by Granger, Ann
‘Sadly, robust of health she may have been, but six months ago Ms Grey lost her life in a car crash on the M25. Mr Burton came in to see me, very upset. The only time, I think I may say, that I ever saw him distressed. He instructed I destroy the will at once and gave me his copy of it, so that I could destroy that too.’
‘So he had to think of a new beneficiary, after all,’ Jess said thoughtfully.
‘Quite. I pointed out to him that he should instruct me with a view to drawing up a new, replacement, will as soon as possible. I don’t want to sound as though I was touting for business. But my understanding was that Mr Burton, having destroyed one will, did intend to replace it with another and that he would be instructing me in due course. As delicately as I could, I drew his attention to the, um, random nature of Fate. At the time of our conversation Mr Burton was forty-six years old. I took Ms Grey’s death in a car accident as my example. “Don’t rush me, Foscott!” was his reply. “Let me think about it. I’ll get back to you.” But he didn’t.’
Foscott broke off his narrative at this point and sat back, awaiting Jess’s reaction.
‘You were trying to get in touch with him when you learned from his cleaner of his death,’ Jess said. ‘Or so I believe you gave Superintendent Carter to understand.’
Foscott inclined his head graciously. ‘I was. I was getting worried. When clients start to put things off, time loses its meaning for them. In this case, six months had already gone by and six months soon becomes a year and then two. The prospect of my client dying intestate would be a bureaucratic nightmare for someone. Unfortunately, it’s happened. We handled other legal work for Mr Burton. This office has a department dealing with conveyancing. The clerk there handled the purchase of his Cheltenham house and we hold the deeds of the property here for safekeeping, together with some other documents of a personal and private nature. He didn’t like to leave sensitive material lying around at home. We are bound to be involved in sorting out the confused situation that has arisen now.’
There was a moment or two during which both of them sat in silence. Jess was thinking, That’s why we found no wall safe. Burton simply sealed up everything in an envelope and left it with his solicitor. It probably has To be opened in the Event of my Death written on it. Foscott was tapping his fingers together and looking bland.
‘Lucas Burton,’ Jess said at last, ‘was forty-six years old. He hadn’t made his money overnight. Isn’t it possible that there might be some even earlier will, not drawn up by you? Perhaps a will drawn up in London, twenty or more years ago? It could be even one of those do-it-yourself efforts on a form you get from your bank.’
‘We don’t approve of those,’ said Foscott, presumably speaking for his profession.
‘But it might exist, lying around somewhere,’ Jess insisted. ‘As you destroyed the later will on his instructions, would that mean a hypothetical earlier one would now be valid?’
Foscott shuddered. ‘It might well be, if it came to light. I was not unaware of this possibility, Inspector. I made a point of asking him, at the time I drew up the will in favour of Ms Grey, if there was any earlier will I should know about. I stressed that if so, it must be retrieved and destroyed. Earlier beneficiaries appearing clasping old wills and claiming inheritance aren’t unknown in my world. They generally don’t take kindly to being told there is a later will, cutting them out. I made a little joke at the time. I reminded Mr Burton that confusion over old wills provided the plot for numerous – ah – detective stories of the sort Agatha Christie wrote. He assured me there wasn’t any such will.’
Oh, Reggie, you and your little jokes! thought Jess. How many times, I wonder, have you told the Agatha Christie one? ‘Who were the executors of his will? The one you destroyed?’ she asked aloud.
‘His bank.’
‘Well, we can’t help you,’ Jess said, ‘not in that respect, at any rate. But we still hope you might be able to provide some information to help us. Mr Burton died violently. We are treating it as murder.’
‘His name was in this morning’s newspapers,’ said Foscott disapprovingly. ‘It confirmed what the cleaner had already told me. I assumed the delay in releasing details of his identity was due to the police seeking next of kin. That, Inspector, made us allies. I contacted Superintendent Carter at once.’
