Death Comes First

Four

She made it just in time for the pizza delivery. She put on a bright smile and bustled about the kitchen, determined not to infect the children with her fears. They had enough to contend with, grieving for their father and adjusting to life without him.

The three of them sat up at the kitchen table, but they ate their pizzas with their fingers straight from the boxes, in big drooping slices. The proper way. That was part of the fun, particularly for Fred, who was delighted to be having junk food for supper rather than the healthy home-cooked fare Joyce usually prepared.

Not long after they’d finished the meal Joyce’s mobile rang. She glanced at the screen — missed call: Henry 18.33 — then switched it off. She’d been half expecting it. Felicity must have told him about her visit the moment he stepped through the front door. Even so, Joyce hadn’t expected him to call so quickly.

A few minutes later, as Joyce was stacking the dishwasher, the house phone rang. Before Joyce could stop her, Molly picked up the nearest receiver from its bracket fixed to the kitchen wall.

‘It’s Granddad, for you, Mum,’ said Molly.

Joyce kept her back to Molly and carried on filling the dishwasher. She daren’t take his call now; he was bound to start interrogating her about her visit earlier and there was a danger she would blurt out more than she meant to. If she was going to succeed in fobbing him off, she needed time to come up with a strategy. Flustered at the thought of her daughter waiting expectantly for her to take the phone, she dropped a plate and cursed as it clattered noisily to the floor.

‘Tell him I’m about to have a bath. I’ll call him later,’ said Joyce impatiently, focusing on picking up pieces of china rather than facing her daughter. She could sense Molly’s puzzlement even without looking at her. It was unheard of for anyone to tell Henry Tanner he’d have to wait for them to call him back at their convenience.

‘Go on,’ instructed Joyce, waving both her hands at Molly.

She reminded herself that she’d only been a couple of years older than Molly when she’d hatched her plan to break away from the family fold and attend the university of her choice. She’d outplayed her father on that occasion, achieving the result she’d set her heart on even though it went against his wishes. That all seemed a lifetime ago now, but for her children’s sake Joyce knew she must dig deep and tap into that old Tanner guile. She just wasn’t ready yet.

She heard Molly repeating her words down the phone. There followed a brief conversation, with Molly responding to questions about her day at school, and telling him what kind of pizza she’d had. The usual trivial family stuff. But Molly still looked puzzled when she replaced the phone in its wall bracket.

Joyce hated asking her daughter to lie for her. Even though it was only a little fib, it went against everything she’d tried to instil in her children about the need to be honest.

‘I am going to have a bath in a minute, darling,’ she said guiltily. ‘And you know what your granddad’s like. I could have been on the phone to him for hours. I’m a bit wiped out, to tell the truth. I’ll perk up later.’

‘Cool,’ said Molly. ‘You don’t have to explain, Mum. I know what granddad’s like.’

But the look she shot Joyce was a sharp one. A few minutes later Joyce felt obliged to retreat to the bathroom and run herself a bath, whether she wanted one or not.

When she emerged half an hour later, Fred asked her for help with his homework. Joyce was good at history, obviously, and not bad at English and geography. But she was hopeless at maths. That had been Charlie’s department. Although he had chosen to read politics at university, he could have been a mathematician had he so desired. But maths had been too dry a choice for Charlie — the young Charlie at any rate.

Tonight was a maths night. Joyce could just about manage the maths curriculum of an eleven-year-old, and she was glad of the diversion. But she feared it wouldn’t be long before she would be out of her depth with Fred’s homework. Charlie’s children were going to miss their father in so many ways.

Molly also had homework. Mercifully, she’d reached the stage where she knew better than to ask her mother about anything except history. Molly was astute for a fifteen-year-old. Too astute, Joyce sometimes thought.

Molly had earlier indicated that she had an essay to write, but claimed to have finished it within half an hour or so. Then she settled down in the sitting room to watch TV until bedtime — nine thirty for her on schooldays, and eight thirty for Fred.

