Page 4 of Fe
Making beans on toast added a little warmth to the room. Eating them, warmed Fen. His bedsit faced the street, but there was an office on the other side of the wall that belonged to the betting shop. Sometimes he wished he had a neighbour that lived there but then again, it meant there was never any noise in the evenings, though a fair amount on Saturdays.
After he’d eaten, he had a cup of tea, no milk, he was supposed to avoid dairy products, and carefully went through his purchases. Most of the picture frames were modern and in good condition. One was silver. He took them apart to check under the backing but found nothing hidden, no money—it had been known—or X-marks-the-spot treasure maps—he lived in hope.
The stamp album was interesting, if you were into stamps, though not many people were these days. Fen checked for a Mauritius Post Office stamp, just in case, because that would be a life changer, but he suspected this was a child’s collection, though it was old. Maybe the contents of the album were worth a bit more research. Same with the coins. There were a couple of interesting-looking Roman ones.
The man in the car saying the box shouldn’t have been sold still niggled him. Fen would have to decide what to do about that because he had a feeling the guy wasn’t going to give up. The auction house wouldn’t release Fen’s details, but they might contact him to ask him to return the lot. A thought that made him check for a missed call, but there was nothing.
The little painting looked Victorian. It was an original. A mother sitting on a highbacked chair, a small boy standing next to her. They were always so stiff, Victorian portraits and photographs. He understood why no-one smiled on the photos because they had to keep still while the shutter was open, but why not smile for a painting?
This one might be worth something if he could find out who painted it and who these people were. Did the frame hide a signature? He could take off the back and look. Except even as he’d thought it, he didn’t feel comfortable about doing that anymore. He no longer felt as if any of these things belonged to him, even though he’d acquired them legally.
The wooden box, the one item he’d really wanted, was lovely even with the damaged inlay. And it was locked. Fen huffed. He hadn’t noticed that it was partly a puzzle box. Repairing the top and a dodgy hinge wouldn’t be difficult, but getting into the box might be. If he could open the top part, it might enable him to deal with the puzzle part of it.
He pushed to his feet and brought over his bag of tricks. He kept some of his tools here, the rest at work. It took him a few minutes to click open the lock. Inside was a small velvet bag and in the bag was a medal. Not just any medal. The George Cross.Wow.Fen had never held one before. It was awarded for acts of great heroism in circumstances of extreme danger. The name of the recipient was engraved on the rim. Russell Belmont. Was he a relation of the man in the car?
Fen typed into Google…Russell Belmont George Cross.Once he’d started to read, he couldn’t stop. Belmont had received the medal for valour shown in withstanding torture at the hands of Communist forces during the Korean War. When Fen read what he’d been through, he was horrified. This medalhadto be returned to the man’s family. And all the other things too.
But he wanted his money back.
2
Ripley had not had a good day. One fucking bad thing coming on top of another, and a headache that wouldn’t quit. He used his remote to open the garage and drove inside. It was a few streets away from the late Georgian Islington town house he called home and he got soaked walking back. Though probably not as soaked as the young man with the crutch. Ripley had felt bad about splashing him, then less guilty when he’d refused to give back the box.
Now he’d had time to calm down, he could see he’d not been reasonable or charitable. He blamed his headache but mostly blamed his mother who’d set the bad day in motion. Ripley wanted to strangle her, though that was nothing new. He’d been on his way to court that morning when he’d had the first of two calls from his mother’s companion, Petra, telling him that unbeknownst to her, his mother had sent several items off to auction, including pieces of furniture.
Ripley was rarely lost for words. Words were all important in his job as a barrister, along with determination, stamina, self-motivation, self-discipline and nerves of bloody steel. In truth, the words hadn’t been lost. They’d all been there, furiously bubbling away in his brain, but they weren’t words suitable for screaming down the phone at the long-suffering Petra. Particularly because he really didn’t want Petra to quit. Finding someone to look after his…extremely difficult mother was a task he didn’t want to have to do again. Ever. An exhausting, frustrating and annoying waste of time…especially because until Petra, none of the women his mother had eventually deemed acceptable had lasted longer than two months. One hadn’t made it through an entire day. Then again, Ripley understood, he really did.
Get me this. Fetch me that. Do you actually know how to make tea? Why are you wearing that awful shirt? Did you wipe your feet when you came in?Get your hair cut. Don’t interrupt me. You make an awful noise when you’re eating.All in the space of an hour.
