My eyes, always a little on the large side and out of proportion to my face, looked huge then, dark pools of misery dominating my sallow features. My Mediterranean coloring inherited from my father had dulled to something slightly shy of gray. There were dark smudges under my eyes and my mouth was pinched, the corners of my lips turned down in a permanent scowl.
On impulse I tried smiling. An experimental little grin. I was just a bit curious, wondering how it would look. But it just wasn’t me. Maybe sometime, but not quite yet.
But at least there in my mother’s house I could have a shower, find some decent food to eat and something better to wear. It was a start.
* * * *
The police investigation into the hit-and-run continued and it was another three weeks before my mother’s body was released. The investigation hadn’t gotten anywhere, had turned up no witnesses, uncovered no trace of the car or the driver who killed my mother. They’d given up eventually. Meanwhile, I had another funeral to plan. And this time, apart from enlisting the services of the same undertaker who’d dealt with David’s burial less than a year ago, I did it alone. Again I declined the services of the ubiquitous clergyman at these affairs. This time, only one person stood weeping at the graveside in the cemetery where I’d become such a regular client. Grimly, I told myself they’d probably invite me to the staff Christmas party. Afterwards, politely refusing the offer of a lift by the funeral director, I left, on foot, determined never to look back again.
I abandoned Shaz—Sharon Spencer—in that graveyard. I just left her there. When I came out, my chin raised in grim, defiant determination, I was Ashley McAllister. Landscape photographer and digital artist.
First things first, I needed a solicitor. I needed to know if I was allowed to just start calling myself Ashley or if I needed to do something official to change my name. The last thing I needed was any more trouble with officialdom. And I needed to find out, as her only family and the only beneficiary in her will, how to get my hands on my mother’s property.
The old firm of Hampson and Miller have always dealt with my mother’s affairs as far as I know, so I called in there to ask for advice. One of the partners, an elderly gentleman who was apparently Mr Miller himself, agreed to see me even though I didn’t have an appointment. He confirmed what I thought, that changing my name by deed poll would be the official way to do it but would leave a trail that Kenny could follow, if he decided to try. I couldn’t risk it. There’s apparently no law that says I can’t simply start to be known by another name if I choose to, as long as I don’t create a false identity and use it to defraud. On any official documents, such as my driving license or passport, I have to be Sharon Spencer. He was careful to point out that given my criminal history, my actions could be misinterpreted. He was trying to be tactful, but his meaning was clear—once a thief, always a thief. And a false identity would always look suspicious. Still, I had no choice.
Moving on, I asked about my mother’s will. Here matters were thankfully much simpler. Hampson and Miller drew up the will for my mother and they were her executors. They would set matters in motion at once to obtain probate and turn over my inheritance to me. And it seems it is not inconsiderable.
My mother owned her house, a large, three-bedroom terraced property close to the center of Gloucester. I grew up there. So did she. My grandparents originally bought it. When I was very little we all lived there together, then it was just me and my mum after the old folks both died. Its value is estimated at two hundred thousand pounds. As well as the thirty thousand pounds she had already transferred into my bank account, she also held several building society accounts and three ISAs, total value another twenty thousand more or less. Then there was jewelry, furniture, her clothes, her car. In total her assets came to around three hundred thousand. I was stunned—I never thought we had two pennies to rub together. Now, it seemed, I was rich. Well, relatively rich.
I left the offices of Hampson and Miller, a plan starting to form. My next stop was the University of Gloucestershire student housing team, where I picked up their guidelines for becoming a registered student landlord. I studied their requirements, looked again at my mother’s substantial house not five minutes’ walk from the Gloucester campus, and decided to turn her old home into a business. A lump sum from selling the place would be nice, of course, but an income for life would be better. More reliable. Safer. And I want safe. I want secure.
