The inheritance, p.1
The Inheritance, page 1
Howard Linskey
* * *
THE INHERITANCE
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Howard Linskey is the author of a series of crime novels set in the North-East, featuring detective Ian Bradshaw and journalists Tom Carney and Helen Norton. Most recently, he has written standalone thrillers including Alice Teale is Missing and Don’t Let Him In. Originally from Ferryhill in County Durham, Howard now lives in Hertfordshire with his wife and daughter.
By the same author
The Drop
The Damage
The Dead
Hunting the Hangman
Ungentlemanly Warfare
No Name Lane
Behind Dead Eyes
The Search
The Chosen Ones
Alice Teale is Missing
Don’t Let Him In
For Erin and Alison
CHAPTER ONE
‘Did you bring it?’ the old woman asked, with the urgency of an addict needing a fix.
‘Yes.’ He showed her the canvas bag he was carrying and took his seat opposite her, setting the bag down on the floor next to him. ‘But this isn’t strictly necessary, Evelyn, not if there is going to be a will.’
She snorted. ‘Wills can be contested, Dickie. This one probably will be. I want to be sure I’m taken seriously. Then no one can say, “The batty old girl obviously lost her mind at the end.”’
‘I’m sure no one would …’
She cut him off. ‘Money brings out the worst in people. Distant relatives come crawling out of the woodwork and start grasping for everything. I will not have it, you hear?’
‘As you wish.’
‘Set it up then.’ She was getting impatient. Evelyn hated to waste time on pleasantries and loathed small talk. Heaven help anyone inane enough to remark upon the changeability of the weather. She would give them what he always called her ‘death-stare’.
He began to rummage in the bag for the equipment.
‘Time is the one thing I do still value,’ she told him.
Evelyn watched as her solicitor took the video camera out of the bag then placed it on the tripod, turning the camera so that the lens was pointing straight at her. He checked the framing and decided it would do.
‘Ready?’ she asked.
‘I just have to press this red button.’
‘Good,’ and she gave him a questioning look as to why he wasn’t doing just that.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘on three.’ Then he counted, ‘One … two … three,’ and pressed the button. Evelyn sat up straight, her face serious, her voice clear.
‘I, Evelyn Moore, being absolutely of sound mind, do hereby leave everything I own to my niece, Sarah Hollis …’ then she paused for a second, perhaps for emphasis, and leaned a little closer to the camera, before adding, ‘… on one condition.’
CHAPTER TWO
A few minutes later, she was done. Evelyn didn’t mess around. Every moment had to be used. Dickie thought of Kipling then. ‘If you can fill the unforgiving minute with sixty seconds’ worth of distance run.’ That was Evelyn Moore all right.
‘Why now?’ he’d asked her, when she had insisted on him coming to see her today. ‘I’ve been on at you for years to get your estate in order.’
‘It wasn’t urgent before,’ she said quietly.
‘And it is urgent now?’ he asked her gently.
‘I’ll be gone by the end of the year,’ she told him matter-of-factly, and he was shocked. What was she? Seventy? How could this whirlwind be dying?
Dickie sat silently through the whole recording, while Evelyn outlined her wishes. When it was over, he turned off the camera and she waited for his response. Her solicitor had handled every legal transaction Evelyn had been involved in since he had helped her agent with the finer points of a publishing contract years earlier. ‘You did a decent job on that,’ she had told him then. ‘Now, I want you to buy me a house and not just any house. I want Cragsmoor and no one can know it’s me, not even the seller. Especially the seller.’
That was thirty years ago, when Dickie was still a relatively young man. Somehow, he had managed to purchase the house and its entire contents for her, though they were quite possibly the most fraught months of his life.
Now, he felt he had to summon the courage to tell it to her straight. ‘Have you lost your mind, Evelyn?’
He braced himself for the storm that would surely follow, but in true contrarian fashion Evelyn burst out laughing. It was almost a cackle. ‘Maybe I have.’ She nodded slowly, before repeating quietly, ‘Maybe I have.’ And then, ‘But it’s my money, Dickie, and I have no brats to leave it to.’
‘But you do have family,’ he reminded her, ‘apart from this niece?’
‘Distant family,’ she retorted. ‘I haven’t seen any of them in years and you know why, Dickie. Sarah is the only one worth a damn. The rest can whistle. I’m not leaving them a penny.’
‘You can do what you want with your money. It’s just the …’ he faltered, ‘… unusual nature of your bequest to Sarah. It is conditional and the condition, if you don’t mind me saying so … or even, in fact, if you do … is …’
‘Stop waffling, man,’ she interrupted. ‘I know it’s not normal, but what part of my life has ever been normal? I’m not doing this out of eccentricity or ego. I am in full control of all my faculties. I’ll get my doctor to write you a note confirming this, if you wish?’
