Just My Luck

by Adele Parks

  “They? Both Mr. and Mrs. Pearson resigned from the syndicate?”

  “Yes. She always goes along with him. She said, ‘It’s not as though we’re ever actually going to win big.’” Those were her exact words. Ironically.”

  “And Mr. and Mrs. Heathcote?” asks their lawyer, Mr. Elliott.

  “They’d largely been quiet throughout the row. Fred kept dozing off in his chair, but as the Pearsons left, they stood up to go, too. Jake explicitly asked them whether they were still in.”

  “And how did they respond?”

  “I remember it clearly. Fred said, ‘I think it’s had its day, old man.’ I remember it clearly because the phrase was annoying, a ridiculous affectation. Jake isn’t an old man and Fred isn’t a 1940s cad in a B movie. I offered to get his coat.”

  CHAPTER 14

  As Carla Pearson entered the room, all the men rose from their seats. This meant the women felt compelled to do the same. Carla was a very attractive woman, the sort that people held doors open for, packed shopping for, went the extra mile for. She had a flat stomach, silky hair, a suspiciously wrinkle-free forehead. Nothing about her admitted that she was a middle-aged mother of three. “Mrs. Pearson, thank you for agreeing to speak to us,” said Gillian.

  Carla smiled at her bank of lawyers. Patrick had insisted that they employ three; he said it would intimidate the Greenwoods. He pointed out that they might as well—they had lawyers on retainers anyway as his businesses demanded a lot of legal attention. He said he knew what he was doing, and she had to believe him. “Call me Carla, please. We don’t need to be formal, do we?”

  “Well, actually I think it is best if we stay formal,” replied Gillian, politely determined. “You understand this is entirely voluntary.”

  “I want to be here. I want my say.” Carla sat down and crossed her legs at the knee. Her flowing skirt had a split in it, which fell open to reveal toned, tanned flesh. “Although why there has to be a huge inquiry is beyond me. It’s not complicated. We were in a syndicate. The money should be split six ways.”

  “Six? Not three?” asked Ms. Walsh.

  Carla waved her manicured hand. “Whichever.”

  “Can you tell us about Saturday the thirteenth of April? We’ve established there was a dinner party at Lexi and Jake Greenwood’s home. We know who was in attendance. What we’re looking for is your account of the evening.”

  “It was very jolly,” Carla said firmly.

  “Throughout?”

  “Yes. We ate a lot. Talked a lot. Laughed a lot.”

  “Can you recall what you talked about?”

  “Oh, the usual things. The kids, goings-on at their school, our holidays.”

  “And was there an altercation?”

  “No, nothing of the sort.”

  “No cross words exchanged?”

  “No, none.” Carla shrugged her skinny shoulders with a chic insouciance. “Why would there be? We’ve been friends for years. There’s rarely a cross word between us. We’re more like family.”

  “The families I know do have cross words,” pointed out Mick Hutch. Everyone turned to him. These were the first words he had spoken throughout the proceedings. People had forgotten he was in the room. Or wondered why he was. However, the point he made was a fair one.

  “Oh, but you know what I mean. We’re friends who are practically family. That’s why this is all so upsetting, actually. I just don’t understand them. I don’t understand how money can have come between us. Why won’t they just share it?” Carla’s eyes became watery. The men felt varying levels of sympathy for Mrs. Pearson, ranging from mildly uncomfortable to genuine concern; the women in the room wondered how she could do that on command.

  “Was the lottery mentioned at all?” asked one of the Pearsons’ lawyers.

  “Yes, actually it was. Briefly. Lexi said she needed us all to chip in again, that the kitty had run out. She buys the tickets, you see. Always has.”

  “And did you all chip in?” asked another one of the Pearsons’ lawyers.

  “Yes. Yes. The moment she asked for it, I reached for my bag. Patrick doesn’t carry cash. I paid. I contributed to that winning ticket.”

  “And was there a contract confirming this syndicate exists?” asked the Greenwoods’ lawyer. Carla didn’t like the look of the woman. She was the sort who didn’t bother to make the most of herself, which Carla thought a waste.

