by Karen Swan
No. Ro straightened up, inhaling decisively. She was right to see this through. In less than two months, summer would be over and the contract fulfilled. Everyone would be gone from here, and she and Matt would be back together in their cottage in Barnes. That was the plan they had agreed upon and were working towards. They needed to stick to it, even if . . . even if it was that life that felt like the foreign concept now.
Ro sat on the bench, looking out to sea, her hair trying to blow in her face, but it wasn’t quite long enough these days. Rubbing against her left shoulder was a small brass memorial plaque, given by the grateful family of one of the nursing home’s former residents, and she shifted position slightly, feeling its corners catching against the thin cotton of her T-shirt. She noticed there were quite a few benches like this one in the gardens – everyone, it seemed, wanting a rest or a view. Or to be remembered.
She watched as, overhead, the precious piping plovers that seemed to be so famous in these parts wheeled on the thermal currents, gliding and swooping with a freedom she found dizzying. They made it look fun, even to her, and freedom had never been something to celebrate in her book. It was the dark undertow she was constantly fighting. Sometimes she felt like her entire life was a battle to belong to someone. Was it really too much to ask for the quiet happiness of someone to love and to love her back?
Her thoughts drifted to Matt, as ever. They hadn’t spoken since the fight, six days ago, but she, for once, wasn’t hovering by the phone. She hadn’t changed her mind about leaving here. In fact, she was more convinced than ever that it was the right thing to do. It had been a revelation to realize that as much as she missed him, she didn’t need him – at least, not in the way that she used to. Just over four months ago, he’d been her oxygen, the engine that powered her heart, and she couldn’t function without him. But he’d left her alone, left her to fend for herself while he went off chasing dreams, and to her surprise as much as his, she wasn’t sinking.
She looked at the birds again. It did look fun up there, flying.
A sudden shriek – a joyous, playful sound – made her turn and she saw Florence just inside the building, sitting in a wheelchair, watching two little boys fist-pumping the air like they’d won the Superbowl. They ran out into the garden together, away from where she was sitting, holding what looked like a piece of paper between their hands. A young woman – their mother presumably – was crouched down beside the chair, her hands resting gently on Florence’s, eyes locked on her face. She was talking intently to her and Ro took in the similarities of their profiles: small, deep-set eyes, rosy complexions and high foreheads, with hair that naturally swept back, as though a lifetime of Alice band-wearing had conditioned it to grow in that direction. Ro thought she’d seen her before. But where?
Florence appeared to say something, and it made the woman – her daughter surely? – laugh, the sound as sudden and arresting as the childlike noise that her sons had made moments earlier, piercing the thick skin of convalescing silence that blanketed the nursing home like an anaesthetic. But then something changed and the young woman had her hands cupped over her face; her shoulders were shaking in small hiccups. She wasn’t laughing after all – she was crying. Ro watched Florence’s hand lift slowly – the effort clear even at this distance of fifty metres – and she began slowly stroking her daughter’s fine, blonde hair, the woman shaking her head all the while, seemingly embarrassed by the strength of her emotions but unable to stop them.
Ro looked away, feeling intrusive, and watched the boys instead. She was pretty sure they were twins – same height, same build – but one of them had a shock of orange hair, the other blond. Ro guessed they were around six or seven. They were standing close together, heads almost touching, one hand linked. She peered closer – were they thumb-wrestling? Both seemed oblivious to their mother’s tears, their grandmother’s infirmity.
By the time she turned back, the woman was standing, wiping her hands lightly on her khaki shorts, her face flushed but nothing more telling than that about the storm that had just raged through her.
Then, suddenly, they were looking over at Ro, and Ro felt herself blush, embarrassed to have been caught intruding on their private moment. Should she turn away? Stand up and walk over?
The decision wasn’t hers to make. In the next instant, Florence was being wheeled through the doors and along the smooth path to where Ro was sitting, pretending to enjoy the view.
‘Ro.’
The weak voice could barely be heard above the breeze and Ro didn’t pretend, for pride’s sake, that she hadn’t heard.
She jumped up from the bench. ‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I can always come back another time if—’
The woman stepped forward. ‘Not at all. It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’m Casey.’
Her voice was softer than Ro had anticipated. She looked just like one of the yoga bunnies from Bobbi’s class, with tight skin and stealth-wealth style, but she had Florence’s warm, expressive grey eyes and a welcoming smile.
‘Ro. Hi,’ she replied, lightly shaking her hand.
‘Mom told me what happened to you too. I’m so sorry. Are you OK now?’
‘Absolutely. It was nothing really,’ Ro said, not wanting any sympathy distracted from Florence’s plight, before realizing she was rubbing her arms and forcing herself to stop.
‘It was not nothing,’ Florence said, and the fragility of her voice made Ro look down in alarm, all manners forgotten. She took in the sight of her, up close now, cushions plumped all around her like airbags, a blanket covering her legs.
‘Are you out of the wind, Mom?’ Casey asked, positioning Florence’s chair to a different angle.
Florence nodded, not wasting her strength unnecessarily.
‘Well, then I’ll leave you both to talk.’ Casey looked at Ro. ‘She’s been very anxious to see you. I’m sorry we’ve hogged all the visiting slots up to now.’
