‘Can I use your phone?’ said
Frieda.
‘Don’t you have a
mobile?’
‘Not with me.’
Robin waved her towards the phone in a
holster on the wall.
It took several calls and repeated
explanations, then Frieda sat for forty minutes of mostly uncomfortable silence before
Yvette arrived in a car and picked her up. She didn’t seem happy to see Frieda.
‘You need to tell us,’ she said, ‘if you’re going to talk to
witnesses.’
‘I wasn’t exactly talking to
witnesses,’ said Frieda. ‘Josef is
working on Mary
Orton’s house and he rang me because there was a problem with her sons. I
didn’t think it had anything to do with the case.’
Yvette was sitting in the passenger seat and
Frieda was in the back. She felt like a child being driven somewhere by two disapproving
adults.
‘You can’t just act on your
own,’ said Yvette.
Frieda didn’t respond. The car pulled
up outside a line of shops. ‘Should I come with you?’ she asked.
‘If you want,’ said Yvette,
shrugging.
The two women got out of the car. The
location of Tessa Welles’s office wasn’t immediately obvious. Number
fifty-two was a shop selling tiles and vases, jugs and coffee cups. Number fifty-two B
was a small green door to the left. Long rang the doorbell and they were buzzed inside.
The two of them walked up the narrow stairs. At the top there was an anteroom with a
desk, a computer, neatly stacked piles of papers and a chair. Beyond it, a door swung
open and a woman stepped out. Frieda guessed she was in her late thirties, with thick,
reddish-blonde hair, long and tied loosely back, as if to keep it out of her way, and a
pale face that was bare of makeup, with faded freckles over the bridge of the nose. Her
eyes were grey-blue and shrewd, and she was dressed in a charcoal-grey shift dress,
thick, patterned tights and ankle boots. She gave a slightly harassed smile.
‘I’m Tessa Welles,’ she said. ‘Won’t you come through?
I’ve just made a pot of coffee, if you’d like some.’
She took them into a much messier main
office, with a window overlooking the street. Files were piled on her desk and shelves
held other box files, legal books. There were certificates on the wall and photographs:
Tessa Welles in a group of people at a restaurant, Tessa Welles on a beach somewhere,
Tessa Welles on a bike among a group of
cyclists with mountains in the
background. There were also two paintings that Frieda wouldn’t have minded on her
own walls at home. Tessa poured them coffee and Yvette introduced herself, then Frieda
as a ‘civilian assistant’.
‘Do you work alone?’ said
Yvette, sipping her coffee.
‘I’ve got an assistant, Jenny,
who comes in half-time. She’s not here today.’
‘Mrs Welles,’ said Yvette.
‘Ms.’
‘Sorry. Ms. In mid-November, you met
a woman called Mary Orton and a man called Robert Poole. It was about drawing up a will
for her. Do you remember?’
Tessa gave a very faint smile. ‘Yes, I
remember.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Yvette.
‘Is something funny?’
‘No,’ said Tessa.
‘It’s not really funny. But is this about some kind of fraud?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I don’t know. What I mainly
remember is that that man made me uncomfortable. He seemed like a bit of a chancer.
What’s happened? Is this a fraud inquiry?’
‘No, it’s a murder
inquiry,’ said Yvette. ‘Somebody killed him.’
Tessa’s expression changed to one of
shock. ‘Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I had no idea. I –’
‘A chancer, you said.’
‘No, no.’ Tessa made a gesture
of repudiation. ‘I didn’t mean to be nasty. I don’t know anything
about him.’
‘What did you mean?’
Tessa took a deep breath. ‘When
someone alters a will in favour of a beneficiary who is not a family member, it always
rings an alarm bell.’
‘What did you say?’
Tessa frowned with the effort of
recollection. ‘I think I
just talked it through with
them … well, with the woman in particular. I asked for her reasons in making
the change, why now, whether she had thought it over, discussed it with her family, and
so on.’
‘And what did Mrs Orton
say?’
‘I can’t remember
exactly,’ said Tessa. ‘I got the impression that she felt abandoned by her
family. I think this man had taken their place.’
‘What was Poole saying during the
meeting?’
‘Not much. He was like an attentive
son, in the background, supportive.’
‘So what was the problem?’ said
Frieda.
Yvette frowned at her.
‘What?’ Tessa seemed
puzzled.