  “No, of course not. Friends don’t draw up contracts between each other.”

  “Any written correspondence at all? A text? An email?” the woman lawyer with the frizzy hair pursued.

  “Well, no,” Carla admitted.

  “And is there any similar correspondence to suggest the contract has been terminated?” asked one of Carla’s lawyers.

  She smiled at him. “No.”

  “I’d have thought a fallout of the scale the Greenwoods described would have merited a text at least.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Carla thought the retainers Patrick paid were well worth the money. “There were no texts about a fallout because there wasn’t a fallout.”

  * * *

  Mr. Elliott was the first on his feet when Jennifer Heathcote came into the room. He rose with such speed that he made the other lawyers look tardy, even though they were all in the process of standing, too. “Jennifer, always a pleasure,” he said, leaning over the table to kiss her right cheek, then her left. The movement was graceful, synchronized, their glasses did not clash; they had been greeting one another this way for years without self-consciousness or a collision. He was clearly half in love with her, in that way certain men were always half in love with English roses. Women they felt duty-bound to protect and defend. Women they underestimated because they had bright eyes, rosy cheeks and didn’t wear a lot of makeup.

  “Thank you for agreeing to see us today, Mrs. Heathcote,” intoned Gillian with significantly more neutrality. She made the introductions.

  “Anything I can do to help,” gushed Jennifer. She beamed broadly, seemingly less aware of, or at least less troubled by, the gravitas of the occasion than the other two women who had been interviewed. Jennifer liked people to know she had a sunny disposition. She kept her steely core hidden.

  “As you are aware, there is some discrepancy about what was agreed on the night of the thirteenth of April at Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood’s home. We are talking to everyone who was present in order to see if there is any level of consensus.”

  “Gosh, yes, obviously. Is this an actual criminal inquiry?”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Heathcote?”

  “I mean, am I under arrest?”

  “Should you be, Mrs. Heathcote?” asked Ms. Walsh, looking up from her notes.

  “Oh, don’t be silly? Me? No. I’m not the criminal here.”

  “Well, that is to be determined,” Ms. Walsh muttered.

  Mr. Elliott coughed. “Shall we get on? So, what do you recall about the evening?”

  Jennifer made eye contact with everyone around the table as she began to recount the details. “Lexi had made a huge effort. That was a bit unusual. Sometimes she just buys an M&S supper, you know, dine in.” She dropped her voice to a discreet whisper. “They watch the cash a bit more than the rest of us. I’m not being a snob about it, I’m just saying. They always have had to be a bit more careful. Jake just hasn’t found a job he’s especially committed to, yet. He’s always chopping and changing. He sells ergonomic chairs at the moment, or is it photocopiers? I’m not sure. But they do struggle financially.” Gillian made a clicking noise with her tongue. It had the desired effect of moving Jennifer on. “Anyway, that night Lexi had really gone for it. She themed it a Mexican evening. She made chicken chili tostadas and pinto bean salsa salad. Delicious.”

  “Sounds lovely, but Mrs. Heathcote, if I can bring you to the point,” said Ms. Walsh decisively.
r />   “The point?”

  “The syndicate. Do you remember anything specific being said that evening with regard to the syndicate? Or the lottery?”

  “It’s talked about every week. That week was no different.”

  “What was said?”

  “The usual. That we hadn’t won. Lexi said that we all owed money. That she’d bought the tickets for the past couple of weeks, that she couldn’t be expected to cough up every week.”

  “Cough up?”

  “Her phrase.”

  “And how did people react?”

  “Am I under oath?”

  “Would it make a difference?”

  “I wish I could tell a lie.”

  “We’d rather you didn’t.”

  Jennifer paused. Took in a deep breath. She had the room’s full attention now. “I was in the loo.”

  “Sorry?”

  “They were getting spiky with one another, grumpy. I don’t like scenes. I never want to be involved in their tussles.”

  “Whose tussle?”