‘You’re her daughter,’ Ro smiled. ‘Frankly, I’d have been alarmed if you hadn’t.’
Casey called the boys over, introducing them quickly as Freddie and Jude, before restraining them from throwing their arms around their grandmother’s neck. ‘Remember, you need to be gentle with Grandma now.’
Ro waited for them to walk away before she sat down. She felt suddenly nervous.
‘Well, it’s official. I’m now old,’ Florence half-whispered, pointedly smoothing the blankets on her legs. Her voice may be weak, but her spirit clearly wasn’t. Ro leaned forward, lightly touching Florence’s shoulder, too scared still to touch her hands, forearms or face. Her eyes were clear grey again – thank God – and her complexion all but free of the liverish pallor. ‘Not old. Temporarily below par.’
Florence smiled at the vast understatement.
‘Are they looking after you properly?’ It seemed to Ro that Florence had lost more weight.
‘Well, the cook clearly thinks everything tastes better when it’s covered in vinegar.’
‘Oh dear.’
Florence glanced back at her. ‘No, I’m not complaining. I know I’m lucky to be here.’
Ro kept quiet. Florence had no idea how lucky. She had to assume her family were protecting her from the truth of what had happened. ‘The posters are up, by the way. I saw one by the cinema earlier. They look really good.’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘You, you mean. Your idea.’
‘Your concept.’ Florence smiled weakly.
‘Team effort, then.’
‘Team effort.’
They fell silent again, Ro’s brain overloaded from feeling like she was going to trip over the ugly truth that had to stay hidden. She looked over and smiled as the silence lengthened, and was surprised to find Florence already watching her.
‘How much longer must I stay here?’ Florence asked.
Ro swallowed. Her inability to lie was almost spectacular to watch. ‘Until the doctors are satisfied your s-skin is healing properly
and there’s no risk of infection. Septicaemia could be a risk if that happened,’ she said quickly.
Florence blinked patiently. ‘The real reason, Ro.’
Ro hesitated, staring down at her own hands, trying to hide the lies in her eyes. ‘Florence, it’s really not for me to—’
‘I may look frail, but I know what’s happening. You know I know. I tried to tell you, that day in the kitchen.’ She paused until Ro looked back up at her. ‘I always knew you were never the intended target. And this was no accident either.’
Ro frowned, shifting in her seat slightly. ‘You mean . . . you’re saying you think the two events are linked?’
Florence nodded slowly.
‘But why, Florence? What proof is there that what happened in the Pear wasn’t a random attack? Why should the two things be related?’
Florence sighed, a deep, heavy sound that echoed through her shrunken body. ‘Because there had been other things before. Warnings, I suppose.’
Ro felt her temperature drop. ‘What?’
Florence was quiet for such a long time, Ro wondered whether she was even going to answer. ‘They started off as sweeteners, inducements – offers for first-class flights anywhere I wanted to go, jewellery, donations to my charities in my name, that kind of thing . . .’ Her eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘I think you were there when the necklace arrived, were you not?’
Ro nodded. ‘Yes, the pearl necklace from Tiffany. I saw your expression change when you read the note.’
Florence gave a tiny snort of contempt. ‘Yes, well . . . I stuck to my guns and sent it back. I refused to budge, and that’s when things grew uglier: I received dog excrement in the mail—’
Ro gasped in disgust. ‘But you never said!’
Florence blinked slowly. ‘And why would I have done? Would it have made it any less terrible burdening you with it?’
Ro looked away; she knew the real reason why Florence hadn’t told her – Ro hadn’t believed her when she had tried to bring it up. She realized now what she had seen in Florence’s eyes that day in the kitchen – disappointment. ‘What other things were there?’ she asked quietly, ashamed that she had effectively turned her back.
Florence watched her for a moment, as though reading her like a book. ‘They were clever – making sure they left no trace, changing it up. A few silent phone calls, and I’m pretty sure that for a few weeks someone was watching the house – I could see on the CCTV by the gates, the same car, always parked just forward enough that I couldn’t see the plates or the driver. By the time I’d opened the gates they’d be gone. Then there were other things that were more nuisance than anything – my appointments would be changed without my knowledge, making me look disorganized and incompetent in front of my colleagues; not to mention the missing money from accounts that only I can authorize. I’d come in from being out and find the alarm off, even though I knew I’d set it. I’m not senile, Ro. I’m sixty-two, not ninety-two.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘But they were trying to confuse me. Making me think I couldn’t live on my own anymore, that I wasn’t responsible, wasn’t safe. Trying to force me out.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘The people who want the house.’
Ro blinked at her, not understanding, desperate to keep up. ‘Your house?’
‘Yes. The house next door is empty, has been for a few years. It was up for sale for a long time and the realtor did quite a lot of work to it, trying to upgrade it to match the rest of the street. Then, finally, quite suddenly, it was sold just before Christmas – and that was when everything became unpleasant.’
‘So you think the people in that house want you out of yours – what, for the land?’
