“Mr Black. I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on this meeting. I’m new here. Still trying to find my way. But when I heard about this will, I was… well, to be honest, fascinated. Coffee?”
“Thank you.”
Pamela gestured to the man at the far end of the conference table. “This is Mr Max Lavelle. Our senior partner.”
Black nodded towards the man. The man did not get up. He nodded back. He regarded Black with a clear, almost disconcerting, intensity. His face was round, owlish, his skin pale and waxy. He wore a suit of sombre grey, matching the colour of his hair, which was slicked over one side. He provided Black with the briefest of smiles, but did not speak.
Black sat at the table. Rutherford was sitting opposite. Pamela sat next to him, placing the folder on the table. Rutherford poured him a coffee.
“It must be an unusual case to bring out the big guns,” said Black. “I’m flattered.” He sipped some coffee. “I think the word ‘bizarre’ was used when I got the call. Talking of which, I thought Fiona Jackson was dealing with this.”
“We’ve never seen anything quite like it,” replied Pamela. She skilfully avoided answering, Black noted.
“How did he die?”
“Very sad situation,” said Rutherford. “It seems Mr Bartholomew took his own life. Depression, maybe. Isn’t that right, Pamela? We may never know.”
“Emergency services found him,” explained Pamela. “A neighbour heard what sounded like a gunshot. She called the police. When Mr Bartholomew didn’t answer his door, they broke it down.” She shifted uncomfortably in her chair. A tremor passed through her voice. “He’d shot himself, so we’ve been told. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mr Black. The whole thing is awful.”
“Shot himself? That’s not a common method of suicide.”
“You have experience of this sort of thing?” asked Rutherford, an edge of condescension to his voice.
“Some. He would need to have access to a gun. It’s not that easy. Unless he was a member of a gun club. Or was ex-military, perhaps. Most people don’t have that resource. Just a passing thought. What do I know, after all?”
“You didn’t know Mr Bartholomew?”
It was Rutherford who asked the question.
“No, I didn’t.”
Pamela opened the file, and removed a single A4 sheaf of paper.
“This is his last will and testament. Do you want to read it?”
“Tell me what it says.”
Pamela flicked a glance at Rutherford, who remained focused on Black. She cleared her throat.
“He made it very simple. Though this doesn’t make it any less strange.”
Black waited.
“You are his appointed executor. And you are the sole beneficiary. He’s bequeathed his entire estate to you.” She paused, studying the words on the page before her. She looked up at Black. “But we’re not sure what his estate is.”
Black frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Nor do we,” she replied. “It says you must look for what you need.” She gave a tremulous smile. “And it says, what you need is located at the bottom of Bastard Rock.”
8
Black asked to see the document. She was right. It was short. Barely half a page. And mystifying. He glanced at the signature at the foot of the page. An undecipherable scrawl. Witnessed by the young woman who had spoken to him on the telephone yesterday, Fiona Jackson.
“Does it mean anything to you, Mr Black?” asked Rutherford.
“Not a damn thing. It’s crazy. Did you meet the man? Personally?”
“Sadly not. He came in about a fortnight ago, asked for us to prepare the will which we duly did, and he came in the next day to sign it. End of.”
“But Fiona Jackson met him. She might give us some more info. Where is she?”
Rutherford gave Black a steady stare.
“Miss Jackson no longer works for us.”
Black held his stare. “She resigned?”
“She was let go. It’s an internal matter. You understand that, I’m sure. There are some things we cannot discuss. Needless to say, Pamela will look after you.”
Black digested this information. “Very sudden,” he said. “Given I was speaking to her less than twenty-four hours ago.”
Rutherford shrugged. “It’s not your concern.”
Black moved on. “He must have other assets. A house. A bank account. Anything.”
“The address he gave us is rented,” replied Pamela. “He had some cash in the flat – three hundred pounds. And a funeral bond. His stuff, his furnishings, are worthless. He had nothing. We’ve established he claimed benefits. He was not working, as far as we know.”
“When is his funeral?”
“When the coroner releases the body. Maybe three weeks.”
“It’s odd that you don’t know this man,” interrupted Rutherford. “He seems to have no family. No children. Does the name mean anything to you at all?”
“No, it doesn’t. But my name meant something to him.”
“And where, or what, is Bastard Rock?”
Black shook his head.
“Perhaps this is something you would rather forget all about,” continued Rutherford, his voice slow and measured, the voice of reason. “A penniless man you’ve never heard of leaves you nothing but a stupid riddle. We’ll take care of this nonsense for you. You’re a lawyer? You’ll have a busy practice to run. You don’t want the aggravation of dealing with what I can only describe as the rantings of someone quite possibly with an addiction problem. You agree?”
He stretched over to pick up the will.
Black also stretched over, and rested his hand over Rutherford’s. “Not quite. That’s my property. I think I’ll take care of Mr Bartholomew’s will. As his executor.”
Rutherford resumed his easy smile, and sat back.
“As is your right.”
“As is my right,” repeated Black. “How did you know I was a lawyer?”
“Maybe Fiona Jackson mentioned it. Is that important?”
“Not to me. It was you who brought it up.”
He picked up the will, and put it in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.
