by Mick Bose
The complex of flats wasn’t far from the bus stop and I was there after a brisk ten minutes’ walk. I pressed on the buzzer three times, with the third time being the longest. I knew that it would take her a while to answer, so I waited. After more than ten minutes had passed I started getting impatient. The well-tended front lawn and gardens were empty. There was a row of cars in the car park. No one emerged from them. I walked to the end of the front garden. Ground-floor windows faced the front, and a couple of them didn’t have curtains drawn. I tried to look through them, feeling foolish. A TV was on in one of the flats, and I could see a baby playing on the carpet, with a pair of legs jutting out from the sofa. I thought for a while, then leaned over the row of plants and hopped onto the grass verge. After five steps, I was at the window.
I rapped on the window, and waited. My hood was off, and I waved at the person inside. The baby turned and stared at me, mouth open. A woman got up from the sofa, and came closer, frowning.
I mouthed the word Sorry. It was a Velux window with a latch that only opened it a small angle at the top. That would be enough for me to speak to the woman. I gestured. She hesitated, turning around once to check the baby. Then she opened the window slightly, holding the lock, ready to slam it shut. I didn’t blame her.
“I’m very sorry,” I said, raising my voice. “But my mother-in-law lives in Flat 34 on the fourth floor. She is not answering the buzzer or her phone. She is very sick and lives alone. Would you please mind opening the door for me?”
The woman, a freckly-faced mother in her late-twenties, considered me for a while. Then she nodded.
“Press the buzzer for number ten. When I hear it, I will let you in. But please don’t come to my door. I can’t help you and it’s time for the baby’s nap soon.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you so much.”
I hurried back to the front door, and pressed the number ten buzzer. To my relief there was a clicking sound at the door and when I pushed it, it opened. The lift was taking an age to arrive, so I sprinted up the stairs, getting slightly out of breath by the time I reached the fourth floor.
I knocked on Rita’s door. No answer. A jolt of fear ran through me. Had she died? I knocked several times, but there was no answer. I called her name loudly, and banged on the door for good measure. There was a sound behind me, and I opened the door to find a middle-aged woman standing there. She was Afro-Caribbean, and slim, with her hair done up in braids. She glared at me.
“That’s quite a racket you’re making there. Can I help you?”
“Yes, you might be able to. Do you know the old lady who lives here? Her name is Rita Connery and she is very sick. She’s my partner’s mother and I’m afraid something might have happened to her.”
The woman frowned. “Old woman?”
I found her response odd. “Yes. You know, the old lady who lives here. Her name is Rita. She, well, she has cancer.”
The lady shook her head from side to side. “I don’t know any old lady who lives there.”
A feeling of unreality was moving through me like a veil of smoke. A strange emptiness opened up at the back of my mind. I swallowed hard, and felt my heart thudding against my ribs.
“You must know…”
She shook her head again. “I can tell you, young lady, that flat has been empty for many years.”
I opened my mouth, but words were frozen. The woman stepped out of her flat, observing me carefully.
“My name is Sheila. What’s this all about?”
I breathed heavily. “Sheila, how long have you lived here for?”
“More than twenty years.”
“Were you here two weeks ago, on Thursday afternoon?”
Sheila thought for a while. “No, I wasn’t. I was out visiting my grandchildren.”
“When did you get back?”
“The next morning. Why do you ask?”
“There would have been others living on this floor, right? On that day I mean.”
“Yes, of course. Hang on, let me ask our neighbour.” She walked down the corridor and knocked on the next door. There were five flats in total on this side of the fourth floor. When I came up the stairs, I had turned right. On my left, lay the entrance to another corridor and I assumed, another five flats.
Sheila had a quick chat with someone, then turned back to me. I saw an elderly woman poke her head past Sheila, staring at me.
Sheila said, “This is Mrs Edmonston, and she has lived here longer than me. Trust me, girl. That flat has always been empty. No one knows why.”
I leaned against the wall, trying to think. Sheila asked, “Are you sure you have the right address?”
“Yes, I was here two weeks ago and that flat…” I stared at the brown door with the silver number 34 written on it. My finger was pointing at it, like it was a magic wand that could open it.
How was this possible? My mind was in pieces. I mumbled a goodbye, and walked out the double doors, heading for the staircase. My legs were shaking. I sat down on the stairs, holding my head in my hands. My breathing was fast and jerky.
Could this really be happening? Rita had the oxygen cylinder, the old photos, everything had seemed so real. So genuine.
Flashbacks cut through the confusion in my mind. Clive, looking at me with hopeful eyes. Down and depressed.
She has one month to live.
I won’t be alive to see the little one.
The new drug costs twenty-five grand a year.
Over two years, that was fifty grand. Fifty grand was everything I had in my trust fund.
CHAPTER 47
Eight years ago
I rushed down the stairs of the flat, taking them two at a time. I burst out of the front door, fumbling with my phone as I ran. I called Clive, but it went to answerphone. I wanted to call the police, actually, I had to call the police, but it would have to wait. The taxi pulled up at the pavement after I paced like a caged animal for five minutes. I gave the driver directions for the Connery estate agents office on the high street. It took a while to get through the traffic and I took that time to dial 999.
