A Death Divided

by Clare Francis

  ‘Townie habits, Joe. Won’t do you the slightest good.’

  Chetwood picked up the tray and carried it unhurriedly down the length of the restaurant. He was dressed for the country in a green waterproof jacket, well-worn and frayed along the hem, and khaki trousers, also far from new. But it was his shoes that caught Joe’s attention. They were brown and thick-soled, and there was a deep rim of dried mud around the heels, topped by a jagged watermark.

  They sat in a corner booth with tartan seats and tinsel pinned diagonally across the walls. There was a family of four at a table opposite and an elderly couple in the booth behind, but hardly anyone was talking. Overhead, Harry Belafonte was wending his way through ‘Mary’s Boy Child’.

  ‘So, Joe, how’s it going?’ Chetwood pulled his jacket off to reveal a dark blue sweater with the shapeless weave of a hand-knit. ‘How’s the big bad city and the big bad world of the law?

  Are you successful? Are you rich? Are you heading for great things?’

  ‘No chance.’

  Above the faint smile, the dark eyes examined him unhurriedly.

  ‘But you enjoy it?’

  ‘Increasingly uncertain.’

  Another thoughtful gaze and a sudden grin that didn’t entirely reach his eyes. ‘And what about the rest? Is there a person in your life, Joe? Is she beautiful and clever and wise?’

  ‘There’s … someone, yes.’

  ‘Special?’

  ‘Early days yet.’

  Another speculative glance, before Chetwood began to eat as though he hadn’t seen a proper meal in a long time. Between mouthfuls he produced a fast and furious stream of questions: what did Joe’s work involve, what did he dislike about it, where was he living, what did he do in his spare time. From Chetwood’s manner, the two of them might have been old friends whose lives had diverged through an accident of geography.

  He listened intently, with regular exclamations of surprise, interest and outright astonishment, sometimes exaggerated for effect, sometimes heartfelt. How could Joe live in London, how could he work such long hours, how could he travel without seeing anything of the countries he was visiting.

  ‘God, Joe, what a bloody treadmill!’ Yet all the time Joe had the feeling that the dark eyes were watching him, missing nothing, perfectly friendly, a little nostalgic even, but ultimately wary, and that when the grins came, sudden and broad, they were as much a means of maintaining distance as showing pleasure.

  By the time Chetwood was finishing his breakfast he had run out of questions, which was probably the intention.

  ‘And you?’ Joe asked into the first available silence. ‘You’re busy?’

  ‘Oh, busy enough. But you know me, Joe. I was never going to kill myself from overwork, was I?’

  Travelling a lot?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Still involved in the orphanage?’

  He shook his head. ‘Too much corruption, too much thieving, and the kids still ended up on the streets. You can’t change the system in a place like that, and it’s crazy to try.’

  Joe must have let the surprise show in his face because Chetwood added, ‘Human nature untamed is a pretty stinking thing close up, Joe. Pity is no weapon against corruption. Not in a place where no one knows the meaning of shame.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘What the hell. Can’t take on the entire world. We’ve each of us only so much to give. It’s a fact of life. You’ve got to keep centred, or you’d bleed yourself dry.’

  ‘Sure.’

  He grinned. ‘Lawyers keep centred, right?’

  ‘You bet. You’re still importing rugs?’

  The grin faded. ‘Not so much rugs nowadays.’

  ‘Other things?’

  ‘This and that.’

  ‘Business good?’

  ‘You know how it is.’

  It was all Joe could do not to growl, no, he didn’t know how it was, not at all, and why the hell did they have to play these bloody stupid games, but he bit his tongue and said lightly, ‘It was good to meet your sister the other day.’

  Chetwood lifted his eyebrows in an expression that could have meant anything. That he knew about Joe’s visit. That he wasn’t terribly interested.

  ‘I went to see your family because I didn’t know where else to start.’

  ‘You met my father?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My God. What bravery! How d’you get on?’

  ‘He threw me out of the house.’

  Chetwood roared with strange intense laughter. ‘Classic!

