than for a heart transplant (seventy-one percent at five years).
I could hear Claudia’s rhythmic breathing on the pillow next to me.
Funny, I thought, how it often takes a crisis to reveal one’s true feelings. Since coming home from the races I had been through the whole gamut from resentful anger to perilous joy, with apprehension, fear and overwhelming love coming in late on the side.
I was exhausted by it all, but still I couldn’t sleep.
How close had I come to making a complete fool of myself?
Too close. Much too close.
Sunday morning dawned bright and sunny, both in terms of the weather and my disposition.
I looked at Claudia soundly asleep beside me and, in spite of the uncertainty of her future treatment, I thanked my lucky stars. True, I had been tempted by Jan’s extraordinary behavior, but I had resisted. In fact, it had been Jan’s very behavior that had strengthened my resolve to sort out a problem with Claudia that in the end hadn’t existed.
Suddenly, the other problem, the coming battle against the cancer, while not easy, somehow seemed now manageable. Especially as Claudia and I would both be fighting on the same side.
I got up quietly, leaving her sleeping, and went downstairs to the kitchen, and to my computer.
I pulled up the e-mails from Uri Joram onto the screen and read them again. I wondered what I should do about them.
A hundred million euros was an awful lot of money, but it was a mere drop in the ocean compared to the European Union total budget of more than a hundred and twenty-five billion. But if the European Court of Auditors, the body that had refused to sign off on the annual audit of the EU budget for each of the past umpteen years, had themselves been unable to make a single major fraud charge stick, what chance did I have?
I decided that it simply wasn’t my fight. Claudia and I now had more pressing things on our minds. If Jolyon Roberts needed to ask any further questions about his investments, then he’d have to speak directly to Gregory.
I meanwhile turned to other matters, in particular the copies of the statements from Herb’s twenty-two credit cards.
I ordered them by date, and noticed that four of them were due for payment in the coming week. I wondered what the law was on outstanding credit card debt at death. One thing I was absolutely certain about was that none of the banks would, out of the kindness of their hearts, cancel debt. But it was the interest that I was most concerned about. Ninety-four thousand six hundred and twenty-six pounds and fifty-two pence would, if left unpaid, attract a substantial interest charge each month, not to mention late-payment fees, and it might take many months before probate was granted and I was able to pay off the debts from other assets in Herb’s estate.
I had to find the cash.
Even the eighteen thousand he collected from the MoneyHome agents the week of his death would not be enough to pay off these four most urgent ones.
And that would not be all.
The ninety-seven separate individuals who were using Herb’s accounts for their Internet and casino gambling probably didn’t know Herb was dead. If the past was anything to go by, they would be racking up further charges.
All gambling requires a degree of trust, but surely Herb must have required an up-front cash advance from each of the ninety-seven in order to allow them to operate the system. That meant the debt of ninety-four thousand six hundred and twenty-six pounds and fifty-two pence that existed on the credit cards statements may have only been the start of it. How much more did he owe?
I had to find the cash.
I decided that the very first thing I had to do was to cancel the cards so that no more charges could be made on them.
Each of the statements had a phone number on the back, and I set about calling them. Many of them did not answer because they were not open on Sundays and those that did were mostly in India and, in truth, could have been more helpful.
As soon as I said that Mr. Kovak was dead, they all required me to contact them in writing enclosing an original death certificate.
“Fine,” I said to one man called Ashwin, making a mental note to ask the police chief inspector for twenty-two originals of Herb’s death certificate. “But could you, in the meantime, make a stop on any future charges?”
“Cut up the cards,” Ashwin said, “and then there can’t be any more charges, can there?”
How, I wondered, should I explain to him that the cards themselves hadn’t actually been present when any of the charges on the statements had been made?
“There are some regular payments,” I said. “Where the card is not actually present for the transaction. Online payments. Can you stop those?”
“You will have to contact the payee,” he said unhelpfully.
All five hundred and twelve of them, I thought.
Next I tried impersonating Herb to cancel one card, but this didn’t work either as I didn’t have the card-it was in Hendon-and I had no idea of the expiration date or the pin number. Anyway, I was firmly told, I couldn’t cancel a card until I had paid off the outstanding balance.
Dead end.
I just had to find that cash.
Claudia came downstairs in her blue dressing gown.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Oh, nothing,” I said, closing the lid of my laptop onto the credit card statements. “Nothing for you to worry about anyway.”
“Look here,” she said, putting on a stern face, “I told you my troubles, so now you have to tell me yours.”
“It’s just something to do with Herb Kovak,” I said. “In his will he appointed me as his executor.”
“And what does that mean, exactly?” she asked.
“It means,” I said, “that I have to sort out all his bloody affairs when I should be looking after you.”
“Quite right,” she said, coming over and sitting on my lap. She put her arms around my neck. “Naughty boy.”
I smiled.
Life was back to normal-or almost.
During the afternoon, I called Detective Chief Inspector Tomlinson on the mobile number he had given me.
“Hello,” a voice said, sounding sleepy.
“Chief Inspector Tomlinson?” I asked.
“Hello, yes?” he said, this time more alert.
“Sorry to wake you,” I said. “This is Nicholas Foxton.”
“Just resting my eyes,” he said. “How can I help you?”
“I think it’s me who’s going to help you,” I said. “Herb Kovak’s sister has turned up.”
“Really,” he said. “When?”
“Well, actually, on Thursday morning, not long after you’d left his flat. But so much has been happening since then, I forgot to tell you.”
“Yes,” he said. “I did hear that you’ve been kept rather busy.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “Thank you for giving me an alibi.”
“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I simply told them there was no way, short of using a helicopter, that anyone could travel the seventy miles from Baydon to Hendon in fifty-five minutes at that time of day. Especially someone who’d just had an ingrown toenail removed. I could hardly walk with mine for weeks.”
I stifled a laugh. Good old Mrs. McDowd and her fertile imagination.
“Well, thank you nevertheless,” I said. “Now, I have some other information for you.”