Joyce remained in inner turmoil throughout. She couldn’t wait until it was time for both children, after the usual protests and requests for ten minutes more, to retire to their bedrooms. She was not a big drinker, but the events of the day had left her desperate to open a bottle of wine. She and Charlie had frequently shared a bottle over dinner, when they were going through a good patch anyway. But Joyce felt there was something intrinsically sad and undesirable about drinking alone in front of her children, and since Charlie’s death she had avoided doing so.

She shut up the house and took the bottle to bed with her. Her mobile was switched off and she intended to keep it that way until she’d sorted out what she was going to say to her father. The house phone rang once more, shortly after ten. She assumed it was Henry calling, though she made no attempt to check the display panel on the receiver, let alone answer the call. Neither of the children had extensions to the house phone in their rooms, and she only hoped they were both asleep and would not be woken by the ringing. It seemed that her hopes were realized. And the phone did not ring a second time.

More than anything Joyce wanted to go to sleep, then wake up in the morning and carry on as if today had never happened. Things had not been easy since Charlie’s death, but Joyce had been coping. Before the letter arrived she had started to think about studying for a teaching diploma, or finding a way of attaining that MA at another university with different academic stipulations to Exeter, or even through the Open University. The years were flying by. She had to prepare for the day when her younger children would move on, even if it was only down the road to the flat above Henry’s garage, as Mark had done...

Every train of thought seemed to bring her back to the letter. Mark, like her late brother William, had elected to stay in Tarrant Park and join the family firm. So there couldn’t be anything seriously amiss, either with Henry or the business, could there?

Why then was Charlie so adamant there would be dire consequences if Fred were to do the same? Try as she might, Joyce could make no sense of it.

Eventually she fell into a fitful sleep. Her alarm went off at 7 a.m. to give her plenty of time to get the children ready for school. Twenty minutes later the house phone rang again. She answered, even though she knew, without checking caller display, that it would be Henry. She couldn’t dodge him for ever.

‘Your mother’s worried about you, darling,’ Henry began.

‘Mum’s always worried about me, Dad,’ replied Joyce, reasonably.

‘Oh, darling, she’s convinced something has happened to upset you...’

‘Yes, it has, Dad. My husband has died at the age of forty-three, leaving me with two young children to bring up. Something’s happened to upset me, all right.’

Selective honesty, Joyce had decided, would be the best policy. She would stick to the truth with her father, but not the whole truth.

‘Joyce, sweetheart, you know what I mean...’

‘No, I don’t. I’m trying to come to terms with Charlie’s death and to rebuild my life and keep everything together for Molly and Fred. Some days I manage, and some days I struggle, that’s all.’

‘Well, if you want a break any time, you’ve only to say the word. Your mother would be straight over to take care of things. And it goes without saying that if you want to talk, we’re both here, and you are always welcome—’

Joyce couldn’t stop herself interrupting.

‘Dad, we’ve never had those sorts of conversations, you will only talk about what suits you,’ she said.

‘I don’t think that’s quite fair, dear,’ responded her father mildly.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to talk, anyway.’

Joyce did want to, but not to him. What would be the point? He was never going to let his guard down and talk openly with her. And thanks to the letter, she was now wary of talking openly with him, at least until she had established whether there was any substance to Charlie’s warning.

‘I just want to get on with things,’ she said briskly. ‘Now, I’m sorry, I have to go. I need to go up and drag Molly and Fred out of bed so they can get ready for school.’

‘All right, darling. But maybe later your mother can pop over—’

‘Dad, I can’t stay on the phone a moment longer. I’m saying goodbye now.’

Joyce replaced the receiver. It had been a long time since she’d tried to fob off Henry, but it hadn’t gone too badly. No doubt she’d get better at it with practice.

After Molly and Fred had departed with Geoff, Henry’s driver, she cleared up the breakfast things and made the beds. She’d given up on trying to persuade them to make their own beds on school mornings; they were always racing against the clock and she had enough stress as it was without getting into a daily battle with the pair of them. Besides, it wasn’t as if she had to make beds and do the housework every day. Ever since the start of her marriage she’d shared a daily with her parents. Until the beginning of last year it had been Josie, but when she retired they’d taken on an Albanian girl called Monika.