‘That might be wise.’ He was sure someone was bound to challenge a will containing such strange conditions.
‘I’m expecting you to defend me, Dickie, once I am gone. Tell them what I want and why I want it.’
‘Why do you want this?’
‘Justice,’ she told him, ‘plain and simple. People read my books then talk about what I meant by this or that and the themes I explore in my writing.’ Evelyn didn’t enjoy anyone trying to analyse her. ‘Love, hate, revenge, betrayal – but they all miss the most obvious one. Justice! For the victims of murder and those left behind to mourn them.’
‘Of course.’ It seemed obvious now.
‘But I never got it,’ she explained. ‘I never cheat my readers, there are no loose ends in my books, but real life isn’t like that. I spent thirty-six years with a very dark cloud hanging over mine. My dear friend was taken from me. She disappeared one day and not a trace of her was ever found. There was no body for burial, no funeral service; she was never even officially declared dead. There was no end to her story.
‘The grief was made worse by my inability to explain her disappearance. It became my obsession. It’s why I asked you to buy me that house and everything in it. I thought I’d find the answer somewhere in her family home because that was the place she was last seen in, but no.’ She looked so sad then. ‘I’ll be in my grave soon. I don’t believe in the afterlife. I think you have one go at this and if you mess it up, well, tough. I doubt Lucy will be waiting for me on a cloud, with the name of her killer on her lips, because make no mistake, she was murdered, Dickie. I just don’t know who it was or why, though I have my suspicions.
‘I have to accept that I will die never knowing the truth, but that doesn’t mean I have to give up. Let someone else pick up the baton, go over it all again with a fresh pair of eyes. I’ve come to the belated conclusion that I was too close to Lucy to ever see this one clearly. Perhaps my niece will finally solve this mystery for me and get justice for Lucy.’
‘But the police couldn’t find the answer,’ he said. ‘What makes you think Sarah might be the one to solve it?’
‘Because she has a very sharp mind, Dickie. You’ll see.’
‘All right then,’ he acquiesced.
‘If she can do this within six months of my passing, then she will inherit e verything,’ Evelyn told him firmly. ‘If not, then it goes elsewhere.’
‘So, she gets the lot,’ he concluded, ‘but she has to catch a killer first?’
‘Exactly.’
CHAPTER THREE
Eight Months Later
Sarah was an idiot. She had caught the mug with her arm as she reached for the milk and had upended the tea, spilling it over the countertop and down her dress. She grabbed the hem to avoid getting burned but the dress would no longer do. Now she would be late for possibly the most important appointment of her life.
Idiot, idiot, idiot!
She had to root around in her wardrobe to find a suitable skirt and top, wondering if there was even a point to this. They were going to fire her, she knew it. Her career was over before it had begun. Why else had she been summoned to lunch by her publisher and was simultaneously unable to get hold of her literary agent? Sarah was an author not an employee, so it wouldn’t be a case of getting her P45 and a nice little redundancy cheque to tide her over. They just wouldn’t bother to renew her contract, but it would amount to the same thing. Sales of the last book had been ‘underwhelming’, the one before that ‘disappointing’. ‘Not your fault, of course’, though ‘we probably need a bit of a reset.’
Oh God.
It was the lunch invitation that really sealed it. That normally only happened to celebrate the completion of a book and she had barely even started the new one. Perhaps they would tell her not to bother. She was out of contract anyway. Sarah felt as if she was barely getting started, but three books in three years had come and gone so quickly. Now it was probably all over and she was still only thirty-two.
Three years since she had pitched up in London as a young author with a book deal and hope in her heart. Let’s not forget the two failed relationships during that period and no fewer than four different day jobs, because writing wasn’t that lucrative, for her at any rate. Sarah had to double up with a career, if you could call it that, freelancing at anything vaguely matching her ‘skill set’ and experience. Editing, copywriting, proofreading, even writing occasional articles that sold for little money because so many amateurs were happy to write for free these days. ‘They’re not as good as you, of course,’ she was told by one website editor, ‘but they cost nothing, so …’ He meant it was no contest, obviously.
Each of Sarah’s jobs had ended due to economic conditions beyond her control. The start-ups and even the medium-sized companies that used her went to the wall, swept away by the perfect storm caused by Covid and Brexit. All of them were insolvent now and Sarah knew how they felt. She didn’t even have a family home to run back to any more. Both parents were gone. That was the price of being the only child of a late, second marriage. You were barely an adult when you became an orphan.
Sarah would have been grateful for a good lunch in a nice restaurant under normal circumstances. She hadn’t been able to afford to eat out in months, but this was different. She could feel it. She had re-read her editor’s message several times and tried to read between the lines, but emails don’t have a tone of voice. ‘Come to lunch, for a catch-up.’ Why? Because we love you, or because we are about to hold your wake?
