It’s a dead cat
Let’s face it, it’s difficult to keep up. The TERF wars, the BLM marches, the right-wing violence in London, upwards of 50,000 dead and still dying at a rate which matches the deaths in all of the other EU countries combined. Then the US, with its marches, another black man shot dead by police yesterday, his Orangeness unable to raise a glass of water to his face with his left hand at the West Point graduating ceremony and then struggling to walk down a ramp, and their covid-19 numbers already rising in half of the states as lockdown is relaxed. Oh, and Brazil and India, both suffering with high deaths, the former’s President further right than Trump, denying the virus’s lethality.
I could write a short essay on all of them, but instead I want to mention just one thing.
There is a drive by MPs to make defacing a war memorial subject to 10 years in prison. It is unclear if this will wrap up other offences, such as pulling down a statue, rolling it down a hill and dropping it into the harbour. So let’s just focus on the first.
Really? A first time rapist often gets less than 10 years in jail. For those of you with children (I almost said daughters, but rape is a cross gender occurrence), do you really subscribe to notion that, however offensive, taking a spray can to something which can be fixed/cleaned/repaired/even remade and replace in days, should attract the same punishment as the violent (rape is always violent), sexual assault – the aftermath of which lives with the victim for ever?
The reason I mention this is not because the issue has particularly messed with my Sunday as it will very likely not make the statute books. What really riles me is that the reason it’s being considered – when there is so much injustice, pain, distress, poor governance in this world – so many other things to key and even life and death things to consider. It’s being considered because it is popular. And if we have learnt nothing from Trump, Johnson, Bolsonaro and Modi is that popularist are good with slogans – they’re good with sound bites – but they’re bloody hopeless at governing and just awful in a crisis.
And that’s not all. The ten year jail sentence is a dead cat. BLM, the failure to get our primary schools open successfully, the debacle on quarantine, the 20% drop in GDP, the two-metre to become one-metre rule, no clear advice on face coverings, the banning of scientists from the daily briefings, care homes and … above all … a no-deal Brexit which is thundering towards us at a rate which seems unavoidable, popularist politicians will throw anything at the media to distract from what really matters. And I think that should worry all of us.
Its. A. Dead. Cat.
Anyhow. We’re off to Jen and James today … a sort of expanded support bubble. And I’ve been writing and reading and typesetting until my fingers hurt. It should, hopefully, be all over by the end of June/first week in July. Then it’s gin and tonics all round.
[image error]I fitted a voltmeter to Doris yesterday. Mmmm
Chapter 11 below. I’m just about to finish Chapter 13. Remember, it needs a whole lot of editing.
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Chapter 11
Emily stood, brushed the sand off her bum and, a little furtively, walked across the beach toward the promenade. She could still see Pierre. He was striding purposefully down the road at quite a lick. She’d have to get a move on.
The town was quiet. It wasn’t completely dark, though. There was adequate street lighting and most of the shops and cafes had some form of interior illumination which radiated their colours onto the pavement. Above her the low clouds, which cloaked the whole sky, moved quickly overhead toward the sea she was leaving behind. Ahead of her Pierre was moving faster still. He was in a rush to get somewhere.
She broke into a jog, and then dashed across the road to where there was more shadow. Other than her and her prize, the streets were deserted. Anyone sensible – and their wives – were tucked up in bed.
Shit.
Pierre had glanced behind. Emily slipped into a doorway of a shop where she was engulfed in shadow She pulled herself as close to the glass of the door as she could, her heart doing its best to escape her chest. It wasn’t just the exertion, although she had been working. It was the thrill, if that were an apposite word.
Dread was probably a better one.
What am I doing?
It was a good question.
She popped her head out from the doorway and looked toward where she had last seen Pierre.
He had moved on, maybe thirty metres away now.
Let’s go!
It was like she was cast in a 1950s spy thriller, just further on than black and white, but before they’d managed to bring true fidelity to the screen. They’d be a gun. But it would make a ‘popping’ sound, not a huge bang. Someone would recoil, totter and fall and they’d be fake blood on a shirt seeping from between an actor’s fingers. Death would come, but there’d be no convulsions; no graphic histrionics – it would be brief and serene. The shooter would be determined, but detached; unruffled and remorseless – there were other people to main. And then they’d be off, the victim lying motionless, eyes and mouth open, maybe with a last line before … well, the final curtain.
Emily made a note not to be the one feeling her chest for blood.