‘You’re a solicitor,’ said
Frieda. ‘If someone wants to change a will and comes to you, isn’t your job
just to draw it up for them?’
Tessa smiled, then looked thoughtful.
‘I’m a family solicitor,’ she said. ‘I do conveyancing, wills
and divorces. Buying houses and getting married and dying. I remember being told when I
was a student that if you like law as a kind of theatre you should become a barrister.
But if you want to discover people’s secrets, their deepest feelings and passions,
you should become a solicitor.’
‘Or a psychotherapist,’ said
Yvette.
‘No,’ said Tessa. ‘I can
really help people.’
Yvette glanced at Frieda with a secret
smile. Tessa noticed it. ‘Oh, God, you’re not …’ she began.
‘Yes, she is,’ said Yvette.
‘Sorry, it was a cheap thing to say. I
didn’t mean anything.’
‘That’s all right,’ said
Frieda. ‘You were talking about helping people.’
‘Yes. I see couples
who are divorcing and sometimes they talk to me in a way they can’t talk to anyone
else. Not even each other.’
‘So why didn’t you just draw up
the will for Mary Orton?’ said Frieda.
‘I don’t “just do”
things for people,’ said Tessa. ‘I always talk to them and find out what it
is that they really need.’
‘And what did Mary Orton really
need?’ asked Frieda.
‘She was lonely, that was clear, and
in need of support. I suppose what she really needed was her family. And I suspected
that this man had come into the vacuum and was taking advantage of her.’
‘Why didn’t you call the
police?’
‘She didn’t call the
police,’ said Yvette, ‘because changing your will is not a crime.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said
Tessa. ‘I tried to talk to Mrs Orton about why she wanted to do this. She seemed
to find it embarrassing, distressing, even. I felt sorry for her.’
‘What did Robert Poole say?’
asked Yvette.
‘He said it wasn’t his idea,
that it was something Mrs Orton wanted to do and that it was important to
her.’
‘He had a bloody nerve,’ said
Yvette, abruptly, then bit her lower lip. ‘What else did you say?’ she asked
more calmly.
‘I told Mrs Orton that she was taking
a large step and that it was something she ought to think about. I probably also said
that if she left everything away from her family, then the will might be subject to
legal challenge.’
‘And?’
‘That was all,’ said Tessa.
‘They left and I didn’t hear anything more.’
‘Were you shocked?’ said
Yvette.
Tessa pulled a face and
shook her head. ‘I used to be. The first few years of hearing what husbands say
about wives and wives say about husbands and what people do to their own families, I
lost every illusion I had. Sometimes I feel like I’m faced with huge, dangerous
engines that are falling apart, and all I can do is put little pieces of sticky tape on
them and hope they hold for a while.’
‘What did you make of Robert
Poole?’ asked Yvette.
‘I told you. Although he was very
polite, and Mary Orton obviously trusted him, I felt there was something wrong about
him. I did what I could but, of course, I knew it was possible he’d find someone
else to do the will, or even that they’d just draw it up between themselves and
find a stray witness. There’s a limit to what you can do for people.’
‘What did you think when you heard
he’d been killed?’
‘I don’t know what you
mean,’ said Tessa. ‘I’m shocked, of course. I can’t believe
it.’
‘Why do you think it
happened?’
‘God, I don’t know. I
don’t know anything about his life.’
‘But you saw him in action,’
Yvette said. ‘What if he did something like that to the wrong person?’
‘Maybe,’ said Tessa. ‘But
I had one brief encounter with him and then I forgot all about him until now. I
can’t throw any light on his murder, if that’s what you’re looking
for. What did Mary Orton’s family think?’
‘They weren’t pleased,’
said Frieda. ‘They weren’t pleased at all.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Most people seem to have found him
charming,’ said Frieda. ‘Were you charmed by him?’
Tessa gave another faint smile. ‘No. I
probably met him in the wrong context to be charmed by him.’
Yvette stood up.
‘Thank you, Ms Welles,’ she said. ‘I think that’s everything for
the time being.’
Frieda remained seated. ‘I want to ask
Tessa something,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing to do with the inquiry. Is
it all right if I join you outside?’ Yvette glared at Frieda, who added mildly,
‘I’ll only be a minute.’
