Last Will

by William McIntyre

  Ellie sensed my reluctance to speak. ‘Perhaps I should go,’ she said. ‘It isn’t really any of my business.’

  Neil put a hand out. ‘Stay right where you are. It’s none of my business either, but I think we’d all like to know what Barry’s been getting up to.’

  So I revealed to all those gathered what I knew about Barry’s involvement with the House of Pentecost. How, in exchange for Sunnybrae Farm for his client and a whopping great cash fee for himself, he’d agreed to rush through Molly’s adoption before they disconnected Sir Stephen from the mains.

  When I’d finished, Barry, who’d sat quietly sipping a glass of wine, leaned forward to pour another and stopped. He looked over at Neil who was standing arms folded, legs crossed in the doorway. ‘You know?’ he said, ‘I think I’ll leave the wine and have a bottle of whatever Robbie’s drinking. It seems to get you drunk a lot quicker.’

  Neil wasn’t impressed by his partner’s light-hearted reaction to the allegation. ‘Is it true?’ he asked me. ‘Is Barry in some kind of trouble? Again?’ he added, transferring his gaze to his partner. ‘Because if he is—’

  Barry stood up, walked over to Neil, led him to where he himself had been sitting and pushed him into the seat. ‘I’ve listened very carefully to what Robbie has to say,’ he said, pacing the room. ‘It’s certainly an interesting theory; however, I have detected one flaw, legally speaking, that is.’ He stopped directly in front of where I was sitting and stared down at me. ‘Stop me if I’m getting too technical,’ he said, his volume control going up a notch with every word. ‘But isn’t what you’ve just said actually a load of old bollocks?’

  ‘So it’s just a coincidence that this adoption Robbie’s talking about gets rushed through and suddenly we have the world’s biggest telly?’ Neil said.

  ‘Two flaws in that argument,’ Barry replied, getting into his stride. ‘One: check our credit card statement and you’ll see that we haven’t paid for the TV yet and, two, the adoption never went through. I thought his girlfriend, his other girlfriend, would have told you that?’

  ‘Robbie’s other girlfriend?’ Neil said. ‘It’s not Robbie who’s drunk, it’s you. That’s Ellie Swan sitting there. Why would he want another girlfriend?’

  ‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ Ellie seemed keen to point out. ‘Well . . . we are friends, I think . . . sort of and . . . obviously, I am a girl . . . ’

  ‘More than obviously,’ Neil said.

  Barry looked at him. ‘I’m beginning to wonder about you.’

  ‘Are you talking about Vikki?’ I asked. The range of remotely possible incumbents for the role of girlfriend to Robbie Munro was one that didn’t require too much narrowing down.

  ‘You saw how angry she was with me that day you met her at my office,’ Barry said. ‘Why do you think that was?’

  I had no idea.

  ‘Because she thinks I mucked up Molly’s adoption, that’s why.’

  Now I was really confused. ‘In what way?’

  ‘By not having it completed before Daisy’s death.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Neil asked.

  ‘It means that Molly won’t inherit Sunnybrae Farm because unless the adoption was finalised, Daisy and Molly were strictly speaking not related to one another for inheritance purposes.’

  Neil was even more confused than I was. ‘So you did muck up?’

  ‘Muck up? No. Did my job properly? Yes,’ Barry said.

  ‘So if you didn’t make a mess of things why is Vikki so angry with you?’ I said.

  ‘Do you know what a permanence order is?’ Barry asked me. ‘Oops, sorry, of course you don’t. For a minute there I thought I was talking to a lawyer.’

  ‘Play nice,’ Neil said, which was kind of him, but, reluctantly, I had to admit that I’d absolutely no idea what Barry was talking about.

  Barry enlightened me. ‘A permanence order from the court officially frees a child for adoption. That’s not my job. That’s for the Local Authority lawyers to do before an adoption even comes my length.’ He finished his drink and smacked his lips. ‘Council solicitors. Flexi-time arseholes,’ he muttered, banging the glass down on the coffee table.

  ‘So whose fault was it the adoption didn’t go through?’ I asked.