  God Almighty, what a player!’

  ‘Kate picked up the pieces and put me back together again.’

  But Chetwood was still caught up in his dark laughter.

  ‘She’s a great girl.’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Kate.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’

  There was a pause while Joe waited for Chetwood to ask after Kate’s welfare and Chetwood conspicuously failed to do so.

  ‘She told me about Ines.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘The incredible thing is that I found Ines working just a couple of streets away from me in London. Kate thought she was in Brazil.’

  Chetwood maintained a restless silence.

  ‘I liked Ines very much.’

  Another deliberate pause while Chetwood stirred his tea.

  ‘It was Ines who phoned and told you about me, was it?’

  Chetwood flashed him a narrow look. ‘Well, someone phoned and told me, didn’t they?’

  It was like a gust of cold air and a call to order, all in one.

  As if to underline the start of the official agenda, Chetwood pushed his plate to one side and tidied the debris from ‘the table. When he looked up again, his expression was noticeably cooler.

  ‘So! This thing that needs signing, Joe. You’ve got it?’

  Joe took the rolled envelope from his jacket pocket and extracted the document.

  Chetwood scanned it fast, then went over it again more carefully. Ridges sprang up between his eyebrows, and grew more pronounced as he flicked back and forth between the pages.

  Joe said, ‘If you’re worried about the address for Jenna, you could make it care of a solicitors’ firm. And the witness you could use a solicitor for that too. In fact, under the circumstances I would strongly recommend it. To avoid any problems.’

  ‘Uh huh,’ he murmured, reading again. ‘Are there likely to be problems?’

  ‘Normally, no. But in a situation like this, where the signatory’ - he corrected himself very deliberately - ‘where Jenna hasn’t been seen for a long time, where her family haven’t spoken to her for over four years, it’s best to have a lawyer to vouch for the fact that, well…’

  ‘She’s still alive?’

  ‘That everything is as it should be.’

  ‘That I’m not trying to pull a fast one?’

  ‘It’s not a question of—’ Spotting the sardonic glint in Chetwood’s eye, Joe broke off with a smile.

  ‘That I’m not standing over her with a gun, getting ready to make off with the money. Is that it?’ He was grinning dangerously.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Joe agreed, forcing the joke. ‘But, look, it’s just my lawyer’s mind at work, Chetwood. I’m just trying to anticipate problems before they arise. That’s all.’

  But Chetwood said with ominous calm, ‘What else might I be up to? Tell me, do. I’m really interested.’

  ‘In theory, you mean?’ Joe said, careful to interpret the question in general terms. ‘Help … this isn’t exactly my field.

  But if I remember rightly, problems can arise if there’s any question of the signatory not understanding what he or she is signing. If there’s a possibility of mental incompetence or confusion. Any question of coercion. Or - I’ve forgotten something yes, forgery. I think that’s it.’

  ‘But if we get a solicitor to witness Jenna’s signature I’m off the hook?’

  ‘It’s not about getting you off the
hook,’ Joe laughed awkwardly. ‘But if you like - yes.’

  ‘Unless I find a bent lawyer. Right?’ Chetwood pointed a gleeful finger at Joe, as if scoring a point.

  ‘Right.’

  Chetwood’s strange suppressed anger evaporated. ‘This gives Marc power of attorney?’

  ‘But only for the sale of the house. Nothing else.’

  ‘Why Marc?’

  ‘Because it makes things that much simpler for the negotiations and the paperwork. But, look, if Jenna would like to nominate someone else it’s not a problem. She can nominate anyone she likes. I would point out, however, that the nominee would have to be available to discuss the terms of the deal with the other parties, and to sign on the dotted line when the time comes.’

  Chetwood shot Joe a wolf grin. ‘You sound just like a bloody lawyer, Joe.’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  Returning to the document, recharged by a nervous energy, Chetwood tapped a finger rapidly against his mouth, and Joe noticed that his nails were short and chipped and that the skin round the edges was rough and stained, by soil or paint, it was impossible to tell.

