The Aladdin Trial

by Abi Silver

  ‘There’s no one to read to me,’ Shaza said, already heading out of the room towards the stairs.

  Constance smiled enquiringly at Aisha, who gestured to her to go ahead.

  ‘I’ll come and read to you, if you like,’ Constance said. ‘But then you need to go straight back to sleep.’

  36

  Tracy visited the hairdresser first thing on Saturday morning. She had always sported a salon-assisted hairdo for important events in the past, and her brother’s engagement party was certainly a suitable contender. At the same time, she was determined not to be upstaged by her soon-to-be sister-in-law, who would undoubtedly pull out all the stops on the personal grooming front. She knew the £22 would be missed but it was months since her hair had seen any refined hair products. While she was enjoying a rare moment alone with Hello! magazine, the manicure girl popped in, and she couldn’t resist. In the end the make-over set her back a cool £40 but it was a successful investment, she told herself, as she felt a million dollars walking through the front door of the house.

  ‘Is that all in aid of your brother?’ Pete commented as she bustled in with some croissants that had been half-price in the local bakery.

  ‘So what if it is?’

  ‘You’re right. You look gorgeous.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘They’ll all be jealous of me, all your brother’s friends will.’

  ‘I’m not sure how many people are going.’

  ‘Oh.’ Pete’s face fell. He had hoped there would be a big crowd to reduce the contact he might otherwise have with Joe.

  ‘I mean, she only invited us on Monday. Some people may have other plans.’

  ‘Why’s he done it now? Do you think she’s pregnant?’ Pete grabbed a croissant, cupping his hand underneath to catch any stray crumbs.

  ‘Stop it. Of course not. She’s…’ Tracy stopped herself. It was likely, she supposed, given Joe’s agenda. ‘You might have a point. Let’s see if she drinks anything. That’ll be a sign.’

  ‘Maybe it’s not too late for us to have another? A little sister for Luke and Taylor.’ He cuddled her tightly and deposited another kiss, this time on her neck.

  Tracy wasn’t sure if Pete was serious.

  ‘Ooh. I think I’m a bit old to start all that again.’

  ‘Well. Not with that haircut. Just like the first day I met you.’

  Tracy detached herself from him and arranged the remaining croissants on a plate.

  ‘I’m going to Mum’s flat this afternoon, just to go through her things. Will you be OK dropping the kids at karate? You don’t have to get out of the car.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ Pete said. ‘You go and sort things out. Do you want me to come with you? You don’t know what you might find.’

  * * *

  Tracy faltered outside the door of her mother’s flat before forcing herself to go in. She had kept a key for almost ten years but had never once used it. Even now, she preferred to take out her mother’s own key from her personal effects, returned by Inspector Dawson. Somehow that felt less intrusive.

  Barbara had left the curtains open and the light streamed in to the deserted flat. She had chosen it in the first place because of its triple aspect, extolling the virtues of ‘buckets of natural light’ to all newcomers. And she had been right; it was hard to feel dull or bored when so much of the outside world was being channelled into your living room.

  Tracy wandered from the kitchen to the lounge area to check that all was intact, and then deposited the post she had collected downstairs on the bar in the kitchen. She balked at checking out the bedrooms; she would do that later.

  She opened the fridge. It contained the usual staples: milk, eggs, butter and a few hardy vegetables. Their reliability and ordinariness surprised her. She had imagined finding frivolous items there; stuffed olives, bruschetta, tiramisu; the kind of things her mum randomly offered when she came over. She would collect them up when she left and throw them in the dustbin at the back.

  She searched for the calendar Joe had mentioned but she couldn’t see it anywhere in the kitchen, although there was a bulldog clip attached to the side of the fridge where it used to hang.

  One of Barbara’s pastels was on the kitchen wall, a rich orange number. It depicted a clump of nasturtiums, drawn from the many clusters which had adorned their window boxes in summers gone by, dangling lazily into the street below.

  A notepad and pencil sat by the phone, and Tracy turned the pages, running her fingers over the many doodles and sketches which adorned them.

  Barbara had embellished each name with a drawing of some kind, and how endearing they were. The note to herself to pick up a cake for tea with a friend was embroidered with both a towering birthday cake oozing icing and a portrait of a woman regarding it with delight; the word ‘BILLS’ was written centrally with a sketch of a man behind a desk leaning his head on his hands, and the reminder ‘Tesco delivery Monday’ was almost obliterated by a neatly-outlined Tesco van with the words ‘you shop, we drop’ written on the side in stylised letters.

  Tracy had to hand it to her mother. She certainly knew how to draw.

  Tracy picked up the pencil herself and began to sketch the corner of the room; the edge of the sofa with the magazine sitting open, propped up on a cushion. Then, her tongue between her teeth, she worked hard for a few more minutes until she had added a reasonable likeness of her mother, in customary reclining pose, head thrown back as if in the middle of a laugh, one hand raised in a friendly salute.

