Fatal Legacy (7 page)

‘Drop your investigations, don’t ask any more questions and stop encouraging your husband to be more curious than he needs to be. You wouldn’t want these photographs made public, would you?’

Sally appeared to consider this for a moment.

‘So I
am
right about the company: there
is
something going on there. What is it?’

‘Never you mind.’ He stroked her cheek gently with one finger of his free hand without once releasing his grip of her wrist. The contrast made her shudder and pleasure showed in her eyes.

‘You remind me of someone, Sally, and I can’t think who. Where have you come from? Is your past as interesting as your present?’

Under the pretence of finally giving in to the pain, she moved her free hand to his and, with a muttered ‘please’, lifted his fingers away. Her mind was working rapidly. If James FitzGerald really was somehow linked to what was happening at Wainwright’s – the huge cash flows, the secrecy, the tolerance of substantial fraud – it meant that he had to have criminal connections, and that made him a dangerous man to cross.

‘We’ll drop the investigation, James, just as you ask, but you have some tidying-up to do as well. Arthur Fish is a nervous man,’ she saw his face darken and hurried on, ‘and he’s inept. You need to get rid of him, quickly.’

FitzGerald said nothing as he picked up the photographs and replaced them in the envelope. He saw himself out.

Alexander arrived home earlier than usual, keen to stop his wife from working on the accounts. He removed his tie as he walked through from the entrance hall to the sitting room on the left. Sally was reclining on the window seat, staring out into the garden. She didn’t look well and was wrapped in a thick long-sleeved jumper.

‘Are you OK? You look whacked.’

‘I am a little tired, to be honest; it’s this never-ending winter.’

‘Come on, I’ll talk to Millie about supper. You put your feet up. Would you like a drink?’

‘Got one.’ She shook a tall tumbler at him and then took a long swallow, the ice clinking against her teeth as she drained the glass.

‘Another? What was it, Perrier?’

‘Gin and tonic, and yes please, I’ll have another.’

Alexander took the glass from her and went to the drinks table in the corner. Her voice followed him, disembodied.

‘I’ve been thinking about what Neil Yarrell said today. You know, I think I believe him – so long as he’s got a good explanation for the missing seven million, I think we can relax, although I still think Fish is inept.’

‘I’m amazed, Sally, you were so certain something was wrong. But I agree with you. I think we’ve become worked up over nothing. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation for the gaps in the accounts.’

They stared at each other in amazement, both trying not to let shock show on their face. Neither had expected such an easy capitulation from the other. The suddenness of Alexander’s about-turn confused Sally, already vulnerable from her
confrontation
with FitzGerald, and she burst into tears. Alexander was by her side at once and enveloped her in a huge hug.

‘There, there, it’s all right, hush now, it’s OK. You’re tired. You’ve been working far too hard. Why don’t you lie down for a while? You can have a nice rest while I talk to Millie about a meal. Come on.’

He coaxed his wife towards the stairs, noting with concern that she picked up her fresh glass of gin and tonic on the way. Millie Willett was hovering in the hall.

‘Mr Wainwright-Smith, if I could have a word?’

‘Not now, Millie, can’t you see my wife’s a little unwell? We’ll talk later. I’ll be down in a minute.’

‘Very well, sir, I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.’

Sally looked at her housekeeper with sudden curiosity. She stopped crying abruptly and straightened her shoulders.

‘It’s all right, Alex. I’m fine now, really, much better. You go
and have a shower. Millie, if you need to say something, you can talk to me in the kitchen. Off you go, Alex. Go!’

The next morning Alex was eating a rushed breakfast before leaving for his weekly eight-fifteen meeting with the director of production when Sally casually mentioned that Mrs Willett was working her notice.

‘What!’ He spilt his coffee over the pine table they used for breakfast in the morning room. ‘She and Joe have been here with Uncle for years. You can’t just get rid of them.’

‘They’re an unnecessary extravagance, and besides, we really don’t need a full-time housekeeper and gardener.’

