Chapter 8 #2
Sellers dragged his eyes and attention away.
Who’d have thought that a shell of a room could be so much more interesting than one that contained lots of things to look at and a speaking human?
Gareth Upton was clearly in so much pain, it was hard to be in his company.
Sellers rose from his chair and started to say, ‘Mind if I close the door?’ at the same time that Upton said, ‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without her. I’m sorry. I’m just not …’
‘Not a problem. Take your time.’ Sellers sat back down again, waiting for this new round of crying to stop.
He forced himself to look at the room he was in, and not the one that seemed to be calling out to him.
The walls of Gareth Upton’s home office were grey, like most of the computers standing against them, and the wooden floorboards had been painted an even darker grey.
There was nothing on the walls apart from two enormous canvases, both portraits of Marianne Upton.
In one, she was a full-bodied orange outline on a white background, but somehow still recognisable as herself.
The other was a more realistic, traditional portrait of her sitting in a high-backed armchair, smiling.
Her bobbed silver hair shone; Sellers thought it was clever how the artist had done that.
The second was by far the superior painting, he thought.
Aside from the pictures, there were no decorative or softening items in the room: no lamps, no ornaments on shelves; no shelves, in fact, for ornaments to go on – not a single one.
No rug, coasters, cushions, throws. Sellers thought of himself as a fairly blokey bloke, but even he would have had a cushion or two.
He could have done with one now, in fact.
The room’s only chair apart from the one behind Gareth Upton’s desk was minimal and Scandinavian-looking – less like a chair and more like a slender metal ruler folded in half.
‘We’ll get all the computers and stuff back to you soon as we can,’ Sellers said, once Upton had composed himself.
‘Please do. If it becomes possible to distract myself with work in the coming days, then I’d like to.’
Sellers inclined his head in the direction of Marianne’s empty study. ‘Do you know why your wife stripped her study bare?’ he asked.
Upton looked disorientated. ‘I … no,’ he said eventually.
Was he lying? Hard to tell. All Sellers could see was a mess of a man.
Upton had a soft, round fleshy face, straw-like hair that stuck out in every direction, and a small, piggy squiggle of a nose.
Together, these features might have given him a rather comical aspect if he hadn’t been so obviously distraught.
Interestingly, Marianne had been attractive for a woman her age.
Getting on for beautiful, even. Sellers looked again at her portrait: bow-shaped mouth, long slender neck, dark blue eyes.
Why had she married a man who looked like the cuddly-toy version of a scarecrow?
For his unquestioning obedience and devotion, perhaps.
‘I do know,’ Upton said.
‘Sorry?’ said Sellers.
‘Why Marianne destroyed her study. I do know why. I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to mislead you.
I thought you’d asked a different question.
She was convinced that Jemma was trying to break into her room, invade her privacy.
Please don’t think badly of Jemma. She wouldn’t normally think to snoop like that. She found Marianne … difficult.’
‘What was in there before?’ Sellers asked.
‘Nothing untoward,’ said Upton. ‘A little writing table, like the sort a Victorian lady might have had. Marianne called it her desk but that was my little joke: “Desk? Call that a desk? This is a desk.”’ He patted its glass surface.
‘I could never understand how she got by with something so dainty.’
‘You must have seen her study, then, and been inside it, if you saw her desk?’ said Sellers.
‘A couple of times, yes. If Marianne and I were the only ones home, she would sometimes leave her study door open, if she knew she’d be going in and out. And I mean, I wouldn’t have dreamed of setting foot over the threshold without an invitation. She knew that.’
‘What was in there, apart from the dainty desk?’ Sellers asked.
‘Other furniture. A chaise longue, chairs, a rug. Lamp, cushions. The shelves were stuffed with books, notebooks, photographs.’
Everything that’s missing from this room, then.
‘Where’s it all now?’
‘Clearabee took it all,’ Upton said. ‘They’re a company that comes and takes away anything you don’t want any more. She didn’t give them any of the personal stuff – the books or the photos. We squirrelled those away for safekeeping. Everything else went, though.’
‘Including the shelves,’ said Sellers. ‘And the carpet.’
Upton nodded.
‘Why? Marianne not wanting Jemma to see her personal possessions, books, photos – that makes sense, I guess, but removing shelves and the carpet seems a bit extreme.’
Upton sighed. ‘If you’d known Marianne, you’d understand. She saw every part of that room as hers, and for her only. Yes, even the carpet. On one level it was really only the photos she couldn’t risk Jemma seeing, but … all of it was her kingdom and she was determined to … protect it.’
By destroying it? Sellers was hardly about to argue that Marianne Upton couldn’t have been as crazy as that when her husband was calmly advising him to the contrary. Most people were bonkers in at least a few little ways, Sellers knew.