Where’s he gone?
Bugger.
She’d lost him.
She slowed, her jog becoming a walk. Ahead of her was a road junction, the main route cut by a subsidiary. There was a small roundabout, its centre decorated by a half-sized fishing boat which sat on large blue pebbles, surrounded by a thin circle of grass.
Which way did he go?
She had no idea. And, looking around like a lost child in a department store, she was in danger of being very obvious – a lone human wandering the streets of a small French seaside resort, drained of its life by the lateness of the hour.
Screech!
The metallic squawk of a distant walkie-talkie. It had come from the other side of the roundabout.
She stood on tiptoes.
Nothing.
She crossed the road to her right at a jog, keeping her eyes open.
She found another doorway. This time it wasn’t completely in shadow. It would have to do.
Emily listened.
Nothing.
No more walkie-talkie sounds.
She made a dash across the next road – she’d end up directly opposite from where she started, but still heading out of town.
Another doorway. She found it, pushed herself in … and listened.
Nothing.
She had a number of choices. The one shouting at her was to head off back to her AirB&B. That was clearly the most sensible thing to do.
Alternatively she could continue along the main road until she reached the town’s limits. She thought she knew the geography. She should come across the canal. Turn left and she’d be following the edge of the built up area. At some point the canal bore right, away from the sea. If she headed beachwards at that point her AirB&B should be easy to find. It was a small enough town.
Or, she could follow one of the minor roads that led from the roundabout. Pierre could have taken either, although the call from the walkie-talkie – about where she was now – made it more likely he’d have turned right and gone down the road she was standing next to.
Emily took a step back onto the pavement.
She looked around.
Nothing.
She’d made her choice. The main road and the canal it was.
She followed the pavement right and with the tarmac of the main road now back on her left, she pushed on.
The road, which was bordered by one and two storey buildings, curved gently to the left. Cars were parked where they could.
She walked on, more tentatively now.
There was still no sign of Pierre.
A minute later she passed the last of the shops; a small supermarket. The road then became totally residential. The canal shouldn’t be too far away.
Stop!
She knelt behind the boot of a car.
Ahead of her she’d spotted the taillights of a vehicle. They were on … and then they were off. It was parked on her side of the road; about fifty metres away, beyond where the last of the houses finished.
She listened.
No engine. But she’d definitely seen a pair of red lights.
Hang on.
She stuck her head out from behind the car – like a soldier searching for the enemy.
This is totally mad. Who do I think I am?
There was a dull cream light now. From the back window of a car. The interior light was on. It silhouetted the busts of two men.
And then …
… a pair of headlights from beyond the stationary car. It was a distant flicker, but it was definitely headlights. She knew the road was pretty straight and, yes … there were its lights, now unmistakable. It was heading this way.
Emily stood. Her calves were aching. She needed to get a better view – her current hiding place wasn’t a good enough vantage point.
Ahead of her there was a large electricity box, just off the pavement. That would give her a better angle and something to hide behind.
She took three steps towards it and then …
… ‘Oi! That hurts!’ Someone from between the cars had grabbed her forearm.
She turned, stepped back, and almost fell.
It was Pierre. He had her arm in one hand and the walkie-talkie in the other.
Emily was about to say something when, off to her right, flashing red and blue lights lit up the sky, reflecting dully in the clouds like cheap disco lights on the ceiling of a youth club.
Police?
‘That. Hurts!’ She half-shouted this time.
She had two things on her mind. The static car, which was now ablaze with gotcha lights.
And Pierre, holding her with a wrench-like grip. Her eyes darted between the two.
‘Let go of me!’ She struggled as she looked towards the police car. ‘I’ll scream “rape”! The police will come. They’re just …’
Pierre lifted the walkie-talkie and thrust it at her face. It got so close she almost went boss-eyed. There was a ‘Gendarme’ badge on the radio’s casing.
‘Go back to your apartment. Pack your things. And go home to England. If I see you in town again after tomorrow I will arrest you. Do you understand?’ This wasn’t the Pierre she’d slept with. This was an altogether different beast. The grip around her arm was enough to make her fingers start to tingle. And the inflection in his voice was that of the devil.
He was very clear.
She was very clear.
‘When I let you go, you are to go straight to your apartment. And you are not to leave it until breakfast. And then you are to pack up your things and go home. Do you understand.’
She processed it. All of it.
What surprised her, was she wasn’t frightened. Yes, he was hurting her. And he clearly meant to hurt her. But he didn’t scare her. And she didn’t understand why.
