“I thought as much,” accepted his wife, “but you didn’t even get the right person!”
“What are you going to do?”
Patricia took a deep breath. “I saw Dougie today,” she admitted. “I had no idea that he would be there, I promise you that. But being in the same room as both of you at the same time made me see things from a new angle.”
“Go on.”
“Our marriage has been dead for some time, Kenneth.”
“And whose fault is that?”
“Partly mine, partly yours.”
“No, Patricia. A hundred percent yours.”
“I don’t want to argue with you about that. But I’ve come to a decision.”
“Which is?”
“You give me my freedom and I’ll allow you to have yours.”
He squinted at her expecting an explanation.
“I’m leaving you, Kenneth. You let me go amicably with half of what we own and without turning the family against me, and I’ll make sure you don’t end up facing a murder or manslaughter charge.”
“You’ll keep this evidence to yourself? You haven’t already told anyone?”
“I promise. As long as you keep your side of the bargain.”
“But I’ve broken the law. I took someone’s life! You’ll be an accessory.”
“Take it or leave it.”
Kenneth nodded his head resignedly. Patricia turned on her heels and left the room.
Part Two
Chapter 22
Grant,
I accept that I have to acknowledge your existence but I’m warning you that I will not let my boys be side-lined. If you try to take anything that is rightfully theirs, I’m telling you now that I will not stand by and watch in silence. Just let things be.
Scott Ferguson
The email had appeared out of the blue, literally, since Grant and Imogen were sitting under a clear, cerulean sky in the Algarve, enjoying a late honeymoon. With Imogen being six months pregnant by now, they were taking it easy, going for gentle strolls rather than long walks and driving about in their hire car, taking in the beautiful sights and sounds of nature. The countryside was awash with an abundance of magnificent yellow cascades of blooms from the acacia trees towering over masses of bright yellow Bermuda buttercups and dotted here and there with crown daisies, blood-red poppies, clumps of purple heather and patches of wild broom and French lavender, all swaying in the soft, warm breeze. Its beauty was breath-taking. They had stopped at a coastal snack bar for a light tapas lunch of savoury salgados and a selection of Portuguese cheeses washed down with a glass of local vinho verde for Grant, fresh sumo laranja for Imogen, and were admiring the clumps of yellow sea aster and bright pink sand stock, growing up through the surrounding path as the waves of the Atlantic lapped onto the picturesque, almost deserted beach below. After all, it was only mid-March. They had seen photographs of the same beach, taken during the main summer season, when the sand was dotted with colourful parasols and stripy towels, the water’s edge with bathers in skimpy bikinis and shorts covered in bold flowery patterns. Imogen took a bite of her patanisca bacalhau and savoured the taste of the warm, salty cod, whilst Grant tried one of the rissois camarão. “Mmm, very tasty,” he pronounced. He always had been very partial to prawns and other seafood. The batatinhas assadas complemented both little fish cakes perfectly. Having just keyed in the password for the local Wi-Fi, both of their phones had jumped into life, alerting them to messages from home.
“Jillian and Bradley say ‘hello’,” Imogen told her husband as she read the friendly text from her best friend, also now a married woman. Grant didn’t answer, clearly absorbed in something on his own mobile. Assuming that it was somebody from work, needing advice from the boss, Imogen carried on reading her own messages. Vincent had sent her a new photo of little Anna who had been born just two weeks ago. She was gorgeous. And she was wearing the cute two-piece suit that she and Grant had given to Jane when they visited her in the hospital just after the birth. Imogen noticed that Grant was still distracted; she would show him the picture later. But she was a bit annoyed that his assistant manager or whoever was disturbing him during their honeymoon. Surely the woman could cope without him for ten days. She sent a quick reply to Jillian and to Vincent, including a photo of their beautiful surroundings, and then popped another little potato into her mouth. She looked longingly at Grant’s wine glass, tempted to take a sip, but held back in case she would not be able to resist drinking too much. Better to stick to her juice. It was really quite convenient, her being pregnant. It meant that she could do the driving and let Grant enjoy the local wines and beers. At last Grant looked up from his phone and let out a big sigh. Imogen gave him a questioning look. “Is it Brenda?” she quizzed. “I sometimes wonder why you ever employed her.”
Grant shook his head. “No, no,” he told her. “Nothing to do with work.”
“What then?”
Grant had read the short message three times now, totally baffled. He held the phone out to his wife so that she could read it for herself. She also was stunned and simply stared at it, uncomprehending.
“I had a feeling that Scott had it in for me,” muttered Grant. “He’s the one member of the family who hasn’t been very welcoming. I know we’ve only met him once but he hardly spoke to me and I detected a coldness.”
“I thought he wasn’t supposed to know that the boys were actually his,” put in Imogen.
“That’s what Cameron said. But I suppose the man isn’t stupid.”
“Well he can’t have it both ways, let someone else claim them and bring them up and then suddenly decide that he’s their dad after all. What does he mean anyway?”
“Search me!”
“They do seem to be quite well off. Has Cameron mentioned anything to you about money or gifts? Has it something to do with some kind of legacy?”
