Vintage Babes (9 page)

‘Considered shopkeeping was way beneath them and virtually said sod off,’ I was told.

But although his dream had been dashed, Duncan had continued to bankroll the pair and later bragged about them being hotshots in their careers.

‘Giles is an environmental officer, while Simon does something in the City,’ my informant had said. ‘Though whether they’re as hotshot as Daddy claims – old buffer’s given to exaggeration – is anyone’s guess.’

‘And you can stop buying designer clothes and forget about manicures, Botox injections and having your bikini line waxed,’ Giles, the older and bulkier of the duo, went on. ‘As for luxury holidays in the Indian Ocean and a new car every other year, lady, those days are history!’

He and his brother were stood on the porch and behind them, in the doorway, was Tina Kincaid. She wore a black trouser suit. Her face was pale and she was twisting her hands. She looked haggard.

‘You – you tricked your father,’ she accused. ‘You’ve tricked me.’

Simon smiled, a crocodile smile. ‘Prove it.’

‘Ever since you got your claws into Pop you’ve been living the high maintenance life and you still have occupancy of the house –
our
house – until you croak, so quit bitching,’ Giles snapped.

‘Yah, thank your lucky stars,’ Simon added.

‘Your best piece of luck was in dazzling Pop,’ Giles said scornfully, ‘though how someone like you could ever’ve appealed to him, God only knows.’

‘Someone like me?’ she queried.

The crocodile smile came again. ‘He told us about your white-trash family.’

Although Tina shifted uneasily, my knowledge of Giles said that, in his terms, ‘white trash’ meant people who flew economy class and hadn’t received riding lessons as children. In other words, most of us.

‘It’s you two who are trash,’ she countered. ‘Your father intended to leave the shares to me. He always said –’

‘Old boy’s dead and we’re off,’ Giles cut in. ‘Bye.’

He marched down the steps, making for a bright red Aston Martin which was parked alongside a soft-top BMW and a large Mercedes. As he climbed into the driving seat, his brother came to open the gate. The car moved forward, Simon got inside and they roared off in the direction I’d come, not seeming to notice either the Focus or me.

I frowned. The Kincaid brothers made a gruesome twosome. They were men well-fed on self-importance like their father, but lacking his amiability and with a nasty hint of threat. The grapevine had told of a couple of occasions in their younger days when they had thrown their weight around and Duncan had needed to pay to hush things.

When I walked in through the open gate, Tina remained immobile. Her head was lowered and she seemed confused, as if she was finding it difficult to take everything in.

‘What a pair of shits,’ I remarked, drawing close.

Her head jerked up. She looked surprised by my presence and by my comment, then she gave a weak smile. ‘They are. You heard what they said?’

‘Everything.’

‘I haven’t had Botox injections,’ Tina declared, lifting her hand to a brow which now seemed remarkably smooth.

I shrugged. Whether the woman had or not was of no concern to me and I certainly wouldn’t condemn her. While injections or a face lift don’t appeal – I’d be terrified of the procedure going wrong and ending up with a trout pout or that fright lady look – I’m a sucker for anti-ageing creams. Common sense says that lines which have been decades in the making are not going to vanish within weeks, or months, if ever, yet advertisements for a new cream invariably seduce me.

‘How did they trick you, trick your husband?’ I asked.

‘Oh, a year or two ago they persuaded Duncan to put all the shares he owned into their names. They’re my stepsons,’ she began to explain.

‘Giles and Simon, I know. Duncan didn’t tell you what he’d done?’

‘No. He used to talk for hours about his shares, how he’d made smart decisions and they’d greatly increased in value, so he must’ve forgotten.’ Tina tweaked at the black chiffon scarf which fell over one shoulder. Her scarves were usually fresh and floaty, but this one hung like a dead snake. ‘His memory had become… dodgy and sometimes he couldn’t remember what he’d done from one minute to the next. Crazy old twit even forgot the names of close friends and I had to remind him.’

‘Alzheimer’s?’ I asked, wondering if this explained why Duncan had erroneously claimed the eagle three – whatever that was – on the golf course and had been so furiously certain that he was right.

‘The start of, I think. Giles and Simon had realised there were occasions when he didn’t make much sense, couldn’t see sense and they took advantage.’ Tears welled in her blue eyes. ‘They took advantage of an old man, of their own father who’d always done his best for them. Who thought they were little tin gods.’

‘That’s disgraceful. And they cheated you out of – how much were the shares worth?’

‘Over six hundred thousand pounds.’

‘Good grief!’

‘Duncan had already given them their cash inheritances and he paid for their kids’ posh schools.’ Putting a hand to her brow, Tina swayed. ‘But they’re greedy.’

‘Suppose I make you a cup of tea?’ I suggested. The widow had dark shadows beneath her eyes and looked as if she hadn’t slept in days. She also looked on the point of collapse. ‘Or a stiff gin and tonic?’

‘A gin sounds better. It’s this way. Um, who are you?’ she enquired, leading the way up the steps and into a cavernous wood-panelled hall, with a scuffed parquet floor covered by well-worn rugs.

‘My name is Carol Webb,’ I replied. I had wondered if she might have noticed me at Garth House and remembered, but there had been no glimmer of recognition. Presumably I was the wrong sex. ‘I’m a reporter with
The Dursleigh Siren
and –’

She swung round. ‘A reporter!’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not going to write about what I overheard or what you’ve told me. I know it’s all confidential and I shan’t broadcast it, I promise. I’m here because
The Siren
would like to print an obituary of your husband. I interviewed him once and we got along fine. I’d also like to say I’m sorry and I understand how devastated you must be feeling.’

