Nicci French - What to do When Someone Dies

‘I’ll be very careful of it.’

I drove Gwen’s car home and parked it outside the gate, then let myself into the house. It was so empty, so silent, so cheerless. I wandered from room to room, picking up objects and putting them down again, running my finger along shelves to collect dust. Perhaps I would move. After I came back from wherever I was going, I would put the house on the market.

I came to a halt in the chilly living room where I closed the curtains. I decided I’d light a fire to brighten it up. The basket already contained pieces of kindling and some tightly screwed up pieces of paper. We’d got into the habit of doing it with used envelopes, letters we didn’t need, scraps of paper. Greg used to talk about identity theft and that it was better than buying a shredder.

I collected a bag of coal from my work shed, then set to work, although I’d rarely lit a fire before – that had always been Greg’s task. I made meals, he made fires. I laid several of the homemade fire-lighters in the grate, then arranged kindling in a wigwam over the top before striking a match and holding the flame against one of the twists of paper. It caught quickly on the dry kindling and I immediately felt the comforting warmth on my face. I sat cross-legged in front of the fire and began to toss the little screwed-up pieces into the flames and watched as they were consumed. Some I unrolled and read. Articles in six-month-old newspapers seem more interesting when you’re about to throw them on the fire. Mostly there were useless old envelopes and letters offering to lend us money or telling us we’d won some in a competition. It struck me that these were the last traces of Greg’s ordinary daily life that were left in the house, the rubbish that surrounds all of us. I was about to toss another into the flames when something caught my eye.

It was just a fragment of handwriting scrawled on the edge of the paper but it looked familiar and I couldn’t think why. I untwisted the paper and smoothed it out.

It had the office letterhead – Foreman and Manning Accountants – but above that, in her flamboyant calligraphy, was written: ‘I’ll ring you about this – Milena Livingstone.’ And underneath the letterhead, in a different ink, a name was written over and over again. Marjorie Sutton, Marjorie Sutton, Marjorie Sutton… About twenty signatures running down the page.

I sat on the floor and held the paper in both hands, staring at it. What did it mean? The message was in Milena’s handwriting. There was no doubt about that. After my days in the office, I knew it as well as my own. And it was on a piece of paper from Greg’s office with Milena’s name on it. It was the thing I had been looking for all this time, the connection. And I was more confused than ever. Why was Marjorie Sutton’s name written on it over and over again? And what was it doing here?

I tried to remember. I thought so hard it hurt. I looked at one of the newspapers. It was from the day that Greg had died. Yes, that was it. These were the scraps from the tidying I had done that day, just before the knock on the door, before my life changed. The connection between Greg and Milena had been in my hands on the day he had died, before I knew, perhaps while he was still alive. Before I had heard of Marjorie Sutton, before I had heard of Milena, or had known her handwriting. I looked down at the crumpled sheet of paper. Suddenly it seemed fragile, as if it might crumble away and the connection would be lost for ever.

I found her number and dialled it. She seemed confused to hear from me again. She said she had told me everything she remembered.

‘Did you know a woman called Milena Livingstone?’

‘No,’ she said firmly.

‘Are you sure?’ I said. ‘You might have forgotten.’

‘It’s a funny, foreign sort of name,’ she said. ‘I would have remembered it.’

I described the piece of paper I’d found. ‘Were they your signatures?’

‘I don’t see the importance of this,’ she said, with a touch of impatience. I felt as if I was talking to a small child whose attention was wavering.

‘I think it’s very important,’ I said. ‘I’m going to take the paper to the police. They may want to ask you about it.’

‘I certainly didn’t sign any piece of paper in that way.’

‘What exactly do Greg’s company… I mean Foreman and Manning, what do they do for you?’

‘I’m not sure that’s your concern,’ she said.

‘I suppose they do your accounts.’

‘Since my husband died…’ she began.

‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

‘It was twelve years ago, thirteen almost. They handle the money side of things for me, the things my husband used to look after. I couldn’t do it myself.’

‘But there’s something about that piece of paper,’ I said. ‘It must have been connected with why Greg wanted to see you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said.

‘But have you had any trouble with the firm? Have they behaved strangely in some way? Were you having problems with them? Had you complained?’

‘No, I hadn’t. Really, Ms Falkner, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘But there must be something,’ I said, in desperation. ‘I’ve found this piece of paper, Greg wanted to see you urgently, just at the time he died. You must try to think.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I can’t help you any more.’

‘But don’t you see -’ I realized the line was dead. I couldn’t believe it. She’d actually hung up on me.

Almost in a dream, I walked through to the kitchen. I laid the paper on the table. I boiled the kettle, made coffee and stared at it as if it was a mathematical problem that would yield an answer if I thought about it hard enough. Those signatures. I was sure I’d seen something like it before, but I couldn’t think where. It was like a fragment of a story and I tried to piece it together. I’ll ring you about this. Milena Livingstone. You? Greg? Milena calls Greg? Greg calls Marjorie Sutton? Had he seen something in the note that I couldn’t? Had Milena told him something?

I looked at the coffee mug. It was empty. I refilled it. It didn’t matter now. I would take it to Ramsay. Finally it was the connection I’d been looking for. The professionals could deal with it. I found an old envelope and slipped the piece of paper inside. I put the envelope into my shoulder bag. As I was pulling on my jacket, the doorbell rang. It was Joe. I must have looked almost comically puzzled. He smiled.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was worried about you,’ he said.

‘Everybody’s worried about me. I’m fine.’

‘One of our clients phoned the office. She’s in a state. She said a woman had been ringing her and asking her strange questions.’

‘Marjorie Sutton. But you don’t need to concern yourself about me,’ I said, pulling the door shut behind me and walking towards Gwen’s car. ‘I was on my way out.’

‘The way that woman was talking, I thought you might be having some sort of breakdown. You can’t go disturbing old ladies like that.’

‘There are things I need to know.’

‘What things?’

I unlocked the car door. ‘I can’t talk,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go. One of my regular visits to the police.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I said, and then stopped myself. ‘No, thank you.’

‘Could you at least drop me at a station? I let my cab go.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘So long as you behave yourself.’

As I drove off, I half expected to feel Joe’s hand on my knee.

‘What are you seeing them about?’

I told him about the piece of paper and where I’d found it.

‘Isn’t that just a scrap of paper?’ he said.