  “It happens from time to time. Rarely, but often enough that we can all identify it for what it is and see it coming. Jake and Patrick lock horns. It’s never over anything big—not politics or religion—but they hold opposing views about whether the school should save or demolish the old cricket clubhouse. They often disagree on the school hockey coach’s tactics. That sort of thing. It can get a little tiring, you know? So, that’s why I went to the loo, to avoid it the moment I realized they were squaring up.”

  “They fight?”

  “Not exactly. It is fair to say they have heated debates.” Jennifer giggled, apparently uncomfortable with the idea of anyone having a disagreement. “They are both rather competitive,” she confessed. “Still, some might think it’s a testament to the strength of their friendship that they never shy away from disagreements. They bash it out. Verbally, of course, and once they’ve said their piece, they move on. Generally.”

  “Mr. Pearson didn’t contain his actions to verbal onslaught on the day of the press conference,” pointed out Ms. Walsh. “I understand he throttled my client.”

  “That was a first. I’m sure he regrets it. Everyone was so wound up.”

  “And does your husband get involved in this—” Ms. Walsh broke off and checked her notes “—this tussling?”

  “I’m so glad my Fred stays away from that sort of macho posturing.”

  “The day of the press conference your husband assaulted Jake Greenwood,” pointed out Ms. Walsh.

  “Well, yes, as I said, emotions were running very high.” Jennifer looked embarrassed, apologetic. “I really wouldn’t call it an assault, more of a scuffle.”

  “I heard that he threw a punch.”

  Jennifer colored. “He’s not normally a confrontational sort. But he feels cheated.” She paused, lowered her eyes. Gillian thought of Princess Diana. “You know this is all terribly difficult for me.”

  Mr. Elliott nodded sympathetically, leaned across the table and patted his client’s hand. Gillian raised an eyebrow and wondered whether the man had slept through the #MeToo revolution.

  “I think everyone involved feels this is a testing time. Why difficult for you in particular?” asked Gillian.

  “Well, I wasn’t in the room, so I’m in the same position as you are. I’m wading through the quagmire of claims, trying to work out who said what. I mean, I know I didn’t resign from the syndicate personally and I’m sure if my husband had, he would have admitted as much. He’s a very straightforward sort of chap. But, on the other hand, Lexi and Jake say he did resign and why would they lie? And as for the Pearsons? Well, I don’t know what to think.” Jennifer shook her head sadly. One of the men handed her a handkerchief. “I just wish I’d been in the room. Not being so has put me in a uniquely vulnerable position.”

  Gillian wondered whether it had crossed Jennifer’s mind that she was in fact in a uniquely powerful position. By not alienating the Greenwoods, but still tactically supporting her husband and the Pearsons’ claim, she stood to benefit whichever way the pendulum swung.

  Jennifer dabbed her eyes and asked if it was possible to leave now. “I do voluntary work at a local school on Tuesday afternoons. Nothing too arduous. Just teaching children to read.” She giggled self-consciously. “Well, not even that, just giving them extra practice time. It’s very rewarding and they’ve come to depend on me. I don’t want to be late if I can help it.”

  Everyone stood up as Jennifer left the room. They basked in the sense of calm dignity that she left behind, like perfume floating on air.

  * * *

  “Do you see who you are sitting opposite? Do you understand that I have lawyered up to the fucking hilt and I’m going to have those bastards for every penny they owe me? Do you understand?”

  “Would you take a seat, please, Mr. Pearson.”

  “They owe me nearly six million pounds. Are you listening? Six million pounds. The man is a thief. I might have expected it from him. But Lexi? I can’t understand why she would lie. She’s always been a Goody Two-shoes. A little bit holier-than-thou, you know the type. Turns out she’s just another bitch.”

  * * *

  “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Heathcote.”

  “No trouble. Best get this all ironed out pronto.” Gillian and Mick tried not to exchange a look of mild amusement; neither had ever met anyone outside Italy who said “pronto” without any sense of self-consciousness or irony.

  Mr. Elliott took the lead. “Fred, I was wondering, has the syndicate always used the same numbers?”

  “Yes, indeedy.”

  “And how were those numbers chosen?”

