Authors: Mairi Wilson
“I explained about that!” She could feel her pulse quickening, her colour rising.
“No, you didn’t. Not really. And then running away to—”
“I haven’t run— No. No, Danny, I won’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Fight! Argue with you. Explain myself to you.”
“If only you would. Instead of leaving me to pick up the mess you leave behind.”
“I didn’t ask you to—”
“What am I meant to do? Mrs B didn’t know who else to call and I can’t just leave your flat like a bomb site or tell the police I know nothing and pretend I don’t care!”
They both fell abruptly silent, the words quivering in the air between them. She took a deep breath. This kept happening. It had to stop.
“Danny, I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I … Look, I’ll come home. I’m not sure when I can get there, or how, so it’ll be a few hours before I can organise anything, but if you could just hold the fort for me until …” Lexy sighed. She felt bad asking him, but she didn’t know what else to do. Didn’t know how to deal with this.
“No, don’t. I’ve arranged for a locksmith. Should be here soon. And I’ve calmed Mrs B down.” Danny was all practicality again, the emotion of a moment ago buried but, Lexy knew, not resolved. “I’ll tidy things up a bit, too – the police say it’s all right to do that now they’ve been in and done what they need to. And so there’s not really much else you can do even if you do come home. So stay. You might as well.”
“But Danny … I probably should …”
“I don’t understand why you went out there in the first place, Lexy, but you clearly felt you had to, so stay. Do whatever it is. I’ll take care of things here. It’s okay.”
“But what about Fizz? Won’t she—”
“No, she won’t.”
“But I thought you said—”
“Do you want my help or don’t you?” Lexy was silent. “Right. So. I’ll keep you posted if anything develops.”
Lexy tried to thank him, but the line was already dead. She hugged her knees into her chest, protecting herself against a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.
The hotel was tranquil and cool after the frenetic activity of the street outside. In a burst of enthusiasm, Lexy had ventured out on a brief excursion in an attempt to get her bearings. It had been fascinating, challenging and exhausting in equal measure. She’d seen enough to be sure already that she was going to like it here. There was a lightness, a light, that was special. But Malawi’s exuberance would take a bit of getting used to, she realised. After only an hour, hot and flushed and a little unnerved by the persistent attentions of street hawkers and shopkeepers alike, she’d returned to the hotel to regroup, the retinue of small children she’d acquired only hesitating for a moment before following her up the Residence’s driveway, giggling and gambolling towards the facade.
“You need to go now,” she said, turning to them. “I don’t think you should come in …” But the children were laughing and pushing each other and paying her no attention at all. Just like her class at home.
Barney appeared beside her, clapped his hands and rattled off something she couldn’t understand and they ran, laughing and shouting as they raced each other back out to the street.
“Thanks, Barney. I tried ignoring them, but they just kept coming.”
“They don’t mean harm, Miss Shaw, just nosey.”
“Oh, I’m sure. My fault really. Probably should just have gone for a walk in the hotel grounds.”
“Yes ma’am, but not so much fun, eh?”
“No,” she admitted, “not so much. Right, tea, I think.” Lexy stepped into the shade of the portico, but Barney quickly moved in front of her.
“On the verandah perhaps, Miss Shaw? You can come this way.” He indicated that she should step back outside and led her to a path that ran round the hotel. “The lobby’s very busy this afternoon. Lots of people, waiting for certain guests to come back.”
“Ah.” Lexy thought she understood. “Some of our consular officials possibly?”
“I think so, ma’am.” Barney, it seemed, was a useful ally.
Settled comfortably as before at a corner table out of sight of any casual glance from the hotel dining room, Lexy ordered her tea. She would have liked to have showered or at least splashed water on her face first, but the thought of running into the Pendleton man again, who, if she was to understand Barney correctly, was lying in wait for her in the lobby, was more than ample reason to put up with feeling a little limp and grimy.
