‘You take care now,’ Desiree fussed. ‘Call me as soon as it’s over. I’ll be waiting.’
George wasn’t sure if she appreciated the enormity of this meeting which was going to solve all his problems. Even though he knew what Patrick’s will contained, he wouldn’t be able to relax until he heard it from the lawyer with his own ears. Patrick was a tricky bastard. George wouldn’t have put it past him to have pulled some devious stunt at the last minute, swindling his business partner of his share.
It was impossible to park at the offices of Petrie and Waterman and, in any case, he could afford to take a taxi now. He knew to a penny how much the restaurant was turning over and his share of the profits had doubled overnight. Plus there was always the chance his partner had left him an additional nest egg. He had no idea how much money he had accumulated. Patrick had always been secretive about his personal finances. Lately he had become quite touchy whenever the subject came up.
‘We’re business partners with the restaurant and that’s as far as it goes. My personal finances are none of your fucking business,’ he had told George, leading him to surmise that Patrick had a stash of winnings that he was keeping quiet about.
The taxi dropped him outside Petrie and Waterman with five minutes to spare. Nevertheless, he was the last to arrive. There was only one chair left unoccupied in the solicitor’s office. He nodded a greeting at the grey-haired man sitting behind the desk who half rose to his feet, motioning him to a chair.
‘George,’ Jonathon greeted him in a familiar drawling voice. ‘It’s good to see you again, but I’m sorry to be meeting under such circumstances. My condolences.’
George glanced at the two people who were already seated, facing Jonathon’s desk. Amy looked a class act in a black skirt that skimmed the top of her knees, and a tailored jacket. The outfit was appropriate for a grieving widow while showing off her neat figure, slim legs and flat stomach. She looked about twenty, although she had been married for nearly that long. No woman her age had the right to look that good. He smiled at her and her lips twitched in response. He glanced down at his own sagging gut, resting on his broad thighs, then back at Amy who was gazing demurely at the solicitor.
His eyes slid past her to a woman in a green coat. She didn’t look round when he entered the room but sat without moving, staring straight ahead, giving no sign that she was aware of his furtive scrutiny. If she had chosen her clothes carefully, taken the trouble to have her hair styled, and worn make up, she wouldn’t have been unattractive. At first glance George had thought the woman was about fifty but a closer look revealed her to be closer to thirty. It was a shame to see a woman looking so unkempt when she could have made so much more of herself with very little effort. George almost felt sorry for her, but his overriding feeling was aggravation that she might be a contender for a share of Patrick’s fortune.
Amy took a small cotton handkerchief from her bag and dabbed gently at her eyes, taking care not to smudge her make up.
‘I want to know when I can bury my husband,’ she said softly, and dropped her gaze mournfully, the picture of a grieving widow.
‘I’m afraid that’s out of our hands,’ the lawyer told her. ‘You just have to be patient.’
At his side George heard her shift in her chair as Jonathon picked up a document.
‘We’re here to read Patrick Henshaw’s will.’
He looked at each of them solemnly in turn, then putting on glasses with narrow lenses, began reading in a dull monotone, his diction clear and impersonal. George tried not to switch off at the familiar opening formula. His ears pricked up at the mention of an amount in excess of nine hundred thousand quid. The name Stella Hallett seemed to ring a bell but George couldn’t remember who she was. He didn’t have the faintest idea why Patrick would be leaving her such a lot of money.
‘Who’s Stella Hallett?’
Amy’s angry demand interrupted the flow of Jonathon’s voice and he looked up at her over his glasses. Before he could answer the woman in the green coat spoke.
‘I am.’
Amy and George turned to her in surprise.
‘You? You’re Stella Hallett?’
‘Yes, I’m Stella Hallett.’
Unexpectedly, she began to cry.
‘I don’t understand.’
Amy turned to George, her bottom lip pushed out in a pout that was somehow ridiculous in a woman her age.
‘Who is this woman? I mean, why did Patrick leave her nine hundred thousand pounds? Who is she?’
Jonathon turned to Stella for an answer but she was crying so hard she couldn’t speak. He turned back to Amy.
‘Stella Hallett is named in Patrick’s will. That’s all that concerns us here,’ he informed her in his dry, clinical voice.
CHAPTER 19
George thanked Jonathon Waterman in his gruff voice and left, followed by Stella Hallett, snuffling into a tissue. She turned in the doorway as if she wanted to thank the solicitor, but catching Amy’s eyes on her, she waved her damp tissue and shuffled quickly out. Amy watched them leave. They made a right pair, both overweight and unattractive, with George’s balding head and beer gut, and the woman’s thinning hair and plain face. As soon as the door closed behind Stella Hallett’s hunched figure Amy sat back down and looked anxiously at the solicitor who gazed solemnly at her over the top of his glasses. She cleared her throat, eager to question him further about her own inheritance.
She had always known about the agreement regarding Mireille when either of its owners died. Patrick had gone first and his toad-like business partner had got the lot. That was bad luck. If George had died first the whole lot would have belonged to Patrick, and she would have inherited it when Patrick died. According to Patrick, it had been a gamble with more than decent odds.
