Letters to the Lost (50 page)

The girl on the front desk glanced up from her screen as Jess approached. A look of distaste settled on her pretty, bland face at the sight of her orange nylon ‘Wahim Clean’ tabard.

‘Can I help you?’

Jess pulled the letter from her jacket pocket and put it on the desk, where it looked dirty and crumpled.

‘This came this morning. It says I should come in as soon as convenient.’

The girl picked up the letter as if it might be contaminated with the plague, or something that might damage her immaculate manicure. She looked at it sceptically.

‘It says to
make an appointment
as soon as convenient. Let me see when I can fit you in . . .’ She turned her attention back to her screen and began tapping her white-tipped fingers on her keyboard. ‘How about next Tuesday at 10 a.m.?’

‘Tomorrow?’ In contrast to the receptionist’s steely composure Jess’s voice sounded shrill and hysterical. She’d hoped to get to the bottom of it today. Seeing the state in which she’d returned from lunch Mr Wahim had been kind enough to let her go an hour early today, but she couldn’t ask for more time off tomorrow. And besides, she needed to
know
.

‘No, not tomorrow,’ Little Miss Superior said. ‘
Next
Tuesday. It’s a cancellation; Mr Ramsay is our most senior partner, and he’s very busy. Would you like me to book the appointment for you or not?’

‘Next week? But I need to see someone before then! I don’t care if it’s the senior partner or the cleaner, I just want to know about the house and . . . and about Dan. I haven’t heard from him, and he’s ill and I’ve got no way of getting in touch with him apart from by email, and he’s not answering . . . ’

The tears took her by surprise. One minute she was angry, frustrated by Miss Superior’s apparent determination to be as unhelpful as possible, and the next moment her throat had closed up and she felt her face crumple. Miss Superior regarded her coldly.

‘I’m very sorry, Miss –’ there was a tiny hesitation while she read her name from the letter, ‘Moran, but it’s completely impossible to arrange an appointment with a senior partner at such short notice.’

As she spoke a door at the top of a short flight of pale wooden stairs opened, and a very elderly lady in a glossy fur coat emerged, followed by a dark-suited, balding man with narrow, rimless glasses. He took the lady’s arm to help her down the stairs, amid much polite, posh-people’s banter about how she’d outlive the lot of them, then addressed the superior secretary.

‘Natalia, please arrange a taxi for Mrs Ambrus.’

The frosty mask melted into a simper. ‘Of course, Mr Ramsay.’

Ramsay? Jess spun round, her mouth opening before she could think. ‘Mr Ramsay! You’re the person I need to see about Dan’s house—’

The girl behind the desk leapt to her feet. ‘Miss Moran, I’ve explained that you have to make an appointment! I do apologize, Mr Ramsay. I’ve tried to tell her—’

But the man in the dark suit wasn’t looking at her. His pale gaze was directed at Jess. ‘And which house would this be, young lady?’

‘4 Greenfields Lane. Dan Rosinski’s house. I got a letter –’ she snatched it from the desk and held it up, ‘and I don’t know what it means, and I’m worried because he’s not answering my emails.’

‘Ah, you’re Mr Rosinski’s friend.’ Instantly his manner became solicitous. ‘Mr Rosinski is a very special client. Why don’t you come into my office? Natalia here will make us some tea just as soon as she’s arranged Mrs Ambrus’s taxi.’

He shot the girl behind the desk a chilling glance, and Jess had the satisfaction of seeing a tide of angry pink wash into her cheeks before she was ushered up the steps into Mr Ramsay’s office.

‘I’m afraid it’s not terribly good news.’

Mr Ramsay had just put the phone down following his second call to America. Jess, sitting opposite him and drinking the tea that a frosty Natalia had brought, had pretty much worked that out from listening to his carefully veiled comments and watching his grave expression. Her heart was beating painfully, fear thickening her blood.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Mr Rosinski has been admitted to hospital. Up until now he’d been being cared for at home, but it seems his condition has taken a turn for the worse and he was taken into intensive care on Friday.’ Mr Ramsay’s pale eyes were full of awful compassion as he looked at her over his glasses. ‘He’s not really conscious, from what I can make out from Mr Goldberg, his American lawyer. I’m afraid to say that they don’t really expect him to recover.’

