The Journal

by John R McKay

  Danny shook his hand. ‘Pleased to meet you Mister Wilson,’ he said. ‘I’m Danny Cooke and to be honest, I have no idea why I’m here. I never knew the man. All a big surprise to me that he saw fit that I should be asked to come.’

  Wilson laughed. ‘That’s Sir Peter all over. He was acting rather strangely towards the end, so I hear. Running about doing all sorts of things. I think he knew the end was close and wanted to sort things out before he left us.’

  Danny smiled at him. Wilson continued. ‘Don’t worry about some of them here. He didn't have much time for his brother and his brood. That ignorant young woman I just saw you with being one of them. She’s Simon’s daughter, Genevieve. Very full of herself. She's a horrible little woman.’

  Now Danny laughed, ‘Yes, that’s the impression I got.’

  A noise behind them made them turn. A tall balding man, of around fifty five years old, with a small moustache and wearing a dark pin striped suit came striding into the room carrying a black leather briefcase. At once all conversation stopped and everyone turned to look at him. He did not look at anyone but marched to the front of the room and sat down in the front row, placing the briefcase at his feet.

  He looked over to where Clive Brown was standing with a group of three men and called over. ‘Come on Brown, let’s get on with it, I haven't got all day. I have an important meeting with the minister in an hour’s time and I don't want to keep him waiting.’

  Brown moved away from the group and everyone started to take their seats.

  Danny whispered to Wilson: ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Simon Holbrook,’ said Wilson. ‘The obnoxious younger brother of Sir Peter. I can't stand the man.’

  ‘Right,’ replied Danny looking at the back of Holbrook’s head. ‘Do you think I should introduce myself?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Don't waste you time. If you think Genevieve was rude, then she learned everything from him. He’s a grade one arsehole in my opinion.’

  Danny let out a short yelp of mirth and attempted to hide his laughter. However, everyone in the room turned to look at him and he reddened in embarrassment. Simon Holbrook turned around and stared at him. ‘Something funny?’ he asked.

  Danny stared back. ‘Not at all.’ He was aware that every person in the room was staring at him and he was grateful when Clive Brown called for everyone’s attention.

  ‘If I could have your attention then I will get started,’ he said loudly.

  Holbrook turned back and faced the desk where Brown had now positioned himself, facing the gathering as they all turned back to face him, their interest in Danny momentarily gone.

  ‘Could someone please close the doors?’ The two maids who had brought in the refreshments moved to leave the room, closing the doors behind them.

  When everyone was settled Brown opened his briefcase and took out a large A4 sized envelope.

  ‘This is the will of the late Sir Peter Holbrook. He gave me the will approximately six months ago and asked me to put it in the safe at my practice. It has been there ever since and this is the first time I have handled it since the day I put it there.’

  ‘Oh just get on with it Brown,’ said Holbrook impatiently.

  ‘Quite,’ replied Brown, pausing. ‘Prior to his death, Sir Peter had me run a few errands for him. Giving out financial gifts to some of the charities he supported amongst various other things.’

  He picked up a small letter opener from the desk and broke the seal on the envelope. Taking out two sheets of paper, attached by a staple, he coughed slightly and then began to read.

  ‘I Sir Peter Alexander Holbrook, tenth Baronet of Ardleigh of nine Buckingham Gardens, Kensington, revoke all former testamentary dispositions made by me and declare this to be my last will. I appoint as executor of this will, my good friend and solicitor, Clive Brown of Brown and Patterson solicitors, London.’

  ‘I will keep this short and sweet and as clear as I possibly can. To my good friend Mister Clive Brown I leave the sum of five hundred thousand pounds. You have been a good and trusted friend to me for over two decades and deserve a lengthy retirement. Enjoy, my friend.’

  Brown paused, visibly emotional at his deceased employer’s generosity. He took a moment to compose himself and then continued.