  ‘The Council’s legal department didn’t intimate the original application to all the relevant people. The whole thing was just begging for an appeal to be lodged if someone came forward later to object because they hadn’t been notified. And who do you think had to sort out their mess for them? Yes, there was a slight delay, a very slight delay, but it had to be done. Vikki knows that fine well. Not that it’s stopped her bad-mouthing me to everyone.’

  She hadn’t mentioned anything to me.

  ‘I hope you know what he’s talking about, Robbie,’ Neil said. He glared at Barry. ‘Are you telling this man the truth?’

  ‘Of course I’m telling the truth.’ Barry refilled his glass, splashing some wine over the side. Neil left the room, I presumed to fetch a cloth to wipe up the spill.

  ‘Next time you see Vikki, you tell her I’m sorry my psychic powers weren’t fully functioning.’ Barry pressed a podgy index finger against either temple. ‘I suppose I should have known that your client was going to strangle mine.’

  I could tell Ellie was growing more uncomfortable by the second, and yet not quite so uncomfortable as Barry when Neil returned, not with a strip of kitchen roll but with an envelope. The end had been torn away to reveal the purple edge of a wad of hundred pound notes. I had an envelope just like it, but a good deal thicker, stuffed inside a pair of shoes in a box under my bed.

  ‘So you’re telling the truth?’ Neil said. He tossed the package at Barry. ‘I found this weeks ago in your sock drawer and never said anything. Ten grand. Care to explain?’

  Barry’s next sip of wine seemed to turn to vinegar. Neil came over and swiped the wine glass from him. ‘Not another drop until you tell me and Robbie everything.’

  As torture methods went, wine-deprivation wasn’t up there with thumbscrews or the Judas Cradle, but it was enough for Barry.

  Daisy Adams had asked him to do the legal work for her adoption of Molly and wanted it done quickly. Barry didn’t know what the big rush was, only that where the Scottish Legal Aid Board was involved nothing was ever particularly rapid and Molly would probably be having kids of her own by the time civil legal aid was granted. That was when he’d been told that money wasn’t a problem. For a lawyer, money-is-not-a-problem is about as believable as it’s-not-the-money,-it’s-the-principle-of-the-thing; however, on this occasion it had been true. For a rubberstamp adoption that would have paid Barry a few hundred on legal aid rates, the ten thousand pounds in that envelope was a fortune. What had happened to the other fifteen, I wondered?

  ‘I’ve had the money for months now,’ he confessed. ‘Silly, really, holding onto it, not doing anything with it. I just kept remembering the tough time we had a few years back when you had no work, Neil. You know what my own business has been like. It’s was nice knowing the money was there.’

  After that, Neil’s accusatory stance weakened. He even refilled Barry’s wineglass. Surprisingly, though, for a man working in a trade where cash was king, he was keen for Barry to give it back. There lay madness. If Barry started refunding money to the House of Pentecost they might have the crazy idea that I should too.

  ‘Barry, you’ve earned that fee,’ I told him. ‘Make up an invoice, pay VAT if you really must and put it through the books. What’s the big problem? It’s not your fault the client agreed to pay over the odds. I spoke with Zander Skene just an hour or so ago and he seemed delighted with your services.’

  Ellie stood up still clutching her pink drink. ‘I don’t know if I should listen to any more of this.’

  Barry ignored her. ‘Who’s Zander Skene?’ he asked, his face a mask of florid confusion. You keep going on about Zander. Zander who?’

  ‘The guy who gave you the money,’ I said.<
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  ‘I keep telling you, I don’t know any Zander. Daisy gave me the money and I’m not putting through my client account a late payment in cash from a woman who’s since been murdered. How do I explain that to the Law Society on their next inspection – or to the police?’