  “We chose one each that first time we did it. I chose eight, my lucky number. Jennifer chose one, to celebrate our firstborn. As it happened, Ridley is an only child, so I suppose the number one has taken on an even greater significance. I think Lexi chose twenty-nine because she was twenty-nine years old when she had Emily, or maybe it’s her birth date. I’m not sure. Something very meaningful. Jake chose twenty, their wedding anniversary, I do remember that. Or do I? Maybe that’s his birth date. Or Lexi’s? Anyway, you get the gist. Everyone picked something personal. That’s why we all feel committed to the lottery. Not just the money, but the history behind it.”

  “Including the Pearsons?”

  Fred nodded, a single decisive movement of the head. “Yes, they feel committed, too.”

  “No, I meant, did they pick their numbers for personal reasons?”

  Fred chuckled to himself. “Funny story there. Carla initially picked twelve, her birth date, but Patrick, her husband, shouted her down.”

  “Why?”

  “He said most people pick their birth dates, so numbers under thirty-one are more frequently chosen. Therefore, if you did win the lottery you were more likely to have to share your winnings. He said we’d want to win with different numbers, so we would be less likely to have to share. Patrick picked fifty-eight and Carla changed hers from twelve to forty-nine because she likes to keep her husband happy.” Fred smiled fondly. “That was typical Patrick. Not only expecting to win, despite the crazy odds, but also gunning for the biggest win possible. You have to admire him. And he was right of course. A clean win.” Suddenly Fred’s face darkened. “Except for the Greenwoods, trying this shady stuff.”

  “You maintain that the syndicate was still active at the time of the win?”

  “Yes, I do. We chipped in to the kitty that very evening.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. I threw in a tenner, took Carla’s fiver as change. There was no suggestion that we didn’t want to play anymore. Why would there be? It’s a bit of fun.”

  “And your wife saw you put that money in the kitty, did she?” asked Ms. Walsh. “She saw you recommit to the syndicate.”

  “Yes, she
did. She was sitting right next to me.”

  “Interesting,” murmured Ms. Walsh. She couldn’t resist. She flashed a look at Gillian and Mick to be sure they had spotted the inconsistency.

  “How so?” asked Fred.

  “Well, your wife says that she was away from the table at the time of the discussion on whether or not to recommit. She says she definitely didn’t pull out of the syndicate but perhaps you did.” Gillian watched as color, vitality and hope drained from Fred Heathcote’s face. She looked to the floor, fully expecting to see a puddle underneath his chair.

  “She said that, did she?” Fred’s voice choked in his throat.

  Mr. Elliott jumped in. “I really don’t think we should be discussing other witnesses’ statements.”

  Heathcote glared at Elliott. They had gone to school together, endured masters and bullies. But Fred knew his friend was vaguely infatuated with his wife and would not be able to stop himself siding with her. Fred’s godfather was a lawyer—he should have gone with him.

  Fred paused. He appeared to be weighing up something important. “I’d like to change my statement please.”

  “You would?” Ms. Walsh looked delighted. The Pearsons’ lawyers all steadfastly held their faces in studied expressions of neutrality, waiting to see what would come next.

  “Yes, I’d had a fair bit to drink. To be honest, and I don’t know if I do recall everything as clearly as all that. I think I did put the money in the kitty at the beginning of the night, but towards the end of the night perhaps there was talk about pulling out of the lottery.”

  “Perhaps?”

  “Almost definitely. Sorry if I’m a bit vague. I didn’t want to admit to how much I’d had to drink, you can understand, didn’t want to appear like some sort of alki.” He laughed self-consciously. But then he stopped laughing altogether and in a strong, confident voice that did not catch in his throat, he declared, “I recall it clearly now. Jennifer agreed with the Pearsons, she said the lottery was common. She said Jake Greenwood was common. She was quite particular about that and I wanted to support her. So, yes, we all pulled out. Jennifer is not owed a penny and nor am I, regrettably. I’m afraid I can’t bring myself to support her story or the Pearsons’. It’s not fair on Lexi and Jake.”