by Jane Holland
She shrugs, her lips pursed. ‘It was on the mat. I think someone put it through the door. But it’s got your name on it.’
I thank her and take the envelope into the kitchen. While the kettle is boiling, I tear it open and stare down in dismay at what is now a familiar sight: a plain sheet of paper with a few pithy words typed out in a sans serif font.
I DIED BECAUSE OF YOU, KATE. NOW IT’S YOUR TURN.
Again, it’s signed DAVID.
Who could have sent this to me? I’d assumed the writer must be someone at the office. One of my colleagues, jealous of me perhaps, or trying to get rid of me. But why send such a letter to my actual home? This seems a thousand times more sinister…
I check the envelope.
I think someone put it through the door.
Irina’s right.
There’s no stamp, no postmark. The message was delivered by hand, put through our letterbox in person.
My accuser strolled down our drive, in full view of the house, in broad daylight, dropped this poison pen letter onto the mat like it was some random piece of junk mail, and then walked away.
The sheer audacity of this leaves me shocked and silent.
I DIED BECAUSE OF YOU, KATE.
So personal. So cruel.
So painfully true.
My chest constricts with horror and I find myself struggling to breathe, my vision misting over as I re-read the message.
I suddenly wish Logan were here to advise me, maybe to give me a hug or a kiss, somehow comfort me.
But I’m alone.
He suggested I should hand the matter over to the police. I wasn’t convinced that was the best way to handle it. But now…
I feel my heart beating hard, and swallow, re-reading the words for a third time, trying to look at them calmly and rationally.
I should take both this and the other letter to our local police station. Someone is trying to upset me, that’s all. For some unpleasant reason of their own. Yes, I should let the police deal with it. That’s the sensible thing to do, isn’t it?
But my insides are churning, and all I can think about is getting rid of this attack on my nerves, pushing it away from me, pretending it simply isn’t happening. That way I won’t have to face it, won’t have to ask who is doing it or why.
But deep down, I know why this is happening, don’t I?
It’s awful, but the letter writer isn’t wrong. I’m the one to blame for David’s death. If I had made more of an effort to understand what he was going through… But I didn’t bother. Over time, I just became impatient with his constant weakness and uncertainty. I was too bound up with the idea of a man being macho and suffering in silence, or not suffering at all. I mocked his mental anguish; I turned away from him.
And now he’s dead…
Guilt infuses me. I crumple up the accusing sheet of paper and shove it into the bin, followed by its envelope, and stare blindly out of the kitchen window.
Behind me, Irina is getting her coat on and saying something I can’t focus on, though I’m aware she sounds unhappy. I respond automatically, and a moment later, she’s gone.
NOW IT’S YOUR TURN.
After a few minutes, I retrieve the letter and envelope from the bin and take them up to my bedroom. There, I smooth them out, put the sheet of paper back into its envelope and then find a see-through plastic folder to keep it in.
Yet even after I’ve filed it away in a drawer, safely out of sight, I can’t get those sinister words out of my head.
My turn to what?
The only possible explanation stabs through me like a knife in my back, shocking me out of frozen bewilderment.
My turn to die.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A few days later, Cheryl emails me the manuscript of Calum Morgan’s newest book – the one we’re hoping to release next spring – and I sit down with a large glass of wine to peruse it, hoping it will help me calm down. That’s what he’s good at, isn’t it? Helping people with their problems?
But the real problem is with the manuscript.
I’ve only read about ten pages before I see precisely why Cheryl, one of our senior editors, was so eager to foist the project onto somebody else before swanning off on maternity leave, and why Donald, her long-term assistant, had also declined to handle Calum’s new book.
It’s riddled with nonsensical passages and dubious comments about mental health issues, especially where women are concerned. Calum Morgan has always trodden a fine line between pious sentiment and mocking self-parody, and this time he’s tumbled right over the fence into dangerous territory. Of course, it’s possible his early drafts are commonly like this, and Cheryl merely lacked the energy to tidy this one up. Because the only other explanation is that Calum’s lost it. The ability to charm a reader, that is.