Thankfully, this was not one of Monika’s days at The Firs. Not that Joyce didn’t like the girl, although she did find her a bit hard going sometimes. Her English was excellent but Joyce’s attempts to get to know her and learn about the life she’d left behind in Kosovo had met a stone wall. In the end she’d given up trying to cultivate the sort of chatty camaraderie she’d had with Josie and simply left Monika to get on with her chores. Today, however, she wanted the house to herself.

She’d woken up with the beginning of a plan forming in her mind. Still wondering how to execute it, she wandered around the house, picking up and putting away the odd pair of trainers, or even the odd trainer, straightening the cushions, adjusting the curtains and generally pottering until nine thirty.

Then she made a call to Stephen Hardcastle at the office of Tanner-Max.

She had first met the tall handsome old Etonian during her first term at university. Stephen, four years older at twenty-two, was in the final year of his law degree. To Joyce, young for her age and still a virgin, he seemed urbane, sophisticated, exotic — he’d told her his Zimbabwean father was a tribal prince — and wildly attractive. In short, everything she aspired to be. He’d asked her out for a drink, and after several glasses of Prosecco, tipsier than she’d ever been in her life, she had allowed herself to be seduced by him. The following morning she’d had no regrets whatsoever about losing her virginity. Stephen had proved an experienced and sensitive lover, and virginity always was and, Joyce suspected, would always remain, a heavy burden to carry around a university campus.

Nonetheless it had come as a shock to learn that she was merely the latest in a long line of conquests. Stephen, she discovered, was a serial seducer with a penchant for deflowering virgins. Joyce had been hurt, but she dealt with it in true Tanner fashion. She had no intention of allowing her much longed-for university life to be destroyed by one brief encounter. Even such a significant one. Neither would she allow herself to show her true feelings. She merely drew back from Stephen, with minimum fuss, vowing to be more careful in future.

He hadn’t disappeared from her life though. After she took up with Charlie, Stephen had become a close friend of JC and had been best man at their wedding. Shortly before Mark was born he had joined Tanner-Max and his willingness to take on the extra workload had made it possible for Charlie to take extended paternity leave. Charlie had been blissfully unaware of their brief fling, and so far as Joyce was concerned it was ancient history. Until a week ago.

In the months since Charlie’s death, Stephen had been attentive and solicitous of her welfare, calling to see whether she needed anything and inviting her for lunch whenever she was in town. It was after one of these lunches that history had repeated itself. She’d had too much to drink, so Stephen drove her home afterwards and in a moment of lonely, alcohol-fuelled weakness she’d invited him into her house and into her bed.

Far from rekindling an old flame, it had left her feeling embarrassed, she reflected as she waited for Stephen to pick up his phone.

‘Joyce, how lovely to hear from you...’ he began.

He must have known that she would have received the letter sent from his office, and that it had more than likely prompted her call, but he still contrived to sound flirtatious.

‘This is business, strictly business, Stephen,’ she interrupted, determined to nip that in the bud straight away.

‘Of course,’ he said, his tone suddenly formal.

‘There are a number of things I need to speak to you about, as a matter of urgency,’ Joyce continued.

‘Ah, you got the letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry about the delay. Unforgivable. It must have arrived as things were beginning to get back to normal for you again.’

‘Things are never going to get back to normal, Stephen,’ she said with feeling.

‘No, of course not,’ responded Stephen. ‘Damned silly thing to say. I’m sorry...’

‘Stop apologizing, for goodness’ sake, Stephen — I didn’t call to remonstrate. I was hoping you might be able to drop by for an hour or so later so we can talk.’

‘I’d be delighted.’ He sounded rather too delighted in Joyce’s opinion. Hopeful even.

‘I need your professional advice,’ she said.

‘Ah,’ said Stephen. ‘Is it about the letter? I mean, I don’t know what’s in it, obviously, but—’

‘I should hope you don’t know what’s in the letter,’ said Joyce. ‘We may have been friends for a long time but you’re still the company secretary and the family solicitor. Ethics, and so on.’

She felt a little guilty, speaking to him in that way when it was quite possible that he’d done nothing to warrant her implied reprimand, but his response made light of it.

‘Ethics?’ he queried. ‘County to the East of London, isn’t it?’

