Page 76

Joseph staggers past his wife, somehow keeps his balance. He blinks, stares, reels. But there’s no denying reality. His mother’s car has gone.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Teri Platini meets the solicitor recommended by Brittany Moore at eleven a.m. in the lobby of the Tamarind Hotel and Spa, a few miles from Crompton.
Saul Faulkner is short, middle-aged and balding. His suit is expensive and well cut, but the impression is spoiled by leather-soled shoes that are scuffed and falling apart. He’s sweating when he arrives. He looks like a man trying to flush out last night’s alcohol or cocaine.
Teri orders a skinny latte. Saul orders a Bloody Mary with extra Tabasco.
‘Talk,’ he says. ‘I’m all ears. Like an African elephant without the trunk.’
‘Is this conversation protected?’
‘Protected?’
‘Sorry. I mean confidential.’
Saul gulps down half his Bloody Mary and wipes his mouth. ‘My elephant lips are sealed.’
‘I need you to prepare a will.’
‘Easy-peasy-Japaneasy.’
‘It’s not for me. For my partner.’
‘Is he joining this powwow?’
Teri shakes her head. ‘He’s gone AWOL. And I don’t think he’s coming back.’
Saul necks the rest of his Bloody Mary and signals the waiter for another. ‘Out of interest, how do you know this partner of yours doesn’t have a will already, drawn up by another firm?’
‘Because he’s a narcissistic shithead who thinks he’ll live for ever. And because he doesn’t have any kids, with me or anyone else.’
Saul nods, blots his forehead with a napkin. ‘If you took off my socks right now, you’d see that my toes have turned blue. Because what you’re asking for is ih-lee-gal. For the record, I couldn’t possibly involve myself with something so inherently unethical. For the record.’
The waiter arrives with a second Bloody Mary. Saul sips it, exhaling with evident satisfaction. When he puts down the glass, his lips are red with tomato juice. ‘But it’s a nice morning,’ he continues. ‘And this is a nice enough spot to cure a hangover. And you seem like nice enough company in which to do it, save for your obvious depravity. So I see no harm in indulging a fantasy.’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean that while Saul Faulkner, of unimpeachable integrity, would never contemplate something like this – even if you insisted on paying cash, and fat bundles of it – I’m happy enough to help you conduct a thought experiment, explaining all the risks of such a venture, how they might be minimized, and all the potential outcomes. I presume that this document, should it come into being, would make you the sole beneficiary of our narcissistic friend’s estate? House, cars, cuddly toys, that sort of thing?’
‘It’s a possibility.’
Teri watches a bead of sweat roll down Saul’s temple. Then she flags the waiter. This time, instead of a skinnylatte, she orders a gin and tonic. Saul smiles at that, using a napkin to wipe his face.
They talk for an hour. Saul excuses himself twice. Both times he returns to the table sweatier and more talkative than before, his pupils noticeably dilated. After his third Bloody Mary he switches to whisky. Teri orders a second G&T. By midday, she has a much clearer understanding of her options.
None are without risk. Long-term, they all depend on Angus being dead. Short-term, the outlook is even more uncertain.
Saul tosses back the dregs of his drink. ‘The brother is going to be your problem. You realize that, yes?’
Teri’s cheeks and forehead throb, still raw from her tumble across Thornecroft’s gravel drive. ‘Let him try his worst.’
‘Did he do that?’ he asks, indicating her swollen face, her split lip.
‘It’s the last time he ever will.’
Saul’s grin widens. ‘I like you, Teri Platini. You’re like a mouse with the balls of a wild horse.’ He blinks, frowns. ‘Confusing image, I’ll admit.’