leaving for work. A small pile was building up on the table and she knew Steve was going to start getting all twitchy about it soon, so she had resolved to take it to work to read and dump, depending on what it was.
Flicking through now she finds a couple of bills, an interesting-looking letter in a white envelope, which turns out to be from an estate agent of all things, and finally she opens an A3 brown envelope, knowing it is bound to be something to do with tax, or National Insurance, or some other unpleasantness.
But inside, she is surprised to see first a compliment slip with ‘Met Police’ printed at the top and a couple of sentences scrawled in blue Biro beneath.
Ms Carey, we were asked to pass on this information. Kind regards.
There is no signature.
Neve flicks the switchboard over to automatic and feels her heartbeat kick faster as she unclips the compliment slip and looks at the letter beneath.
The paper is thick and creamy; official-looking. The letterhead says ‘Beswick, Robinson, Carter, Meade, Solicitors and Commissioners of Oaths’.
The address is in Salisbury.
Neve quickly unfolds the letter, ignoring the lights that have started to flash insistently on the switchboard.
Dear Ms Carey
We have been instructed to act on behalf of trustees of the will of Miss Isabelle Shawcross, who died on 21st December 2016.
We would be very grateful if you could ring the office and arrange a time to come in at your convenience to discuss a matter that relates to these instructions.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
L. Meade (Solicitor)
At first, all she feels is relief. Seeing the police logo, and then the solicitor’s header, she’d had a terrible feeling of having been found guilty of some crime she doesn’t remember committing. She stole a traffic cone, drunkenly, a couple of years ago and for a strange moment had been sure they were finally coming for her.
The switchboard is lit up like the flight deck of a 747 now so she forces herself to pick up the phone and start routing calls where they need to go. She isn’t concentrating and one caller comes back to switchboard, annoyed at being sent to the IT office, rather than the post room as they had requested.
All the while her mind buzzes with questions.
How did the solicitor’s firm get her name? The police, presumably. That was easy enough to answer. But why on earth did this solicitor want to see her?
It couldn’t be that she has been left something in her will, because they only met just before she died. Neve doesn’t know much about it, but she knows wills have to be signed and witnessed well in advance of someone’s death.
So what else can it be?
Realization dawns and she actually says, ‘Oh,’ out loud.
Of course. The family want to speak to her, as the last person to be with Isabelle. To thank her? Or to have a go at her? Why didn’t she stop her from jumping and so on. As if she hasn’t tortured herself with that thought enough.
Neve shudders and scrunches the letter up before throwing it neatly into her recycling bin.
She doesn’t tell anyone about it over the next week. Miri never seems to be around and she knows exactly what Lou would say. She’d go on about ‘the right thing to do’ and guilt trip Neve like she always does. So she leaves it, not expecting to hear anything further.
But a week later, another letter arrives in the post.
Dear Ms Carey
Further to my letter of 15th January regarding the estate of the late Miss Isabelle Shawcross, we would be extremely grateful if you could call the office. We urgently need to discuss a matter that relates to these instructions.
We look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
L. Meade (Solicitor)
This time the person who has signed the police slip has written, We would be grateful if you could attend to this. We cannot pass on personal information under The Freedom of Information Act 2000 but this is no longer a police matter and we have limited resources in terms of fielding enquiries. Thank you for your consideration.
Neve is in the hallway, having arrived home from work as she opens this one.
Sighing, she takes her phone into the study to make the call.
Two days later, she is on a train to Salisbury.
The solicitor wouldn’t explain over the phone. But she insisted it was in Neve’s interests to come to the office to discuss this in person. ‘In your interests’. Those were the exact words. It’s all very mysterious.
Neve drains the last of the coffee she bought at Waterloo and looks out of the window as the tightly packed buildings of south London change to Surrey commuter towns and then green fields.
She has a book, something Lou has foisted upon her, which looks a bit worthy, and a copy of Grazia, which she can’t be bothered to read either. Squeezing her earbuds into her ears, she plays Tom Odell on her phone and tries to settle into the journey.
Neve would have liked to have done this the above-board way.
But there was simply no chance that she would have been allowed a day off so soon after the Christmas holidays. So at seven a.m. she had sent her direct boss, office manager Kate, a short text saying, So sorry. Food poisoning from a curry! Bleurgh! Been up all night. Better stay close to a toilet today!
Which, thinking about it, might have sounded a bit desperate. Daniel, who was a maestro at telling lies like this, always said she needed to keep it simple. But being naturally honest, she always felt the need to embellish.
The bad night’s sleep part was true anyway. She’d been lying in bed worrying about money the night before. Neve managed not to think about money too much, as a rule. It was a necessary evil, and that was all. She had no real desire to be rich, but she wasn’t someone prepared to rough it either. She and Daniel had spent a few nights in a squat when they were first together and she vividly remembered how miserable it had been, lying in a smelly room and feeling colder than she had ever been in her life.
But yesterday she’d had another automated text from the bank, reminding her she had reached her overdraft limit and now being charged £1 a day for further withdrawals. The ticket to Salisbury was paid for on her credit card, but that was coming close to being maxed out.
And the worst thing was, she couldn’t tell Lou how broke she really was.
When their father had died, eighteen months ago, the sisters had inherited a small amount of money each –