‘He’s overweight, and he smokes like a chimney.’
Other than the restaurant, she had expected Patrick to leave everything to her. The odd woman in her hideous green coat had taken her completely by surprise, but at least everything else was hers, including the house. She just wanted to know how much it was all worth. How much she was worth.
‘I’m ready, so do your worst,’ she concluded, suppressing a smile.
That Patrick had left almost a million to another woman was an outrage she would deal with later. For now she just wanted to be assured of her share of the fortune. She might even pay the smarmy solicitor to go after Stella. Clearly the other woman must have exerted some influence on Patrick. She had no such hold over Amy.
‘The house is yours.’
Jonathon hesitated, glancing down at the documents on the desk.
‘How much is it worth? Three million?’
Jonathon didn’t answer.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll get onto the estate agents tomorrow, have it valued. I might even sell –’
Registering his expression she broke off and dabbed delicately at her eyes again.
‘I’m afraid you’re not as well off as it might at first appear,’ he said gravely. ‘I’m not sure if you’re aware that Patrick remortgaged the house?’
‘Remortgaged the house? What do you mean?‘
She stared at him in bewilderment.
‘The truth of the matter is that the house is currently worthless to you.’
‘Worthless? What do you mean?’
‘The debts owing on the property are quite possibly greater than its value.’
For a moment she stared at him, too shocked to speak.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said at last. ‘This is a mistake, it has to be a mistake. The house is mine.’
The solicitor shrugged and raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m afraid it’s worth nothing to you, Amy.’
‘But– but how can the house be worthless?’ she stuttered. ‘The house over the road sold for nearly three million last year.’
‘It’s worse than worthless, I’m afraid.’
He spoke very slowly.
‘Patrick remortgage
d the house which means he’s left you with a large mortgage and very little besides. There’s the house contents of course, but they won’t go anywhere towards paying off what you owe on the property.’
He paused.
‘The debt is now yours, as the house is in your name.’
‘The debt?’ she echoed, barely audible.
‘The mortgage.’
‘How – how much?’
Amy started when he gave her the figure. For a moment she felt stunned. She struggled to grasp where everything had gone so horribly wrong. When she had married Patrick, he had been a wealthy man, a self-made millionaire many times over, someone she could respect and admire. She had thought she loved him. She had always understood she was no more than a trophy wife, a beautiful young companion for him to hang on his arm and display, with an obligation to keep herself looking good. She had spent a fortune on make-up and hair products, workouts and yoga. It beat going out to work, and when she wasn’t at the salon or the health club, her time was her own, which was just as well once she met Guy.
And now, after enduring twenty years of loveless marriage, contrary to all her expectations she found herself worse than penniless: she was heavily in debt. She couldn’t understand why Patrick had done this to her. She hadn’t been such a terrible wife. She had known about the restaurant, and it was certainly unfortunate the way things had turned out; it was a gamble that hadn’t paid off. But she had no idea why Patrick had left so much money to an ugly stranger called Stella.
‘I’m going to contest this,’ she protested. ‘I’m not going to let that woman take my money.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do about it. I appreciate you may not be happy with the terms of your husband’s will, but it’s a legal document and there are no grounds for challenging it. I’m sorry.’
‘But it’s not fair! There must be something you can do.’
Amy didn’t want to sound petulant, but she had every right to feel outraged, having been cheated of money that belonged to her. Cheated by a complete stranger.
‘It must be a mistake. Who is this woman anyway? I’ve never seen her before. I’m his wife. She’s nobody, nothing to us. I don’t even know who she is.’
The lawyer sat drumming his long fingers on the desk.
Amy had promised to phone Guy as soon as she left the lawyer’s office. There was no reason why he shouldn’t come round to her house now. In preparation for a private celebration, she had left a bottle of champagne in the fridge before leaving home that morning. She knew Guy preferred lager, but she’d had plans to improve his tastes. Now she couldn’t even afford to keep him in beer. After hearing Patrick’s will, she barely managed to reach home before she surrendered to a paroxysm of weeping.
Startled by the phone she sat up, wiping her eyes and pulling her fingers through her hair. Guy’s cheerful voice grated on her nerves. His tone altered when he heard she couldn’t see him.
‘What’s up?’ he demanded. ‘You sound terrible.’
There was a pause.
‘Amy, have you been crying?
She stifled a sob.
‘That’s it,’he said, ‘I’m coming round.’
Amy hung up and ran to the bathroom to press a cold flannel on her swollen eyes and repair her face as best she could with a film of make up. Not only was she destitute, she looked awful.
As she worked on her face she fretted about how Guy would react to the news that she was broke. It was going to take them years to pay off her debts. But as soon as she opened the door and he swept her up in his strong arms she knew that she couldn’t tell him the truth just yet. He had to go on thinking she was wealthy; she couldn’t bear the thought of his leaving her.