* * * *
Five months later, and under the malevolent and resentful gaze of Mrs Whatserface next door, I’d used most of my mother’s cash to convert Norman’s mother’s potential annex into good-quality student accommodation. I installed fire escapes, fire resistant doors, an alarm system. I may have gone a bit overboard on the fire safety stuff, but it seemed important. Students are careless sorts—I didn’t want my mother’s lovely house going up in smoke because some feckless undergraduate couldn’t hit his ashtray.
Then there were the additional kitchen facilities upstairs, en suite toilets and showers in each room. I converted the lounge and dining room into student rooms too, so when I’d finished, the house offered five shared rooms, enough for ten students. I’d more than met the student housing team requirements—they would market my mother’s house, now mine, to new students looking for somewhere to live. I can confidently expect an income of around sixteen thousand a year once my agents’ fees and other expenses are taken out, maybe more if the place gets rented out over the holidays as well. Not quite enough to live on, but definitely a safety net, a cushion until my real business gets established. And best of all, I still own the place, my last link to my mother.
I sold most of her better clothes on eBay, raising a few hundred quid more, and the furniture went the same way. I decided to keep the jewelry unless I get really desperate at some stage. I’m keeping the car. It’s only a few months old so should get me around for a while. And after the conversion work on the house I had enough left over to invest in a top-of-the-range laptop, which I’d need to get started on my long-term plan, as well as taking out a year’s lease on a cottage in rural West Yorkshire. The Haworth moors—Brontë country. My plan was to start my grand endeavor with some atmospheric shots of Wuthering Heights.
I hung around in Gloucester just long enough to see my plan for the house come to fruition. I used one of the ground floor rooms for myself and Sadie while the rest of the house filled up with students as they descended on the town from all corners of the country and beyond. Soon the place was full, noisy, bustling, busy, vibrant. Absolute chaos. I like to think my mother would have loved it.
It was time for me to move on, time to hit the road. By my calculations there was a possibility that Kenny could be out by next summer, and I wanted to be long gone by then, without a trace. By the time he goes to Gloucester looking for me—and he will—he’ll find my mother’s old place bursting with sports science students. If he asks them about the owner they’ll tell him they’re renting from the university because as far as they know, they are. And if he gets as far as the student housing team they’ll tell him to fuck off with any luck. But even if they don’t, all they’ll know is that their client is called Ashley McAllister, and they pay her via her solicitor. And I have every confidence in the venerable and completely discreet Mr Miller. Kenny’s pursuit of my trail will end there, if he even reaches that far.
* * * *
So now I’m purring up the M6, in my late mother’s Clio, Sadie yowling in her brand-new cat basket on the rear seat. We’re heading for Smithy’s Forge, a one-bedroom cottage in Oakworth, near Haworth. My new home. My new workplace. My new life starts here.
Chapter Three
According to the agent’s blurb my lovely little cottage is set in a picturesque rural location on the edge of Greystones Rare Breeds and Community Agriculture Centre. Whatever that might mean. Sounds vaguely like a farm. Apparently the old smithy building was converted a few years ago and used as a holiday let, but the owner, who also owns the Greystones rare breeds place, was happy to lease it for a whole year. Less income, but a lot less hassle it would seem.
I fell in love with the place as soon as I saw the picture in the brochure. It’s tiny, but then so am I. One up, one down, with a small kitchen, a small bathroom and a tiny front garden full of brightly colored flowers for Sadie to hide in, a riot of summer sunshine. There’s a tiny off-road parking space alongside so with any luck my mum’s old car won’t be wiped out by some passing tractor. And there doesn’t seem to be a ‘no pets’ rule in any of the paperwork.
The drive up from Gloucester takes around three hours. I leave the endless monotony of the M6 at Preston, taking the M65 across the Pennines to Colne. The final leg of my journey is wonderful, stunning, as I at last hit the rolling Yorkshire moors I’ve come for. The winding route takes me past moorland tarns and reservoirs, along narrow walled roads and past the vast open expanse of the Brontë moors. I stop in a field gateway to stand and stare, framing my first series of landscape canvases in my mind as I turn through three hundred and sixty degrees. This is going to be so good, I can feel it. I just know it.