  ‘To the charities I have contributed to, I leave you with my best wishes an the hope that my beneficiaries will continue to offer you the same support I have provided over the years. You have already received monies from me prior to my demise and I hope that you are able to do some good with it.’

  Brown paused to take a sip of tea. He was becoming slightly uncomfortable as he viewed ahead at what was coming next. Danny stirred awkwardly in his seat. He suddenly felt an enormous sense of foreboding, as though something momentous was about to happen, something that would change his life forever.

  Brown continued: ‘To my brother Simon. I leave you my share of all the business interests we have, a full list is attached to this document. This should keep you in champagne and truffles for as long as you want. Enjoy it, but be aware that I give you this reluctantly, out of family tradition and not through brotherly love, which, as you are well aware, is non-existent between us. The manor house at Ardleigh I leave to the National Trust. The time has come now for the public of our great nation to enjoy a house which, frankly, has been a bit oversized for the needs of the family for some considerable time. If anyone wishes to pursue the Baronetcy line then that is up to them, but my wish is for it to end with my passing.’

  ‘Arrogant shit!’ exclaimed Simon Holbrook from the front row.

  Brown looked up. ‘Forgive me, Mister Holbrook. I am just reading the words of your brother.’

  Holbrook raised his finger and made a circle in the air, as if to say, ‘Continue’.

  ‘To each of those who are employed in the manor, the Barbados residence and the Kensington house, I leave you the sum of thirty thousand pounds each. Thank you for your service. I hope that the new owners of these properties will keep you in employ but ultimately that will be up to them.’

  Brown paused, once again scanning the document. He took a breath and then continued once more.

  ‘Finally, the remainder of my estate, including the Barbados residence, the Kensington house, with all fixtures, fittings and artwork and what is left of my personal wealth after the other beneficiaries have been paid I leave to Daniel Alan Cooke of Springfield Crescent, Wigan, Greater Manchester.’

  There was an audible intake of breath from everyone in the room, none more so than Danny. People immediately began to whisper and look around. Those who previously had been unaware of who he was were now enlightened and Danny felt as though the walls were closing in on him. His head was suddenly filled with a massive pounding as he felt the blood course to his brain. He felt like he wanted to vomit.

  Shaking, he placed his cup on the floor to prevent himself from dropping it and with the eyes of all those in the room upon him, he took a deep breath and sat back as far as he could in his seat. He wanted to leave, but knew he could not. He wanted to be any place in the world right now other than sat there, amongst strangers. Strangers he knew would feel as though he had just mugged them, taken from them their inheritance, their money, their birth-right. He put his hand to his mouth and swallowed back the acidic bile that had risen up his throat.

  Brown was also staring at him. This was an unexpected turn of events to him too, that much was obvious. He looked back to the piece of paper in his hand and coughed to clear his throat and also to bring back the focus of the audience to the reading. Throughout all this time, Simon Holbrook had never stirred. He remained facing forward and had not turned around to look at Danny like the rest of the group.

  ‘If I may continue,’ said Brown.

  ‘Just get on with it,’ said Simon Holbrook with a hint of annoyance in his tone.

  Brown coughed again, the attention now back with him. ‘This may come as a surprise to you all,’ he
read. ‘However, as explanation I also leave to Daniel a small package of letters, photographs and a journal that I discovered a short time ago, that will give an insight to my decision and how I came to make it. This documentation is for Daniel alone and he must decide for himself how much of it he wants to make public. The package can be found in the safe behind the portrait of Sir Frederick Holbrook, the eighth Baronet of Ardleigh, in my study in Kensington. The number to the safe can be found on the rear of this page.

  ‘In witness whereof I have hereunto set my hand this twenty third of June two thousand and twelve.’

  Brown looked up. ‘There are two witnesses to the will which make it legal. What will follow now is that I will endeavour to process the transition of all relevant documents, deeds and monies to the recipients.’

  Before he could go any further Simon Holbrook rose from his seat. He quickly strode towards the door looking at no-one, his face emotionless. Danny watched as he opened the door and left the room, no-one speaking until they heard the slam of the front door as he left the building.

