It happened on the morning of Kenneth Murchison’s funeral. Over the previous few months Charlie, ably assisted by Melisa, had been Ken’s principal carer. He’d asked her to be his executor, but had produced no Will. He simply handed her a smallish package to be opened only after his demise. She’d had me place it in the safe.
Now, on our way to the crematorium with myself at the wheel, she asked to stop by Ken’s flat to check on something or other. As I pulled up and parked, we found ourselves next to a police patrol car containing two male officers casually chatting. Charlie asserted; ‘Somethings up, I recognise one of them. An Inspector Dobson.’
As we locked the vehicle and made towards the apartment, Dobson lowered his window and said; ‘Ms Sparkwell, there’s a gentleman checking out old Murchison’s flat, one of the funnies, court order and all that, we’re just here to maintain the peace, shout if he’s any trouble.’
The front door was open, but didn’t appear to have been forced. ‘Halt! Who goes there?’ Said Charlie, as we tentatively entered.
‘Friend or foe?’ I added for good measure!
I recognised the figure, wearing hat and gloves, who emerged from the bedroom, it said; ‘You are Charlotte Sparkwell. And you, Mr Arlington, we’ve met before. Just routine, no cause for alarm.’
‘Who the hell are you and what do you want?’ She demanded.
‘Standard procedure, when a former employee dies. Can’t be sure they haven’t hung-on to something they shouldn’t have, as it were.’
‘His name is Wieck, Casper Wieck, retired former something or other, with the same, not so secret organisation, which once employed Daphne’s daddy.’ I added helpfully.
‘They asked me to step-in, fact is I’m the last to remember working with Kenneth, odd fellow. Not thought to be one hundred per cent, one of us. Still, all appears as it should be. I’ve tried to make it all look undisturbed, alas, not as decorous as I used to be. Well, I’ll be on my way. Good day to you both.’ At which point he doffed his hat to Charlie for a split second, before toddling off.
And after a pause I said; ‘Well, clearly, he hasn’t taken anything. One up to Ken then.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I assume anything worth retrieving is in our safe!’
‘But I thought that would be a Will, letters and things.’
‘Bit heavy for just that!’
It was a modest sending off. Charlie and myself, Melisa and Daphne plus a few from the book club. But just as we were waiting for the service to begin, I felt a hand on my right shoulder. Turning my head, I saw the other hand on Charlie’s left shoulder. A bowed head said; ‘The funeral pyre is traditional for the nomad.’ Then Wieck sat down behind us.
Funerals are for the living I thought to myself. I’m not much one for church attendance, births, deaths and marriages of course, otherwise I’m a bit of a Christmas and Easter Anglican. Just following the habits of parents, aunts and school really. As the service proceeded, I was distracted by thoughts of the last time I had been sat there. On that occasion the only persons present had been Kenneth and myself, apart from the lady vicarage of course. All three of us masked, there to bare witness to Aunt Elisabeth’s final journey, everyone else had to parade outside in the cold.
Afterwards we held a modest wake at our place. Wieck not invited. And after they’d all gone, I asked; ‘When do you want to open Ken’s parcel?’
‘Soon-ish.’ She replied. ‘Right now, I’m thinking about the garden, we’ll need some expertise to keep us on track, otherwise it will just go into decline again. We’re already behind.’
‘Is Mel still seeing young Timothy?’
‘Yes, but he’s full-time on his course. Probably already fed up with people asking him to do their gardens.’
‘Then offer him a deal.’
‘What kind of deal?’
‘Well, you get Melisa to make the approach of course. She tells him something like; “You’re meant to be getting experience in all sorts of environments, well I know someone who could get you into lots of different gardens, and behind the scenes at a garden centre. In fact, I know they need a bit of help with their own Victorian garden etc...” You know, that sort of crack.’
‘You’d have to pay him!’
‘Of course, but it would also give Mel an excuse to keep drifting around.’
‘Always the art of the deal, do you ever do anything without the expectation of a favour in return?’
‘Reciprocity is everything.’
‘Okay, open the safe.’ Said Charlie that evening. When I handed her Ken’s modest parcel, she added; ‘We’ll open it at the kitchen table, more appropriate. Can I borrow your best scissors, this is seriously taped-up.’
I watched as Charlie struggled with the tightly packed package, after a few minutes she said; ‘You do it!’ I stuck at one end and eventually managed to slide out the contents. Looking up, her expression seemed to say carry on. There were three items, wrapped around by a fourth, a paper document. It turned out to be a Will, drawn up by a local solicitor about ten years previous. It appointed them as executors and stated that Kenneth Murchison wished to leave all his worldly goods to Mrs Elisabeth Hayward.
‘What do we do?’
‘Give it to Bernard, let him see how far he can get on our behalf. Meanwhile maintain his flat as it is, send any bills to Lawrence.’
Next there was an old plastic pocket photo album. Glancing through, it appeared to be a sort of portable aide-memoir to Ken’s life, starting in childhood and ending with a few snaps taken by Charlie in the garden. About half way through there was a black and white of Ken and another man standing on a flat roof in some tropical location, behind them was an old radio transmitter tower and various antennae. Fascinatingly, Ken appeared to be dressed in a GPO telephone engineer’s uniform from the nineteen sixties. Charlie asked; ‘Where’s that? When was that?’
‘Who knows, there may be writing on the back of some, or all of them. He did say he’d once got as far as Singapore.’
Finally, there were two battered passports, Charlie casually open one; ‘Oh my God, take a dekko at this, he looks a bit like you!’
‘I beg your pardon? Oh, my lord, oh my ears and whiskers.’ I looked at the second. ‘Why the hell didn’t he talk this through?’
‘What?’
But by now I was intrigued. I quickly scanned both documents back to front; ‘Eh, we have, two seemingly genuine, Swiss passports issued in the mid-seventies, but with false names, at least I hope they are!’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because one features a photo of my father, the other of my mother.’
After a pause she asked; ‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Wait here.’ I ran upstairs and fished around in the bottom of my desk.
Upon my return I switched off the kitchen light and turned on my little device. She asked; ‘What’s that?’
‘Mini UV light.’ I started to scan the passports page by page.
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Invisible writing. Or rather numbers to be more precise.’
‘You think your parents might have been spies?’
‘Oh, no! I’m looking for bank account numbers, hidden assets!’
