling his apology for not offering her his hand.
‘Simon’s my clerk,’ Matt said. ‘For now, anyway. Are those the Consolgard files?’
‘Yep. I’ll check they’re in order and get them away tomorrow with the rest.’
His tone implied a question, but Matt simply held the door expectantly, closing it after Simon departed. He gestured to Pippa to sit, and she perched on the edge of one of the deep bucket seats in front of his desk.
Matt had spread the documents from the public trustee across his desk and was silently typing, occasionally glancing at one of the papers before returning to the keyboard. No input seemed to be required of Pippa, and after a few minutes she sank back into the engulfing, fine-grained leather and let her mind wander.
It took some time before she realised where it had wandered, until she realised she was staring, not thinking, just staring. Staring at Matt. Beautiful, beguiling, bedevilling Matt. She ripped her eyes away and looked instead at the city night unfolding outside his office window, but inexorably her gaze returned to the man in front of her, his furrowed, fierce brow demanding answers of the screen in front of him, his fingers—those lean, clever, loving fingers—striking again and again at the keyboard, like an adder, like a dagger, stabbing and urging and yanking the truth from the recalcitrant vaults of digital archives.
The last time she’d had the unfettered luxury to gaze at him like this, he’d been in her bed. His censorious, forbidding brow relaxed in sleep. His fingers easy, tender, resting on her waist. Those long legs, currently splayed below the desk, instea
d wrapped around—
‘She’s in Buderim.’
Pippa wrenched her eyes to his face, saw jubilation there. Triumph. After so very long, she wasn’t sure it even mattered any more, but Matt’s victorious smile at locating Aunty Patsy drew an answering smile from her.
‘You found her. In Buderim?’
‘In a retirement village there. I have an address, and what looks like the village office number, probably. Would you like to do the honours?’
The icy charge started somewhere below Pippa’s shoulder bones and shuddered into goosebumps on her arms. The honours? No. No.
‘It’s late.’
‘It’s not that late. There’s likely somebody in the office around the clock, an on-call manager or caretaker. They could find her for you—put your call through to Patrice’s unit.’
If she couldn’t force the lump past her throat she would choke. Pippa coughed, struggled to drag air into uncooperative lungs. Matt squatted beside her chair, took her hands in his, was smoothing them as his murmurs soothed her panic. When she didn’t resist, he eased onto the vast seat beside her, lifted her a little, slid her into his lap, wrapped his arms around her.
‘You’re frightened of what she’ll tell you.’
Pippa nodded miserably and burrowed her head deeper into his chest. His fingers, gentle now, fleeting, barely felt, were tracing her hair behind her ear.
‘Do you think she could tell you anything worse than you’ve imagined over the years, sweetheart?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Yes, you do. What’s the scariest thing she could possibly tell you?’
A Case For Trust Page 21