  ‘Who witnessed it?’ asked Genevieve Holbrook suddenly. ‘It’s a bloody fiasco. Who the hell is this Cooke person and what the hell has he got to do with this family?’

  Danny squirmed in his seat. The shock of what had just happened not yet sinking in. It was as though he was in a dream, an observer to someone else's nightmare. It was almost like an out of body experience.

  ‘It was witnessed by two employees of this residence,’ explained Brown. ‘To whom Sir Peter has left his wealth was his own prerogative and should be respected.’

  ‘Respected my arse,’ shouted Genevieve. ‘This is a travesty.’

  With that she too rose from her seat and left the room, quickly followed by the rest of the family.

  Stephen Wilson put his hand on Danny’s shoulder. ‘Are you OK son?’

  Danny turned to look at him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I feel like I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘You have just become very rich, Mister Cooke. Whatever reason Sir Peter saw fit to leave you all this I’m sure is a sound one. He was in no way deluded and was fully compos mentis before he left us.’

  Danny looked at him, lost for words.

  Slowly people began to rise and leave the room, their whispers and hushed conversations, no doubt about Danny, leaving with them. Brown approached him.

  ‘What the hell just happened there?’ asked Danny. ‘I feel numb.’

  ‘Me too, if I’m honest with you, Danny,’ he replied. ‘You have just become extremely wealthy. This house alone is worth in the region of twenty five million pounds.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’

  ‘The place in Barbados will be around five million and his own personal wealth is in the region of another thirty, after all payments to the others are taken out.’

  ‘But why? It makes no sense.’

  ‘Well maybe this mysterious package he refers to may explain it all,’ said Brown. ‘I think it may be a good idea to retrieve it.’

  Stephen Wilson turned to Danny, his hand outstretched. ‘Good luck Mister Cooke and congratulations.’

  Danny rose from his chair and shook his hand. ‘Thank you.’ Wilson turned and left the room, leaving Danny alone with Clive Brown. Some of the others had remained in the hallway no doubt discussing the morning’s events. Danny stood in silence for a few moments, attempting to let the news sink in. It occurred to him that the very room he was now standing in, with all the portraits and books and very expensive desk, now belonged to him. All of it. Every brick, every stair, every room. Even the ostentatious decor.

  He saw that Brown had removed the portrait and was now attempting to open a small safe using the code on the back of the will. It was a new style safe and had a digital number pad. Once the code was input, Brown turned the handle and opened the safe door. Danny moved over to stand with him as he pulled out a small package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Clearly written on the top was the name ‘Daniel Cooke’. Brown looked at it for a brief moment and then handed it to Danny.

  ‘This is yours I believe,’ he said, smiling.

  Danny took the package and weighed it in his hand. It was not too heavy and seemed, by the feel of it, to contain paperwork as described in the will.

  ‘What do I do now?’ he asked Brown.

  ‘Whatever you want,’ he replied. ‘What I suggest is that you take some time to read what’s in there. In the meantime I will make arrangements for you to visit the manager of Sir Peter’s bank and we can start the process of transferring all the assets to you. This may take some time as I’ll have to sort out the other beneficiaries first, if thats OK.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ said Danny. ‘I really need to speak to my mother. This is going to be a massive shock. After all that,s happened over the last couple of weeks I feel my life is spiralling out of control. It’s all just so surreal.’

  ‘OK,’ said Brown. ‘What would you say to a spot of lunch? Let’s get out of here and go and eat. Give yourself some time to get your head around it. And me too for that matter. I’ve just inherited half a million pounds myself. Early retirement for me, without a doubt!’

  Danny laughed. ‘Good idea.’

  Brown collected his briefcase and paperwork from the desk and rejoined him.