  Daisy gave him the money? There I’d been thinking that Barry was some kind of legal mastermind when it had all been Daisy’s idea. She knew who Molly’s father was and had approached Zander asking for Sunnybrae Farm and a lump sum. Given Sir Stephen’s wealth, she should have asked for a lot more. Maybe she had. Who knows what had been discussed? Running an international fashion house, Zander was, I suspected, a businessman who could drive a hard bargain. What chance would Daisy have had negotiating with someone like him? Perhaps he’d threatened to take Molly away. To raise a claim to the child on behalf of Sir Stephen’s widow. Her own wee slice of Scotland probably felt like a good enough deal to Daisy and no doubt Zander had only agreed on fifty thousand to cover legal fees because he was used to dealing with magic-circle London lawyers who charged like the Light Brigade. It was part of the puzzle I felt sure I’d never solve. Only two people knew the truth: Zander and Daisy. One wouldn’t talk to me and the other couldn’t.

  Now that it was all off Barry’s chest and the legitimacy of his nest egg confirmed to everyone’s satisfaction, the mood lightened. Stern words and accusations made way for laughing and joking, beer, red wine and pink concoctions for Ellie.

  Where did it all take me in the search for Deek Pudney’s missing defence? Right back to the House of Pentecost. If Molly wasn’t legally adopted then she was still due to inherit a chunk of Sir Stephen’s estate.

  ‘Maybe the fact that young Molly’s an heiress will finally shut Vikki up,’ Barry said, popping another bottle. ‘And it’s all thanks to me and my professional thoroughness.’

  I smiled and along with everyone raised a glass to Barry. I had a lot more questions about how it all tied in with Daisy’s death, but none, I was sure, that my wine-bibbing lawyer could answer. For the moment it was enough to have solved part of the puzzle.

  ‘I can’t wait to tell her,’ Barry said. ‘You better believe it. First thing Monday morning, I’ll be on the phone to little Miss Stark with Mr Munn’s very own recipe for humble pie.’

  But by first thing Monday he’d be too late. If anyone was going to impart the good news to Miss Stark it was Mr Munro. She’d been critical of me for working on Deek Pudney’s defence to the detriment of relations with my daughter. What would she say when she found out that it had been those same efforts that had discovered her poor wee Molly was poor no longer, and that the girl whom nobody wanted would soon be recognised as heir to a major shareholding in one of Europe’s foremost fashion houses?

  If that didn’t put me in pole position in the race for Tina, nothing would.

  52

  Saturday morning, I was wakened by a newspaper being thrown in my face accompanied by a familiar and very angry voice.

  ‘What happened last night?’

  What time was it? I vaguely recalled sitting down on my sofa to take off my shoes. It had been dark then and my dad wasn’t there. Now it was light and he was. I fought my way out from under the newspaper, swung my legs around and sat up.

  My dad grabbed the newspaper and folded it to a photograph on one of the inside pages. ‘Your brother gets attacked and you just stand back admiring the scenery?’

  I tried to focus on the page, the effort threatening to tear my brain apart. Under the headline: Late Night Tackle, was a picture of Joey Di Rollo’s twisted features, a doorman’s outstretched arm, Malky bent double holding his nose and me performing a hapless photobomb in the background.

  I managed to mumble something about Malky, a party and my immediate need of caffeine, before navigating my way through to the kitchen. Painkillers, a cold shower and coffee then, just maybe, I could face my dad. Why was he even here? Had he forgotten he wasn’t talking to me?

  ‘And drugs aren’t the answer,’ he shouted after me, as I limped my way from kitchen to bathroom, crunching a couple of aspirin tablets. ‘Just look at the state of you. You’re a disgrace. Have you been to bed?’

  I hadn’t. But as I stood under a life-restoring stream of freezing water, sleep was fast receding as a priority. I had to find Vikki.

  ‘Where’s my coffee?’ I asked when I returned to the living room, barefoot and drying my hair with a towel.

  My dad looked up from his newspaper, pen in hand. ‘Make your own coffee. I’m busy.’

  ‘Did you even fill the kettle? You only had to pour hot water on top of some coffee. The cafetière was right there on the sink,’ I said.

  ‘Cafetière? Would you listen to yourself? Cafetière? If you’d spent less time mucking about with cafetières and more time looking after your daughter we wouldn’t be in this mess. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. About Tina.’

  I found a pair of socks and pulled them on. ‘I know, Dad. Don’t worry, it’s all in hand.’ I looked around for my shoes. ‘I’m going to see Vikki. Right after I’ve had a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Do you know where she lives?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got her number.’