‘But the Hall is huge – there’s more than fifteen bedrooms – and the grounds need a heck of a lot of work. And anyway, you’ve just told Sue to retire so that you can become my PA. You’ll never do it all!’

‘Sue was very slow, dear. I’ll be much quicker. Joe hasn’t done a decent week’s work in years, and as far as Millie Willett goes, I can arrange local cleaning help for a fraction of her cost. I’ve already found two girls who’ll do very well.’

He was in a rush to leave for work so he didn’t have time to argue. He meant to have it out with Sally that evening, but somehow the conversation never happened. He was tired, she was beautiful, and after his bath and dinner he couldn’t bring himself to raise a topic that was bound to result in another argument. And so the Willetts went, paid in lieu of notice, and all trace of them disappeared from the Hall.

When Sally casually mentioned a few days later that temporary tenants were moving into Bluebell Cottage, he realised that she had evicted the Willetts from their tied accommodation as well. There was a row then, terrible for its fury if not any more for its rarity, but it was too late, they’d already gone. Alexander was appalled. What would people think of him? The Willetts had been a bit of a nuisance, and he had to agree with Sally that they were one of his uncle’s least valuable legacies, but to evict them so callously would reflect badly on both him and Sally. It was a small world, and word would soon go round that the new master and mistress of the Hall were complete bastards. He was jealous of his reputation and
intensely angry with her for damaging it so soon.

After a few weeks his relationship with Sally recovered, but he took to sleeping in his uncle’s old room if he came in late from a business dinner, which he did now several times a week. When he did arrive home on time they would always talk over the business of the day, and she would sometimes have an opinion or an idea that brought a new insight to his management problems, but the warmth in their relationship had cooled beyond recovery.

The pebbly beach was almost deserted as the biting wind whipped the sea to a froth of white horses and blew fragments of rubbish to lie trapped against the breakwaters, flapping helplessly. This was a strange time of year on the south coast, full of both potential and threat. If the Easter weekend was bright and sunny, spontaneous crowds would arrive, bringing prosperity and short-term relief to the thousands of small businesses that relied on the trippers for their livelihoods. Every night the owners of these enterprises listened to the long-range weather forecast, tapped their barometers or gazed ominously at strips of seaweed in an attempt to read their fortunes for this year. So far the signs were not good. Despite Easter being one of the latest on record, the weather was hanging on obstinately to its trappings of winter. With less than a week to go, there was frost on the ground at night and even a flurry or two of snow on the North Downs.

The woman who walked along the stony beach above the line of seaweed discarded by the retreating waves was huddled into a thick winter coat worn above jeans and trainers. She had a woollen hat pulled down over her ears, and the hands she stuffed into her pockets were wrapped in mittens. It was impossible to tell her age – she could have been anywhere between sixteen and sixty – but that her mood was solemn and distracted was obvious even from a distance.

Arthur Fish watched her walk the long miles of deserted shore, keeping his distance on the promenade above the beach. He had followed her from Harlden that afternoon as part of his obsessive interest in everything she and her husband said or did. He had been alarmed at first when she bought a ticket to
Brighton, but then the realisation that she was being drawn back to her past, the past he knew too well, had warmed him. The Wainwright-Smiths had dropped their ridiculous
investigation
into the company finances, but Neil Yarrell had told him that Sally still didn’t trust him and wanted him fired. That was the last thing he needed. The thought of being trapped in his tidy house with his dying wife filled him with horror. So he had started following his nemesis in his spare hours whilst trying to decide what to do. This afternoon, seeing her here on old turf, looking so vulnerable and worried, had made him decide that he needed to take direct action.

She had reached a particularly tall breakwater and was walking up the incline of the beach towards stone steps that led in turn to the promenade. He quickened his stride and went to meet her, arriving a few moments before she did.

‘Hello, Sally.’

She looked up at him in shocked surprise, her face for once vulnerable, mouth open like a child’s – so like a child’s, in fact, that it reconfirmed he had been right, he did know her from another age.