‘Perhaps, then, someone, some relative, might read about it and come forward? We rather hope so.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ said Foscott with asperity, ‘if half a dozen do and all of them false. A very rich man dies. The circumstances are mysterious. Journalists always try to find a grieving widow or girlfriend or ex-girlfriend, preferably photogenic. If they establish, as they’ll quickly do, he was a loner with no known next of kin, then it may well suggest to a few opportunists they try to make some claim. Also, in any case, we shall have to put advertisements in the press, requesting anyone believing they might be entitled to do so to come forward. If anyone does, we’ll take great care to make sure they are genuine. You may rely on me for that.’
Foscott put his hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. ‘There is a further problem.’
‘Yes?’ Jess waited with sinking heart.
‘His name wasn’t always Lucas Burton.’
‘What?’
Foscott’s eyes gleamed. She was sure he was enjoying this, despite the problem his client had left him.
‘No, indeed. He was born Marvin Crapper. He changed the name by deed poll some years before he arrived in Cheltenham. By then he had started to make serious money and climb the ladder socially. For him, the purchase of his house here was symbolic. He felt it somehow established him. Perhaps he’d felt his original name gave the wrong image, in his new circumstances. He became Lucas Burton.’
Jess sat back and took a moment or two to mull over the information. Reggie smiled at her benevolently while she did so.
So now they had to track down not only a Lucas Burton but a Marvin Crapper as well. Another thought occurred to her.
‘He was certainly well off,’ she said. ‘The estate will take some sorting out. I’ve been in the house in Cheltenham and in his flat in London. The Cheltenham house is stuffed with antiques, as you mentioned. The Docklands flat contains modern stuff but it looks as if it cost a packet. There are some paintings there. I don’t know about modern art, or any art, but I’m sure they’re originals. The contents will have to be valued for probate, I suppose? I mean, everything he had, like his car. He drove an expensive car, didn’t he?’
Foscott, still smiling, said, ‘I fear I have no idea. No doubt it was an expensive one.’
Hah! No flies on Reggie Foscott! He’d recognised the drift of Jess’s carefully worded innocuous question, and neatly headed her off. If Foscott had known Burton drove a silver Mercedes, then if Selina had told him of her near-miss experience with such a car on the day the body had been found at Cricket Farm, he might have wondered whether his client were involved. Jess imagined Selina would have described the incident to him, graphically.
But perhaps she was being unfair to Foscott. There was no reason why he should know what kind of car Burton drove.
Another thought struck her. ‘A man like Burton, with that sort of income, must surely have an accountant to do his personal tax returns and so on?’
‘As regards his business investments, there is a firm of tax lawyers in London whose address I can give you.’ Foscott put his hand to his mouth and coughed discreetly. ‘As regards his personal tax matters, yes, he did have a local man who worked all that out for him and kept his records.’
‘A local man?’ Jess heard the enthusiasm in her own voice. ‘Then I can go and see him. Which firm is it?’
‘It’s not a large company. It’s a one-man band, but one with a good reputation locally. Andrew Ferris. He works from an office at his home. I can give you that address, too.’
Foscott was quite a man for springing surprises. Mentally Jess found herself doing some nimble reshuffling of inf
ormation to date. It was like one of those computer games where a click of a button sends coloured blocks tumbling into a new pattern.
‘Inspector?’ Foscott raised his eyebrows.
Foscott had noted that her concentration had momentarily shifted away from him. Jess rallied.
‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘I’ve been meaning to go and see Mr Ferris anyway. I want to show him the photograph I showed your wife,’ she added hastily.
‘Do you indeed?’ said Foscott thoughtfully.
‘I’d be obliged,’ Jess said, getting to her feet and gathering up her backpack, ‘if you didn’t phone and let him know I’m on my way.’
Foscott flushed. ‘It was not my intention.’
Chapter 15
The professional classes stick together, thought Jess grimly, as she left Foscott’s office. They socialise, too. Despite my asking him not to say anything, I wouldn’t put it past Reggie to bump into Andrew Ferris ‘by chance’ in the bar of the golf club or somewhere like that, and say something like, ‘How did you get on with the police?’ followed by, ‘Oops! I wasn’t supposed to mention that.’