‘Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.’ She struggled again, but it was half-hearted.
She looked to her right. The headlights of the car had reached those of the red and blues. One of the policemen was out on the road now. There was a conversation going on through the driver’s window
Pierre’s radio crackled, but he’d turned it down. She couldn’t hear a word.
And still he hadn’t let go of her arm
She tugged it away from him again, hoping that he might release his grip.
But he didn’t.
Instead he brought his mouth to her ear.
‘Go home. Now. It’s not safe for you here.’ The words may have been said to protect her, but they were laced with menace.
What?
That was enough. She pulled away as hard as she could. And, as she did, she let out a quiet scream, more of effort than fear.
He let go and she fell back against the electricity box, banging her head and scratching her arm. She ended up as a heap on the floor. Tears came to her eyes, but she fought them.
In the partial dark she saw that he was still looking at her. And then he glanced toward the disco in the distance.
He brought the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
‘Tout va bien?’ It was the voice of a man in charge.
There was a crackle in return. Emily couldn’t decypher it. Instead, she unwound herself from the floor, stood and brushed at her knees.
‘Go home. I don’t want to see you in the town again.’ Pierre had one eye on the cars and one on her. His spare hand was pointing town-ward.
‘Go!’ It was a growl. ‘Now!’
She looked at him for long enough so that he might sense she wasn’t beaten – only wounded.
And then she turned away and sulkily took off back into town.
Gbassy counted 52 immigrants off the boat. And counted 52 onto the truck. He’d provided water for all of them and some chocolate for the six children. The wind had picked up and the temperature had dropped but the smell in the back of the truck had been rancid. Everyone was in a wretched state. Thankfully it didn’t look as though any of the illegals were poorly enough to warrant what little treatment he may have been able offer. He had put together a satchel with some bandages, disinfectant and a whole load of paracetamol. That would all stay untouched.
Thankfully.
He pushed the tailgate of the old army truck closed and then pulled himself into the back of the vehicle. It was moving a few seconds later.
‘Is everyone OK? Est-ce que tout le monde va bien?’ He raised his voice to the standing mass in the back of the truck.
Nobody responded. Most of the people looked shell shocked; gaunt and numb. He remembered how he had felt. All he had wanted to do was eat and sleep. He didn’t think that would come to them any time soon.
He had one last glance around the truck … and noticed a child at his feet. A little girl. She was holding a woman’s hand; her mother? She must have been no more than five. She was wearing a deeply stained, tatty flowery dress – no shoes. Steadying himself with the top of the tailgate he knelt down so his face was level with that of the girl’s. She was beautiful. Big, round eyes, hamster cheeks and plenty of jet black, frizzy hair.
‘Comment allez-vous?’ he asked kindly, breaking into a smile.
The girl pulled away and clung onto her mother’s leg, but she managed to return his smile.
Tears welled up in Gbassy’s eyes. Doubtless the girl’s mother was happy to be on European soil. And doubtless she was hoping that soon her new life might begin. A life which had broken free from persecution and poverty.
Little did she know.
Gbassy stroked the little girl’s cheek and then stood. He couldn’t look at the woman, so he turned and stared out into night, the dark greys and greens of the road and the surrounding countryside heading away from them as the truck picked up speed.
He didn’t know if he could be feeling any more anguished. He knew what was coming – the four cowboys had stayed at the restaurant well after it closed. As he’d boarded the truck to go and meet the boat, they had all been congrating around their 4×4, sharing a bottle of brandy. And the other trucks, the ones to whisk away the immigrants to who knew where, the laundry truck with its up and over louvre door, and the two vehicles with the large, horizontal cylinders – they were there ready, their drivers resting in the cabs.
And now he knew a little more of his history.
Just as Luis was leaving the restaurant he had put a hand on Gbassy’s shoulder.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ the chef had asked.
It was another gentle inquiry. One that meant more to him than Luis Segal could ever know.
Gbassy had nodded in return, but his dropped shoulders spoke of a completely different story.
‘You don’t like the boat days, hmm?’ Luis had asked.
Gbassy had assumed Luis knew about the boats. But he’d never seen him anywhere near the operation. There didn’t seem to be any need for an additional body; there was always enough of Monsieur Segal’s men. Maybe the chef was involved elsewhere?
‘No. It hurts me.’ It was all he could manage.
Luis had still not taken his hand from his shoulder.