  ‘But if we wanted someone else as our nominee or whatever you call it we’d have to start all over again with this thing, would we?’ He chucked the document onto the table.

  ‘No way round it. But any solicitor should be able to draw one up in a matter of hours.’

  ‘And what about the money? Would that go through this nominee person too?’

  ‘Not Jenna’s half, no. That would be paid direct to her by the conveyancing solicitor. That’s one of the reasons there has to be an address.’

  With the air of moving on to the next item, Chetwood straightened up and laid both hands flat on the table. ‘Okay, so what’s the deal? How much are they offering, these developers?’

  ‘Forty-two thousand.’

  ‘Each?’

  ‘In total.’

  Chetwood’s mouth drew up into a grimace of disbelief.

  ‘You’re telling me that a house on a prime site in the middle of town is going for forty thousand?’

  ‘It’s a tiny place, with structural problems and damp. It isn’t worth anything as a house.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe, there can’t be a place in the entire country that goes for forty thousand, let alone one the developers are hungry for. We’re in the middle of a property boom, for God’s sake.’

  ‘But it’s not for housing, it’s for an industrial unit. And it’s in a bad part of town.’

  Chetwood wasn’t having any of this. ‘It’s one of a terrace?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure, yes.’

  ‘Well, how many have the developers managed to get hold of so far? Is this one of the last? How badly do they need it? Is this their best offer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, if it’s one of the last houses, I can tell you it’s going to be worth a lot more than forty thousand. It’s simple arithmetic, isn’t it? Who’s been handling the negotiations? Or,’

  he added heavily, ‘is that a stupid question?’

  Still adjusting to the vision of Chetwood as a commercial operator, Joe was slow in answering. ‘Marc, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, has he tried to jack the price up at all? Did he turn down their first offer?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I tell you, Joe, if it was anyone else I’d suspect I was being conned. I’d be smelling a huge and extremely niffy rat. But with Marc it’s just going to be pig-headedness, isn’t it? And there’s no arguing with that.’

  ‘I could try and find out what negotiations have gone on, if you like.’

  Seeming to lose interest, Ghetwood sank back in his seat and muttered, ‘All this trouble for twenty grand.’

  ‘Marc needs it to study. He wants to qualify as a teacher.’

  ‘A teacher? Right - power without responsibility. That’ll suit him down to the ground.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘For twenty grand I’m beginning to think it’d be easier to give him the cash.’

  ‘What about Jenna? Doesn’t she want to sell the house?’

  ‘Now you’re the one who’s being stupid, Joe!’ The rebuke came out of nowhere, sharp and not at all contained, and there was a startled pause while Chetwood drained his tea and Joe tried to work out what he’d said to touch such a nerve.

  ‘So, do you want to go ahead with this or not?’ Joe asked at last.

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Any idea when you can get the power of attorney back to me?’

  Chetwood slid the document a little closer, then away again, then lifted his hand clear in a gesture of wanting to be rid of the whole thing. ‘I suppose it’ll have to be Marc,’ he sighed doubtfully.

  Joe waited until he made up his mind.

  ‘Yes, the crazy Marc! What the hell.’

  ‘It’ll be okay with Jenna?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  The black eyes shot Joe a warning glance. ‘I’m sure.’

  But Joe was in no mood to be put off any longer. ‘Does she know anything about this yet?’

  ‘I’ll tell her when the time is right.’

  ‘Why hasn’t she been in touch, Chetwood?’

  Chetwood leant his elbows on the table and made a steeple of his hands. ‘It’s just… not been practical.’

  That’s not an answer.’

  Chetwood regarded Joe for what seemed a long time before appearing to come to a decision. ‘She likes a quiet life, Joe. She needs …’ He chose each word with care. ‘A life … that’s uncomplicated. A life without… distractions.’

  ‘But why, Chetwood? What reason?’

  ‘She has the life she wants. Believe me.’

  ‘But is she ill? Has she had some sort of breakdown? Is she depressed?’

  ‘I’m not going to get into guessing games, Joe. I told you before, there’s nothing wrong with her.’