‘What did you want to tell me about her will?’ he asked Upton.
‘My wife has – had – a lot of wealth. You’re going to find out about her will, I expect, so I wanted to tell you before you do, and to urge you to …
well, to disregard it. Nobody would kill a person for taking them out of their will, especially not when it happened so long ago, but even if they would, Jemma and Paddy have no idea.
I’m the only one who knows, and I’m very much hoping that nothing about what’s happened here today means they need to find out it was ever any different from how it is now. ’
Interesting. Sellers didn’t plan to disregard any of this.
‘Are you saying Marianne used to have a will in which Jemma and Paddy Stelling were beneficiaries, and then she changed it and cut them out?’ he asked.
Upton began to cry again, but there was a nod in there too. Confirmation.
Sellers waited.
‘Shortly after their marriage, she made a will. We both did. Mine’s the same now as it was then: Jemma and Lottie. Everything goes to them. But Marianne, who was worth significantly more than I am—’
‘What did she do again?’ Sellers asked.
‘Before she retired, she worked part-time at the museum in Silsford,’ said Upton.
‘Very part-time. That wasn’t where her money came from, though.
That was from her father. An American.’ This was stated in a tone that suggested it explained everything.
‘Victor Taggart, his name was. He invested in a friend’s company in the 1940s – a company that turned diamond particles into the sharp edges of oil-drilling devices, I think.
I’m not sure I ever quite followed the details.
Thanks to him, Marianne inherited millions.
She very much wanted to leave some of her wealth to Jemma and Paddy when they first got married, and she suggested ￡500,000 for Paddy and a million for Jemma. ’
Sellers tried not to look as startled as he felt.
‘I thought it was extremely generous of her,’ said Upton. ‘The rest would be divided between me and a number of charities she supported. She’s always given a lot to charity.’
‘When and why did she decide to cut out Jemma and Paddy?’ asked Sellers.
‘She made her new will in December 2012. As for why … I’m afraid I can’t tell you.’
December 2012. That wasn’t even two months after someone had tried to kill her by cutting her throat. There had to be a connection, surely. ‘Mr Upton, anything you know, I’m going to have to ask you to—’
‘I don’t know. Hence why I can’t tell you. I meant what I said: it’s can’t, not won’t. Marianne let me in on exactly as much as she wanted to and no more.’
‘You mentioned before that Marianne couldn’t risk Jemma seeing the photos in her study,’ Sellers said. ‘Why? Could I see those photos? You kept them, right?’
‘You’d be none the wiser.’ Upton smiled sadly.
‘They’re family photos, that’s all. But Marianne didn’t want Jemma to know that she …
well, she played Happy Families in that room.
She picked out photos that had us all smiling or laughing – Jemma especially.
As if there was no resentment from Jemma towards Marianne and never had been. ’
‘But … everyone picks the best, smiliest family photos to display,’ said Sellers. ‘Would Jemma have thought anything of it?’
After a few seconds, during which Sellers guessed he was wrestling with difficult thoughts, Upton said, ‘It would have been humiliating for Marianne. The photos were evidence that she cared, and wanted something that she saw Jemma as depriving her of. She never …’ He cleared his throat.
‘She didn’t ever like to give any power away. She always had to have all the power.’
Sellers eyed her portrait again. Yes, he could imagine it. ‘You’re sure Jemma and Paddy don’t know about the changed will?’ he asked.
Upton nodded. ‘As I said: they didn’t know about the first will, either. I don’t think inheriting money from Marianne has ever crossed either of their minds.’
Having not met Jemma and barely having spoken to Paddy, Sellers disagreed. How could you have an elderly relative worth millions and not be constantly wondering if you’d be quids in one day?
‘Please tell your colleagues: there’s nothing associated with the will that provides a motive,’ said Upton.
‘And … I really don’t want Jemma and Paddy to find out they’ve been done out of something they never even knew they had, if you know what I mean.
They’ll both have assumed everything of Marianne’s is coming to me, I’m sure. ’
‘I don’t suppose you know who’s getting their million and a half instead?’ Sellers asked.
‘I don’t know for sure, but my guess would be a trust fund for Lottie.
Or else the charities and I will each get a little more.
Which they don’t know and I couldn’t care less about – and whatever the arrangement is, it’s been in place since December 2012.
There’s no reason why someone upset by it or hoping to gain should have waited eleven years.
The will is completely irrelevant, all right? It has nothing to do with any of this.’
And that’s why you’ve invited me in here for a special discussion about it, thought Sellers. Because it’s so completely irrelevant to everything.