I had remained motionless, lying low on my cushion so as not to draw his attention, but as he looked around the café, he noticed me. I held his gaze, determined not to avert my eyes, and eventually he looked away, the merest sneer of contempt playing around his lips.
‘Here we go,’ Debbie smiled, carrying a tray of refreshments to the table. David swung his briefcase onto his lap, popped the locks and pulled out a slim cardboard folder, ignoring Debbie as she carefully set the teacups and plate of cookies on the stripy tablecloth.
David placed the folder on his place mat and waited with pursed lips while Debbie, brushing her fringe out of her eyes, sat down on the chair opposite him. Then he watched, with barely concealed impatience, while she set about pouring the tea.
‘Milk?’ she enquired. David gave a single nod. ‘Sugar?’
‘Two, please,’ he answered gruffly.
‘Help yourself to a cookie,’ she said, nudging the plate towards him.
David grunted, glaring angrily at the biscuits as if they, too, were wasting his time. Although Debbie was doing her best to hide it, I could tell that, underneath her friendly demeanour, she was being made nervous by David’s frostiness.
‘I was so sorry to hear about Margery,’ Debbie began, as she stirred her tea. ‘She was such a lovely lady.’
At this, David breathed in sharply. ‘Yes, well, it was probably for the best. She’d had a good innings,’ he said matter-of-factly.
Debbie’s eyebrows began to creep up her face, but she said nothing.
‘This shouldn’t take long,’ David said, placing the tips of his fingers on the cardboard folder on his place mat.
Debbie, still stirring her tea, glanced across. ‘Oh, right,’ she replied uncertainly.
‘This is for you,’ David said brusquely, attempting to push the folder across the candy-striped cloth towards Debbie. But the little table was so cluttered with crockery that the folder kept getting caught, dislodging sachets of sweetener from their bowl and almost knocking over the tiny vase of flowers. He tutted and picked the folder up, holding it above the tea cups.
With a look of polite courteousness, Debbie took the folder. David watched with a clenched jaw as she fished her reading glasses out of her apron pocket, removed them from their case and pushed them onto her nose. She opened the folder and began to read.
‘Um, sorry, David – what is this?’ she said lightly.
She looked up to find that David had hunched forward in his chair and was proffering a pen towards her. He had removed the lid and, as he twisted the pen, its brass nib glinted in the firelight. Debbie’s questioning gaze took in the pen and David’s posture of thinly veiled belligerence.
‘What is this, David?’ Debbie repeated in a small voice.
‘It’s a letter of renunciation, from you, saying that you renounce any claim to my mother’s estate.’ David’s voice was calm but uncompromising. ‘I would be grateful if you could sign it now,’ he added, as if Debbie might not have understood the implication of the pen thrust in her face.
Debbie opened her mouth, then closed it again. ‘Er, but, I haven’t even read it yet,’ she protested feebly.
David sneered and sat back in his chair, making a show of giving her time to read. He twiddled the pen between his fingers, while Debbie, now visibly flustered, scanned the letter.
‘So, it’s a letter from me, but written by you?’ she clarified, concentrating hard on the sheet of paper in front of her. David nodded. Debbie cleared her throat slightly. ‘I, Deborah Walsh, hereby renounce any claim on the estate of Margery Hinckley,’ she read.
‘That’s right,’ David answered flatly, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth.
‘But I never made any claim on Margery’s estate, David,’ Debbie said, mild indignation beginning to creep into her voice. ‘And besides, I’m not the beneficiary – Molly is.’
At this, David let out a single bark-like laugh that was so sharp it made me jump. ‘Well, in that case, maybe I should ask Molly to sign the letter?’ His face split into a mean smile, revealing his yellow, uneven teeth. He turned to look at me, tilting his head sideways in a parody of courteousness. ‘Molly, could you come over here and sign this letter, please?’ he asked sarcastically.
I glared at him, unblinking, feeling a wave of fury course through me.
‘No? Thought not.’ He grinned maliciously, and his eyes flickered back to Debbie, who had begun to blush. I felt the heat rising in my cheeks, too.
David waved his hand at the letter dismissively. ‘It doesn’t matter who wrote it – we just need something in writing, to get the ball rolling. The solicitors can take it from there and get a contract of renunciation drawn up.’ His tone was business like once more, and he leant forward again with his pen.
Debbie looked down at the page in front of her. ‘But, David, this isn’t a letter from me. These aren’t my words—’ she began.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ David cut in. ‘You just. Need. To sign. That’s all.’
I felt my hackles rise at his aggressive tone. My heart was pounding and I could feel the blood pumping around my body; I had not felt so under threat since I had encountered the yellow-eyed alley-cat during my search for Eddie.
Debbie removed her glasses and placed them on the table. ‘It matters to me, David,’ she said quietly. ‘As I told you on the phone, I plan to write to the solicitor and explain why I must decline your mother’s legacy to Molly, but I intend to do it in my own words.’ She glanced at the hovering pen nib. ‘And I intend to sign it with my own pen,’ she added as an afterthought. She flipped the cardboard folder shut and held it across the table. ‘I’m sorry, David, but I won’t be signing your letter,’ she said firmly.
David’s face had turned a vibrant puce colour. ‘I always knew you were up to something,’ he muttered darkly, clicking the lid back onto his pen and snatching the folder from Debbie’s hand.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Debbie said, looking scandalized.
‘Why else would you visit my mother so often? Make all that effort to go to the care home to visit a complete stranger. I knew there was something fishy about it.’
Debbie’s mouth had fallen open. ‘Margery wasn’t a complete stranger, David,’ she exclaimed. ‘She was a customer here, and she had been Molly’s owner. I was taking Molly to visit her!’
David snorted. ‘Oh, come off it. Do you really expect me to believe that? What kind of person would go to all that trouble, so that an old woman with dementia could see a cat!’ A vein on his temple had begun to bulge, and beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead.
Debbie’s breathing was fast and shallow, but she took time to compose herself before she answered. ‘The kind of person who understood what Molly meant to Margery, David. A person like me.’
‘Well, I would beg to differ,’ he hissed, opening his briefcase and shoving the folder roughly inside. ‘I think it’s the behaviour of someone who hopes that, if she puts in the hours and visits often enough, she might be remembered by an old woman in her will. That’s the kind of person I think you are.’
Debbie’s face had flushed a shade of pink almost as lurid as David’s, and her bottom lip started to tremble. She surveyed the table, watery-eyed, taking in the rapidly cooling cups of tea and untouched plate of biscuits. ‘I think maybe you should leave,’ she said in a dignified voice.
David pushed his chair back noisily across the flagstones and began to pull on his jacket. ‘You know – letter or no letter – don’t go getting any ideas about this legacy,’ he said darkly. ‘There’s not a court in the land that would give any credence to the deathbed scribblings of a senile old woman. And if necessary,’ he practically spat, ‘I’m prepared to go to court to prove it.’