‘You don’t remember me, do you?’

‘Of course I do, Fish, now get out of my way.’

‘No you don’t, dear, not really. Look closely, because I remember you …’ He paused, and his tone made her catch her breath. ‘From a
long time ago
.’

‘No.’ The word was barely a whisper, but he could see the acknowledgement grow in her eyes.

‘Oh, yes. I think we should talk, don’t you? Would you like a cup of tea, or would you prefer a beefburger and chips – I think that was your particular favourite, wasn’t it?’

Sally was clinging on to the railings to hold herself up, and the sight thrilled him. He loved to see this upstart pulled down from her recently inherited heights. He took her elbow and steered her across the road towards one of the few
seafront
cafés that had opened for the weekend. Inside, the windows were fogged with the patrons’ breath and the heat from iron radiators. He sat her down at a corner table next to the window and brought over two brimming cups of steaming tea.

He talked to her softly, in a low voice that wouldn’t carry to the other customers, who stared at them with a natural curiosity. It wasn’t often that you saw such a beautiful woman, particularly in the company of a tubby little man like that, old enough to be her father.

Sally ignored her tea and stared down at her hands as Arthur’s voice droned on, telling her a story that she knew was true. Here was an unexpected tendril from her past, snaking out to catch her by the ankles and trip her up. It was all so unfair, when she was so close at last to achieving her dream of complete financial independence and control of her life. How had this happened? She thought back, to the time when Arthur insisted they had met. She couldn’t deny any of what he was saying, despite having no recollection of him at all. She spoke for the first time.

‘How did you recognise me? I look so different now.’

Arthur grinned at her and patted her hand in a way that made her feel sick.

‘It’s your eyes; I’ll never forget your eyes looking at me the way they did back then, full of contempt and anger, just like you looked at me the other day in my office. How times change, eh? What does little Master Alexander know of the woman he’s married, then?’

In one swift motion, Sally removed her hand from under his and upended her tea over his bare fingers. He yelped as the near-boiling liquid scalded his skin, and had to rush to the counter for a cold dishcloth with which he dabbed at his
fast-blistering
flesh. Two fingers were already pink and swollen and the woman behind the counter clucked over him as she placed his hand in a glass of cold water.

Sally watched him as he walked back to their table, a cruel smile on her face. As soon as he was seated, she spoke in a soft whisper that people nearby probably mistook for concern.

‘You’ve made a mistake, Arthur. Don’t ever threaten me, do you hear? You may think you have a hold over Alex and me, but you haven’t. Who will believe you, a fat little bastard who gets his kicks in ways that would turn most decent people’s stomachs? You’ll be a laughing stock.’

‘It’s not just me! There are others who’ll remember.’

‘I doubt it. Mine was not a profession that encouraged long memories.’

‘Maybe, but I’m not the only one you left behind. I can think of at least one other person who would love the opportunity to get back at you for what you did to her. She won’t have forgotten little Sally Price, the bitch whose evidence put her away, and I’ll be seeing her again very soon. You’re not impregnable, Sally – whatever you like to think.’

Sally studied him with a detached interest and then picked up her hat and mittens. She stood up and bent to whisper in his ear.

‘Just remember, Arthur, dead men don’t tell tales.’ Then, with a playful nip on his ear from her sharp little incisors, she was gone, leaving Arthur to gaze at his throbbing fingers with a look of horror on his face.

It was the third Thursday in the month, which held a special significance in Arthur Fish’s routine. Normally he would already have had the day mapped out precisely to the minute, but things were different today. He had been unable to concentrate since the previous Saturday and his encounter with Sally
Wainwright-Smith
. His hand was getting better but the occasional pain from the one remaining blister only served to remind him of her parting words, and then the fear he had been trying to cope with all week would return with a vengeance.

