Having reached a stretch of dual carriageway, Stephen hit the accelerator. A whoosh of G force pressed him back into his seat as the high-powered coupe surged forward, passing a family saloon travelling at the regulation 70 mph as if it were stationary.
Stephen couldn’t explain even to himself why he had kept the letter. Partly, he supposed, it was his legal training kicking in: it went against the grain to destroy a document that had been entrusted to him. And he supposed he had thought it might be useful one day. That if anything came to light to corroborate what Charlie was alleging, it might be needed as evidence in any legal proceedings. But the last thing he had wanted was for Joyce to read it.
There were speed cameras along that stretch of road. Stephen had no idea whether or not they were operating and didn’t care. The speedometer needle shot past 100 and was still rising as the dual carriageway ended and a sharp bend came into view. Only then did he come off the accelerator and step on the brake. The back end slewed as the Jag slowed and Stephen found himself propelled against his seat belt, though he barely noticed the discomfort, his mind was preoccupied with the inevitable fallout once Henry learned that the letter had reached Joyce.
Chances were, Henry already knew. The mood Joyce was in, she’d probably called her father to hurl accusations at him. Even if she hadn’t, Felicity might have spotted Stephen’s Jag entering or leaving Tarrant Park and mentioned it to her husband. As he pulled into the Tanner-Max car park, Stephen tried to steel himself for the interrogation that would doubtless ensue.
Sure enough, when he arrived at his third-floor office he found Henry waiting for him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see Joyce?’ he demanded.
As a child, taken from his homeland and brought up by a stepfather in the UK, Stephen had learned the art of concealing his true emotions. Fear only incited bullies to escalate their taunts, so he’d become adept at masking his unease and maintaining a calm, untroubled demeanour. Henry Tanner, however, was in a different league to the public-school bullies of his childhood.
‘I didn’t have a chance,’ he responded as casually as he could manage. ‘And, anyway, I didn’t think it was important.’
‘I understand she asked to see you?’
Stephen nodded. So it was Janet who’d told him. Their joint PA, allegedly, though there had never been any doubt where her loyalties lay. She’d played a big part in creating this mess. But bloody Henry would never see that.
‘What did she want?’
‘Oh, to go through the will, review her financial situation.’
‘Don’t lie to me, Stephen. Don’t ever lie to me.’
‘That’s what she said when she phoned. That’s what she told me she wanted.’
‘She came over to the house to see her mother yesterday,’ Henry said, his eyes boring into Stephen. ‘She was asking some odd questions and she seemed on edge. Her mother’s been doing her best to console her ever since Charlie died, but she said this wasn’t the usual outburst of grief, it was something else, something bothering her. Can you throw any light on that?’
Stephen shrugged in what he hoped was a noncommittal way.
‘You’re dissembling, Stephen. I can see it written all over your face.’
Stephen was known for being inscrutable. Yet somehow Henry Tanner, and only Henry Tanner, could penetrate the facade. Still Stephen said nothing, determined not to crack under that steely gaze.
‘It’s the letter, isn’t it,’ said Henry, making Stephen wonder not for the first time if Henry Tanner could read his mind. It was a statement, not a question. ‘You didn’t destroy it, did you?’ Henry persisted. ‘You didn’t destroy that bloody letter, did you?’
‘Well, not exactly—’ began Stephen.
‘You bloody fool!’ barked Henry. ‘You didn’t destroy that letter and now Joyce has seen it, hasn’t she?’
Stephen nodded. That wasn’t enough for Henry.
‘Hasn’t she?’ he yelled, rising from Stephen’s chair and leaning forward across Stephen’s desk.
‘Yes,’ Stephen agreed, giving in. ‘She has.’
‘Right,’ said Henry, sitting back down again. ‘Now we’ve got that over with you’re going to tell me why you disobeyed my instructions, how this debacle came about, how it got to my daughter — and then we’re going to work out what we have to do to get ourselves out of this mess.’
Six
Joyce’s anger had quickly turned to regret at having lashed out at Stephen in that manner. She knew it had been unfair of her. The truth was that she wouldn’t have done so, not to that extent anyway, if it hadn’t been for her embarrassment over their recent sexual encounter. She had over-reacted. And that had set her wondering again: was she over-reacting to Charlie’s letter?
She told herself she should get a grip, not allow her mind to run away with itself, conjuring threats to her family purely on the basis of a rambling letter from her late husband. She’d loved Charlie and would miss him terribly, but the last few years he’d fallen prey to those black moods of his more and more often. If he had raised those fears with her in person instead of in a letter, she would probably have told herself it was all in his mind, that it was down to the medication — so why give any credence to it now?
Tired of going over and over it in her mind, she decided to make a supreme effort that evening to put it all to one side and focus on Fred and Molly.
She cooked her children their favourite tea in order to make up for what she saw as her shortcomings of the previous evening. Home-made burgers and chunky chips served with her own special tomato relish, and accompanied by a salad as a gesture towards healthy living.
Then, when the homework was out of the way, the three of them played table tennis in the area above the big connecting garage, which had been turned into a games room.
Since Charlie could only be relied upon as a fourth for doubles when he was in one of his ‘up’ moods and felt like participating in family tournaments, Joyce and the children had long since devised a complicated points system that enabled them to stage competitions that were not too swiftly completed. And Fred was helped by a handicap he no longer seemed to need. While all three were good at ball games, Fred was showing signs of a real talent for sport.
That night he was again the winner.
‘I think that handicap may have to go,’ threatened his mother as she prepared to dispatch him to bed.
‘I’ll still beat the pair of you,’ Fred boasted, chest puffed with victory.
‘Right, that’s it young man,’ proclaimed Joyce. ‘You’re going to have to live up to that. No more handicap for you. We’re all on equal terms from now on.’
‘’Bout time too,’ muttered Molly, slumping in front of the TV to make the most of the extra hour before her bedtime. She was completely addicted to Big Brother, but in its absence she would settle for any reality show. That night it was a repeat of a particularly banal episode of Come Dine with Me.
‘That programme is going to numb your brain,’ warned her mother.
‘If she had a brain,’ Fred called down the stairs.
‘Oh, Einstein, if only I was as clever as you,’ Molly shouted back. ‘The boy who told me only this morning that the VW Polo was named after Polo mints.’
‘Was too. At least I’m not soppy over a moron like Wally Johnson. Yuk!’
‘Shut up, you horror, or I’ll drown your iPhone!’
‘That’s enough, the pair of you,’ hollered Joyce, walking out into the hall. ‘Into bed now, Fred!’ she shouted up the stairs. ‘As for you, Molly, if you don’t pipe down you’ll be going up to bed too.’