  She still had it then, her artistic flair. Tracy had considered taking a Fine Art degree nearly thirty years ago, but she was a practical girl and she didn’t want to end up scrimping like her mum (or so she had thought). She had satisfied herself with the odd art project at school instead. ‘We’re lucky we have you,’ the head had said once, when she spearheaded a wall of tiles for the school garden, each decorated by a year 6 pupil. And once Pete had given her financial security it had been too late.

  Tracy’s foray into Barbara’s life hadn’t progressed any further when the doorbell rang and Constance was standing on the threshold.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Jones. Thanks so much for agreeing to this. I’m sure I won’t be long but, like I said on the phone, I thought I might find something here which would provide a clue to help with the investigation.’

  ‘I haven’t been here long myself, and I’ve only got as far as the kitchen,’ Tracy confessed, ‘but why don’t you go ahead? There’s Mum’s studio and bedroom. Please let me know if you find anything or you have any questions.’

  Constance headed first into Barbara’s studio. The floor was covered in the kind of sheeting decorators use, although it was spotlessly clean and there were two easels in the centre of the room, together with an assortment of paints and brushes. Canvases were stacked up against two walls, each around one metre square, but everything was covered in a thick layer of dust and the room itself smelled musty.

  Constance knelt down and leafed through the pictures one by one. They were a real mix; some were of flowers like the one she had seen on the wall as she entered, a few were landscapes, but the best, in Constance’s view were the portraits. She quickly found a wonderful likeness of Tracy, sitting at the kitchen bar with a mug encased in both hands. Barbara had captured her perfectly, including the air of capability she exuded. Then there were others, all of people unknown.

  She paused to view another portrait, this time on a red background, of a dark-skinned young man with a shock of black hair, brooding eyebrows and a cruel face. She took a photo of it on her phone before extracting it from the pile and leaning it against the wall, next to the one of Tracy.

  At the very bottom of the pile she found a head and shoulders watercolour of a middle-aged man with receding hair, and glasses balanced at the end of his nose. He was wearing a shirt with a breast pocket and he was squinting off into the distance. She laid this
one next to the one of Joe; they made a curious triptych. She shuffled them around so Tracy was in the middle and took another two photos.

  Tracy had advanced to Barbara’s bedroom and was folding up clothes one by one when Constance entered.

  ‘She had lovely things, Mum did,’ Tracy spoke wistfully.

  ‘Will you keep them?’ Constance asked.

  ‘Mum was tiny, five foot three and a size eight. And it would make me too sad.’

  ‘A scarf?’

  ‘Yes. I might manage that. She wasn’t extravagant. She used to pick them up second-hand or get castaways from her famous friends. Sometimes she would paint someone and they would pay her with a favourite dress or pair of earrings. That’s what I remember anyway.’

  ‘How funny to be so unmaterialistic.’

  ‘It wasn’t so funny when we needed shoes or food and she needed cash to pay for it.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t want to intrude. Would you like me to leave you to get on with things?’

  ‘Oh no. To be honest it’s easier with someone else here. I was dreading even coming into the room. I don’t know what I expected. Did you find anything useful?’

  ‘Nothing so far. But if it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like you to identify a couple of people your mum painted. One of them may be your father,’ Constance said. Tracy nodded obligingly and followed Constance next door.

  ‘Oh how funny,’ Tracy let out a loud shriek when she saw the pictures. Then she knelt down and examined them one by one. ‘Well this one is obviously me, and a few years back. The one on the left is my brother Joe, but not his best side, let’s say, and is that the one you thought was Miles?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t have known – not before a couple of weeks back. No, it’s not my father. His name is Brian Bateman. He’s Mum’s solicitor.’

  ‘Well she must have thought very highly of him. What a lovely image.’

  ‘Yes,’ Tracy replied, shaking her head in disbelief.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well you’re right. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? And if you met him in the flesh you might be a bit disappointed.’

  ‘You mean he’s not so charming in person?’

  Tracy laughed. ‘I’m being unfair but he seemed very dull to me, and pedantic, and the will…’ She stopped herself in mid-flow. ‘Well, you don’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘Was it terribly long-winded?’ Constance asked casually.

  ‘Oh yes, there is that. No, lots of conditions. Quite complicated. I’ve had to get another lawyer to explain it to me. I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk about it.’

  ‘I understand. I can always recommend someone to take a look for you. It’s not my field, but if you’re not sure how to claim your money, for example.’

  ‘No. It’s not that. Just complicated, like I said.’

  ‘The paintings are very dusty. Had your mother stopped painting?’ Constance changed the subject.

  ‘Yes. She said she was having pains in her hands, especially when she tried to grip the brush.’

  ‘Had she seen a doctor?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I gave Inspector Dawson the name of her GP. But she didn’t like doctors, generally. That’s why she held on for so long before she saw anyone about her feet. She waited till she was desperate.’

  ‘Was she upset she couldn’t paint any more?’

  ‘No.’ Tracy shook her head confidently but then stopped. ‘Well…she never said. I’m really not going to be much help. I know I was her daughter but we were not that close and, going through her things, I feel like a stranger.