“Do you want fire, ambulance or police?” a bored voice asked on the other end.
“Police please.”
The line connected almost immediately. “Please tell me exactly what has happened,” said another calm, male voice at the other end.
“I have been swindled out of money. All my savings. My partner has done a massive fraud…” I was trying to speak slowly, but I knew my voice was high-pitched.
The voice cut through. “Are you in danger right now?”
“What?”
He repeated the question.
I said, “Yes, I mean no. I am the victim of a huge fraud. I need the police to arrest someone.”
“Are you at the scene of crime?”
This guy just wasn’t getting the urgency of the situation. I wondered what he would do if he had just been tricked out of his inheritance.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then you have to go to the nearest police station and file a crime report.”
“I know that,” I snapped, and turned the phone off. So much for help from the police. I would have to involve them a bit later. My phone rang again, and I picked it up. It was my solicitor. I had put the phone to my ear when the cab parked. I paid him quickly, told the solicitor I would call him back and got out of the cab.
In front of me there was the usual parade of high street shops. Connery’s estate agency was next to a charity shop, and I hurried towards it. Abruptly, I came to a standstill. The charity shop was open, but the windows of the estate agency were boarded up. The door was shut. The sign on the top still said the name, with the neon sign that stuck out sideways. My hands and feet felt cold. It was hard to breathe all of a sudden. My brain was trying to process what my eyes were seeing.
I stood in front of one of the boarded-up windows. The brown grill steel-cased boards covered most of the front, including the door. To the right there was
a chip shop from where we used to get our lunches. It was open. I walked in, my head a mess. I didn’t know what to say, feel or think.
The chip shop owner was frying fish, wearing a white apron with batter stains all over it. He knew me, and smiled. I couldn’t remember his name.
“Our agency office,” I pointed, feeling stupid. “What happened to it?”
He frowned, and folded his arms on top of the counter. “Thought you’d know, seeing you work there. They closed up shop one week ago. I didn’t hear much. Saw some guys come in a van one day and board the place up.” He looked at me quizzically. “Didn’t you know?”
“I’ve been on leave. Just got back.”
He raised his eyebrows. I thanked him, and walked out, calling my solicitor’s bypass number. Mr Dempsey answered immediately, like he was waiting for my call.
“Did you know the office is shut down?” I started, angry and confused.
He was quiet for a while. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “Miss Dixon, I suggest you come to my office asap.”
After twenty minutes, I was sitting in the renovated Edwardian building’s ground-floor office. Dempsey and Sons had been doing business from these premises for the last hundred years. I was shown straight into his office.
“What’s going on?” I asked, not sitting down.
Mr Dempsey was tall, thin with sunken cheeks. His white hair only grew on the sides and back. He had a defeated look on his face. My heart sank as I looked at him. He tapped the desk. I saw he had my folder out, the one that contained my contract with Clive. My share of the business in exchange of my trust fund.
In an apologetic voice Mr Dempsey said, “I am afraid the business has no assets left, Miss Dixon.”
The feeling of unreality was spreading through me like a cloud again. I had difficulty speaking.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there is nothing to sell to raise money. I am afraid your share, and any share, of the business is useless.”
*****
I had nowhere else to go but back to the flat. I tried to think about what had happened to my life. I had nothing left – my heart, my body, my money – all of it had been ripped out. And all of it by one man. One man who had preyed on me, and destroyed me, systematically. It only occurred to me then how devious his plans had been.
I had to go the police. There was no other choice. Once I told them everything they might even know who he really was. He probably had a history, and a different identity. Then I stopped. Clive had taken the suitcases to that house in Mitcham. What if he was living there now? He thought I wouldn’t be able to track him down.
But I had. I didn’t want to go the police empty handed. I would find out exactly what he was upto first.
CHAPTER 48
Present day
I try Dad on the mobile, but on the farm reception can be patchy. Askrigg, where he lives up north, is in the Yorkshire Dales. It’s a National Park, and very beautiful. Life in the farm was hard, however. I used to help Dad a lot, with Mum and a couple of farmhands. I miss those simple days.
I ring the landline, and he answers after a while. His voice is still booming and loud, and it fills me with warmth and reassurance to hear it.
“Hey up, our kid!” he shouts in his Yorkshire accent. “Forgotten about your old man, have ya?”
“No, Dad.” I say quietly. I pause and he doesn’t speak. Then I tell him everything. I sit down, and can’t stop the tears as the words pour out of me.
“Oh, Emma. My poor lass,” he laments. Then his voice hardens. “Where is that fecking bastard now, eh? Give him a taste of his own medicine, I can.”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
“How’s Molly?”
“She’s fine. Can we come and stay with you for a while, Dad?”
“What you asking for, you silly muppet? It’s your house, ain’t it?” Dad’s always had a way with words. I haven’t spoken to him for a good few weeks, and even the sound of his voice makes me want to cry.
After I’ve spoken to Dad, I buy the tickets on internet. They cost a bomb as I’m buying them at short notice, but I don’t care. I put it on the joint credit card I have with Jeremy. I have to collect the tickets from King’s Cross. We need to leave as soon as I’ve picked up Molly. It’s an early finish at school today, at 1 pm. I’m glad and all of a sudden I’m really looking forward to spending time at home with Dad.