“He sent me that cheque that I burnt and then paid our hotel bill when we went over. Other than that, no. We’ve stayed well clear of financial matters following that fiasco when we first met him. Do you remember? He brought his solicitor along.”
“But he has been very apologetic about that.”
“I know. And I’m pretty sure he was being genuine. Cameron’s not the problem. It’s my Uncle Scott.”
“You don’t trust him?”
Grant sighed noisily. “Well, look at what we know about him. He slept with his brother’s wife after deceiving her into thinking he was her husband. Maybe she was taken in but he knew what he was doing. They’ve all passed it off as some kind of joke and blamed it on too much drink. But I don’t see anything funny or acceptable about it. The man raped her in reality. And you wonder whether I trust him?”
“I agree. I’d call it rape. I always thought that but I didn’t want to upset you by saying anything.”
Grant gave her a funny look.
“They’re your family. It’s not for me to interfere. And anyway, who am I to judge? When you think about how Vincent came into the world.”
Grant nodded his head. “True,” he murmured. “And me for that matter.” Then he squeezed her hand and told her, “We’re married now. Your family is mine and my family is yours. So don’t hold anything back. Your opinion matters to me. In everything.”
“What are you going to do about the email?” Imogen asked him.
“I don’t know.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong. I mean, why now?”
“That’s what’s worrying me. Maybe Cameron isn’t well or something if he’s talking about dividing out his stuff. I hope that isn’t the case when I’m only getting to know him.”
Imogen looked thoughtful. “He’s probably just sorting out his will which is a sensible thing for anyone to do,” she tried to reassure him. “He’ll want to share things three ways instead of two, now that he knows about you. It’s just like my parents inc
luding Vincent. I’m hardly going to take exception to that. I think it’s great having a brother I didn’t know about until recently.”
Grant smiled. “Not everyone would be as magnanimous as you,” he told her.
“You can hardly ask Cameron about it. You might come across as appearing to be a bit mercenary.”
“I just want to know that he’s OK. Maybe Douglas McKendrick would know something.”
Douglas had become a good friend and it was easier now that things were out in the open regarding his relationship with Sam’s mother. Patricia had left her family behind some weeks before Christmas and had moved over to Scotland to live with her lover. Grant and Imogen had both been amazed when Kenneth had accepted it and had even used his influence to ensure that neither Sam nor Jasmine judged their mother harshly. He had taken the lion’s share of the blame himself, explaining to the pair that their marriage had been failing for some time and convincing them that he had not devoted enough time or energy to making any real attempt to save it. He had taken Patricia for granted and was not surprised that she had turned to someone else for solace and love. During another round of golf, Sam had opened up to Grant about the situation, indicating that his initial anger had turned to confusion and was now verging on a reluctant acceptance. Yet, he told his friend, his father’s account of things didn’t seem to fit comfortably with his mood on that first morning when Kenneth had called at his new flat after spending the whole night in his car. He had been ready to do battle then. Still, he had obviously done a lot of thinking during his solitary Spanish trip and had come to view the situation differently.
Imogen read her husband’s mind. “I think it’s very sad,” she said. “When Sam and I were together his parents appeared to be perfectly happy. I never got to know them very well but they were both very pleasant to me. I remember them joking and laughing together all the time.”
“I was just thinking the same,” Grant admitted. “They were both at that millennium party at my grandparents’ place. You would never have guessed that they would end up splitting and living apart. Some people just don’t try hard enough at making things work. I mean, they have three children together.”
“It’ll never happen to us,” Imogen stated firmly with a determined look on her face.
“Too right,” her husband agreed, smiling.
“So you think you might contact Douglas?” Imogen said, getting back to the strange email.
“Maybe. Indirectly. He might let something slip.”
“Good idea.”
Grant thought about it for a few minutes. He couldn’t really enjoy the stunning view or the tasty tapas lunch with this hanging over him. He keyed in a message to Douglas.
Hi Dougie. Imogen and I are having a lovely time in the Algarve. Just want to thank you again for urging me to get in touch with my dad that time. I’m so glad that I took your advice. Hope everything is well with you.
“Does that sound really trite?” Grant asked Imogen, showing her what he had written. “He’s been through the mill since then, what with his brother’s accident and everything.”
Imogen assured him that it was fine and he clicked on the ‘send’ option. A reply came through almost immediately.
Hello you two. Good to know you are enjoying yourselves. Just by coincidence, I was talking to your grandfather yesterday. I was helping Barbara to sort out her affairs and we met him at the solicitor’s.
“Bingo!” exclaimed Grant. “Now how can I get him to elaborate?”
“Just keep the conversation going,” Imogen suggested. “He might end up telling us more.” Grant keyed in another reply.
Angus is a brilliant man for eighty. It’s great that he can still get about on his own and has his wits fully about him. I hope I’m still as independent at that age.
Douglas sent another answer.
