Dick Francis's Gamble - Felix Francis [38]
I sat back in the chair and thought about Claudia. I tried her mobile again, but, as before, it went straight to voice mail without ringing. I wished now that I had told her about the article in the Racing Post when she had brought over my computer. I tried her number once more, and this time I did leave a message.
“Darling,” I said. “Could you please give me a call when you get this? Love you. Byeee.” I hung up.
I looked at the clock on Herb’s desk. It was only a quarter to eleven. I had been here for nearly three hours, but it seemed like much longer.
I wondered what Claudia could be doing at a quarter to eleven in the morning, and with whom, that required her to have her phone switched off.
I sighed. Perhaps I didn’t want to know.
In my role as Herb’s executor, I used the account number and sort code on his statement to send an e-mail to his bank informing them that Mr. Kovak was deceased, and would they please send me details of all his accounts, and especially the balances.
Somewhat surprisingly I received a reply almost immediately thanking me for the sad news and advising me that they would need various pieces of original documentation before they could release the information I had asked for, including the death certificate, a copy of the will and an order of probate.
And how long would it take to get that lot?
I heard Sherri go along the corridor to the bathroom.
At least my troubles with Billy Searle were minor compared to hers.
I took the front cover sheet off the Racing Post and folded it up, as if not being able to see the damning words would in some way limit their damage to my reputation and career. I put the offending piece in my pocket and went to throw the rest of it into the wastebasket under Herb’s desk.
The basket had some things in it already, and, I thought, as I’ve looked everywhere else, why not there?
I poured the contents of the basket out onto the desk.
Amongst the opened envelopes, the empty Starbucks coffee cups and the screwed-up tissues were lots of little pieces of paper about an inch square. I put the cups, envelopes and tissues back in the basket, leaving a pile of the paper squares on the desk. It was fairly obvious that they were the torn-up remains of a larger piece, so I set about trying to put them back together. It was a bit like doing a jigsaw puzzle, but without the picture on the box to guide me.
I fairly quickly established that the pieces had not been from one larger piece but three. I slowly built up the originals in front of me. They were each about six inches by four, printed forms with words written on them in pen, similar forms but each with different writing. I stuck the bits together with Scotch tape.
“What are you doing?” Sherri asked from the doorway.
She made me jump.
“Nothing much,” I said, swiveling the desk chair around to face her. “How are you feeling?”
“Dreadful,” she said, coming into the room and flopping down into the deep armchair. “I can’t believe it.”
I thought she was about to cry again. I wasn’t sure whether the dark shadows beneath her eyes were due to tiredness or her tearsmudged mascara.
“I’ll get you some more tea,” I said, standing up.
“Lovely,” she said with a forced smile. “Thank you.”
I went through to the kitchen and boiled the kettle. I also made myself another coffee and took both cups back to the living room.
Sherri was sitting at the desk, looking at the pieces of paper. I sat down on the arm of the big armchair.
“Do you know what they are?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “They’re MoneyHome payment slips.” She sipped her tea. “One for eight thousand, and two for five.”
“Pounds?” I asked.
She looked at them.
“Dollars. Converted into pounds.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
She looked at me.
“I use MoneyHome all the time,” she said. “It’s a bit like Western Union, only cheaper. They have agents all over the world. Herb sent me the money for my airfare via MoneyHome.”
“Are any of these slips from that?”
“No,” she said with certainty. “These are the slips you get when you collect