‘Oh very funny,’ she said, her tone lighter now. ‘As for the letter, you’re right, it was a shock, but that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I would like to go through Charlie’s will again. And our financial arrangements. I owe it to the kids to make sure I know exactly what our position is.’

‘Pretty rosy, I should say, Joyce. Financially, at least. But we can discuss it if that would put your mind at rest. Do you want me to bring Gordon along?’

Gordon Hawkins was the company accountant. Like Stephen he also dealt with personal matters for the Tanner family.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’d prefer to talk to you on your own first.’

They made an appointment for two o’ clock that afternoon. Joyce supposed that she was taking a risk in inviting him to her home; even though she’d made it clear she was seeking his professional advice, Stephen might think it was a pretext and the real motive was her eagerness to repeat their sexual encounter. A lapse, as she now thought of it, that she had been regretting even before the arrival of that earth-shattering letter.

It had been all too easy to seek solace with Stephen. He remained a good-looking and charismatic man, she’d always suspected he still found her attractive, and they had a history. But much as she’d enjoyed the sex, she hadn’t been ready to risk the kind of emotional entanglement she feared might follow. The last thing she wanted was to have to fend off an amorous Stephen, but she’d sooner that than run the risk of bumping into her father by going to the office. Not that her meeting with Stephen was likely to escape Henry’s ultra-sensitive radar for long; Henry’s employees, like his family, had been trained to inform him of their every move.

Stephen arrived on the dot. Did he look anxious or was it her imagination?

He leaned towards her. They had always greeted each other with a kiss. She made sure it was a light one. On the cheek. Then she led him into the kitchen. He dumped his briefcase on the table and began to remove papers. Charlie’s will, Joyce’s will, the details of their various bank accounts and shareholdings, including Charlie’s stake in Tanner-Max, which Joyce already knew had passed to Mark rather than to her — or would do, once a death certificate was issued. Henry was a firm believer in patrilineal inheritance — no female equality in the Tanner line of succession. Not that Joyce cared. She had never had the slightest desire to become involved in the family business.

Her request for an overview of her financial affairs was, in any case, merely a ruse. She’d decided that the best approach to adopt with Stephen would be to catch him off balance. If such a thing were possible.

She didn’t offer him tea or coffee. Not at first. Instead she stood in silence, regarding him with a frosty stare as he emptied his bag on to the table. She waited until he sat down and began methodically arranging the papers in front of him before blurting out the real purpose of the meeting:

‘Stephen, I know that something was worrying Charlie before he died, something to do with the business and my family. And I want you to tell me what it was.’

He looked up at her in alarm. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about, Joyce.’

‘I think you have, Stephen,’ said Joyce, calling his bluff. ‘You were Charlie’s best and oldest friend. You worked together. In any case, Charlie made it clear in his letter that something was troubling him and that you knew all about it.’

She saw his eyes flicker, she was sure of it.

‘Well, there you have the advantage of me, Joyce,’ he said. ‘I have no idea what was in Charlie’s letter. And I find it hard to believe that he had any worries about the business. Charlie was a happy and successful man. He enjoyed his work. He had you and the kids. And he had all this.’

Stephen waved both arms as if trying to encompass the whole of Charlie Mildmay’s world.

‘You must have noticed his moods, for God’s sake,’ said Joyce.

‘Well, yes, he had black days, but don’t we all,’ said Stephen. ‘Pressure of work and all that.’

‘You seriously expect me to believe it was nothing more than that?’ asked Joyce.

Stephen shrugged. ‘What else could there be? Charlie had everything. He loved his family. He had no financial worries. He had a great life.’

‘Yes, and all of it provided by my father,’ Joyce said bitterly. ‘Perhaps it all came with a price tag, and the price was more than Charlie could stomach.’

Stephen looked even more alarmed.

‘Joyce dear, it’s understandable that you’re upset. But I think you’re imagining things.’

‘Don’t you dare patronize me!’ Joyce snapped. ‘I have a letter from my dead husband which makes it clear that I’m not imagining anything. It’s more a case of my eyes having been closed until now, isn’t it?’

‘Joyce, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Look, why don’t you show me the letter? Then perhaps I can help. I’m totally in the dark here.’