  ‘Then why not just phone her?’

  ‘I want to meet her face-to-face. She lives in Edinburgh somewhere. I thought I could take her out for lunch or something.’

  ‘You never learn, do you? It’s no good trying to influence her by wining and dining. She can read you like a book and she knows that you’ve been neglecting Tina.’

  He made it sound like I’d thrown my daughter out on the streets.

  ‘I’ve been doing my job, Dad. I don’t remember you missing too many shifts when Malky and me were boys.’

  ‘That was different. You had each other.’

  ‘When Tina wasn’t with me, she was with you or Malky. What’s wrong with that? I love Tina, but my life can’t come to a grinding halt because of her.’

  ‘Robbie, you forgot to pick the girl up from nursery school. Before that you left her with the staff at your office, and all that was when you weren’t even supposed to be working. Do you really think you can sort everything out by taking Vikki out for a pizza?’

  ‘Yes, I think I can,’ I said. ‘When she hears what I have to tell her I think she’ll see things very differently.’

  I went through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. The way I saw it panning out was me and Vikki in a nice restaurant: ‘I know you think I’ve been neglecting Tina, but there’s been a reason I’ve not been able to give her my full attention. Right from the moment that I rescued Molly from the farmhouse I’ve been thinking about what I could do to help.’ Vikki would be sceptical at first, it was only natural, and then I’d hit her with the news. ‘I know you were upset to learn that Molly won’t inherit Sunnybrae Farm, or the donkeys . . . ’ No, I’d leave the donkeys out of it. ‘But thanks to my efforts she’s now one of the richest wee girls in Scotland. Perhaps I should have ignored her plight and let her rot in that children’s home so that I could spend more time with my own daughter, but, hey, that’s the kind of guy I am.’ That last part needed more work. I’d give it some thought on the way through to Edinburgh, but try writing a bad report about yours truly after that.

  The kettle boiled.

  ‘I’ll have a cup of tea if you’re making one,’ my dad called through to me.

  I tipped some coffee into the cafetière, picked up the kettle and poured. Some of the hot water hit the glass rim and splashed down onto the draining board, spattering my dad’s old newspaper and the crossword with the one remaining clue: HIJKLMNO. I’d be lucky if there was enough water left to make my dad’s tea. Water. Of course. That was the answer. Water. Fortunately there was just enough H2O in the kettle.

  ‘And what’s this important news you have for Vikki that can’t wait?’

  ‘I suppose I could wait and see her at the party,’ I said, handing him his cup of tea on a saucer. ‘That’s if I’m invited.’

>   He sniffed noncommittally and took a sip of tea.

  ‘Look, Dad, I’m coming to the party whether I’m invited or not, but I don’t want to speak to Vikki there, not when Tina’s Gran is around. So it’s best if I go see her now which means I’ll need a lift. I had way too much to drink last night.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘So how about it?’

  ‘You’re getting no lift from me. I’m playing in the medal and teeing off at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Oh, well, if a golf game is more important to you than your granddaughter . . . ’ I drifted back through to the kitchen to collect my coffee.

  ‘I’m not your chauffeur. And it’s not my fault if you can’t drink sensibly,’ he yelled through to me.

  ‘How about this? You give me a lift to Vikki’s and I make my own way back. That’ll still give you time to get to the golf, and—’

  ‘No. I don’t think you seeing Vikki is a good idea. Leave her to me. I’ll have a quiet word this afternoon at the party.’

  ‘And say what?’

  He drank some tea and started looking about the place as though he’d never been there before.

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘I’ll take that camp bed back seeing you’ve no use for it anymore,’ he said, ‘and you can give me the rest of the wean’s clothes.’

  ‘Dad. What are you going to speak to Vikki about?’

  ‘Vera Reynolds is retired, has a big house and a decent pension.’

  Whose side was he on? ‘I’m well aware of that,’ I said. ‘In fact, people won’t stop telling me. Just like they’re very keen to point out that I’m not retired, live in a shoebox and have a pension plan that’s dependent on my accurately predicting six numbers. The fact is I’m still Tina’s father.’