Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [106]
The American gamblers were still gambling, and still losing. But how could I stop them if I didn’t know who they were?
There must come a time, I thought, when the credit card accounts reached their limit. That should bring it all to a stop, but at what cost?
I used Herb’s landline telephone to call the building society and let them know why the direct debit had been stopped. They were so sorry to hear of Mr. Kovak’s death, but of course that did not mean they would stop accruing the interest on the loan. Did they not know the real meaning of mortgage? The mort referred to death, as in mortuary and mortality. A mortgage was originally a pledge to repay the loan outstanding on one’s death, not on the never-never thereafter.
Next I called the utility companies and tried to arrange for the gas, electricity and phone to be cut off. I made the mistake of telling them that I wasn’t Herb Kovak, that he was dead and I was his executor. They all needed documentary proof that I was acting on Mr. Kovak’s behalf, and, anyway, they needed the bills paid first. I pointed out that if I didn’t pay the bills, they would cut the services off anyway. It didn’t help.
I collected the credit card statements and the other things together and put them in a large white envelope that I found in Herb’s desk. What I really needed was a solicitor to get things moving on the job of obtaining probate. At least I would then be able to cancel the credit cards, but probably not before they were paid off as well. This apartment would also have to be sold, and if the scale of the outstanding interest payment in the building society’s letter was anything to go by, there may not be enough capital remaining after paying off the mortgage to cover the other bills. Perhaps I might need to make Herb’s estate bankrupt.
All in all, it was not such a fine legacy.
I knew Patrick lived in Weybridge. I knew it because Claudia and I had been to his house for dinner a few times, and also the firm’s annual summer party the previous year had been held in his expansive garden.
I also knew that his journey from home to work involved being dropped at Weybridge Station by his wife, catching a train to Waterloo and then squeezing onto the Waterloo and City Tube line to Bank. Everyone in the office knew because Patrick was not averse to complaining loudly about public transport, or, for that matter, his wife’s driving, especially if it had made him late for work.
I assumed his return journey would be the same but in the opposite direction, and I planned to join him for some of it.
He usually left the office between six o’clock and half past, but I was at Waterloo waiting by five in case he was early. Even so, I still very nearly missed him.
The main problem was that there were at least six trains an hour to Weybridge and they seemingly could leave from any of the nineteen platforms.
I waited on the mainline station concourse opposite the bank of escalators that rose from the Underground lines beneath. During the peak evening rush hour, two of the three escalators were used for up traffic, and these, together with the stairs alongside, disgorged thousands of commuters every minute onto the concourse, all of them hurrying for their trains.
By twenty-five past six, my eyes were so punch-drunk from scanning so many faces that my brain took several long seconds to register that I had fleetingly glimpsed a familiar one, but by then he had become lost again in the crowd walking away from me.
I chased after, trying to spot him again, while also attempting to search the departure boards overhead for trains to Weybridge.
I followed someone right across the concourse towards Platform 1 and only realized it wasn’t Patrick when he turned into one of the food outlets.
Dammit, I thought. I had wasted precious minutes.
I turned back and looked carefully at the departure board.
There was a train for Basingstoke, via Weybridge, leaving from Platform 13 in two minutes. I would have to take the gamble that Patrick was on it. I rushed right back