She had emailed her literary agent three times and received no reply. In an effort to rouse Victoria from her torpor she messaged, ‘I’m a big girl. I’d far rather get bad news than no news.’ Yet still her pleas went unanswered.
Sarah’s imagination ran riot. That’s what happens when you sit at home on your own all day, she concluded. You become increasingly paranoid. She tried calling Victoria, as she walked briskly through the West End streets on her way to the lunch. When her agent finally picked up her phone, Sarah demanded why she hadn’t responded to her emails. ‘Not seen them, doll. I’m on holiday, remember? … Didn’t I mention it? Don’t tell me I didn’t put my out-of-office on?’
Sarah confirmed she hadn’t, through gritted teeth.
Then she told her about Andrew’s invitation. Victoria pondered this. ‘I’ve not heard anything, but that is a little strange.’
‘He’s firing me, isn’t he?’
‘Over lunch? I doubt it, Sarah.’
‘I’m out of contract and they’ve been dithering about making me an offer for the next book for ages.’
‘They do seem a bit reticent,’ Victoria conceded, ‘but let’s not panic yet, shall we?’
Easy for you to say. You don’t have to find the rent money. It was worse now that she lived on her own. Chris had been a shit boyfriend, but at least he was usually good for half of the rent before she finally kicked him out. Victoria always gave the impression that money was just something other people worried about. Christ, Sarah would be evicted if she couldn’t get a deal for the new book.
‘When are you meeting him?’
‘In fifteen minutes.’
‘Probably not much point in me trying to track him down at this late stage, then?’ Sarah did think there might be a point. It could prevent her from bursting into tears in front of everyone during her main course. ‘Why don’t you just go along and see what he has to say?’
Sarah managed to arrive on time, only to get an apologetic text from her editor. He was running late now and couldn’t get a cab. She drank a large glass of wine in the bar to calm her nerves and ordered another when he still hadn’t turned up. He finally arrived thirty minutes later looking flustered, and immediately ordered a bottle to take to their table by way of apology, before insisting on giving her every detail of what had caused his delay, including an overrunning meeting and ‘horrendous’ traffic, then picking up the menu to peruse it. Perhaps it was the wine she had already consumed that led Sarah to abandon caution and manners, but she suddenly blurted, ‘I’m sorry, Andrew, but could we cut to the chase, because this is killing me.’
‘How do you mean?’ He lowered the menu.
‘I’m talking about the reason for this lunch. I’m out of contract, no offer has been forthcoming, my agent seems …’ Disinterested? Sarah settled on, ‘… out of the loop. I just want to know what’s going on.’
‘Ah, I see.’
‘It’s over, isn’t it?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘You’re letting me go.’ She picked up her glass and took a very large swig of wine to fortify herself against the pain of rejection.
‘Letting you go?’ he repeated, confirming her worst fears.
‘Knew it.’ But he was frowning at her and she realized it had been a question, not a statement.
‘It’s really more a case of handing you over to someone else,’ he clarified.
Another publisher? There was no guarantee she would ever get one. Sarah had to face it. She was toast.
‘I suppose I could change my name,’ she said reflectively. ‘Be a sexy debut. A virgin all over again.’ She would have to write something on spec, get her agent to send it to all the publishers under a nom de plume and pray someone liked it.
‘No, no,’ he said quickly. ‘I meant another editor. I’m leaving, Sarah; retiring, actually, so I won’t be able to take on your next one. By the time you’ve finished it, I will be gone.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ she clasped her hand to her chest in relief.
‘I didn’t expect you to be that pleased,’ he said dryly.
‘I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that, Andrew, but I’ve just spent a week panicking. I thought you were throwing me on the scrap heap.’
It was his turn to apologize. ‘I didn’t think that’s how you’d take it. It was just an invitation to lunch.’ And he was right, it was. Sarah felt incredibly foolish all of a sudden.
‘Yes, I can see that now.’
‘I know sales of the last two have been …’
‘Shit.’
‘Below par,’ he corrected her. ‘But that’s common enough in any writing career. Peaks and troughs and all that. You’ll come good in the end. Too good not to,’ he reassured her with a warm smile.
‘Thanks, Andrew.’ But did he really mean that?
‘Your new editor will make you an offer,’ he said vaguely, and she guessed he meant the same money or possibly less. ‘We’ve hit a few economic headwinds this year.’ Definitely less, then. Bugger. But at least she was getting an offer. She took another stress-sip of wine and realized she wanted to get absolutely wankered out of sheer relief. Crisis averted, for another year at least, but what then? Park that thought for now.