That’s very true but he wasn’t actually on his own on this occasion. Your Uncle Scott was with him. I wasn’t sure whether he’s come home for a holiday or whether he’s moved back for good. Anyway, you two enjoy the rest of your honeymoon. I look forward to seeing you both on your next visit over here. Patty says hello and sends her love to Sam and Jasmine and wee Stevie. You will probably see them all before we do. I know they’re your friends and I’m sorry for any embarrassment we’ve caused you but I want you to know that we are very happy together.
Grant popped another salty snack into his mouth and took a sip of his wine, breathing in the warm spring air. He watched as a couple about their own age appeared and started playing with their dog on the beach whilst another family with two toddlers began to make preparations for a picnic. He smiled at Imogen. “I’m not going to let it annoy me,” he pronounced. “Scott’s email is quite aggressive, verging on rude, but I hardly know the man. I’m just going to ignore it. If Cameron has anything to tell me, I’m sure he’ll do it when the time is right. Now, where do you fancy going this afternoon?”
Happily, Imogen unfolded the map and they studied the unfamiliar place names, planning out a drive through the hills of the Alentejo. The waiter approached their table to see whether they wanted anything else.
“A conta por favor,” Grant told him with a smile. “Obrigado.”
They paid for their meal and set off for another adventure.
***
Back home in Belfast Jasmine was arriving at the garden centre to pick Alastair up at the end of his shift. Being a few minutes early, she decided to have a look around the gift shop while she waited. It would be Tania’s birthday in a couple of days’ time and she had spotted some lovely scarfs the last day she was in. She headed over to the small clothing department and perused the colourful selection, finally choosing a blue one with a peacock pattern and a pink one covered in a summery floral motif. There was quite a long queue at the cash desk and the reason for this became evident when she overheard two other customers complaining.
“I’m all for giving people like that a job,” one of them was saying, “but you’d at least think they could have another till operating as well. I’m going to be late for my bus.”
“I know,” the second voice hissed in reply. “They could always use him out in the garden area. He could be watering plants or something. It’s ridiculous having him as a cashier. He obviously hasn’t a clue.”
Jasmine glanced up and saw her boyfriend checking in a basket of homemade biscuits, jams and marmalades. It didn’t happen very often but sometimes, when they were short-staffed, Alastair was asked to take on tasks outside his usual remit. Jasmine felt her blood beginning to boil at the nasty comments.
“People like that!” she said scathingly to the first woman, who was holding a toddler by the hand. “You should think next time before you speak. What sort of example is that to set to a child?” Both women looked startled but at least a little shamefaced.
“Good for you, Miss,” called an elderly man further up the queue as he turned round to confront the pair and flashed a smile at Jasmine. “I was disgusted with those remarks too. That young lad has been working here for years. He’s a genius with plants. He’s certainly taught me a thing or two. So what, if he’s a bit slow on the till. You should be ashamed of yourselves.” Jasmine beamed with pleasure and the two women muttered an apology.
“It’s just that we’re running late,” the one with the child tried to excuse herself. “Actually, I think I’ll come back another time.” She set her intended purchases down on the nearest shelf and hurried from the shop, despite the noisy protestations from the toddler who would now miss out on the bag of jelly babies. The older lady stood her ground, clutching two beautiful plants, a healthy looking camellia laden with pink buds and a bushy, fragrant lavender.
“Alastair probably grew those from tiny seedlings,” Jasmine told her.
“Alastair?”
“The guy on the till.”
“Oh, so you know him personally.�
� Her face flushed red. “I shouldn’t have been so judgmental.”
“He’s my boyfriend.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I accept that I was out of order. You were quite right to speak up.” Her eyes were now darting nervously around the store.
Jasmine accepted the apology. “It’s just that I hate to witness people heckling him,” she explained. “He’s had to put up with a lot of emotional abuse over the years. It’s not his fault that he had learning difficulties growing up.”
The lady with the plants nodded her head. “Is it a genetic condition he has?”
“No, he was born perfectly normal. It’s the result of an accident he had when he was a little boy.” She smiled again at the elderly gentleman who was now leaving with his trowel and packets of seeds, then turned back to her new friend. “There you go now. It hasn’t been such a long wait after all.” It was only then that Alastair caught Jasmine’s eye in the queue. He looked at his watch and smiled.
“I’ve been chatting to your lovely girlfriend,” the plant lady told him. “She said that you’re the gardener who tends these shrubs. You’ve done a super job with them. They look really healthy and sturdy.” Jasmine patted her on the arm to show that she appreciated her change of attitude but behind them, in the line of waiting customers, she could already detect further jibes and sobriquets. Luckily Alastair was concentrating so hard on not making a mistake that he did not appear to notice. It turned out that he had been covering for a colleague who had been taken ill. No sooner had he processed Jasmine’s scarf purchase than his line manager turned up to let him go. They walked out to the car together.
“I get a bit flustered when I’m on the till,” Alastair admitted, “but most people are very understanding. It just got very busy there at the end.”
“Hey, you don’t need to make any excuses to me. You were doing a great job.”
“But I’m not deaf. I can hear what people are saying. I’ve just got used to blocking it out.”
Double Cheque Page 14