At first he had been determined to confront Alexander with his revelation at once, but the idea of his own secret past becoming common knowledge deterred him. He was also scared of the new MD. Alexander Wainwright-Smith had changed. All trace of the boy Arthur had known had disappeared, and there were times when he was reminded of Alan Wainwright,
complete
with all the older man’s arrogance. So he had spent most of his time pretending that nothing had happened. His ability to retreat into a fantasy world where there were no problems and he was a decent, law-abiding citizen was one of his greatest strengths. It was also a fatal weakness.

He waited quietly in his kitchen, ready to start another arduous day, finding simple enjoyment in his second cup of tea as he watched the cooker clock creep towards seven forty-five and the arrival of the day nurse. As soon as her key was in the lock he would reach for his overcoat, a short, smart camel weave that his wife had bought him eight years before as an anniversary present. It was the last present she had ever bought him, as it turned out, but they weren’t to know that at the time. It had been cleaned frequently since. Each time it came back he
would strip away the plastic and check the collar and cuffs for wear, hoping to find that it was still all right for another year. In moments of melancholy he would consider the likelihood of the coat outlasting his wife, although the tenacity of her spirit frightened him with its determination to see through another day.

The minute counter moved on and the nurse arrived. The cooker clock said 07.48. She was three minutes late. He drank the rest of his tea and rinsed the cup swiftly. He considered going back into the annex to say goodbye to his wife again, then thought better of it. He hated to be late for the eightfifteen meeting.

Nurse Brown was in the hall, adjusting her coat so that it hung neatly on the peg.

‘Morning, Mr Fish.’

‘Nurse Brown.’ He picked up his coat, finding his cap in the pocket where he had tucked it the night before.

‘Six o’clock, then, this evening?’

‘Yes … er, no. I’m late tonight. A faculty day.’ Arthur felt himself blush as he pulled on the green cap.

‘Oh, it’s a faculty evening, of course.’ Nurse Brown grinned at him. Did she know? How could she? Of course not, it was just his guilty conscience.

‘Edith Wilmslow will be here at five thirty as usual. She’ll stay till I’m back as it’s the night nurse’s evening off.’

Edith Wilmslow was eighty if she was a day, but she was a good neighbour, blessed with the health and vigour his poor wife so sadly lacked. Nurse Brown nodded her
acknowledgement
. She was an unstintingly cheerful individual and he didn’t know how his wife coped with her all day long. Thinking of the invalid once more, he felt guilty as he closed the front door with a satisfying snick. He really should have said a second goodbye.

The day at Wainwright’s passed quickly, but Arthur still found that he was looking at his watch every fifteen minutes. As he sat in yet another meeting, his mind drifted to the evening and he pressed his thighs together in anticipation like a little boy. At five fifteen, a quarter of an hour earlier than usual, he picked up his coat and tweed cap and closed and locked his office door
for the night. His secretary had left already, sent home early by her impatient boss.

At the station he bought a cheap day return to the south coast, controlling the tremor that had already started in his hands now that the evening was so close. He sat down in the corner of an empty second-class carriage and opened his
Daily Mail
in an attempt to look normal, but he couldn’t focus. In his imagination he was already with Amanda, her stern eyes reprimanding him if he even dared to look at her directly, her black gown gaping open to reveal the cut-away leather bra and suspenders underneath. His trousers felt hot and tight as he gripped the paper and tried to control the flush that suffused his whole body.

His reverie was shattered as the carriage door slammed open. Three teenage girls and a nondescript youth clambered in, followed by a neat-looking woman with a little white dog on a lead. The girls were shrieking with laughter at some unheard remark. Their accents were vulgar; their language, when he finally deciphered their guttural half-sentences, was vile. He couldn’t believe young girls could be so coarse and he hoped desperately that they would sit well away. As if sensing his discomfort, the leader of the pack saw him, grinned maliciously and shouted, ‘Over ’ere!’ to the others before plumping down on the seat opposite. Arthur automatically removed his cap, remembered his flushed state and dropped it in his lap. All thoughts of the evening ahead vanished. Defiantly he shook the paper free of creases and started reading it properly for the first time.

