cautiously around.
A man threw a ball for an excitable little dog, which leapt up to catch it, twisting acrobatically in the air. A little boy in a green coat ran across the grass, his cheeks pink with cold, his pure, high shrieks streaming behind him in bright ribbons of sound. Ordinary people on an ordinary day; no one following her or watching from the undergrowth. The iron band around Jess’s heart loosened a little and she looked down at the neat black ballet pumps she’d found at the bottom of the posh carrier bag and felt suffused with sudden optimism.
People were kind. She’d got too used to being treated like dirt, to living in an atmosphere of aggression and scorn. But that wasn’t normal; the vicar in the terrible jumper yesterday, the lady in the shop just now had reminded her of that. She had taken a wrong turn, that was all, but she could get herself back on track.
Screwing up the greasy paper bag she shoved it into her pocket and felt the letter there. She took it out and looked at the name on the front. In the cold, clear, outdoor light the handwriting seemed more fragile and ghostly than it had inside the house, as if a breath of wind might blow the words away, like cobwebs and dust.
Mrs S. Thorne.
Jess got to her feet and picked up the smart carrier bag. She had spent enough time trying – fruitlessly it had to be said – to find a way out of her own problems. It would be good to give herself a break and focus on someone else’s for a while.
Walking lightly in her new shoes, she headed for the library.
It took Will an hour and twenty minutes to get from the houses on Greenfields Lane to the offices of Ansell Blake in New Cross. They were situated above a kebab shop (or Turkish restaurant, as Ansell preferred to call it) in a 1960s development that managed to be both hideously ugly and vastly impractical, being sweltering in summer and arctic in winter. But it came with car parking and was, as Ansell pointed out, handy for the A2, which roared or crawled right outside their poorly fitting windows, depending on the time of day. It was also, of course, cheap.
The stairwell smelled of greasy meat and stale oil. The blue carpet was worn and stained. Since probate research didn’t rely on passing trade and most client interaction took place in the homes of potential heirs, Ansell claimed having a ‘poncey office with potted plants and copies of Country Fucking Life ’ was an unnecessary extravagance. Will thought that having walls that had been repainted in the last ten years and didn’t have a halo of dirt around every light switch was a matter of basic hygiene.
He could hear Ansell on the phone. The absence of expletives and the note of false sincerity in his voice told him it was to a client, but as Will reached the top of the stairs he heard him finish the conversation and hang up. Almost an hour and a half in London traffic had left Will short on patience for dealing with Ansell. He tried to slip past his half-open door unnoticed.
No such luck.
‘Halle-fucking-lujah, the wanderer returns. Bex, go downstairs and get Ali to kill the fatted kebab, would you? And then tell Poshboy to get in here.’
Will’s heart sank. Bex appeared in the doorway, grinning. She was nineteen and dressed for the office like she was heading out on some extreme hen-party weekend, but she was essentially a sweet girl who took her role as Ansell’s comedy sidekick in good part. She rolled her extravagantly lashed eyes and stood aside to let Will past.
‘Ah, Posh, glad you could join us.’ The happy synergy of Posh and Bex was a matter of perennial hilarity to Ansell, especially as it allowed him to paint Will as a pointless airhead and Bex as the serious talent. ‘News just in. A case in the name of Grimwood, which has been a breeze to follow up. While you’ve been gazing at your navel and paying calls like some kind of fucking Victorian lady, Barry has printed out the family tree and contacted relatives.
A man threw a ball for an excitable little dog, which leapt up to catch it, twisting acrobatically in the air. A little boy in a green coat ran across the grass, his cheeks pink with cold, his pure, high shrieks streaming behind him in bright ribbons of sound. Ordinary people on an ordinary day; no one following her or watching from the undergrowth. The iron band around Jess’s heart loosened a little and she looked down at the neat black ballet pumps she’d found at the bottom of the posh carrier bag and felt suffused with sudden optimism.
People were kind. She’d got too used to being treated like dirt, to living in an atmosphere of aggression and scorn. But that wasn’t normal; the vicar in the terrible jumper yesterday, the lady in the shop just now had reminded her of that. She had taken a wrong turn, that was all, but she could get herself back on track.
Screwing up the greasy paper bag she shoved it into her pocket and felt the letter there. She took it out and looked at the name on the front. In the cold, clear, outdoor light the handwriting seemed more fragile and ghostly than it had inside the house, as if a breath of wind might blow the words away, like cobwebs and dust.
Mrs S. Thorne.
Jess got to her feet and picked up the smart carrier bag. She had spent enough time trying – fruitlessly it had to be said – to find a way out of her own problems. It would be good to give herself a break and focus on someone else’s for a while.
Walking lightly in her new shoes, she headed for the library.
It took Will an hour and twenty minutes to get from the houses on Greenfields Lane to the offices of Ansell Blake in New Cross. They were situated above a kebab shop (or Turkish restaurant, as Ansell preferred to call it) in a 1960s development that managed to be both hideously ugly and vastly impractical, being sweltering in summer and arctic in winter. But it came with car parking and was, as Ansell pointed out, handy for the A2, which roared or crawled right outside their poorly fitting windows, depending on the time of day. It was also, of course, cheap.
The stairwell smelled of greasy meat and stale oil. The blue carpet was worn and stained. Since probate research didn’t rely on passing trade and most client interaction took place in the homes of potential heirs, Ansell claimed having a ‘poncey office with potted plants and copies of Country Fucking Life ’ was an unnecessary extravagance. Will thought that having walls that had been repainted in the last ten years and didn’t have a halo of dirt around every light switch was a matter of basic hygiene.
He could hear Ansell on the phone. The absence of expletives and the note of false sincerity in his voice told him it was to a client, but as Will reached the top of the stairs he heard him finish the conversation and hang up. Almost an hour and a half in London traffic had left Will short on patience for dealing with Ansell. He tried to slip past his half-open door unnoticed.
No such luck.
‘Halle-fucking-lujah, the wanderer returns. Bex, go downstairs and get Ali to kill the fatted kebab, would you? And then tell Poshboy to get in here.’
Will’s heart sank. Bex appeared in the doorway, grinning. She was nineteen and dressed for the office like she was heading out on some extreme hen-party weekend, but she was essentially a sweet girl who took her role as Ansell’s comedy sidekick in good part. She rolled her extravagantly lashed eyes and stood aside to let Will past.
‘Ah, Posh, glad you could join us.’ The happy synergy of Posh and Bex was a matter of perennial hilarity to Ansell, especially as it allowed him to paint Will as a pointless airhead and Bex as the serious talent. ‘News just in. A case in the name of Grimwood, which has been a breeze to follow up. While you’ve been gazing at your navel and paying calls like some kind of fucking Victorian lady, Barry has printed out the family tree and contacted relatives.
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