‘How did he buy Fallowfields?’ he asked. ‘Where did the money come from?’
‘From your grandfather,’ his father said. ‘Alec, there’s no mystery about that.’
‘I know he left money in his will, but Rupert owned Fallowfields long before that.’
‘No, no. You see he set up trust funds for us both and being an old-fashioned soul they were set up so we got them when we married or turned twenty-five. I used mine for the deposit on this place and Rupert used his for Fallowfields. Bought it outright, it was in such a state. Then when our father died, we came into his estate and when Mother became so ill I had power of attorney over her savings as well. We used most of it for nursing care, but what was left when she died was split between us. I invested mine and I’m pretty certain Rupert did the same. You’ve got to remember, Alec, the stock market actually returned something in those days.’
‘I think he used it later to buy the shop,’ Audrey said. ‘That’s what we always understood, anyway.’
Alec nodded, relieved.
‘Why the question?’ His father wanted to know.
‘No reason,’ he lied. ‘In my position though, I need to know.’
His father nodded. ‘Of course. Everything must be seen to be legal, I guess. I’m sure his solicitor could verify things if you’re worried.’
Alec nodded.
His father yawned and got up. ‘I’m sorry, Alec, but I’m off to bed. Way past my usual time and you look all in.’
‘I feel it,’ he agreed. He made his way up to the guest room but knew, despite his exhaustion, he would find it hard to sleep. Shrewd investments didn’t account for all of Rupert’s legacy, of that he was certain, but even if it did, Billy Pierce had told him that the money from the first two robberies had never been recovered. So, where was it? That, Alec guessed, was also what Kinnear wanted to know.
Twenty-Three
Patrick rarely slept deeply and the sound of his phone having received a message was enough to wake him. He fumbled about on the bedside table trying to locate his phone, then stared at the screen. One message, unknown number and the time was two fifteen.
Ordinarily, Patrick ignored anything that came up as unknown, but he had a fair idea who this might be from.
Patrick sat up and switched on the bedside light.
The text was brief. Meet me? Now.
For a minute or two Patrick stared at it, not sure what to do. Why did he want to meet now and for what? He had hoped the boy would get in touch, sensing something very wrong and also hoping that he was the same person Marcus had reported coming to the shop.
But he’d been unprepared for this to happen in the dead of night.
Patrick texted back, then slipped out of bed and found his clothes. As quietly as he could he made his way past the rooms now occupied by Naomi on one side and his father on the other. Patrick had been given the small bedroom at the rear of the house. The stairs creaked and groaned as he tiptoed down, taking care to keep to the very edge of the tread but flinching at every sound. Had he not been dressed he could have used the excuse of getting a drink if he was found out. He decided if his father woke he’d simply say that he couldn’t sleep and remind his dad that he didn’t have his dressing gown with him and was far too old to wander about a strange house in just his pyjamas.
But he need not have worried himself with thinking up excuses because no one stirred and he made it through the back door and out into the garden without raising the alarm.
Napoleon, curled up in the kitchen, rolled on to his back and watched him go outside, then trotted after, nuzzling at his hand. Patrick thought about shooing him back, but the presence of the black dog was comforting. He lay his hand on the dog’s flat, silky head, stroking his ears.
He should have brought his torch. He had forgotten just how dark it was here, no streetlights, no borrowed illumination from nearby houses.
Patrick stood and waited for his eyes to adjust, pleasantly surprised at the way the world slowly came into grey-blue focus and just how much light there really was from a half fat moon and a scattering of stars. He made his way across the garden, feeling the damp grass soaking through his shoes and wishing he’d worn his boots. There was still some heat in the night air and the scent of jasmine that wafted across the lawn from the terrace wall was almost too intense.
Patrick flinched as the gate creaked open. He cracked it just wide enough to slip through, Napoleon in tow. He had told the boy to meet him in the meadow, checking he knew where Patrick meant. It seemed like a logical place, the boy could get across the field behind his house and was less likely to be seen that way than if he had to come out of the drive and on to the road.
It occurred to Patrick, as he stepped out from the garden and into Rupert’s overgrown meadow, that he did not even know the name of this boy he had come here to meet or how long he would have to wait before he managed to get there.
Patrick made his way over to the fence and stared across into the field. The moon cast deep shadows, concealing the bullocks and the nettles and the long grass at the margins. Patrick stared hard and after a moment or two could just make out a figure making its way through the shadow and heading towards him.
‘Hi,’ Patrick said as he drew near.
The boy glanced back over his shoulder and then cast a searching look past Patrick and into the meadow.
‘It’s OK. I’m on my own.’
He nodded and then climbed up to perch on his side of the fence. Patrick, taking his lead, wedged himself on the other side with his back against one of the tall ash trees that formed part of the boundary to Rupert’s land.
‘Didn’t know if you’d come,’ the boy mumbled.
‘Said I would, didn’t I?’ Patrick told him. ‘Who are you anyway?’
His name was Danny Fielding and he was not quite sixteen. He lived with his father, as Patrick had gathered, at what he called White Farm.
Remembering their visit that afternoon Patrick considered that it should have been Off-White Farm or even Grey and Unwashed Farm, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
‘Your mum not live there?’ Patrick asked. ‘Mine lives in Florida. She and Dad got divorced.’
Danny shook his head. ‘Me mam’s gone,’ he said. ‘She had a row with me dad and he reckons she left.’
‘When did she go?’
‘About three week ago. Just before he died. The man what lived here.’
‘Was it your mam Rupert came to see?’
‘Rupert?’
‘Rupert Friedman. The man who lived here.’
Danny nodded. ‘Mam grew up round here, she knew all sorts of stories like me granddad used to tell. Dad reckoned they were rubbish but mam liked to talk about them and Mr Friedman was writing a book. He had these meetings at the library, asked anyone what’d got stories to come along and tell them and me mam went. Came back full of it, how he was going to write this book and me mam’s stories were going to be in it.’
‘Did your dad not like that?’
‘Dad don’t like anything except stuff to do with the farm. He’s been making no money and it’s getting to him. Wurriting, me mam says. She wanted him to sell up and move to Epworth, get a job like she did, but he won’t have it. Mr Friedman came to our house. He sat there one afternoon talking to me mam when me dad came home and he wasn’t best pleased. Thought it were all a big waste of time and said so. She told him he were a big waste of time and they got into a big fight like they always do. Mr Friedman left and after he’d gone the fight got worse.’
‘Did you go to the shop to try and talk to him?’
Danny nodded. ‘I went to tell him not to come here again. It’d just make it all worse for everyone.’