I did understand. Until it happens to you, you don’t realise how harrowing it is when someone you love dies. My mother’s death had created such feelings of desolation inside me and for months I was bereft. And I still haven’t recovered from the pain of a much earlier death I suffered. Don’t think I ever will.

‘Thanks,’ Tina muttered.

‘So how about me making you that g and t?’

She eyed me warily, then she nodded. I had, I knew, caught her at a weak moment. After the jibes and nastiness of her stepsons, she needed to be with someone sympathetic, needed to talk to someone sympathetic. Anyone. Later she might regret being so open about her husband and his finances, might regret inviting me in, but right now it was comfort. A thumb and a blanket.

‘Please, and have one yourself. I’ve just returned from seeing the solicitors in London about Duncan’s will. My stepsons brought me back,’ Tina explained, as we went into a small kitchen with dark brown Formica worktops and a chipped enamel free-standing cooker from the Sixties. ‘I only realised yesterday that Duncan’s pension ended with him, but I’d taken it for granted the share portfolios were mine and I was going to sell them, quickly. But Giles and Simon have scuppered that idea.’ She gave her head a bewildered shake. ‘The only cash I have is about five hundred pounds which I found in Duncan’s trouser pocket. But there are bills to pay. The undertakers and Garth House, where we went after the funeral. The claret they served cost hundreds. Giles and Simon chose the wine, as they chose the hotel and invited all the people, but left it to me to settle up.’

And stung you regally, I thought.

‘What about money in a bank account?’ I said.

‘Don’t have an account. I just used to tell Duncan when I wanted to shop and he’d provide the necessary. He was so kind. There’s a few thousand in his bank account, but it seems I can’t have that until the will’s gone to probate. Whatever that means. And until then –’ her voice rose in a plaintive wail ‘– what am I going to do?’

‘Sell something. Where’re the glasses and the gin and tonic?’

‘Glasses?’ She looked blank. ‘They’re in there. I think,’ she said, indicating an upper cupboard. ‘Mrs B did everything in the kitchen, prepared the meals and our drinks, and she bought the food. But she’s gone to work for Giles. Mrs B was our live-in housekeeper and –’ the wail came again ‘– he’s stolen her. Maybe – yes, the gin and the tonic are in here,’ Tina decided, opening another cupboard and lifting out bottles. She delved into a large fridge/freezer, American style but ancient. ‘Mrs B usually kept slices of lemon in the freezer.’

I poured the gin and tonics, added the frozen lemon, then handed her a glass. No wonder she was distressed. Her husband appeared to have worked along the lines of her ‘not worrying her pretty little head’ about money matters and she hadn’t. The nay-sayers and Jeremiahs may have insisted she had married him purely for his wealth, but she was not the sharpest tool in the box when it came to finance.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ I said. ‘You have possession of the house for the rest of your life and then it passes to your stepsons?’

‘Yes. Duncan and I had discussed it, and I’d agreed. It’s in his will. I don’t have any children, pregnancy can ruin the figure, so –’ She made an aimless gesture.

‘What about the contents, the furniture and such?’

I hadn’t noticed anything which looked to be of value, but perhaps there were items the woman could sell. Antiques, silverware, a collection of Ming vases?

‘It all stays and is for my use until I die. Though the things which are mine – clothes, shoes, jewellery – I shall leave… to someone,’ she said, as if she had no idea who that someone might be. ‘Giles and Simon have always hoped I’d fall out of a high window or under a bus, but now they’ll be hiring a hit man.’

‘You should watch your back,’ I said wryly. Her stepsons would begrudge every single day Tina spent in the house and she could live for another thirty years. But the Thyme Park plot must be worth something in the million-pound bracket. ‘The money from the shares was meant to support you?’

‘Yes. Duncan said if I spoke to the bank manager he’d suggest the best way to invest it to give me a monthly income. But I don’t own the shares, so there won’t be any income. How will I manage? How can I manage now?’

Presumably, having ensured she was without funds, Giles and Simon intended to pressure her into a deal where she was paid off cheaply and they took possession of the property. She might currently have a roof over her head, but she would need to pay a sizeable amount of council tax for that roof, plus there would be regular outgoings for utilities and upkeep.

‘Perhaps you could sell a car?’ I suggested, recalling the vehicles parked on the forecourt.

‘Yes! Duncan gave me the Mercedes for my birthday, but I found it a pig to park – I’m rubbish at parking – so he took it and bought me the Beemer instead. But the Merc’s in my name so no problem there.’ Looking cheerier, Tina swigged again from her glass. ‘And when the car money runs out I could sell some jewellery. Duncan had a thing about buying me brooches and, to be honest, most are hideous. So old ladyish. So old-fashioned. Of course, he was much, much older than me, like a father really, and his taste was dated.’

‘When you get the money from the car and for the brooches, put it into a bank account,’ I told her. I don’t usually go around issuing instructions to people I’ve just met, but she seemed to need looking after.

‘I will.’ Tina knocked back another mouthful. ‘Duncan handled all the bills, but I’ll have to pay them now. And I’ll have to deal with everything else he dealt with, like locking up at night – he made such a fuss about that – and getting the car serviced and making sure there’s enough air in the tyres. But I don’t know how to fit the air machine at the garage onto the wheels, so –’