  Joe took a deep steadying breath. ‘So, this hiding away it’s her decision, is it?’

  ‘Of course. Who else’s would it be?’ He looked at his watch, then back to Joe. He gave a sudden smile. ‘Hey. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Wait.’

  He was reaching for his jacket and pulling it onto his lap.

  ‘I need your word that you’re taking good care of her.’

  ‘My word.’ He almost laughed. ‘Long time since anyone asked for my word.’ The idea amused him. ‘Yes - for what it’s worth, fine noble Joe -1 give you my word.’

  ‘And that she’s happy.’

  ‘Happy’s a bastard word, Joe.’ There was an edge to his voice. ‘Got hijacked by Hollywood. Like love and fulfilment.

  Turned into candyfloss. But if you want me to say it, I’ll say it.

  She’s happy. Okay?’ He slid to the end of the bench.

  ‘She’s not frightened of anything?’

  Chetwood paused in profile, his eyes on the family in the opposite booth. He was still staring in their direction a couple of seconds later when he stood up and began to pull on his jacket. ‘What would she be frightened of, Joe?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  He shrugged the jacket up onto his shoulders. ‘Frightened …'

  ‘What made you ask that all of a sudden, Joe? Where the hell did that come from?’

  Joe hesitated as two parallel and Opposing narratives ran through his mind, one written by Marc in which Chetwood must not on any account be told about Jenna’s call for fear of what he’d do to her, one written by Joe’s instincts and memories which told him that the truth was not going to do anyone any harm.

  ‘Where the hell did that come from?’ Chetwood repeated.

  ‘Marc. He says he spoke to Jenna on the phone.’

  Chetwood’s gaze lost focus. ‘When was this meant to be?’

  ‘Monday or Tuesday, I think.’

  Another pause, almost as long as the one before. ‘No,’ he announced with finality. ‘No, that’s not possible.’

  ‘That it was Mond
ay or Tuesday?’

  ‘That she made a call. On Monday or any other day.’

  ‘Marc seemed pretty sure.’

  Then he’s lying!’

  The family at the opposite table looked round.

  ‘Well, whether or not —’

  ‘No, let’s get it right - he’s lying!’

  Joe acceded with a gesture.

  Chetwood turned away, only to turn straight back again.

  ‘And what was this call meant to be about? What was she meant to have said?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you know she was meant to be frightened?’

  ‘According to Marc she was frightened to come to the phone. She was scared of what might happen to her if she was found out.’

  Chetwood gave an awful smile. ‘Ah! I’m getting there now.

  She was frightened of the big bad husband, is that it? She was married to the monster?’

  Joe gave a rueful shrug.

  ‘Well, what a bad boy I am, Joe. I spirit her away, I cut her off from her family, I frighten the hell out of her. For Christ’s sake, nothing to be said for me at all!’

  The next moment he was gone, leaving Joe to snatch up the document and hurry after him. In the arcade Chetwood strode ahead, until without warning he swivelled round, stopping so abruptly that a small kid cannoned into him. ‘What else did she say, according to Marcf he demanded, disentangling himself from the child.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  The speakers were reprising ‘Jingle Bells’ as a clatter like scattering marbles sounded around their feet. Joe looked down to see Maltesers bouncing and rolling in every direction, and the child frozen in disbelief.

  ‘No calls for the police?’ Chetwood scoffed, oblivious.

  The child sucked in a shuddering breath and began to scream. A man, scarlet in cheek and garb, scooped the kid up and, thrusting his face close to Chetwood’s, started to hiss abuse.

  Chetwood backed away, looking astonished. ‘Hit your child? I didn’t hit your child!’

  This seemed to goad the father to greater fury, and Joe rapidly placed himself between the two of them. ‘An accident,’

  he said in a reassuring voice as he dug in his pocket for some coins.

  ‘I didn’t hit your child,’ repeated Chetwood on a rising note of bewilderment.

  ‘Here.’ Joe beamed at the screaming child. ‘Enough for a bumper packet!’