So he’d swallowed what he’d wanted to say to Petra, taken a deep breath and spoken in the quiet, measured tone he used on juries, asking her to explain how his mother had snuck furniture out of the house without her noticing. Except Petra hadn’t answered, she’d cried and cried. Ripley had felt a moment of sympathy. Just one. And it didn’t last long. He’d got the name of the auction company out of her and hung up.
Ripley unlocked his door and stepped in out of the rain.Paracetamol!He hung up his coat, kicked off his shoes and headed for the kitchen. After he’d washed two tablets down with a glass of water, he slumped on the couch and closed his eyes.
Thanks to his powers of persuasion the auction company had waived their withdrawal fee and removed from sale all the items they’d collected from his mother’s. Ripley had paid for them to be returned to the house. He could have argued about the cost of that. Whoever had been out to speak to his mother had taken advantage of her.
Though that deduction made him uneasy. He doubted anyone could take advantage of her. Ripley wasn’t at all sure she was suffering from the degree of absentmindedness she claimed. She only brought up dementia when she wanted something and was quite capable of having done all this to provoke a reaction and get him to visit her. After all, she’d been sharp enough to have arranged for the furniture to be viewed and collected while Petra was out.
Which brought on another thought. Had Petra colluded with her? How had she not noticed the missing items? Some of them weren’t exactly small. Had those tears been fake? He stopped himself going down that path. That was the trouble with being a barrister, you questioned everything, including yourself.
Ripley leaned back, willing his headache to fade. Petra’s second call in the afternoon had been more significant. Part of him thought his mother could do what she liked with the contents of the house. It wasn’t as if he wanted them, but he knew some items were valuable and he didn’t want her to get cheated. But Petra had discovered a box of items missing from what had been Ripley’s bedroom and she was worried it had gone off to auction too. He’d thanked her for letting him know, ended the call and then clenched his teeth almost hard enough to crack the enamel. When a call to the auction house had gone unanswered, Ripley had driven there as fast as traffic allowed.
The auction house had been under no obligation to tell him who’d bought the lot, which was indeed a box belonging to him, nor that the buyer had only just left.You might catch him. He walks with a crutch.Except there his luck had run out.Bloody stroppy guy. Bloody stroppy cute-looking guy.Though Ripley would be seeing him again. Hehadto have that box back. The only reason it had not been in Islington was because Ripley was fighting with his memories.
By the time he’d showered and put his dinner in the oven, his headache had miraculously gone and he decided to use his exercise bike. He needed to ride off his frustration. Within minutes, he was wishing he had a new bike. Not a road bike, he didn’t have a death wish. No, what he wanted was a more technical static bike with a choice of interactive trails. Then, when he was exercising, he could choose whether to tackle an alpine switchback or perhaps enjoy the white-knuckle terror of the Amalfi coast or even negotiate one of those off-road mountainous routes in South America that looked so dangerous he wasn’t sure he’d have even chosen to walk along them, let alone ride a bike. Ripley liked his terror carefully managed.
Using his current exercise bike for forty-five minutes was boring as hell whether he was listening to music or not. So, a new bike it would be. It was near enough to Christmas and it was the only thing he’d get that he actually wanted, because he didn’t count whatever his mother settled on. Socks or scarf. Never anything he’d wear and he usually gave them to his cleaner to take to a charity shop or whatever. He didn’t care. Ripley knew the old adage—it’s the thought that counts—but his mother put no effort into a gift for him and never had.
Though to be honest, did he? He bought the same thing every year, but a large hamper from Fortnum and Mason’s was at least something he knew she’d appreciate. Even so, she managed to complain about something inside it.Why would I want capers?
Last Christmas Day, things had been very…Oh God. Don’t!Much to Ripley’s annoyance and disappointment, a lump formed in his throat. He thought he was done with that sort of discomfort, of being brought low by remembering Alejandro. Clearly not. Burying memories in a box, locking it and throwing away an imaginary key had failed. Sticking a box of physical memories in a wardrobe in another house had failed too.
Ripley found himself cycling faster. Thinking about Alejandro would pull him onto a path he couldn’t afford to take. So he turned up the volume of the music pouring into his ears and Bon Jovi’sIt’s My Lifedrowned everything, including the ability to think.
The following morning, he stepped out of his house with his rolling briefcase and carried it down the steps to the waiting car.
“Morning, Harry.”
The rear door was opened for him.