The arrival instructions emailed to me when I signed my lease agreement tell me to collect the keys from a Mrs Richardson at a place called Black Combe, and I have a map to show me where that is. My mum’s car doesn’t have a satnav so I’m doing this the old-fashioned way. I find the turning easily enough—the sign at the bottom of the lane with Black Combe in large bold letters and an arrow indicating a left turn is a useful clue. I make the turn and follow the narrow lane for two or three miles farther until I reach a pair of massive metal gates blocking the way into a large, graveled courtyard. The sign on the gatepost confirms that this is Black Combe, so I climb out to press the bell. A few seconds later the gate starts to slide open. I hop back into my car and drive in.
I cruise slowly along the gravel drive, around a gentle bend. The house comes into view. And it’s massive. A middle-aged woman is waiting for me on the front steps of the huge barn conversion, a tea towel in her hands. She’s still mopping moisture from between her fingers as I climb out of the car and approach her. I draw near and stretch out my hand in greeting. In my quest to reinvent myself I’ve decided that Ashley McAllister is an assertive type, outgoing and confident, so I start as I mean to go on.
“Good afternoon, I’m Ashley McAllister. You must be Mrs Richardson?”
She takes my hand, shakes it firmly, before flinging her other arm around me and pulling me in for a hug. So much for polite formality. A bit taken aback I nevertheless decide to go with the flow and hug her back. They probably have a lot of odd habits in Yorkshire, and I want to fit in.
“Yes, that’s me. Grace Richardson. And you’re Mr McAllister. Well, not Mr obviously. Oh dear—I think Tom was expecting a young man…”
“Tom?”
“Tom. Thomas Shore. He owns the cottage. He’s your landlord.”
Mrs Richardson is all smiles again, dismissing any issues regarding my gender as suddenly as she had raised them. Presumably Mr Shore will deal with that little problem, if need be. I’ve deliberately chosen an androgynous name for my new persona, part of my strategy of leaving little or no trail. I hadn’t considered this possibility, though perhaps I should have. Surely there’s not going to be hassle at this stage. Time for a bit of my newfangled assertiveness to hit the front again.
“I hope that’s not a problem, me not being a young man? I’ve paid the rent up front so…”
“Oh no, love, I’m sure it’ll be okay. It’s just that the Smithy’s a bit lonely that’s all, a bit isolated. Are you sure you’ll be all right up there, all on your own?”
My reassurance may have been just a little too quick, too hearty, but I can’t be doing with any arguments at this stage. Not over something as trivial as this. “I’ll be fine. Really. It’s just what I want. Peace and quiet to get on with my work. I’m used to my own company. And I’ve got my cat. Do you have the keys? I’d really like to get settled in before it gets dark.”
“A cat? I don’t think Tom expected a cat…”
Oh shit!
“There was nothing in the documentation saying I couldn’t have a pet. And she’s a very old, very quiet cat. Maybe if I talk to Mr Shore, I can explain…”
Again she relents. This assertiveness tactic seems to be working. “Well, I’m sure it’ll be all right. Mr Shore doesn’t mind cats. I think he’s got some himself, probably. Definitely dogs. But you can’t talk to him yet. He’s not around just now. He’s in Leeds with Mr Darke. They’re partners. They’ll be staying in Leeds for a few more days…”
I smile to myself, relieved.
Mr Darke? Partners? Staying in Leeds?
No wonder he was expecting, hoping for, a young man… Well, at least I’m not going to have to worry about sexual harassment from my landlord.
“What are we doing standing about out here? Come in, come in. I’ve got your keys and some other stuff. Let’s get you sorted out.” The indefatigable Mrs Richardson ushers me through the open door and I find myself following her along a blue-carpeted corridor into a very large, but homely kitchen.
I notice three things in quick succession. Firstly, there is a wonderful aroma of fresh bread—the sort of ambience that estate agents always advise should be carefully cultivated in order to lull prospective purchasers into buying. Wasted on me, but it does remind me I’ve not eaten for a few hours.