There is a crowd at the gates, and the children are out in the playground, running around. I see Suzy, and we pick the children up and walk back. I still haven’t seen Eva today, or Lottie. Neither has Suzy. I tell her about seeing Joanne. She doesn’t know about Jeremy or Eva. She asks me what I’m doing over the holiday week and I wonder what to tell her. In the end I opt for the truth.
“Something has happened between Eva and me,” I say. “I can’t tell you what it is, but she’s betrayed me. In a very bad way.” I don’t elaborate. Suzy’s eyes widen, and I can tell she wants to press, but I just say, “Please. I’ll tell you later.”
Suzy says, “OK. But I know something bad is going on. Look, Emma, without you, I wouldn’t have my whole family now.” She smiles and nudges the pram. “So, if I can help in any way. Even if it means having Molly for a few hours.” She looks at Molly and smiles. Molly slides closer to me, and I put an arm around her.
“Thank you, Suzy,” I say, meaning it. Then I tell her where I’m going. It’s good to have someone who knows, in case I need to call her about the house or something else.
“Up north? Great, sure you’ll have a wonderful time. Relax and get everything out of your system.”
I know I’m being paranoid but I ask her anyway. “Will you keep an eye on the house? It’s going to be empty for the week.”
“You have an alarm, don’t you?”
I say yes.
She says, “I’ll drive by every now and then. A week will fly by.” Suzy says again, “Remember if you need me, just ask. I really don’t mind.” Margaret kicked the side of the pram and sneezed.
“Thank you, Suzy. I better go. Don’t want to miss the train.”
“Are we really going to see Granddad, Mummy?” Molly asks, a trace of excitement in her voice. I told her when she came out of her classroom.
“Yes.”
“Yippee.” She skips on the road ahead of me and I run after her. There’s a busy junction outside their school. As I grab Molly’s hand again, my phone buzzes. I pick it up to find Eva calling me. I don’t answer. When I’m getting in the car, it buzzes again. I feel like throwing it out of the window.
*****
The journey up north is uneventful, apart from Eva trying to ring me again. I steadfastly ignore all her calls. I do ring Jeremy and tell him what we’re doing. The rolling blue and green hills and deep valleys or dales, as we call them here, appear soon. I’d forgotten how nice it was, even in the cold of February. When I was young we used to play in the hills. We knew where the caves were, and played hide-and-seek in the summer till sundown.
This area is now a tourist spot, but the tourists don’t come in the winter. It’s in July and August that the queues of cars begin. Kind of spoils the beauty of the place, in my opinion, but it also helps the farmers earn a living by letting out their homes as hotels or BnBs.
Dad never did, though. “The Dixon farm isn’t a hotel,” he always said. We had enough livestock, and a limestone quarry at the edge of our land. Farming isn’t easy in the Dales. The hill uplands are covered by moors, and not much grows there. It’s in the Dales that we have the hay meadows and drystone-walled fields. In summer the meadows are lush with growth, and all the wading birds fly down from the moorlands. The birds are red green and blue, and flutter like brushstrokes against the yellow meadows.
The journey takes a while. We get off at Skipton and have to take another slow train to finally reach Askrigg. The village is big, and served well by roads, but it is remote. Rain falls steadily from a leaden-grey sky as we approach.
Dad is waiting for us at the station. He’s not hard to spot in his burly sheepskin jacket, ruddy complexion and white, bushy beard. The platform is more or less empty, only two more passengers alight with us. Molly shrieks and runs towards and he picks her up and swings her round. He envelops me in a hug, and I smell the familiar odours of hay, livestock and diesel from the tractor carts.
Dad holds me at arm’s length. His eyes are blue and they twinkle even on this drab day. “So good to see you, lassie. Missed you.”
“You, too, Dad.” I mean it.
He picks up my heavy suitcase and we walk out of the station. I have the hoodie of my jacket up and the rain drums against it, a soft and sibilant sound. Dad’s old Range Rover is waiting, and we dump all our stuff in the back and jump in. I sit with Molly in the front as Dad drives, and answers Molly’s chattering.
Grey peaks of hills merge with rain-soaked clouds that fade to white sky. Curlews and wagtails fly down, floating to a stop over puddles of wet land. From the station Dad drives through the sleepy village, past the pubs, post office and stationary shops. Then a single line of black asphalt stretches to infinity between two hills, ours being the only car on it for now. I have missed this, I know now. It’s such a world away from the hustle and bustle of London.
It takes half an hour to travel the forty-odd miles to the farm. As I go down the single-lane pitched road that I remember being made, my eyes are drawn to two new outhouses before we get to the house and barnyards.
“When were they built, Dad?”
He mutters a reply without saying much. I wonder if Dad is starting to think about the tourists in summer, after all.
CHAPTER 49
Molly is shattered by 8 pm and I put her to bed in my room. She’ll be sharing a room with me while we stay here. Dad has got the fire going, and the timber logs hiss and splutter as they burn. I sit down in an armchair close to it, tucking my feet inside.