I can’t say I’m sorry. The man’s a beast. But my own neck is on the line now; somehow, I need to fix this book asap, and make it a bestseller.
I start off by making notes on the document itself, but the screen is soon awash with red underlining and yellow sticky note boxes. That’s bad enough, but all I’m doing is correcting his grammar and crossing out infelicitous phrases. It’s his fundamental ideas that are at fault, and no amount of meticulous line-editing will fix that. Basically, I’m straightening the book’s tie, when what it really needs is a whole new wardrobe.
Hurriedly, I grab a notepad and pen, and start scribbling down thoughts on paper instead.
I’m so preoccupied that I don’t notice Mum wandering out of the room on her own, nor do I pay much attention when I later hear the telephone ring and someone talking in the hall. Part of me thinks it must be Ruby, as Mum almost never answers the phone these days. It’s not that she’s forgotten how, more that it unnerves her to conduct a conversation without being able to see the other person’s face. I know the feeling…
Then Ruby comes in, wearing red checked leisure pants and a loose red top, and at once starts busying herself by clearing away some dirtied tea mugs, though she isn’t here to act as an unpaid cleaner. She looks a bit like a flushed, happy Mrs Santa. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ she asks. ‘Your mum seemed very interested in them, whoever it was.’
‘What?’
I had glanced back at my notepad, but now look up at her again, frowning. ‘Sorry?’
‘When I came downstairs just now, your mother was on the phone. I just wondered who it was.’ She hesitates, misreading my shocked expression. ‘None of my business, of course. I’m sorry.’
‘No, it’s not that…’ I throw aside my notepad and jump up. ‘Mum? Where are you?’
There’s no reply.
I head out into the hall, and Ruby follows me, mugs clasped to her chest. My mother’s not there anymore and the handset is lying on the telephone table. I pick it up, but it’s dead, so I return it to its charging cradle.
‘She’s not supposed to answer the phone. She gets too confused. I heard a voice… I thought it was you.’
‘No, I was up in my room.’ Ruby has put down the tea mugs. She knocks on my mother’s bedroom door at the other end of the hallway. ‘Celeste? Are you in there?’
She must have heard something inside because she opens the door and goes in. I follow her in, and find my mother bent over, scrabbling through the drawers in her bedside cabinet, pulling out old packets of headache pills and creams, her expression abstracted. There are books and papers on the carpet that she’s jettisoned in her determination to find whatever she’s lost, along with ancient sweet wrappers from the back of the drawer.
‘Mum? What on earth are you doing?’ I touch her arm, and she peers up at me through a floppy fringe of hair, her eyes wide. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I need, um, that thing that you use when, um, you need to…’ She pauses, dissolving into vagueness, and gestures wildly with her hand. ‘Pay for things.’
Ruby starts picking up the debris on the floor. ‘I think she means a cheque book.’
‘Cheque
book, yes!’ Mum nods excitedly and returns to her digging through the drawer, flicking things aside without really looking at them, as though she’s already forgotten what she’s looking for but needs to keep searching.
I’m bemused. ‘I don’t understand, Mum. What do you need to pay for?’
‘The man on the phone… He said I had to give him my bank details. Or he’ll turn off my account. Like a tap, he said.’ She mimes turning a tap, a worried frown knitting her brows together. ‘I can’t have that.’
The man on the phone…
Some kind of scamster, I realise, and am horrified at myself. I was so intent on my work, I did nothing to stop her receiving that bogus call.
‘Oh my God.’ I catch her swiftly moving hands and still them between my own. ‘Mum, look at me. You didn’t tell him anything about your account, did you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It wasn’t a real call.’
‘Of course it was,’ she insists. ‘He was from the bank. He told me. And he knew my name and where I lived.’
I go cold.
‘No, he wasn’t from the bank. He must have found those details from somewhere else. The electoral roll, perhaps. It’s not real; it’s a scam.’ I shake my head, glancing at Ruby. ‘How to explain it to her?’
