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Kate stamped on the ground, jarring her already sore foot. ‘You are not taking my bag, do you hear me?’ She swung the bag and hit him with it. ‘Do I make myself understood? I’m sick to death of selfish men thinking they can take whatever they want. Use me. Expect me to pay off their debts and then bugger off with another woman!’ It felt good to release some of the rage that had been building since that day when bailiffs had turned up on her doorstep.
She stood there defiantly, with her hands on her hips. ‘So go on then, stab me.’
The man must have sensed she wasn’t backing down and he ran off, sporting a bit of a limp, which did at least give her some satisfaction.
‘Nutter!’ he shouted back, before disappearing round the corner.
‘Right, ’cause I’m the one who’s unhinged!’ she yelled after him.
And then the pain registered with her brain. A tsunami of signals flooded her senses, alerting her to her battered state. Her foot hurt from kicking the wall, her chest hurt from the sudden burst of unaccustomed exercise and her ribs ached from being kicked.
With no fight left in her, she collapsed against the wall and slid to the ground, panting and clutching her ribcage. Wet seeped through her suit jacket and increased the intensity ofher shivering. It was official: her life could not possibly get any worse.
Then she reached up and felt the back of her aching head, and a wave of nausea flashed through her when she saw the blood. She tried to stand, but the queasiness made her dizzy and she had to lean against the wall to steady herself.
However badly she was hurt, she had to get home. If she waited around any longer, it would only be a matter of time before some other lowlife took a pot shot at her and finished her off completely.
Staggering back up the lane, doing a first-class impression of a drunken football hooligan, she briefly wondered whether she should call the police. But what could she tell them, other than he had a London accent and body odour? It would be just another unsolved crime, a statistic to add to the many other attacks that occurred on the city’s streets.
As her chest tightened and her breathing turned ragged, she dug out her phone and called her cousin.
Above her, a firework exploded into the night sky.
Remember, remember, the fifth of November.
Well, she wasn’t likely to bloody-well forget it, was she?
Chapter Two
Tuesday, 16thNovember
When The Rose Court Care Home came into view, Calvin Johnson slowed to halt and gazed up at the grey stone building, with its tall ornate windows and eerie Gothic roofline. A sense of dread settled over him, as he anticipated what awaited him inside. If he’d known what being the executor of his great-uncle Bert’s estate entailed, he would have stayed in Leeds and not agreed to take it on, but it was too late now: he was stuck with it.
His plan had been to pick up his uncle’s paperwork and return to his home town within a day of arriving. But that was before he’d realised his uncle’s records predated electronic storage. Instead of a few files and uploading stuff onto memory sticks, he’d discovered piles of dusty old ledgers filled with his uncle’s loopy handwriting – beautiful to gaze at, but totally indecipherable. He couldn’t even fit a third of the ledgers into his Mazda coupe. They filled an entire room – and not a small room: a huge period library with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that required one of those stepladders on wheels to reach the top.
He’d also found the place in a state of disrepair and with only a handful of staff looking after the residents. Watching their acute exhaustion as they tried to manage everything meant there was no way he could just turn around and leave. Which was why he was still here, regretting getting involved and desperately trying to find a solicitor prepared to take on the case, so he could escape back to Leeds.
He walked through the iron gates and past the gargoyle statues perched on matching stone pillars. They were ugly things, with pointy ears and razor-sharp teeth. Not exactly afitting advert for a care home, even if it did fit with the area’s spooky reputation.
The quaint village of Pluckley was filled with a range of period oast houses and historical buildings. The kind of place that attracted ramblers, and people with an interest in National Trust properties and afternoon teas. It also claimed to be England’s most haunted village, housing seventeen resident ghosts – one of which lived in the care home – hence the gargoyles: a warning to anyone approaching.
The care home had formerly been a hunting lodge, built in the early sixteenth century, and had housed various dukes and baronets over the years. Nestled in the Kent countryside, and surrounded by woodland and fields, it was certainly an appealing place to spend your latter years. Sadly, such an old building required a lot of upkeep and expense, and as he was discovering, there was no money – only debts.
Hanna Wozniak was waiting for him the moment he stepped over the threshold. The large wooden door creaked on opening, so it was impossible to sneak in undetected – something he’d discovered during the last three days, when he’d done his best to avoid the formidable head nurse. She was like a bloodhound, determined and unrelenting.
He’d only managed to sneak out this morning because she’d been preoccupied with handing out medication to the residents and hadn’t seen him sliding out the back door. It wasn’t exactly brave, but he’d needed space to get his head around the gigantic problem that had landed in his lap. A problem that seemed to be growing in magnitude with every new piece of information he discovered.
‘You avoid me,’ Hanna said, her Polish accent the only indication that English was her second language. She was standing with her arms folded across her chest. ‘We need to talk. You not leave again. I need answers.’
Except he didn’t have any answers, only more questions – like how he was supposed to apply for probate when he didn’t understand the forms and he couldn’t find a solicitor willing to take on the case.
All the law firms he’d approached had declined to offer representation, waffling on about ‘billable hours’ and ‘no liquid assets’. On paper the estate had a decent amount of equity, including several leasehold flats in London, a few garage blocks and the care home property in Kent, which alone was worth a packet. But that wasn’t enough to persuade the solicitors, who had wanted a hefty retainer upfront – something he didn’t have – to compensate for months of hard graft before seeing any commission.
‘I have list of grievances,’ Hanna said, producing a piece of paper from her pocket. Her jet-black hair was shaved on one side and dyed bright blue – the same blue as her nurse uniform. Her eyes were lined with black kohl and her ears had several piercings, the silver chains linking each one like chain mail. With her deathly pale skin and thick dark eyebrows, she looked scary as hell. But the residents loved her, and he’d been assured that she wasn’t as fierce as she appeared, but he wasn’t convinced.
‘Staff not paid for five months.Five months,’ she said, holding up five splayed fingers, like he couldn’t count. ‘How do you expect us to live?’
‘I’m really sorry,’ he said, knowing it was a feeble response, but unable to offer anything more useful. He’d done nothing but apologise since he’d arrived, but he had no idea what he was doing. Something which was becoming acutely apparent to the care home staff who, he realised, had hoped his arrival signified the end of their woes. If only. ‘As soon as funds become available, everyone will get paid, I promise.’
