Gold Digger by Frances Fyfield Page B

stone. There were wine racks and rubbish, boxes and baskets, cardboard containers, tidily stacked, and to his inner ear, a faint shuffling sound, as if of someone breathing. The floor at the furthest end away from the inside steps sloped upwards towards the steel shutters leading into the yard.
    ‘You can hear the sea down here,’ Di said. ‘And there were mice and rats and things, but I think they’ve gone now.’
    Again, half lost in admiration of the room itself, Raymond asked a question.
    ‘The late Mrs Porteous … did she know this house well?’
    The torch wavered alarmingly in the large space. Even a claustrophobic could function here.
    ‘Thomas said so. She would have known it when his parents lived here and they came to visit. She hated it and hated bringing the children, but admired it, too, when it was never as valuable as it is now. She had no idea then that Thomas would inherit it. Yes, she must have known it, but probably not well. I only know what Thomas told me. There’s been changes since.’
    He was accepting stray pieces of unverifiable information in the dark and he wondered why he had asked. He knew Christina Porteous had visited Thomas in this house before her death, to plead for money: he was unsure if Di knew, or how much she knew of that unstable, poisonous woman. Raymond needed no encouragement to go back upstairs as fast as his legs could carry him. He hated mice and the very thought of rats unnerved him so he went back upstairs, sat back and accepted coffee, again experiencing the strange sense of comfort she offered. Excellent coffee, as it happened. He was particular about that, took a sip and shuddered withthe thrill of it, sipping it like an old lady who had never tasted the taste before, and looked at his watch. A train would go at fifteen minutes past the hour and he had time for the next, if he went now, resisting the comfort and the urge to stay. He heaved himself to his feet, sat down again, remembering there was more to discuss.
    ‘Look Di, you’ve got to make your own last will and testament, and make it soon. Thomas said so. I’ve got a draft, setting up a trust. I know it might seem ridiculous at your age, but it’s got to be done. He was very keen about that.’
    ‘Yes. He knew very well that if anything happened to me, and I died without making a will, my father would claim as my only relative. So, yes, it better be done soon, and publicly. So that he has less of an incentive than he already does to kill me.’
    She said it so calmly, he almost choked.
    ‘Your father? You’d better explain this to me, Di. Thomas never did.’
    ‘Perhaps because he didn’t want to shock you,’ Di said, calmly. ‘Or force you to consider the violent propensities of his wife’s parent.’ Sometimes her speech had the modulations of Thomas and his dedication to precision, so that she sounded like an echo of a scholarly brain.
    ‘I have a father who is rather a bad man,’ Di said, matter of factly. ‘A sort of undertaker, outside of the law. About whom I know rather too much for his comfort. Still alive, as far as I know. The last thing he ever said to me was to wish me dead. He’s lived away for a long, long while, haven’t seen him for years. A decade, at least. So, no worries, hey? And anyway, he’s not a murderer and Thomas thought of everything.’
    The speech has lost its careful intonation.
    ‘Good Lord,’ Raymond said, faintly, thinking to himself that maybe this was a little over the top, not to say creativeand stress-related. It had already occurred to him that Di was in danger, for the simple reason that the hiring of an assassin was a far cheaper expedient than the expensive business of contesting a will. He had known those who had contemplated it, but it did not happen in polite society. Edward would have thought of it: Edward had contacts, but not that kind. And now there was this other string. A homicidally inclined father, dear God, what overdramatic nonsense. It