‘You have to do it,’ the chef had added.
Gbassy looked into the man’s eyes. There was guilt there. And sadness too.
‘Why? Why should I not leave? I could go now.’ Gbassy asked. He regretted saying it as soon as the words had left his mouth.
The chef’s face was stern.
‘Your predecessor thought the same thing.’
Gbassy flinched – consternation scored across his face.
‘What happened to him?’ he shot back.
The chef dropped his hand. His face was contorted; unhappiness writ large. Gbassy thought he might break down.
‘He’s not with us any more, I’m afraid.’ There was a pause. And then the chef did the most extraordinary thing. He laid a hand on Gbassy face and stared straight into his eyes. ‘That is why you must do everything right. Please.’
‘Where is he?’ Gbassy’s question was more of a plea. Quiet, but determined.
They were standing on the terrace. Just them, the chatter of the insects and an irregular hoot from an owl.
The chef looked to the river. And nodded in that direction.
Gbassy didn’t need any further explanation. His worst fears had been realised.
The chef took his hand off Gbassy’s face and nodded solemnly.
‘Do as you are asked.It’s the only way.’
Luis Segal didn’t wait for anything supplementary from Gbassy. He turned and walked around the back of the hut in the direction of his bike.
Gbassy had had his instructions. And he knew it would be in his best interests to play his part tonight. Otherwise he’d end up in the river as fish food. Like his predecessor.
But he knew that was going to be extremely difficult. His emotions had already spiked. The deluge of weak and hungry immigrants. The young girl with the coy smile … who would likely be separated from her mother. The cowboys with their perverse minds and contrary hands. And his predecessor. Discarded because life among his kind was cheap.
He was going to struggle. He knew he was.
The truck lurched and twisted along the track which led to the restaurant car park. It pulled up in a shudder and Gbassy quickly released the metal tailgate which fell with a clang. He jumped down from the truck, turned and then started to help the immigrants manage the metre drop to the hardened sand.
‘Stay in a group! Rester en groupe!’ he called out.
He needn’t have bothered. One of Monsieur Segal’s team was already manhandling the immigrants into place.
Pretty soon there were three groups: able-bodied men; younger women, including the mother with her child – the one Gbassy had spoken to earlier; and a smaller group of older people.
Once they were all off the truck, Gbassy jumped on the back and cleared up the plastic bottles and candy wrappers. As he was about to jump down, he paused. Monsieur Segal was already barking out his instructions.
The young men, Gbassy reckoned there were thirty of them, were herded off to one of the metal cylinder trucks.
Next the children, including the young girl, were hoarded toward the laundry lorry. The woman, or mother, was beside herself. Gbassy had never heard such a noise. And she was scratching and slapping the boss’s man – his shoulders hunched and head bowed in defense against the attack – as he dragged the young girl towards the lorry.
Monsieur Segal and the other two spare men burst into laughter at the plight of one of theirs. And, rather than beat the woman, something Gbassy had seen them do before, they let the mismatched fight ensue.
By the time the man was at the back of the truck, the little girl was having none of it. She was wriggling and adding her own voice to the screams of her mother. It was quickly descending into a brawl.
He knew he shouldn’t have been bothered, but Gbassy worried that all the noise would wake the campsite and the operation would be blown.
But, in the end, it didn’t last for more than a few seconds. The young girl was propelled into the back of the van and, with a single blow, the mother, her head snapping away from the blow – blood following the trajectory – fell to floor, lifeless.
And that was too much for Gbassy.
He launched himself off the back of the truck and strode towards the man who was standing over the prostrate woman, the daughter bleating harrowingly from the arms of an elderly man.
‘Gbassy!’ The order from Monsieur Segal cut through the night.
It was the first time his boss had ever used his name. And it stopped him dead.
Gbassy was panting, his shoulders leaning forward in the direction of a fight, his fists clenched.
‘Come here.’ Softer this time from his boss.
Gbassy screwed his face up and clenched his fists tighter still. He stared at the man who had hit the woman … and he was sure he saw fear in his eyes.
‘Here.’ Softer still. Monsieur Segal had complete control.
Gbassy snorted, turned and, with his shoulders back and his head held high, he walked with a touch of arrogance past the remaining group of younger women and stopped short of his boss …
… who hit him in the stomach with a force that completely caught him off guard. The wind was forced from his chest and the pain was instantaneous; he folded and dropped to the ground, gasping for breath.