‘You poor thing,’ he greeted her, stroking her cheek. ‘You’ve had a bad time of it, haven’t you? But it’s over now. Thanks to you he’s never going to bother us again. First thing we’ll do,’ he went on before she had a chance to respond, ‘we’ll take a holiday. How do you fancy going on a Mediterranean cruise? Do you fancy that? Or what do you think about the Seychelles? It’s supposed to be fantastic. A mate of mine went there for his honeymoon. It cost him an arm and a leg but what the heck? We’ve got money to burn!’
He threw his head back, laughing. Amy watched his Adam’s apple move up and down in his sturdy neck and knew she couldn’t risk losing him. Having longed to be free of her husband, it was ironic that the fulfilment of her wish had thrown her into poverty that might drive Guy away. She felt a surge of rage against Patrick. Even after his death he was ruining her life.
‘Let’s not rush into anything,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve just lost my husband.’
She raised her head and smiled to hide her desperation.
CHAPTER 20
In the light of the DNA detected on Henshaw’s body, there was now some urgency about questioning his widow further so Geraldine returned to the large house in Hampstead later that afternoon. This time Amy was at home. The polished white door opened at once, as though she had been expecting a caller, an impression reinforced by her evident disappointment on seeing Geraldine.
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Henshaw. I’d like to ask you a few more questions and then we’d like to take a routine DNA sample.’
When Amy expressed surprise, Geraldine explained that traces of a woman’s DNA had been found on her husband’s body.
‘A woman’s DNA?’
She sounded puzzled.
‘Yes. I appreciate this must be very difficult for you, but we do need to ascertain whether the DNA belonged to you or another woman was involved.’
‘Another woman?’ Amy echoed. Her expression hardened. ‘It was Stella Hallett, wasn’t it? I hope you lock the bloody cow up and throw away the key.’
‘What makes you think she’s responsible?’
‘Isn’t it obvious? With nearly a million pounds to gain, anyone would-’ She broke off, realising what she was saying. ‘Come on then, let’s get this over with. Do whatever you have to do.’
She turned and led the way to the back of the house.
Geraldine glanced admiringly around a spacious kitchen, elegantly appointed. A huge square picture window overlooked a series of narrow terraced gardens which led down to a row of trees.
‘What a lovely view.’
‘Patrick did the garden,’ Amy said curtly as she perched on a padded kitchen chair holding herself stiffly upright.
‘Where were you on Sunday night?’
‘Here.’
A dark red flush rose from Amy’s throat to her cheeks.
‘Were you here all evening?’
‘Yes … er …’
Amy fell silent.
‘Mrs Henshaw?’
‘Well, I might’ve gone out briefly – to post a letter –’
Amy gazed helplessly around the immaculate kitchen. Once again, Geraldine was sure the widow was lying. She gave her an encouraging smile.
‘That’s fine. The post mark will confirm what you’ve told me. Which letter box did you use, and who was the letter addressed to?’
‘No – I mean, I could be wrong. I’m so confused right now. It might not have been Sunday. I can’t remember. I really can’t remember.’
Geraldine read aloud from the notes she had taken down, careful not to betray any hint of the scepticism she was feeling.
‘So you were here at home on Sunday evening. You might have gone out to post a letter, but if you did you returned home straight away and didn’t go out again, is that right?’
Amy nodded.
‘Is there anyone who can confirm you were here all night?’
‘No. I told you, Patrick didn’t come home. I was here on my own.’
Her worried expression cleared.
‘I tell you what, my cleaning lady came round first thing Monday morning. She’ll tell you I was here. Ask Christina.’
Geraldine didn’t reveal that she had already spoken to the cleaning lady.
‘Tell me about your affair,’
Geraldine hazarded, impatient to move things on.
‘Affair?’
Amy arched her eyebrows with an expression of surprise that was also wary.
‘What affair?’
‘We know you’re having an affair with a young man,’ Geraldine said softly. ‘It’s no use pretending otherwise. And it’s not clever to lie about it, not when we’re investigating a murder. It’s better not to keep secrets at a time like this.’
Amy rose to her feet, agitated. Her shoulders slumped forward but her eyes were defiant.
‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know what you’re implying, but it seems you’ve been listening to some silly gossip. Who have you been speaking to? Where did you get hold of this ridiculous idea?’ She paused, gulping to catch her breath. ‘I loved my husband. Patrick was everything to me.’
There was no mistaking the genuine emotion in Amy’s voice. At the same time, there was no way of knowing whether it was driven by grief for her husband or fear of discovery that she had been implicated in his death.
In the face of Amy’s consternation, Geraldine wondered whether Christina had been telling the truth. It was feasible her account had been mistaken, or malicious.
‘Mrs Henshaw, please sit down. Good. Now, you were having an affair, that much we know.’
She hoped it wasn’t a false accusation.
‘It would be far better for you if you simply tell me what I need to know. Adultery isn’t a crime. I really don’t understand why you’d want to conceal the truth, now there’s no longer any risk of your husband finding out. If you persist in lying, I’ll have to conclude that you have something else to hide.’
Amy closed her eyes while tears gathered and spilled down her cheeks. Geraldine waited.
At last Amy gave a deep shuddering sigh and opened her eyes.
‘Yes.’
Her voice was hardly above a whisper.
‘I was seeing someone. But it’s over. I haven’t seen him for – six months.’
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