The other two female louts came and crammed their scantily clad, pale-limbed bodies next to their friend. The dark-haired youth who had followed them into the carriage, after a cursory glance at Arthur, chose a seat at the opposite end of the compartment. Arthur briefly considered the idea of joining him, then thought, Blow it, why should I move? and tried to concentrate on the morning’s news.

Everything he did – each cough, twitch, change of crossed leg – caused the venomous trio opposite him to descend into fits of expletive-ridden cackles as they speculated openly about his sex life, whether he picked his nose and ate it, and whether
it was he who had just farted. They kept on repeating the same suggestions and dirty innuendo – their imaginations limited by poor schooling, weak vocabulary and lazy intellects. His only defence lay in silence and studious concentration; they had to grow bored some time. But no, stop after stop, as the slow train crawled towards its destination, they mocked Arthur and his respectable middle age as only vicious teenagers could, with a lack of alternative occupation that allowed ample room for their spite. If they had been boys, he told himself, he’d have given them a piece of his mind, but their femininity confused him. Brought up never to hit girls, to be a good boy, to raise his cap promptly to ladies in the street and offer his seat on the bus – and smart-like, otherwise he’d feel the sting of his
grandmother’s
hand on the back of his bare thighs and worse to come at home – he couldn’t cope with naked female aggression, at least not this sort.

Their pale, bare limbs did nothing for him; the exposed white midriffs, pierced navels and unfettered skinny breasts left him unmoved. Nowadays he liked his women fully formed, mature, with creamy rich flesh that offered a proper handhold – always assuming Amanda would let him touch her tonight. At the sudden thought of her, he had to recross his legs and adjust his cap. This brought shrieks from the bitches opposite, while their leader belched loudly and repeatedly. Cheese and onion crisps! Disgusting. Ha! he thought. Laugh away, you stupid … Even in his mind he couldn’t say the word. If you only knew what the evening held for me, you wouldn’t laugh. You’d show me respect then.

Something of his bravado must have shown in his face. The girls grew quiet suddenly, and as the train plunged into the long, twisting tunnel that was a prelude to the final descent to the south coast, the carriage became eerily silent. The electric lights flickered once and went out, leaving them all in a rolling pitch blackness. Emergency lighting flared on, casting a supernatural blue glow across the empty seats. Arthur blinked and looked around. The youth in the far corner was staring at him, his intense blue eyes reflecting back the emergency light in an unreal, inhuman glow. He seemed to be looking directly at Arthur, his concentrated gaze disconcerting in the half-light.
Then the carriage flickered yellow as full power returned, and Arthur gave him no more thought.

As soon as the train slowed in the terminus, the girls roused themselves from their bored stupor and fell shrieking on to the platform, tripping and stumbling towards the exit. Arthur contemplated the evening they had in store and pitied, briefly, their next victims. At least if they were of another generation they would have fewer scruples in dealing with that coven, who deserved whatever was coming to them – that night, that life. Arthur shrugged them off.

It was a cool, clear night. He stuffed his
Daily Mail
into the nearest litter bin and breathed deeply. He felt cheated. Normally by now he would have replayed in his mind the memories of previous visits and blended them carefully with anticipation until he had relished the best of both reminiscence and expectation. Instead, he’d arrived at his destination flat and in incipient bad humour, with his underlying fear since his confrontation of Sally barely in check. He glanced at his watch: six thirty. The train had arrived on the dot and he would have no difficulty reaching Amanda’s in time for seven o’clock. After they’d finished – except he didn’t like to think that far ahead – he had something to give her for safe-keeping. They’d known each other long enough, and it would ease his mind to think of it being hidden somewhere. He had decided not to mention Sally tonight. It would spoil the whole evening, and despite what he had said in the café, he wasn’t sure that Amanda would want to become involved all these years later. He decided to walk to clear his mind for the evening ahead. Behind him, a slight figure slipped unnoticed into the shadow of a car park wall and followed at a discreet distance.