Gbassy saw his boss’s feet side step around him and then stopped just in front of the remaining group of women. He then gave a short, high-pitched whistle. It was the call to the cowboys.
The next five minutes was something from a dystopian scene. He crawled away from where he’d fallen and sat up against one of the wooden pillars of the restaurant. From there he was able to watch the whole sordid scene unfold.
It played out exactly as he thought it might: farm hands at a bull market. The women were touched, fondled and inspected. Hands squeezed breasts. Other hands disappeared up skirts. Buttocks were felt and teeth and ears also checked. As this happened the men made noises of the craved. They were leary and vulgar. It was as degrading as it could be. In fact it got so revolting, Monsieur Segal called the proceedings to a halt and told the cowboys to make their choices and to leave.
They were gone two minutes later, their vehicle blaring out loud rock music as they left, the women sat in the back of the flat bed, completely bewildered.
Ten minutes after that the three trucks had left and all that remained were a couple of 4x4s, Monsieur Segal’s army truck, the boss and three of his men, including the one who had smacked the women.
Monsieur Segal paid scant attention to Gbassy, who was still sitting by the corner of the restaurant, an arm resting across his stomach. But the man who had hit the woman walked over. He stood with his feet apart, looking down at Gbassy. He then spat in his face and kicked him in the thigh. Gbassy didn’t flinch. The spit dribbled down his cheek and the kick, which was weak, wouldn’t leave a bruise. In all it was a pathetic attempt to show dominance. Gbassy didn’t react – he just stared. The man held his gaze, but not for long.
Then they were all gone.
All that was left was him, the restaurant and the calm of the slow moving Petit Rhone.
And, oddly, in the distance to the north, the low clouds were displaying a red and blue moving hue.
I wonder what that is?
Emily pulled the zip closed on her suitcase. All she needed to do now was collect her wash things from the bathroom, put them in her backpack and she would be done. She had her wallet, passport, phone and charger laid out on her bed. She’d stick those in her waistbelt last of all. She checked her watch. It was 9.34 am. She’d be on the road by ten.
It hadn’t been a difficult decision. When she’d woke she’d headed straight for the shower. Once clean and having washed her hair, she’d got out and dried herself. It was then she noticed the burn mark on her arm where Pierre had held her.
What the …?
That had been enough. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need the confusion, the anxiety … the intensity.
God, had it been intense.
Everything from the sex to the bull run. From both evenings in the restaurant to last night’s brush with the law, the result of which was actual bodily harm. She had got out of the break more than she wanted. She had met her mum’s lover, seen where the family had erected their tent, experienced the ambience of the place … and so much more. She didn’t need the rubbish that came with it. And she certainly wasn’t up for being arrested by a Jekyll and Hyde character whom she knew she couldn’t avoid if she stayed in the town.
She was leaving.
And that was that.
It had taken her twenty or so minutes to dress, stuff some breakfast down her face, clean her teeth and then pack.
She was ready for the off.
Wait.
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up.
It was a text from Mum’s Solicitor.
How odd.
As a maths teacher, good with figures and a steady hand on the computer, Emily knew she could have competed her mum’s probate herself. It was, as she understood it, a ‘money form’ to HMRC, detailing the estate’s assets. And then, assuming they hadn’t breached the inheritance tax threshold, another form to the Probate Office.
It seemed straightforward enough.
But she hadn’t had the stomach for it. Her mum’s will was held by a solicitor in the town, so Emily had got in touch with her and passed over the whole business. Four months later probate had been issued – there was no tax to pay. Emily had put the house on the market, tidied up her mum’s other financial affairs and, having paid the solicitor, whose name was Frances, she had been lucky enough to collect the money. That had come through about a month ago.
It had been a wonderful fillup after a rubbish year. The outcome was that now Emily had more than enough cash to buy her own place. It would be smaller than mum’s because Emily lived in a city and her mum in the sticks, but it would be her own.
That would be her next job when she got back from France. It would give her a post-work distraction … and something to see her through her new Year 10 class, which she would have all the way through to their GCSE. The set were notorious for being the least attentive Year 9 in the history of the school, a comprehensive built in the ‘60s. Her head of maths had given her the set list and said, ‘It’s only two years. And you have a younger liver than the rest of the faculty.’
But why was her mum’s solicitor texting her?
Emily picked up her phone and opened the SMS. It read:
Hi Emily. We need to talk. I think you might be away on holiday? Can you give me a ring as soon as practical. Thanks. Frances.