  ‘There is something I noticed when I arrived, though. Could you tell the inspector? Two things, really. Mum used to keep a calendar on the fridge with all her appointments. It’s not there anymore. And I know she also kept a diary, off and on, over the years. She had quite a few small red books. I think she did it mostly to keep track of all the famous people she met. She used to stuff photographs in there too, and autographs, receipts, newspaper articles.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I have only just started to look around, but there’s nothing in the usual places she kept them, either the kitchen drawer or in her bedside cabinet.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s a while since I saw her with one. Maybe she just got tired of writing. It does seem a bit less cluttered in here than I remember,’ Tracy continued.

  ‘Does anyone else have a key to this flat?’ Constance asked.

  Tracy shrugged. ‘I’ll ask a couple of Mum’s friends and I think Miles always kept one. They were on good terms even though…well, he left us.’

  ‘I would change the locks. Your mother might have given the key to a workman. Some people are very trusting. And now the place is empty.’

  Tracy chewed her lip. She hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘I’m sure the police have asked you this, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm your mother?’

  ‘No. I’ve told the police everything I know. They still think it’s your man, don’t they? The Syrian cleaner.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know why they think it was him?’

  ‘I can’t disclose that.’

  ‘Has anything here helped you?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s too early to say.’

  ‘If it was him, the cleaner, then I hope he goes to prison for a very long time.’

  ‘I’ll be heading off now,’ Constance said. ‘Thanks again. I am very sorry for your loss.’

  When Tracy was alone once more she carried the portraits of herself, Joe and Brian through to the living room one by one and propped them up on the sofa. At first, she hadn’t been sure if she liked the one of herself; her hair was untidy and she was wearing an old striped shirt. But there was a real warmth behind the eyes of the Tracy in the image, and however she contemplated it she found herself smiling.

  The picture of Brian was, without doubt, the best of the three. Although he appeared a little younger than today, the depth of colour, the definition, the smoothness of the brush strokes were incredible. And Barbara had painted him with such a forceful and determined expression. Brian in that picture might have been a prime minister or a king. Her mother had been a strange old bird.

  Sitting at the bar, in almost the exact position in which her mother had captured her in her portrait, Tracy called Brian.

  * * *

  ‘Hello Brian, this is Tracy Jones, Barbara’s daughter.’

  ‘Hello Tracy.’ He noted and adopted her deliberate use of his first name.

  ‘I was calling about Mum’s will. Do you have a few minutes please?’

  Brian picked up his pen in case Tracy asked him anything of importance, but he was pleased, so far, with the tone of the conversation, given the abrupt end of their last meeting.

  ‘I wanted to ask about the debt clause,’ she explained.

  ‘I can’t advise you. I am the executor. You should get your own advice.’

  ‘This is kind of general stuff, interpreting the provisions.’

  ‘All right. Go on.’

  ‘The will gives examples of what it means by debt. I just wondered whether, if someone gave a personal guarantee, that was included.’

  ‘I see. A personal guarantee is not a debt until someone calls in the debt you have guaranteed.’

  ‘And if the guaranteed debts are called in?’

  ‘The underlying debt would need to be paid off before distribution.’

  ‘Is there any alternative?’

  ‘I can’t think of one.’

  Tracy sighed. Brian’s comments echoed the advice she had received the previous day.

  ‘Except, well, if it was the spouse who had the debt, the person receiving the gift could always get divorced, I suppose, before t
he distribution. But that’s a little drastic. And divorces take some time now anyway,’ he added.

  Tracy tapped her fingers on the worktop.

  ‘Thanks, Brian. What do you need from me then to show you we aren’t in debt?’

  ‘Bank statements, credit card statements and credit rating.’

  ‘And the criminal offence? I have a DBS from school.’

  ‘That will be sufficient but I will need a copy.’

  ‘What about when I last visited Mum?’

  ‘If you visited your mother at the hospital then would one of the nurses or doctors be willing to confirm that?’ Brian enquired, keen to be able to put forward a practical suggestion.

  ‘Oh gosh. I couldn’t ask any of them. What about Pete?’

  ‘Your husband. Did he visit with you?’

  ‘No. He watched the kids while I went.’

  Brian paused.

  ‘I’ll need to think about that then. Normally that would be fine. But I am afraid your brother has taken advantage of my good nature, so I might need to be more careful in future.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He came with his partner, Miss Cooper, and she confirmed, just like you want your husband to do, that Joseph visited your mother on March the eighth this year.’

  ‘Oh. OK? Well that’s good isn’t it?’

  ‘No, Tracy. Because both he and Miss Cooper lied to me. Your mother was in Spain when your brother says he was – what was it? – “sharing a bowl of homemade tomato soup”, with your mother at her apartment.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘So now you can see why I am hesitant when you want to use the same method of corroboration.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘About Joseph?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I am considering that myself.’

  ‘He probably just got the day wrong. I’m sure if you ask him again he’ll find the right day.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you.’

  ‘Well, not really.’

  ‘It is. Given the consequences if your brother can’t show conclusively that he visited your mum within the last six months.’