Her walk had been more arduous than she’d expected, true, but it had been dazzling. She’d loved it. She’d seen documentaries and news features about Africa and had an idea of what it might be like, but nothing had prepared her for the full-frontal assault on her senses that hour walking through the town had been. Africa in 3D. The smells of spices and fruits as she’d walked through the market a welcome relief after the rank aftermath of the fish market being hosed down by a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a pair of mismatched wellingtons, a pack of thin cats watching and prowling in and out of each other, as if dancing a feline cotillion. The noise too. From all directions, an untuned orchestra of instruments jamming together to create a soundscape that lifted her spirits and reminded her of what it was to be alive, to be searching, to be of the world rather than spectating. Colours in motion, swaying bodies carrying baskets and bundles on high heads, buses overflowing like spilt paint pots, batik fluttering like bunting from a washing line. And blazing down on everything, the sun: its heat, the feel of it drenching her clothes, firing her skin, dust drying in her eyes, her throat. She was exhausted, yes, but exhilarated, energised by her walk in a way she’d never been by the drab, familiar streets of her London suburb. Already she knew her mother would have loved it, and she wished Izzie had brought her here to share it with her, let her see it through her mother’s eyes. Had her mother walked that street, come here to take tea in this oasis of elegance, just as she herself was doing? She wanted to believe so.
She pulled her notebook from her bag, and as she sipped the last of her tea, she browsed through the pages, edges crinkled from their champagne bath, but the notes she’d made on the plane intact. She’d tried to make sense of Ursula’s affairs as summarised in the Manila folder, not to be confused with the tea-stained one she’d found under Ursula’s chair. That one looked much more personal and interesting but would have to wait.
The Manila Folder
. It should be the title of a “jolly good adventure for girls” by Enid Blyton perhaps, or a Bogart and Bacall movie, or a Graham Greene novel. Any of them would be much more appealing than what it actually was: the sum total of a life lived by a woman Lexy knew very little about but who had bequeathed her all her worldly goods, along with the story that wove them together – unintentionally, it was true, but Lexy owed it to her mother to take it seriously. It weighed heavily on her mind both as a responsibility to the dead and as a clue to the living. She was sure she’d find the trail to Ursula’s son somewhere in the Manila folder if she looked carefully enough.
She started to make sense of her notes. Most of her questions related to three areas. First, and perhaps most straightforward, there was the ‘Ross-shire property’ Ms Hamilton had dropped in as a parting shot at the end of their meeting. Paperwork documented its purchase and then a few years later a lease had been drawn up, although the copy in the folder was unsigned, the space for the tenant name blank. Nothing since. Did that mean the property had been let for a period, and if so, was it still tenanted? Or had Ursula changed her mind and the lease was just there should she need it at a future date? And where and what exactly was this property? It was referred to by name, Taigh na Mara, but nothing more, and that was hardly helpful. For some obscure, forgotten reason Lexy knew the name meant house of the sea in Scots Gaelic, but given the miles and miles of ragged coastline in that part of the world, it was likely to be as popular a house name up there as Dunroamin for Scots exiled anywhere else. Not exactly unique, in other words.
Second, Ms Hamilton had also referred to financial arrangements between Ursula and her son. Apart from the obvious question here, as to the son’s identity, Lexy had been unable to find any trace of these payments in Ursula’s bank statements, the most recent copies of which had been included for each of the three accounts: current, savings and some sort of investment account. In amongst the post she’d brought with her from Ursula’s flat, there’d been a credit card statement and some correspondence relating to Ursula’s pension but nothing to suggest there was another account of any sort anywhere. So what exactly were these payments? And in which direction did they flow between Ursula and her son? There was no regular unexplained debit or credit to give any clue. But follow the money, they said, and she’d find it somehow. It was her best chance of tracing the mystery man.
And finally, there were a series of what appeared to be share certificates for the Buchanan Trading Company, all dated more than thirty years ago. Lexy had no idea what they might be worth, or what to do about them, or even if she could do anything. A note on the lawyer’s summary cover sheet referenced them as ‘held in trust for RBM’, but she hadn’t been able to find any further reference to RBM in the folder. Who or what was RBM, and did this mean she’d become a trustee of some sort through this inheritance? Ursula’s inheritance, it seemed, came with responsibilities for someone, or something, Lexy didn’t know. But the lawyers would.
