‘Did he tell you how much it would cost?’ asked Carole beadily.
‘We’d discussed that earlier.’ Tom sniggered. ‘Mrs Kendrick would be picking up the tab, anyway.’
‘So that was it?’ Carole pressed. ‘No further conversation?’
‘No, I don’t think so. And now, if you don’t mind, you’ve probably wasted enough of my valuable time. Your call did actually interrupt a very good Netflix series I was watching.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Jude said meekly. Carole gave her a look. She wouldn’t have apologized for something like that. ‘Sure there was nothing else?’ Jude pleaded.
‘Oh, I do remember something,’ said Tom. ‘Just as I was about to go home – walk back to Mrs Kendrick’s house, that is – Bill Shefford asked me if I could do something for him.’
‘What was it?’
‘Witness his signature on some document.’
‘What was the document?’ demanded Carole.
‘He didn’t show me. The paper was folded down, so I could just see where he signed.’
‘And you did it, you signed?’ asked Jude.
‘Yes. No skin off my nose.’
‘And what did he do then?’
‘He said he had to get another witness to sign.’
‘Did he say who?’
‘He didn’t say, but he went straight through to the office bit … you know, where Frankie sits and works out what colour she’s going to have her hair done and where she’ll have her next perforation.’
‘And she signed it?’ asked Jude breathlessly.
‘I assume so, yes.’
TWENTY
Because she had had more dealings with Frankie than Jude, it was Carole who made the call to Shefford’s. When she said she wanted to talk, she was told she was welcome to call at the garage whenever was convenient. When Carole added that she wanted to talk about Bill’s will and she wanted Jude to be with her, Frankie said they’d better come to her flat that evening. She didn’t bluster or deny she knew anything about the will, which Carole thought was promising.
She lived in Spray Lodge, an eight-storey block of flats near the Yacht Club, just where the River Fether met the sea. The properties on the shore side commanded magnificent views and prices to match. Frankie’s faced north and was on the ground floor. So potential views to the undulations of the South Downs were blocked by the backs of the shops on Fethering Parade.
Carole had been to Spray Lodge before, but a long time ago. She’d visited a rather poisonous old woman called Winnie Norton, whose son-in-law had died in suspicious circumstances. Winnie’s sea-view flat had been full of exquisite antiques. Frankie’s could not have been more different.
For a start, the whole place smelt of cigarettes. It was a long time since Carole or Jude had been inside a smoker’s home. They had both forgotten how pervasive that stench used to be.
Then again, the walls in Winnie Norton’s flat had been white, reflecting back the sparkle of the English Channel. In Frankie’s, all were dark; if not actually black, giving the impression that they were. And all were covered with posters and photographs of pop stars. Carole didn’t recognize any of them, but Jude, having been more aware of the zeitgeist of the times she lived through, identified them as the movers and shakers of Britpop. Oasis, Blur, Suede, Pulp … the in-your-face faces of their members leered down from the walls.
Maybe they reflected a period when Frankie had been a genuine rock chick, but with them time had stopped still. The images now looked as dated – and dating – as Miss Havisham’s wedding dress.
Frankie’s appearance that evening was almost as bizarre. She wore a sleeveless black lace top over a scarlet bra, and tight leggings in a random pattern of psychedelic neon. Her hair was still in its jet-black phase, and the ensemble was rounded off by glittering gold trainers. With all the rings they carried, her ears seemed to have more perforations than a teabag.
She led them silently through the dark hall to an equally dark sitting room. Here again there were more posters and photographs. Jude noticed that they’d all been professionally framed. Frankie cared for her memorabilia.
She gestured them to a black leather sofa. In front of her black leather chair was a low table. On it were glasses, an ice bucket, a bottle of Captain Morgan’s rum and a two-litre Coca-Cola.
‘Can I get you something? As you see, I’m on the rum and Coke.’
‘Do you have any white wine?’ asked Jude.
‘Sure. Bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge.’ She went through to get it.
Both of them were far too well brought up to say that, though they used to drink a lot of Chardonnay, they had gone off it. While Frankie was out of the room, Carole and Jude didn’t say anything, but they exchanged meaningful looks. Both were intrigued. They’d anticipated resistance, an unwillingness to answer their questions, but here was Frankie making the evening into a social event. Carole’s eyes darted about the room. They settled uncomfortably on the louring face of Liam Gallagher.
Frankie emerged with their drinks. The Chardonnay was served in goblet-style glasses, with an old-fashioned blue and gold band around their rims. She sat down and raised her rum and Coke. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ she said. Like the glasses, the expression felt old-fashioned.
Carole and Jude exchanged looks, settling who was going to speak first, but both were pre-empted by Frankie saying, ‘You want to talk about Bill’s will. Presumably, you heard how I was involved from Tom Kendrick …?’
They made no attempt to deny it.
‘I still don’t feel guilty about what I did. It was the right thing.’
‘Tom,’ said Jude, ‘didn’t know what the document he was signing was. Apparently, Bill folded it over, so just the space for the signatures was showing.’
‘He didn’t make any secret about it with me. He said, “Put your monicker on this, love. It’s my new will.”’
‘Was that unusual?’ Carole enquired. ‘Him asking you to do that?’
‘God, no. Documents I’ve countersigned for Bill over the years … must be in the hundreds. Particularly after Valerie died. If you live on your own, you often have to get signatures witnessed at work.’
‘And did he take the will back after you’d signed?’
‘No. He told me to put it in an envelope addressed to his solicitor and post it the next day.’
‘And, again, was that an unusual thing for him to ask you to do?’
‘Not at all. I do all the office work at Shefford’s. Have done for years. Sending out invoices, paying bills … anything that goes in the post, that’s down to me. Always has been.’
‘But I assume,’ said Jude gently, ‘that in this case you didn’t do as Bill told you? You didn’t put the will in the post to the solicitor?’
‘No,’ Frankie admitted.
‘Why not?’ demanded Carole, steelier than her neighbour.
‘Because I didn’t think what he was doing was a good idea.’
‘And did you know what he was doing? Did you read the will?’
‘Didn’t need to, did I? I knew what was in it.’
‘How? Had you seen an earlier draft or—?’
‘No. Well, I’d seen a draft of his earlier will, one he made after Valerie died. Up until then, he’d always assumed he’d go first, so he hadn’t bothered with a will.’
‘Why did he show it to you, the earlier will?’
‘Like I said, he’d never made one before. He wanted me to check through, see it all made sense before he sent off the final draft to the solicitor.’
‘And did it all make sense?’
‘Perfect sense. He left everything, including the business, to his only child, Billy.’