“So what am I actually looking for?” Peggy said.
“Photos, letters, Christmas or birthday cards—anything that might indicate a family member, their phone number or a return address. Oh, and any bank statements so we can get a sense of his finances.”
“And a will, presumably?”
“Yes, that too. That usually depends on whether he’s got a next of kin. The vast majority of people without one won’t have a will.”
“Makes sense, I guess. Here’s hoping you had a bit of cash, Eric old boy.”
They worked methodically, Peggy following Andrew’s lead by clearing a space as best as possible on the floor and creating separate piles for documents depending on whether they contained any useful information or not. There were utility bills and a TV license reminder, along with a catalog from the official Fulham Football Club shop, scores of takeaway menus, a warranty for a kettle and an appeal from the Shelter charity.
“I think I’ve got something,” Peggy said after twenty minutes of fruitless searching. It was a Christmas card, featuring some laughing monkeys in Christmas hats with the caption: “Chimply Having a Wonderful Christmastime!” Inside, in handwriting so small it was as if the person were trying to remain anonymous, it read:
To Uncle Eric,
Happy Christmas
Love from Karen
“He’s got a niece then,” Peggy said.
“Looks like it. Any other cards there?”
Peggy dug about and did her best not to flinch when a horribly dozy fly was disturbed and flew past her face.
“Here’s another one. A birthday card. Let’s see now. Yep, it’s from Karen again. Hang on, there’s something else written here: ‘If you ever want to give me a call, here’s my new number.’”
“There we go,” Andrew said. Ordinarily he would have called the number there and then, but he felt self-conscious with Peggy beside him so he decided to wait until they were back at the office.
“Is that it, then?” Peggy said, making subtle movements toward the door.
“We still need to see about his financial situation,” Andrew said. “We know he had a small amount in a current account, but there might be something else here.”
“Cash?” Peggy said, looking around at all the mess.
“You’d be surprised,” Andrew said. “The bedroom’s usually a good place to start.”
Peggy watched from the doorway as Andrew headed for the single bed and dropped to his knees. The light coming from the window was catching the dust in the air. Every time he shifted on the floor another bloom of it billowed up, disturbing the rest. He tried not to grimace. This was the part that he found hardest, because it felt even more invasive to be poking around in someone’s bedroom.
He made sure to tuck his sleeves into his protective gloves before reaching under the mattress at one end, slowly sweeping his hand along.
“Say he does have ten grand stashed away somewhere,” Peggy said. “But he hasn’t got a next of kin. Where would the money go?”
“Well,” Andrew said, readjusting his position, “any cash or assets he has first of all go to paying for the funeral. What’s left over is kept in the safe at the office. If nothing comes to light about someone who’s clearly entitled to the money—extended family and so on—then it goes to the Crown Estate.”
“What, so old Betty Windsor gets her hands on it?” Peggy said.
“Um, sort of,” Andrew said, sneezing as some dust went up his nose. He found nothing on the first sweep, but after bracing himself and reaching in further he touched something soft and lumpy. It was a sock—Fulham FC branded—and inside was a bundle of notes, mostly twenties, held in place by an elastic band. For no discernible reason the elastic band had been almost entirely colored in with blue pen. Whether it denoted something vitally important or was just an act of idle doodling, Andrew wasn’t sure. It was this kind of detail that stayed with him long afterward: odd little elements of a forgotten life, the reasons for their existence unknowable, leaving him with a subtle feeling of unresolved tension, like seeing a question written down without a question mark.
From the amount of notes there he knew it was going to be enough for Eric to cover the cost of his funeral. It would be up to his niece how much she wanted to help out too.
“So, is that it?” Peggy said. Andrew could tell she was now really rather keen to be outside and breathe fresh air again. He remembered that feeling from his own first time—that first gulp of polluted London air was like being reborn.
“Yep, that’s us done.”
He gave the place one final check in case they’d missed anything. They were just preparing to leave when they heard movement by the front door.
The man in the hallway clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone to be there, judging from the surprise on his face and the fact he immediately took two steps back toward the door when he saw them. He was squat and noticeably perspiring—a bowling ball of a beer belly threatening to escape from under his polo shirt. Andrew braced himself for confrontation. God, how he despised encounters with these cynical, desperate opportunists.
“You police?” the man said, eyeing their protective gloves.
“No,” Andrew said, making himself look the man in the eye. “We’re from the council.”
The fact the man visibly relaxed at this point—even taking a step forward—was enough for Andrew to know why he was there.
“You knew the deceased?” he asked, trying to stand tall in the small hope the man might mistake him for a retired bare-knuckle boxer rather than someone who got vaguely out of breath watching snooker.
“Yeah, that’s right. Eric.”
A pause.
“Real shame about, you know, him passing on and that.”
“Are you a friend or relative?” Peggy said.
The man looked her up and down and scratched his chin, as if appraising a secondhand car.
“Friend. We were tight. Really tight. We went way back.”
As the man went to smooth what remained of his greasy hair against his head, Andrew noticed his trembling hand.
“How long we talking?” Peggy said.
Andrew was glad Peggy was taking the lead. The way she spoke, the steeliness of her voice, sounded much more authoritative.
“Oh, blimey, there’s a question. A long old time,” the man said. “You lose track of these things, don’t you?”
Apparently confident that Peggy and Andrew weren’t anything to worry about, he was now distracted by trying to look past them into the living room. He took another step forward.
“We were just about to lock up,” Andrew said, showing the key in his hand. The man eyed it with barely concealed magpie-like intent.
“Right, yeah,” the man said. “I was just here to pay my respects and whathaveyou. As I say we were good mates. I don’t know if you found a will or anything . . .”
Here we go, Andrew thought.
“. . . but he’d actually said if he were to pass away, you know, suddenly and that, he’d want me to have a couple of his things.”
Andrew was about to explain, as calmly as he could, that anything that made up Eric’s estate needed to remain untouched until everything was clarified, but Peggy got in ahead of him.
“What was it Mr. Thompson was going to leave you?” she said.
The man shifted his feet and cleared his throat. “Well, there was his telly, and truth be told he did owe me a little bit of cash too.” He flashed a yellow smile. “To make up for all the drinks I’d bought him over the years, you know.”
“Funny that,” Peggy said. “His name was Eric White. Not Eric Thompson.”
The man’s smile vanished.
“What? Yeah, I know. White. What . . .” He looked at Andrew and spoke to him out of the side of his mouth, as if Peggy wouldn’t be able to hear him. “Why’d she do that, try and trick me, when a man’s just died?”