She glanced at her watch. Time to go. She could phone Ms Hamilton later. She should probably let her know where she was staying in Malawi anyway. Perhaps their office here would have completed the summary of Ursula’s Malawi interests by now and Lexy could deal with them on that directly, although the thought of yet more lawyers and complexities didn’t fill her with cheer. Was this what death was all about, she thought bitterly, lawyers and “interests”? It seemed such a brutal way to package up a life, a loved one. She stood up quickly, snatched up her notebook and squared her shoulders.
Stay focused.
She had work to do, and right now, that meant an appointment with Dr Campbell of Blantyre Hospital.
The reception area was cool and calm. Lexy was impressed. She’d expected something noisier, busier, more like A&E on a television programme. But here, on a warm June afternoon, staff in pristine uniforms passed almost silently through the rows of benches and seats, collecting patients, returning them, handling their family and friends in reassuring, well-modulated tones. If all Malawi’s hospitals were like this, Lexy wondered why her parents had ever returned to the UK.
“Miss Shaw?” An efficient-looking woman in a black skirt and glowing white blouse stood in front of her. “I’m Dr Campbell’s secretary. Audrey Lanakela.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lexy said as she rose and extended her hand.
“And I you.” Audrey inclined her head, then led the way down wide, tiled corridors. “Dr Campbell’s in theatre, but he’ll be finished shortly. You can wait in his office.”
As they walked, Audrey’s polite questions prompted Lexy to explain why she was here, where she’d come from and, Lexy realised, almost everything about the last few weeks of her life. Impressive. CID could learn a thing or two.
They climbed a short staircase that opened onto a balcony running around an interior patio similar to that in Lexy’s hotel but more functional, and without the plants and soft lighting. Again, though, doors opened off each side of the rectangle and Audrey stopped in front of one bearing Dr Campbell’s name engraved on a brass plate that glimmered like gold.
“Here we are. Please.” Audrey showed Lexy in and indicated one of two rattan sofas facing each other across a low coffee table. There was nothing on the glittering glass surface, not even a fingerprint as far as Lexy could see. In fact, there was nothing on any of the surfaces in the office.
“Can I get you anything, Miss Shaw?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine. It’s amazingly tidy in here.”
Audrey beamed at the observation. “He’s hardly ever here, so it’s easy enough to keep things in order. Dr Campbell spends most of his non-clinical time in his research lab – and that’s a very different story. Overflowing with papers and equipment and goodness knows what. No one’s allowed to touch anything there – I believe it’s a dismissable offence even to try.”
Realising it was expected of her, Lexy laughed. “That explains it. Because doctors are said to be the most untidy individuals on the planet, after all.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever worked for Dr Campbell.”
“Really?”
Was that a touch of reproval in Audrey’s voice? Had she thought Lexy was being critical or was it simply that humour was not to be reciprocated? Lexy decided to be cautious just in case. “I would say he’s very fortunate.” Silence. She ploughed on. “And how long is it that you’ve been with him?”
“Nearly ten years now, ever since—” Audrey stopped abruptly, leaving Lexy intrigued.
“Since … ?”
“I finished school.” Audrey busied herself brushing imaginary dust from the top of a bookcase, then straightening the already straight books on one of the shelves.
“Well, if his office is anything to go by, he’s lucky to have you.” Lexy knew she’d been fobbed off and hoped the compliment would smooth over any offence her question may have caused.
Curiosity killed the cat.
Her mother was back.
“He’s a brilliant man, you know.” Audrey’s features were relaxed and smiling again. “He’s been so good to my family. Without him …” She trailed off and again Lexy’s curiosity rumbled like hunger, but before she could think of a tactful way to find out more, Audrey was leaving.
“Well, I must get on.” Audrey clicked a switch and the ceiling fan began to stir. “Will you be comfortable here?”
“Yes, thank you. Perfectly.” The door shut quietly and Lexy was alone.
So this Dr Campbell was something of a hero, to the devoted Audrey and her family at least, Lexy mused, deciding that the efficient Audrey was suffering from a monumental crush on her boss. The passion of those tight-laced PAs should never be underestimated. He
had
to be related to the Dr Campbell in Ursula’s photo album, didn’t he? Too much of a coincidence, otherwise. Lexy had to find a way of asking without appearing to interrogate him before he’d had a chance to take on board the fact that Ursula was dead. Exercise tact, restraint. Neither were her strong points.