‘Are you sure you need to be shown the letter?’ said Joyce. ‘Are you sure you haven’t read it already?’

‘Joyce, what sort of a man do you think I am?’ asked Stephen, aghast. ‘Do you really think I would read a personal letter between a man — and not any man but, as you say, my best friend — and his wife? Do you think I would do that?’

‘You were prepared to shag his wife though, weren’t you?’

‘His widow,’ countered Stephen, his brows puckered into a hurt frown. ‘I would never have acted upon my feelings for you while Charlie was alive, even though I never stopped wanting—’

‘Shut up, Stephen!’ Joyce was aware that she was being hard on him. It wasn’t as if he’d forced himself on her. If anything, she’d been the one who made the first move. But she somehow couldn’t stop herself venting her anger at him.

‘I want to know about the letter,’ she persisted. ‘Why did it take six months to get to me. Why was that?’

‘Oh, Joyce, it got misfiled, that’s all. It should have been in with our copy of the will but it got put somewhere else. Janet’s a first-rate PA, but even she makes mistakes sometimes. When she found the letter she sent it off straight away. It was human error.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Well, do I get to see it?’

She carried on staring at him, but Stephen had one of those faces that gave nothing away. Unless he wanted it to.

‘The letter was personal,’ she said coldly. ‘I think I’ll keep it to myself.’

‘As you wish.’

‘Oh, and I’ve changed my mind about all that financial stuff.’ She waved a hand dismissively at the papers spread across the kitchen table. ‘I mean, it’s not as if it matters a damn whether I understand it or not, does it? No doubt you and my father will only ever show me what you want me to see. And you two will still control everything, whatever I think or do.’

‘Joyce, it’s not like that, I promise you,’ said Stephen, looking even more hurt and misunderstood. ‘Charlie has left you very well off. You will be a wealthy woman in your own right once all the legal stuff is settled and a death certificate issued. Nobody would want to stop you from looking after your own finances. It is what Charlie would have wanted, and it’s what Henry wants too. And I can assure you that neither Henry nor I would ever interfere. Of course, if you were to require help, we would be only too happy to—’

‘I’ll bet you would!’ retorted Joyce. ‘I’m afraid I’m not too convinced by any of your assurances right now, Stephen. I think you’d better go, don’t you?’

‘But I’ve only just arrived.’ He smiled seductively. ‘And we were getting on so—’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she cut him off.

‘No, I have very real feelings for you, Joyce. I always have. And I was hoping last week might be the beginning of something new for both of us. All I want is to take care of you, to make you happy again.’

‘Please go, Stephen,’ she told him.

There had been a moment earlier when she’d almost felt sorry for him, but now she was merely angry. He must have the skin of a rhinoceros, she thought, to make such a remark after the way she had treated him.

‘Why does everybody want to take care of me?’ she continued. ‘It was one shag, Stephen. That’s all we had. One shag after a quarter of a century. And you caught me at a weak moment. I am not ready for new beginnings. Not with you. Not with anyone.’

‘Oh, Joyce, I would never rush you. But you have to know it wasn’t just a sh-sh...’

He seemed to have difficulty even getting the word out.

‘Not just a shag,’ he managed eventually. ‘Not for me, anyway.’

The sight of his stricken face only made Joyce even angrier.

‘Go, Stephen. Please go!’ She shouted the words at the top of her voice, surprising not only Stephen but herself as well.

Stephen re-packed his bag, doing so as carefully as he did everything, perhaps as a kind of protest against her behaviour, and perhaps in the vain hope that she might calm down and change her mind.

Joyce could not explain why she was in such a rage. And neither could she explain why she had vented at Stephen. She hadn’t intended to. She had intended to be calm and cool and clever, yet somehow she’d failed dismally in all three respects.

As Stephen got back in his car and drove off, Joyce’s rage began to re-focus. Now she was furious with herself. In allowing her temper to get the better of her she had not only revealed her hand, she had laid her cards out on the table. Worse, she had learned absolutely nothing in the process. And having alienated Stephen, it was unlikely that she ever would learn anything from him.

The plan she’d been so pleased with when she woke that morning had failed at the first hurdle, and there was no plan B.