The tears had started again, only this time they were silent and defeated. They slid down Jess’s cheeks and dripped off her chin, sinking into the orange nylon of her overall. Mr Ramsay pushed a box of expensive tissues, thick as restaurant napkins, across the glass desk towards her.

‘But he
can’t
die. Not now. We’ve just found her.’

‘Mr Rosinski has been ill for some time: he knew he wasn’t going to get better. And he’s old, don’t forget; over ninety. He’s been exceptionally thorough in putting his affairs in order. The house in Greenfields Lane was really the final piece in the jigsaw, and Mr Goldberg has told me how pleased Mr Rosinski was to be able to fit it into place after all these years, with your help. He spoke very highly of you, Miss Moran. That’s why he wanted to give the house to you, along with a sum of money for its renovation. It’s a very . . .
generous
gift, as I’m sure you know. A property like that will raise a considerable sum, should you decide to sell it. He was most keen to stress that it should be yours to do with whatever you choose.’

He was being kind, she understood that, and yet with every gently spoken word she felt the pressure inside her head mount. She scrubbed fresh tears away with the tissue. ‘Please don’t talk about him as if he’s already dead,’ she said through clenched teeth. ‘It’s not the end yet. It can’t be.’

A shadow of impatience fell across Mr Ramsay’s compassionate expression for a second. ‘Miss Moran, tragic though it may be, we have to know when to let go of those we love. Mr Rosinski is a very old, very sick man. It’s time to—’

‘No!’ She got to her feet, splashing tea from her cup onto the glossy bleached wood floor. ‘It’s not time yet! Look – please – ring them back and tell them we’ve found Stella. Even if he’s unconscious, tell them to make sure he knows. We’ve found Stella Thorne.
Please.
’

For a moment she thought he was going to argue, but after a second’s hesitation and some visible effort he produced a rather taut smile. ‘Very well, Miss Moran.’ He picked up the phone. ‘Natalia, Mr Goldberg’s office . . .
again
, if you will.’

She walked to Will’s house, through suburban streets that smelled of freshly cut grass. In the gardens she passed, cherry trees bore their pale blossom like fragrant clouds, and the evening was blue and luminous with the promise of summer. A summer that Dan wouldn’t see.

Her head was too full, so that twice she lost her way and had to retrace her steps. It was only when she finally found herself within sight of Will’s car parked on the road outside his flat that she realized what a sight she must look, in her orange uniform with her make-up all cried off and her nose red. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen her in a worse state, but that was
before
. . . She felt suddenly self-conscious, and wished she’d slipped into one of the pubs she’d passed to repair some of the damage.

But she was there now. Heart jumping, she rang the bell. A light was on in the basement and few moments later he opened the door, and all her misgivings vanished as he stepped forward and pulled her straight into his arms.

‘I hoped it was you. I’ve missed you. It’s just as well you don’t have a phone or I’d have left fifty pathetic and annoying messages throughout the day.’ He released her enough to kiss her, and then pulled back, frowning. ‘Hey, what’s the matter? Jess? Fuck – come in.’

She followed him down the dark stairs to his flat, where he disappeared into the kitchen and emerged again carrying a bottle of red wine and two glasses.

‘Sorry. Look, I shouldn’t have said that about texting.’ He splashed wine into her glass and onto the table. ‘It was just a joke – honestly. If you’ve come to say that you don’t want to see me again—’

She gave a watery smile and pulled the letter from her pocket. ‘This came this morning. It’s about the house.’

He picked it up and read it. She watched as his expression changed from anxiety to confusion to astonishment. He looked up at her, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘Does this mean what I think it means? That he’s given you the house? Oh my God, that’s fantastic – isn’t it?’

She nodded. ‘It’s the most amazing, generous thing imaginable. I couldn’t believe it at first – I thought it was one of those scams you hear about – but I’ve just been to see the solicitor who sent the letter and it’s all official. The house is mine. I’ll be able to get the keys from the council within the next couple of days. But—’

Tears swept in like a sudden storm, and there was nothing to do but submit to them. He moved to her side, folded her into his body and held her as it spent its fury, rocking her gently, his breath warm in her hair. And then, as she sniffed and spluttered in its aftermath he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a white cotton handkerchief. Jess laughed.