Yvette turned and walked out. Frieda heard
her thumping down the stairs. Tessa looked at her with concern. ‘Is everything
OK?’
‘A bit of friction. I’ve only
just been appointed.’
‘Appointed to what?’
‘That’s a good question. But I
wanted to ask you something completely different. I was interested when you talked about
the way you worked. About knowing people’s secrets and counselling
them …’
‘I didn’t exactly say
“counselling”.’
‘Well, anyway, my sister-in-law is on
very bad terms with her ex-husband, my brother, and she needs to get some advice about
dealing with the situation.’
Tessa leaned back in her chair and crossed
her arms. ‘Whose side are you on in this dispute?’
‘I’m not sure I’m exactly
taking sides,’ said Frieda. ‘But if I was in a balloon with both of them and
I had to throw one of them out, it would be my brother.’
Tessa smiled. ‘I’ve got a
brother. I think I know what you mean.’
‘But is this the sort of thing you
do?’
‘It’s exactly the sort of thing
I do.’
‘No favours,’ said Frieda.
‘We’d pay, just like any other client, but you could talk to her?’
‘I could talk to her.’
Back on the pavement, Frieda found Yvette
and the other
officer leaning on the car in conversation. Yvette
looked round at Frieda, who could almost feel hostility steaming off her. ‘You did
well,’ she said, through gritted teeth. ‘But leave the detective work to us,
OK?’
‘I know what you’re
thinking.’
‘What’s that?’
‘You’re thinking he must have
had some ulterior motive, right?’
‘What makes you say so?’
‘Look, I’m no fool. I know what
I look like to you – an ageing has-been, with a string of failed relationships behind
me, now alone, surrounded by mementoes of her not-so-glorious past. I can see myself
through your eyes: my dyed hair, my pathetic attempts to hold on to my youth. Am I
right?’
‘No, you’re not
right.’
‘What, then?’
‘Try: a successful woman, who’s
managed to hold her own in a difficult profession and who’s hung on to her dignity
and self-respect.’
Jasmine Shreeve’s face softened. She
sat down opposite Frieda and leaned forward. ‘Sorry. I get defensive.’
‘That’s all right.’
‘Do you really think that?’
‘I don’t know enough about your
life, but it’s another way of looking at it.’
‘So you don’t just assume that
Robbie was out to exploit me?’
‘He seems to have specialized in
inserting himself into vulnerable people’s lives,’ said Frieda, thinking of
Mary Orton as she’d last seen her – a small, shrunken figure with her two tall
sons on either side.
‘So you do think I’m
vulnerable.’
‘We’re all
vulnerable, in one way or another. Poole seems to have had a knack for finding
people’s weak points.’
‘Well, he was kind to me. He seemed to
like me.’ Frieda didn’t say anything and Jasmine Shreeve stiffened again.
‘You people think there always has to be something under the surface. That there
are meanings beneath the meanings we give things. I say he liked me and I can see your
eyes gleam. Every word becomes dangerous.’
‘Are you angry with therapists because
your own therapy didn’t help you?’
‘What?’
‘Perhaps you feel that we promise
answers and only give more questions.’
‘How did you know I had therapy?
Who’s been talking about me?’
Jasmine Shreeve didn’t just seem
angry, but properly scared. Her voice quivered and she put one hand up to her face in a
self-protective gesture that Frieda was familiar with from her patients.
‘Nobody’s been talking about
you. It just seemed likely.’
‘What have I said? I’ve said
nothing! What else do you know? Go on. Tell me. Don’t just sit there staring at me
like that, as if you can see inside me.’
Frieda sat back and paused. ‘Did the
therapy help with your drinking?’
‘Not really. I …’ Jasmine
stopped. ‘Did you read about it in some vicious blog and store it up to use
against me? That’s bloody contemptible.’
Frieda looked at her curiously. ‘Do
you really think I would do something like that to you?’
‘It would be a way of getting power
over me. How else would you know?’
Frieda thought about that. How did she know?
‘I just felt it.’
She looked around. ‘You’re
surrounded by so many things, everything you’ve collected through your
life.’ She gestured at the open-plan room. ‘These little bowls, photographs
in frames, china figurines, that little chest open to show its contents.
Everything’s on view. But there are no wine glasses, no decanters, no bottles. And
it’s nearly seven o’clock in the evening and you offered me tea, not a
drink. So …’