Emily shrugged. And then walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on.
She dialled the solicitor’s number and got straight through.
‘Hi, Emily. I’m so glad you’ve phoned back so quickly,’ the solicitor said.
‘Sure.’ Emily had no idea where this was going. ‘Can I help?’
‘Yes. Maybe. Is it okay to talk now?’
That’s why I phoned. Emily was nervous; as a result she was feeling a little irritable.
‘Yes. Go ahead.’
‘Good.’ The solicitor’s accent was very female, middle class. It emanated confidence. ‘I’ve had a letter from HMRC. It’s about your mother’s estate.’ The woman paused.
‘Go on,’ Emily encouraged.
‘Well. I know probate has been issued, but …,’ she stammered, her confidence oddly draining, ‘… they’ve found another bank account.’
A what?
This wasn’t making any sense.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes. It took me by surprise. It appears your mum had another bank account. It was with an obscure organisation based in London.’ The solicitor named the bank. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
It didn’t take long for Emily to search her mind’s files and come up blank.
‘No. Not at all.’
Her mum didn’t tell Emily everything. Whose mum does?
‘Mmm. It’s very strange.’ There was another pause from the solicitor. ‘It seems to have quite a lot of money in it.’
What?
‘How much?’ It was the obvious question.
‘One hundred and seventy five thousand pounds … and some change.’ The solicitor concluded.
Emily was pacing around the kitchen. The kettle had boiled a while ago. She wasn’t bothered about that.
‘How?’ It was Emily’s turn to trip over her words. ‘Where … where has the money come from?’
‘Well that’s the strange thing.’ The solicitor paused again. It was as though she was struggling with the embarrassment of it all. ‘The money was paid in over a period of one and a half years, although it stopped abruptly once your poor old mum passed away.’
‘By whom?’ Emily asked.
‘That’s what’s a bit unfathomable. The money was paid in blocks – most of the cash payments were in the order of five thousand pound at a time. Once, sometimes twice a month.’
‘By whom?’ Emily still didn’t have the answer to her question.
‘Well, we don’t know. Except the payments come from overseas,’ the solicitor added.
‘From where.’ The information wasn’t coming quickly enough for Emily.
‘A bank account … in Arles, France.’
Emily found a chair and sat, before she collapsed.
No, that doesn’t make any sense.
‘Are you sure you don’t know anything about this?’ the solicitor asked.
‘No. I don’t.’ Emily was whispering – her head resting in her free hand.
‘The problem is,’ the solicitor added, ‘it does make your mum’s estate breach the tax threshold. And there, understandable, a little upset by this – not disclosing accounts is a criminal offence, if you knew about them. In any case, you will now owe them some inheritance tax. I’ve worked out …’
‘Stop!’ Emily’s frustration had boiled over. It was all too much. Pierre, Marc and Luis Segal, the black waiter – more disquiet than she was prepared to handle. And now this. My mum. Her mum who had a secret bank account, holding hundreds of thousands of pounds that was being paid to her in big chunks of cash from a bank just up the road from where she was sitting. A place that stank of criminality. Flashing police cars in the middle of the night. An off duty copper telling her she wasn’t safe here. A chef, pretty much saying the same thing.
And a crooked lover. From forty years ago.
It was a coincidence.
Surely?
She had no idea.
Should she leave? Could she leave?
Maybe.
‘What do you want me to do now?’ Emily asked.
‘Well. You’ll need to make a statement saying you didn’t know of the account. I can send the appropriate form through. And then, assuming HMRC are happy with our disclosure, I will present you with a bill for the tax. You can then get in touch with the bank, close the account and pay the amount owed. There will be a substantial sum left over. So it’s not all bad news.’
Really?
Emily felt strong enough to stand up. She walked over to the kettle and put it on again.
‘Okay. Do that, please,’ she said.
‘And, if you don’t mind me saying, if you have no idea where the money came from, you may want to think about going to the police, however uncomfortable that is.’
Emily couldn’t stop herself. She laughed out loud.
‘What?’ The solicitor bleated from the other side of the Channel.
‘Never mind,’ Emily replied. ‘Sorry. It’s the absurdity of it all. Thanks for reaching out. Send me the stuff through when you can.’
She hung up, put the phone on the worktop and stared at the kettle.
This is odder than fiction.
She reached across, put the kettle back on and, whilst it boiled again, walked into the bedroom and unzipped her suitcase.