‘I can’t blow my nose on that.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s too clean. I’ll ruin it.’

‘I’ll do it then.’ Gently he blotted the tears from her cheeks and wiped her nose. His face was serious, and full of a kind of tenderness that made her want to cry again. ‘There. Look, I know I’m an insensitive idiot sometimes, but I think I’m missing something here. You’re the new owner of an extremely desirable property in a top London location. What’s to cry about?’ Realization suddenly dawned and his expression changed to one of horror. ‘Unless – Oh Christ, Jess – is he—?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet. But it won’t be long. He’s been taken into hospital and they don’t think he’ll be coming out. He’s unconscious.’ Her voice wavered, and she swallowed. ‘And I feel like I’ve cheated him. He’s changed my life, and given me the most amazing gift, and what did I do to deserve it? Nothing. He never found Stella. He’s going to die not knowing what happened to her and I – I—’

She broke off as the phone began to ring, making them both jump. She felt Will hesitate, as though he was going to ignore it and then changed his mind.

‘Perhaps I should – just in case—’ He got up, keeping his eyes fixed on Jess’s as he answered. ‘Will Holt.’

He went curiously still as the person on the other end of the line spoke. Then he mouthed,
It’s her
.

Jess leapt to her feet and went to stand beside him. He angled the phone so she could hear. From the other end of the line the voice that reached them was reedy with age, but calm and crisp.

‘My very good friend Georgina has passed your number on to me. I must say, I was rather reluctant to telephone you. I can’t think what it could concern, but at my age I suspect any news is likely to be of the depressing kind.’

‘Mrs Daniels, I’m so glad you did telephone.’ Will’s tone was grave; gentle, and respectful. Jess thought fleetingly how much better he was at all this than she would have been, and was profoundly grateful to him. ‘It is rather a personal matter, but not, I hope, depressing. It’s concerning an old . . . friend of yours; a gentleman by the name of Dan Rosinski.’

There was silence. A silence that stretched and crackled with the weight of the years while Jess and Will gazed at each other and time stopped.

‘Mrs Daniels? Are you still there?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m still here.’ The crispness had gone now. The voice was low and hoarse and full of yearning. ‘Dan . . . Is he . . . still alive?’

‘Yes, though he’s not very well. He’s been trying to find you. He’d like very much to make contact again, if you’d allow him to.’

Her reply was a tiny indrawn breath, barely audible; and then, ‘Yes. Oh . . .
yes
, please.’

40

Stella Daniels lived in a small village about eight miles from Leyton Manor Hospital. It was the kind of place that appeared on Agatha Christie adaptations, with houses clustered around a village green and a picturesque pub. However, the woman who answered the door of the wisteria-draped cottage was a little too smart for the part of Miss Marple, with her softly swept-back silvery hair and neat grey cashmere cardigan.

Will wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t such composure, such grace. Stella Daniels wore her years well. Her figure was fragile but upright, her skin deeply scored with lines, but her eyes were clear and blue and brimming with the emotions she had banished from her face. Wordlessly she ushered them inside, and in a small hallway filled with slanting evening sunlight and the scent of lavender, took both of Jess’s hands in hers.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said softly, looking from Jess to Will. ‘How is he? Have you heard anything?’

Jess moistened her lips nervously. ‘He’s still unconscious, but apparently that’s not necessarily a bad thing. He’s under the care of the top doctors in the field, and they’re doing all they can. They say we mustn’t give up hope.’

Stella’s eyes closed for a brief moment, then she gave Jess’s hands a squeeze. ‘Quite right. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that we must never give up hope. Now, come through and let me put the kettle on.’

They followed her into a light, pretty kitchen, on the end of which a conservatory jutted out into the garden. There was a sofa and a chair, and a coffee table bearing a tray, neatly laid with china cups and a milk jug. Will and Jess sat stiffly on the sofa while they waited for the water to boil. It seemed too soon to talk about serious matters, so Will filled the gap by admiring the house.

‘I bought it to be near to the hospital,’ Stella said. Her voice still held a flavour of her London roots, faint but unmistakable. ‘Georgina will have told you that my daughter Daisy was also a patient there, when Georgina was quite tiny? Now Jess, would you be a love and carry this teapot? Arthritis has made me a liability with things like that.’