  With the brown package firmly gripped in his hand Danny followed Brown from the study. As he was about to leave the room a small photograph on a sideboard in the corner near to the door, caught his eye. In it was the same gentleman who was in the larger portrait wearing the uniform of an officer from the First World War. The picture was of him shaking the hand of someone who Danny did not recognise but who was obviously important, maybe a senior politician of the day. However, it was not he whom had caught Danny’s attention. Standing at the man’s side was a footman, or a valet. He was smiling at the events taking place before him. Danny suddenly had a huge sense of deja vu, as though he had seen this man before and he suddenly felt a shiver go through his body. As he followed Brown out of the room, he could not help thinking that this gap toothed man had something to do with the whole story.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Julie Green had not slept well. Too many things were running around her head. Things that she could not work out. She had now convinced herself that Sean Lange had something to do with Lucy Taylor’s death and this now made the whole incident murder. Premeditated and cold blooded. The problem she had was to convince a reluctant Detective Inspector Raymond to see it the way she and Jim Lea did. She was sure that he just wanted a quick and easy end to it and finding the driver of the Ford Focus was all that concerned him.

  It was true that the driver of the Focus was important. After all, he was the one who had committed the actual act of driving the car into Lucy, but the more she thought about Lange, the more she thought she was right. And now Danny Cooke was in London, in Lange’s back yard, so to speak, to hear the reading of the will of some rich, dead toff that he had been mentioned in. This was all connected. It had to be.

  Jim Lea entered the office and she found herself instinctively looking up at the clock.

  ‘I know, I know,’ he said, putting his hands in the air. ‘An hour late. I know. Sorry. Another bad night, I’m afraid. I spent half of it in casualty.’

  It was then that she noticed a bandage around his right hand. ‘What happened there?’ she asked curiously.

  ‘I feel a bit of an idiot really,’ Lea explained. ‘When I got back to the flat last night and shut the door, I stupidly forgot to move my hand away and ended up crushing it between the door and the jamb. Bloody hurt I can tell you.’

  ‘Oh God. Are you alright?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’ll live,’ he replied. ‘Anyway what have we got?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Not a lot further to be honest, Jim,’ she replied. ‘Didn’t get much sleep myself last night either. This hit and run case is starting to bug me. Lange obviously knows more than he’s l
etting on. I think we should ask the Met to go and question him properly, particularly seeing Raymond won’t let us go down there. And this will thing with that Danny Cooke is at this morning. What’s all that about?’

  ‘You’ve got me on that,’ replied Lea. ‘It’s all very strange. Maybe later on we can give him a call and see what happened.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good, good,’ said Lea, sitting down at his desk. He turned on his computer monitor and sat back, sighing.

  ‘Are you alright Jim?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied, sighing again. ‘I’ll be fine….Honestly,’ he added when he saw the look of concern on her face. ‘I have some painkillers so I’ll be OK.’

  Julie was about to tell that was not what she meant but his telephone began to ring. He picked up the receiver with his left hand and said, ‘Hello, DS Lea speaking.’

  Julie watched him as he spoke on the phone. He began writing awkwardly on a pad as he listened to the caller, the telephone wedged between his cheek and shoulder. He did not seem his usual self, she thought as she watched him. He had never been late for work before and she found it hard to believe him about how he had sustained the injury to his hand. She was beginning to worry about him. The break up of his marriage may be affecting him a lot more than he was letting on and maybe Raymond was right and Jim really did need a break. A holiday. Or at least some time away from work.

  He put the phone down and turned to her. She had not been listening to the conversation and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Well there’s a turn up,’ he said chirpily. ‘That was forensics. Believe it or not they’ve found a partial thumb print on the inside of the driver’s door on the Focus. I knew it was a good idea to have them take a look at it again.’

  Julie was instantly alert. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Have they managed to identify who it belongs to?’

  ‘Oh yes, my dear,’ he replied enthusiastically looking down at the notes he had just taken. ‘It belongs to a certain Kieran Pearson of an address in Failsworth. He has previous for drug dealing and assault. Not a nice character by the sound of it.’