My Name is Eva(39)
But, she wondered, should I visit his flat to double-check? Would there be anything there that could be traced back to Kingsley Manor and therefore to me? Would the little collection of knick-knacks he pinched raise suspicion, or has he already sold them?
On the table in the kitchen, where he had so often analysed the extent of her wealth and the possibility of sharing in her fortune, she laid out the contents of his jacket and trouser pockets: the two halves of his return ticket from Waterloo to Witley; one wallet containing a single bank card, driving licence, some banknotes and a library card; a small bunch of door keys, one plain white handkerchief (thin and fraying, but folded and apparently clean), a handful of coins, a pocket diary, an almost empty cheque book and his passport.
There was no souvenir of his visit in his pockets this time, but then he’d hardly had the opportunity to help himself to a choice treasure before she’d persuaded him to go outside. Lucky he didn’t have one of those new phones everyone was talking about and she was sure he’d only phoned her a few times from his flat, so there should be little chance of her number standing out from others.
She considered the bank card and train tickets. If he used the card to authorise cheques to pay for his regular journeys, transactions would show up on his bank statement. Is it possible to determine his destination from the price of the fare alone? Perhaps he always paid in cash and there was no trace of his regular visits.
Flicking through the pages of the diary, she could find nothing that tied him to her. No ‘ETC’ or ‘KM’ every Sunday, no address note in the section at the back. Of course, the year had not long started, so would last year’s diary still exist? She thought it unlikely. He was a man of tidy, frugal habits, with no room for clutter.
But what else had he told her about his routine? She searched the library of her mind methodically, recalling all the times when she had encouraged him to talk about his life in London. ‘Oh, I’m a boring old bachelor now I’m retired,’ he’d said. ‘I walk everywhere for exercise. Can’t stand waiting for buses and cabs are too bloody expensive. Can’t stand the Underground either, with all the ruddy tourists.’ And his regular activities? ‘Rain or shine, I stroll along to the RAC Club in the morning to read the papers. No, I don’t have lunch there. Far too pricey for the likes of me, these days. Can’t see me keeping the membership on for much longer the way things are going either.’
She weighed his door keys in her hand. The thought of going to Dolphin Court was tempting, but far too risky unless she did it immediately, before his absence was noted and neighbours, the concierge, a cleaner or anyone else there might wonder why she was visiting his flat. No, she had to assume there was nothing in his apartment that could link him to her and that, like her, he was used to committing all his arrangements to memory.
And then there was the matter of the house and contents valuations he’d been so keen on getting. How sure could she be that he’d never taken anything away with him? Every time he’d said, ‘Would you like me to arrange that for you?’ or ‘Shall I contact them?’ she’d declined and had made the appointments herself, meeting the agents alone at home. Then she’d let him enjoy looking through the documentation, all the property reports, the insurance reviews and the auction house summaries, greedily totting up his sums, virtually rubbing his hands in anticipation of his share of the riches, right here in the house. She had never made extra copies for him and she had kept all the papers firmly stapled together and had checked after each visit that not a single page had been removed, so she felt certain nothing could have travelled back to London with him.
No, she was fairly sure she’d thought of everything. Or had she? Evelyn looked at the evidence of his life spread out on the table. It wouldn’t hurt to create a little diversion, perhaps, and it wouldn’t take her very long.
She quickly picked up her coat, bag and car keys. It was a lovely afternoon for a drive. Somewhere quiet, somewhere that might suggest he had gone further afield, she decided as she turned southwards onto the A3. In the summer it was heaving with cars returning from weekends of summer sailing, but at this time of the year there wasn’t much traffic. Lymington perhaps, maybe somewhere not far away from the ferry terminal.
Just as she had hoped, the town was fairly deserted when she arrived and she pulled up in an almost empty car park. She could have chosen Southampton and disappeared in the crush of vehicles returning from weekends on the Continent, but Lymington was discreet, so unassuming. She strolled, just another middle-aged lady at leisure, enjoying an afternoon walk.
A little way down the road she found just what she was looking for: a bank cash machine on a side wall just off the high street. It was a quiet Sunday afternoon, very few tourists, the pubs were fairly empty, the town was dead; with gloved fingers she slipped Stephen’s debit card into the machine and hoped this would work. She tapped in four numbers, then another four, then finally four more, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The card didn’t reappear. It had been taken by the machine, and if her understanding was correct (and yes, she did read the financial and money pages of the papers, despite what she had let him think), his account would record an attempted transaction and the bank would eventually assume the card had been stolen. Anyone checking his whereabouts would wonder where he had lost it. In London or in Lymington?
She glanced around her. The street was still almost deserted. The sun had nearly finished setting over the sea and it would have been rather nice to wander down to the water and enjoy the end of the day, but she knew it would be best to head back home. Anyway, there was still some of that lovely casserole left over from lunch.