‘I’m sure Celeste can understand,’ Ruby says. ‘Can’t you, love?’
‘I’m not stupid,’ Mum says indignantly.
‘Nobody’s saying you are,’ Ruby reassures her.
‘He was a criminal,’ I say.
Mum’s eyes widen. ‘What?’
I take a deep breath. ‘He rings up, pretends to be from a bank, and asks for your details. Then, when you give them to him, he steals all your money.’
‘Oh no,’ Mum says confidently, and wriggles her hands free to start searching again. ‘That can’t be true. He was a very nice man. Not a criminal.’
‘Trust me, he was after your money.’
‘Really?’ Mum hesitates, and looks from me to Ruby, who nods sadly. ‘Oh goodness. You must think I’m such a silly woman. But darling, are you sure?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Really, truly sure?’ Mum steps back and chews on her lower lip, fear in her eyes. ‘He said he’d ring back in a few minutes, while I found my cheque book. That’s got all my numbers on it, you see,’ she adds to Ruby, who helps her sit down on the bed. ‘You know, all my account details.’
‘It’s all right,’ Ruby says comfortingly, patting her hand. ‘Don’t fret.’
‘Stop it. Don’t treat me like a child,’ Mum snaps at her.
Ruby moves away, shrugging with a half-smile on her face. I imagine she’s used to that kind of reaction from the people she cares for, and is unbothered.
I’m nettled by it though, and have to control myself with an effort. ‘Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll answer the phone if this “man from the bank” rings back. I have a few choice things to say to him.’
It was meant as a reassurance. But this promise only agitates my mother further.
‘But what if he really was from the bank and my account gets closed? Have you thought about that?’ Mum struggles up off the bed, staring at the emptied-out drawers, the mess on the carpet. ‘And that’s another thing. I’m sure my cheque book was in there. I’ve always kept my bank things in that drawer. So where’s it gone?’ Her voice rises. ‘I think someone must have stolen it.’
‘I’ve got your bank statements and your cheque book,’ I tell her soothingly.
She turns to eye me suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘You asked me to look after them for you.’
She looks outraged. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Actually, Mum, you did.’ I bend to help Ruby clear up the mess on the floor, my head pounding. A sudden stress headache, no doubt. I’ve become prone to them lately. ‘About a year ago. You’ve forgotten, that’s all.’
‘I have not forgotten. It didn’t happen.’
‘Mum, you gave me your bank cards. So I could pay your share of the household bills and get you anything you needed.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you couldn’t use them in shops anymore. You kept forgetting the number for the PIN machine.’
Mum blinks. ‘Did I? That doesn’t sound like me. You’re making things up now. Why do you tell me such lies?’
‘I’m not lying, Mum.’
But she’s clearly unconvinced, her expression disapproving.
I leave her with Ruby, worried that I’m going to lose my patience with her, and wait in the hall instead for this man – whoever the hell he is – to ring back. But the telephone remains silent.
Eventually, I try discovering which number rang us. But it was withheld. Irritated and wound up, I slam the handset back on its cradle just as Ruby appears from my mother’s room.
‘Did you give him what for?’ she asks.
‘Nobody rang.’ I run a hand through my hair, feeling off balance. ‘I was checking if there was a number that I could report to the phone company, but it was withheld.’
‘You should report it, all the same. In case this scamster calls back. Now he knows she believed him, she’ll be down on their list as an easy target.’
Now she’s beginning to sound like Logan, which irritates me. But I suppose she has a point.
‘Yes, you’re right. I probably should.’ I manage a smile for her, though by this point I’m feeling tired and more like bursting into tears. ‘Thank you for your help in there, by the way. I’m sorry she was so cross.’
‘Water off a duck’s back. I’ve heard it all before.’