All of which meant she should lose no time to going to see Ferris. This case was dragging on long enough. Phil Morton might turn up something in London today, but Jess wasn’t counting on it.
‘Tomorrow will be Thursday, when it will be the anniversary of Nathan Smith’s crime.’
With a start she realised she’d spoken aloud. Of course they wanted to wrap up the investigation, but why should she feel it so important to have it settled before tomorrow? The date loomed oppressively over them. It worried Eli and it worried her. These two modern-day murders – of Eva and of Burton – seemed to demand they were settled before they collided with the anniversary of those two other murders, nearly thirty years before. Jess couldn’t explain why this should seem so important but somehow it did.
Strictly speaking, anniversaries fell on dates. But Eli chose to remember the murder of his parents on the nearest Thursday to the calendar date of the event, because Thursday had been market day; and a market day had been selected by his brother for the deed. After all, what did a calendar date mean to a man who was not only illiterate but had grown up in a world governed by the seasons and the weather, not according to a numbered square on a sheet of paper?
Ferris lived outside town on an estate built some fifteen or twenty years earlier. The gardens had had time to settle and shrubs to grow. Some of the trees were already threatening to cause a problem with subsidence before too long. The brickwork had weathered and the pavements cracked. Nevertheless these had been pricey houses when new and their value had certainly increased. All were detached and some, like Andrew Ferris’s, had double garages. The garage at his house attracted notice because the up-and-over double door was not quite closed and in front of it stood ranged a row of large cardboard boxes.
Jess got out of her car and approached the boxes curiously. One contained books and CDs, another female clothing. A third held a woman’s shoe collection, an expensive one, Jimmy Choo and Manolo Blahnik designs among the jumble. Jess gazed down covetously at a shiny bright green pair of ‘ballerinas’. The last box held kitchen equipment, mixers, blenders and a set of bright, almost unused steel pans. A couple of glossy cookbooks had been tossed in on top. They looked as unused as the pans. Someone was moving out.
‘Inspector?’
Jess jumped and turned, flushing guiltily at being found snooping. Andrew Ferris stood behind her, holding more clothing in his arms.
‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘I came to see you about something and I was surprised to find all this . . .’ She indicated the boxes. ‘Are you moving?’
‘No, I’m not. My wife is. We’re getting a divorce. She’s in London at the moment and we’re communicating through our solicitors.’
Aha! In Andrew’s case, the solicitor was probably Reggie Foscott. No wonder Foscott’s eyes had betrayed his interest on hearing Jess was planning a visit here.
Ferris walked to the clothing box and dumped the garments in his arms casually into it. ‘Karen’s coming down at some point to collect her things. I’m trying to speed it all up by doing a bit of sorting. I hadn’t realised she’d got so much. This – ’ he pointed at the clothing box – ‘is just the start of it, one wardrobe. There’s another cupboard in the spare room with all her skiwear, that sort of thing. She’s a travel courier. She has clothes for every occasion, as I’m finding out!’ He pulled a wry grin.
‘Sorry about the marriage breakdown,’ Jess said, feeling she ought to make some suitable remark.
‘Don’t be. It’s been a long time coming but on the cards for ages. We should have called it quits a couple of years ago. With Karen being away so much, it’s meant we’ve been de facto separated for much of the time. I suppose that delayed having to make it legal. Anyway, come inside. I’m ready for a cup of coffee or even something stronger. But you’re on duty, I suppose?’ He raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes. Coffee would be fine, thanks.’
She followed him into the house. The hallway was cluttered with items not yet moved out to the boxes: more books, guides to tour destinations by the look of them, more CDs, two framed watercolours of Italian scenes, a set of those Russian dolls that contain smaller dolls inside them and some ethnic-looking pottery.
