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‘When are you telling the police what you know?’ Her body tenses and she doesn’t reply. ‘Connie?’ I continue. ‘You are going to tell them, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, just not yet. I don’t have enough proof.’
‘Let them find the proof, that’s their job. Just tell them what you told me and they’ll do the rest.’
‘I have one chance to make them believe me, Walter. If I can’t convince them I’m right, they’re not going to listen to me again.’
‘You don’t know that. I’m sure you have enough evidence to make them at least look into it.’
She shakes her head but I don’t understand her reluctance. Is there more to what she knows than she’s letting on? I suspect Connie is good at keeping secrets. None of us really bought into her excuse as to why she was uncontactable when Gwen died. I have a well-honed bullshit radar, Paul notwithstanding. I spent the first thirty-five years of my life in the closet, so I know when someone is being economical with the truth. ‘So what are you going to do then?’ I continue.
She takes a long sip of her tea before she answers. ‘If I tell you, Walter, you’ll try and talk me out of it.’
‘Probably, but give me a go.’
By the time she finishes explaining, I’m already waggling my finger from side to side so quickly, I fear I might do myself a mischief.
CHAPTER 37
JON BROWN
I’m at my desk in the office when the phone rings. It’s an international dialling code but I don’t recognise the rest of the number so I don’t answer. Being based in Dubai but having an English- network registered phone doesn’t stop me from getting those irritating call centre enquiries telling me I’m entitled to compensation for a car accident I’ve never had.
As I try to regain my train of thought and type up yesterday’s notes on the apartment I surveyed in Palm Jumeirah, the phone rings again. I cancel the call but they’re persistent and it happens again. I answer it with an irritated ‘Hello’. There’s a pause before a female voice begins. It’s British and it doesn’t sound automated.
‘Is that Mr Jon Brown?’ she asks. She sounds apprehensive.
‘Who’s this?’
‘You don’t know me.’
‘Then why are you calling?’
‘It’s about your mum, Fran.’
Now she has my attention. Something must have happened to her. Mum wears a bracelet with a button that she’s supposed topress if she needs assistance after a fall or if she gets ill. The operator has my number, and those of two neighbours who they can call if she needs help. ‘Has something happened to her?’
‘No, not yet.’
That sounds vaguely like a threat. I pull off my glasses and scratch at the stubble under my chin.
‘You recently contacted a charity that provides workmen for the elderly,’ she says. ‘Help for Homes. Is that right?’
I did. After Mum was diagnosed with vascular dementia following her second stroke, I flew back and tried to talk her into moving into an assisted living home. I’d even found her the perfect place in the same area of Northampton where she lives now, to make the transition smoother. Even though she’d have her own flat, privacy and immediate access to care if required, she was having none of it. I admit the move would’ve been partly for selfish reasons, as it’d reduce the stress you feel when you live thousands of miles away from an elderly parent. But Mum was – and remains – adamant she’ll be staying in the same house where she and Dad lived almost all their married life.
‘Look, Mr Brown, there’s a handyman the charity has paired your mum with who doesn’t have her best interests at heart.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve seen him at Fran’s house. His name is Paul Michael and he has a history of deception and dishonesty ... and much, much worse.’
‘But the charity has vouched for him.’
‘They don’t know him like I do.’
‘What, is he an ex-boyfriend or something?’
‘Absolutely not. I have no hidden agenda here; all I want to do is to protect your mum. I failed to do the same thing with mine, and I believe she’s dead because of Paul. I don’t want you to livewith the regrets that I do. So please, ask the charity to find you someone else to help her before it’s too late.’