‘You’re very understanding. God though, what a nuisance! And to think, if you hadn’t mentioned that phone call to me, I probably wouldn’t have known what she was up to.’ I roll my eyes. ‘She could have been cheerily handing out her bank account number and PIN to all callers, and me none the wiser.’
‘Just as well you’re keeping that cheque book safe for her.’ On her way to the kitchen, Ruby stops and hangs on her heel, looking back. ‘You know, one lady I was caring for, her son had a Power of Attorney drawn up to stop scams like that from happening. But you have to get them in place early on. Before the dementia really takes hold.’
‘We did. That was all sorted out ages ago.’
‘Oh.’ She seems surprised. ‘But your mother still has her own bank account? That seems awkward.’
I blink, hesitant. ‘Well, when we first set it up, Mum was still perfectly capable of handling her own affairs. It was something for the future. And then, once her condition started to worsen, I kept meaning to transfer everything into a joint account, to make life easier. But you know how it is. There’s always so much going on, I simply never got around to it.’
‘Perfectly understandable.’
‘Besides, I don’t like the idea of using the Power of Attorney. I mean, running my mother’s bank account for her… It’s a last resort, isn’t it?’
‘Of course.’ Ruby smiles, nodding; I get the feeling she thinks I’m a poor, weak-willed sap, but is too polite to say so. ‘Well, I’d better get on.’
She disappears, and I hurry into what used to be my father’s study, unlock the filing cabinet where I keep Mum’s bank statements, to check on the folder.
Everything’s still in there, safe and untouched.
But Ruby’s comment has got me thinking.
Have I been neglecting Mum’s financial affairs? It’s an embarrassing possibility. And she’s right. I really ought to use my Power of Attorney for once to sort out her bank account. It’s clear Mum’s never going to be well enough again to deal with anything monetary, and though it goes against the grain to make decisions for her, it’s in her best interests for me to do so.
I just hope Mum will understand why and not complain that I’m trying to ‘steal’ her money or something awful like that. Because I saw the suspicion in her face just now, and it made me horribly uneasy…
*
A few days later, I stop tryin
g to put off the inevitable, and make an appointment with our family solicitor, Mr Adeyemi.
Shortly after lunch, I leave Mum poring over a crossword puzzle with Ruby and drive over there alone.
The weather having turned atrocious, I park as close as possible to the solicitor’s firm and run the rest of the way in pouring rain, sheltering under an umbrella that threatens to turn inside-out in the strong winds.
Abayomi Adeyemi is a big man with a smooth head and dark sideburns. Mum always calls him a snappy dresser, but today his blue pinstriped suit seems too large for him, his long sleeves brushing the backs of his hands.
When the receptionist buzzes through to let him know I’ve arrived, he comes out of his office to greet me, shaking my hand with a broad smile. ‘How are you? And your mother?’ While I assure him that Mum is well, he ushers me into his small office behind the reception desk and closes the door. There are no windows, which always feels odd to me, but the fluorescent overhead lighting is bright enough and the constant whisper of an air conditioning unit somehow gives the illusion of fresh air. ‘That’s good, excellent.’
Mr Adeyemi sits opposite me, behind the large, cluttered desk, and swivels back and forth on his leather chair, nodding at me encouragingly. ‘So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Kinley?’
‘It’s about the Power of Attorney that we set up in case of future need. Do you remember?’
‘Of course. How could I forget?’ There’s a twinkle in his eye now. ‘Your mother is a very charming lady.’
‘Indeed, she is. But I’m afraid the time has come for me to put the Power of Attorney into action, and I need your advice on how to go about doing that.’
His smile fades. ‘I see.’ He picks up a gold pen from his desk and fiddles with it, not looking at me. ‘What you’re saying is that Mrs Kinley is no longer able to manage her own affairs?’
‘Sadly, that’s about right.’
Briefly, I explain what’s been going on with my mother and mention the unfortunate changes I’ve noticed recently, such as her increasingly wandering attention. He’s not a doctor, but I’m sure he must understand that she’s now coming to the point where she can no longer handle her own financial affairs.