‘By the time I’ve finished and Karen’s been down here to clear out anything I’ve missed, the house will be virtually empty,’ Ferris said cheerfully. ‘She doesn’t want the furniture, fortunately, except for some items she inherited from her family, so I won’t be sitting on orange crates. But it will look very bare.’
He climbed past the books and pushed open a door at the end of the hall, leading into the kitchen. Jess followed him.
In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors were open. Ferris indicated them. ‘This is the tricky bit. Nearly all the stuff left in here came to us by way of wedding presents. So I’ve got to try and remember which came from my family and which came from Karen’s lot. I’m sure Karen will know, anyway, so perhaps I’d better leave it until she comes. I wonder if she’ll want the microwave?’ He frowned at it. ‘She bought that and she’s entitled to it. But it’s about the only thing in here I use. I’m not a cook.’
He was busying himself boiling a kettle and spooning coffee grounds into an upright jug as he spoke. ‘Do you like it strong? I’m used to brewing it up thick enough to stand the spoon up in.’
‘Not quite as strong as that, please!’ Jess said hastily.
She swung her backpack from her shoulder and unzipped it with a view to finding the blown-up publicity photo from the Foot to the Ground. The green bag was full and it was awkward to root around in it with one hand while holding it with the other. Jess looked for a clear surface to put the rucksack on, but there wasn’t one.
‘What’s the problem?’ asked Ferris, seeing her dithering. ‘Looking for somewhere to put down your bag? Try the lounge, it’s tidier and we can sit in there comfortably.’
Jess picked her way past the books and watercolours and found the lounge. It was tidier by comparison, but hardly tidy. Many of the books outside must have been taken from the tall oak bookcase. It now had significant gaps in its rows and the remaining volumes had collapsed on one another. Others, perhaps of disputed ownership, had been left scattered or in unsteady towers on the carpet. Among them lay yet more CDs from another case. The only things untouched were several Toby jugs peering beerily at her through the glass doors of an otherwise emptied display cabinet. Either Karen didn’t want those, or they belonged indisputably to her estranged husband. No wonder the Ferrises had put off the final moment of their parting of the ways. The time and trouble dividing up every single thing collected in several years of marriage was enough to make any heart fail.
There was plenty of confirmation that Andrew Ferris wasn’t in any way domestically inclined. Not only did he not cook; he didn’t dust. Jess could have written her name on an occasional table. Unlike Burton, he ap
peared not to have employed a cleaner. The division of property completed, she wondered how he would ever establish order again. She hoped he kept his clients’ personal account records in better order.
‘But,’ she murmured to herself, ‘I’m not one to talk.’
She had to admit she too was a stranger to housework. She comforted herself with the thought that she and Ferris weren’t alone among those whose offices were kept in good order, but whose homes were tips.
Jess set the backpack on the sofa and finally managed to extricate the group photograph. She straightened up as Ferris entered with the coffee and as she did so a cushion was dislodged; behind it, rather crumpled, lay one of the publicity folders from the Foot to the Ground, identical to the one David Jones had given her and from which she’d taken the photograph held now in her hand.
She stared at it and then up at Ferris.
‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘Sorry about the mess. I did say “tidier” and not “tidy”.’
‘Yes,’ Jess said, ‘it’s not that. It’s this.’ She picked up the leaflet.
‘Oh, that.’ Ferris set down the coffee cups on a low glass-topped table. ‘All the talk about that poor kid whose body turned up in Eli’s cowshed put the name of that pub in the news. I’ve never gone there with Penny or with Karen, my soon to be ex-wife, come to that. I thought I’d check it out. Pen and I usually go to the Hart to eat, where you saw us when you came in with your friend. Well, word’s got about of the business at Cricket. Not long after you left, last Thursday night, just as we’d settled down to eat, some ghastly bottle-blonde teetered up to our table and wanted to know if Penny had heard any screams, if you please!’ Ferris pulled a face. ‘So I thought, right, we’re too well known there. The Foot to the Ground is reputed to be a bit pricey but perhaps its customers don’t pester one another for gossip.’