What Derek Hid

Katherine's day began at a solicitor's office and ended in Mrs Abbott's kitchen, and somewhere between the two her world turned over once again.

Mum's solicitor, Mrs Hollis, had an office above the chemist's in Ashford, stacked with files to the ceiling. She listened in silence and raised her eyebrows only once — when she got to the signature.

"'Margaret A.,'" she said. "I handled your mother's affairs for twenty years. She never signed her name like that in her life." The solicitor put down the phone. "Do you know who's behind Ashford Homes?"

"A developer."

"Let's have a look."

Mrs Hollis opened the Companies House register.

Ashford Homes Limited. Director — one R. Stoneman, of Maidstone. Shareholders: Stoneman Developments — sixty per cent. Pierce Property Holdings — forty.

"He's not the middleman," Katherine said slowly. "He's the buyer."

"One of the buyers," Mrs Hollis corrected her. "Who's buying for four hundred and twenty a house worth five hundred at the very least. Who'll build four cottages on the plot. And who'll take a commission from you as the seller on top of it." She took off her glasses. "That's a conflict of interest, Miss Harlow. He was obliged to disclose it. He didn't. Put that together with a possibly forged signature, and this isn't a breach of professional ethics any more. It's a criminal matter."

For twenty years Katherine had untangled schemes like this in other people's companies. This was the first time one had been aimed at her mother.

"Don't sign anything," the solicitor added. "Get a handwriting expert. And if you find any more evidence that your mother was being pressured — bring it to me."

Then came the bank. Katherine paid off the two missed mortgage payments from her savings — nearly everything left after Nigel's debt — and got an extension to the end of the year from the branch manager, who had known Mum. When she walked out onto the street, there were three hundred and twelve pounds in her account. For the first time since she was twenty-two.

Strangely, she felt lighter.

Mrs Abbott opened the door in her dressing gown and curlers and was terribly embarrassed. They sat down in the kitchen.

"Mum was in hospital in May, wasn't she?" Katherine asked. That morning she'd found a discharge summary among Mum's papers: a week on the cardiac ward in Ashford, "episode of arrhythmia." Mum had never told them.

"Seven days," Mrs Abbott nodded. "She asked me not to tell any of you."

"And who collected her post?"

The old woman twisted the hem of her dressing gown.

"Mr Pierce. He came round on the second day and said Margaret had asked him to see to the post while she was in hospital. So nothing important went astray. He had the key, you see…"

"The one you gave him."

"Did you see what he did with the letters?"

Mrs Abbott was silent for a long time. Then she got up, went to the old bureau in the corner of the kitchen, opened a drawer and took out an envelope.

Pale blue. Exactly like the card in Katherine's bag.

"I saw from the window," Mrs Abbott whispered. "He went through the post at the gate and put some letters in his pocket. This one fell on the path. I picked it up to give to Margaret… and I forgot. I only found it yesterday, when you asked about the key. Forgive me, Katherine."

Katherine took the envelope. A Norwich postmark. The twelfth of May. The same slanting hand as on the 2016 card, only softer now, uneven — the handwriting of a man who finds it hard to hold a pen.

She had no right to open it. It was addressed to Mum.

She opened it.

"Margaret,

For six years we've talked every Sunday, and every Sunday I can't bring myself to say this out loud. So I'm writing it. I'm getting worse. The new kidney's failing; the doctors say months. And I've realised I'm not angry any more.

Last winter I finally read your letters — you always sent copies to the school as well, and the secretary kept them in a cupboard for years. I read every one in a single night and cried like a child. Because in none of them were you asking for forgiveness. Only for permission to know that I was all right.

Come. Please. While there's still time. I want to see you, not a photograph.

Your son, Thomas."

Katherine read the letter twice. Then once more.

May. Mum would have had this letter in May — if not for Derek Pierce. She'd have gone to Thomas at once, that same week; Katherine was certain of it. They would have had three months. Three months instead of one day.

Derek had stolen three months with her son from Mum. So she wouldn't go to Norwich, wouldn't tell her children, wouldn't slip free of his leverage. So she'd stay afraid.

At Mrs Abbott's gate she rang Nigel and told him everything. Briefly. Evenly. Her voice didn't fail her once.

And when she hung up, the phone rang again. An unknown number. She answered.

"Katherine." Derek Pierce. His voice calm, businesslike. "I know you've been to Hollis. Small town. So let's skip the theatrics. I'm offering you a deal. I tear up the preliminary agreement. No penalty. You sell the house through my agency to any buyer you like, at market price. I take my standard commission. And we all forget about each other."

"And if not?"

"Then court. Long and expensive. And in the meantime I tell the Kent Herald what Margaret Harlow spent a hundred and twenty thousand pounds on. And the name of the son she gave up from a home for unmarried mothers. His name will be in every paper in the county. His daughter will read it. His pupils will read it." A pause. "Think it over until tomorrow. You're a sensible woman, Katherine. The only sensible one in that family."

He hung up.

Katherine stood on the pavement outside Mrs Abbott's house. There were three hundred and twelve pounds in her account. In her bag lay two pale blue secrets. And in her head, as always, a spreadsheet was already taking shape: costs, risks, consequences.

Court — a year, maybe two. Solicitors they couldn't afford. Thomas's name in the papers. Mum's name in the papers. Lily reading it.

Or — one signature. Silence. Everyone goes back to their own life.

Katherine hated herself for thinking the second column looked more sensible.