Florence shook her head. ‘For the drive. My driveway runs along the bottom of their backyard, meaning they don’t have beach access. Historically, their lot was part of my property, but it was sold off years ago – probably a previous owner needed the money. I offered to cut down the hedges to improve their ocean view, but . . .’
‘The house is worth more with direct beach frontage.’
‘About five million dollars more.’
Ro’s mouth dropped open into a silent ‘O’. ‘But, Florence . . .’ she puffed, trying to make sense of everything she was hearing. ‘You nearly died! You were very nearly killed! Surely they wouldn’t go to those lengths just for five million.’
‘An extra five million. The house itself is already worth twenty-five million dollars.’
‘Even so. I know it’s a lot of money, but surely—’
‘People have killed for a lot less.’
There was a pause.
‘Well, have you met the people next door? Had any face-to-face contact? I mean, who the hell are they?’
‘The house is still empty. It’s been bought by a company, not a family.’
Ro frowned so hard she thought she could feel her eye-brows touch. ‘So then you have to tell the police.’
‘I tried. They think I’m a paranoid, confused old woman. When I told them I had been the intended target at the cafe, one of them even suggested I was just looking for attention.’
‘Because the coffee hit me and not you?’
‘Yes.’
Ro felt her annoyance grow. ‘But what about the bribes? Surely they had to take account of those?’
‘As they told me – very patiently and like I was deaf – there’s no law against sending someone a necklace. And stupidly I didn’t think to keep the gift from the dog.’ The corners of her mouth turned up fractionally. ‘Besides, I didn’t keep the necklace – I sent it back. There’s no proof now I even received it, much less that it was a bribe.’
‘Then I’ll tell them. I was a witness. I was with you when it came.’
‘I appreciate it, Ro, but I can assure you it’ll be falling on deaf ears. They’re not interested. As far as they’re concerned, what happened to you had nothing to do with what happened to me.’
Her hands gripped each other tightly and Ro watched the blue veins bulge slowly.
‘What else do you know about the company that’s bought next door?’
Florence sighed, looking exhausted, and Ro worried that this was too much for her, that she was pushing too hard. ‘Only that it’s called SB Holdings Ltd. They’re registered offshore in Bermuda and therefore untraceable. There’s no way of finding out the people involved behind that name.’
Ro slumped, prickles of fear running up her back. If this nameless, faceless organization wanted Florence out, they had already proved they had the resources, contacts and appetite to keep going until they achieved their aim. The man on the boardwalk suddenly came back into her mind as it occurred to her: had he been the one to cut the wire to the pool house? And how many others were there out there like him? ‘So then what are you going to do? You can’t go back to the house if these people are invisible and remain at large. They’re dangerous, Florence.’
‘I know. Ted wants me to sell.’
‘Ted?’ Ro’s voice rose an octave. ‘Ted Connor?’
‘You remember, he—’
‘Yes, yes, I know Ted. But why would he be advising you to sell your home?’ she asked in alarm, wondering why he was becoming so closely involved not only with Florence’s well-being but also, now, her financial interests. If Ted was positioning himself in Florence’s life to the degree that he could dictate the disposal of her (very considerable assets), what else was he persuading her to do?
Florence seemed to read the suspicions clouding her face. ‘He has my best interests at heart, Ro. If it wasn’t for him finding me in the shower and calling for help, I wouldn’t even be sitting here now.’
The alarm bell began clanging even more loudly, as she remembered seeing him walking into the hospital the day of Florence’s accident. He seemed to be around her almost all the time. ‘So Ted was with you when the . . . the accident happened?’ She did her best to keep her voice and face neutral, but she felt a
growing unease in the pit of her stomach.
‘He was in the main house. He saved my life, Ro.’
Ro nodded but didn’t reply. Ted had been – at a safe distance – in the house when Florence had been electrocuted, just as he’d been – at a safe distance – in the cafe when Ro had been scalded. Was that just coincidence? Or something more?
She looked back at Florence with a vague smile. ‘Listen, don’t rush into any decisions just yet. You’re safe here and the police will be running their own lines of enquiry. Remember, they’ve got access to resources you don’t. You never know, they could have it all wrapped up by the time you come out.’
‘I know you don’t think that.’
Ro smiled, busted. ‘No. But at the very least the people doing this may be frightened off now that the police are involved. Then you wouldn’t have to sell.’
A silent tear crept down Florence’s face. ‘I don’t want to do it, but people are at risk. Not just me.’ She looked back at her. ‘You’ve been hurt already. And Ted said . . . he said, what if next time it was my grandchildren?’
Ro sat back, frightened by the thought of young children becoming entangled in this nightmare, but even more shocked that Ted Connor was prepared to use Florence’s own grandchildren to manipulate her emotionally like that.
‘Do you see? I can’t take the risk. I can’t,’ Florence quaked, shaking her head, her discoloured hands gripping the armrests of the chair.
Ro nodded. ‘I understand. I do,’ she said quietly, one hand resting gently on Florence’s arm, almost hovering above it. And she did. She knew Florence doted on her grandchildren; she wouldn’t take any risks where they were concerned. She remembered that morning by the pool when she’d spoken about her happy family life in the house and the legacy she’d wanted it to leave for her grandchildren in turn.