Chapter 36
The local evening news was coming to an end.
‘And finally,’ the anchorman read from the autocue, ‘the story of the mysterious tokens that residents of Cornwall have been finding on their doormats. Supposedly advising recipients that they are due to inherit a vast fortune, the tokens appear to have been sent on behalf of reclusive local billionaire, Logan Quick. Jasmin Basri has more.’
Sheila sat upright in her armchair. ‘What’s she saying? Turn it up.’
Cheryl’s mother often dozed during the news; meals made her soporific and the two always ate at five thirty. Not this time, worse luck. Cheryl found the remote just as a young Asian woman wearing a red coat and a multi-coloured scarf appeared on the screen. Behind her were a pair of wooden gates.
Cheryl increased the volume on the TV, as much to drown out the sound of her heartbeat going into overdrive as to allow her mother to hear what was being said.
‘I’m standing here in front of the stylish, multi-million-pound home of local woman Tara Webb,’ the reporter said to the camera.
‘Not someone you’d think would need a sudden windfall in the post. Yet that, it seems, is exactly what happened.
Because two days ago, Mrs Webb received a solicitors’ letter telling her she was due to inherit a share of the fortune of entrepreneur Logan Quick. ’
‘That’s it,’ Sheila said to the TV. ‘That’s what we got. We got one too.’
‘Ssshh,’ Cheryl hissed, before she could stop herself.
‘And she’s not the only one,’ the reporter was saying.
‘Ambulance driver Sabri Carter, who lives just fifteen miles from here in Truro, received a token in the post too. In an interview with our sister radio channel, Mrs Carter’s husband told us that his wife has never met Mr Quick and has no idea why she’s been singled out in this way. ’
The reporter was no longer in front of the gates. Instead, she walked slowly up a wooded lane, her colourful scarf blowing in the wind. The Webb property gates were visible some way back.
‘No one knows how many of these tokens have been sent out,’ she went on, as she brushed the floaty scarf from her face.
‘And the firm of solicitors acting for Mr Quick refused to comment when we contacted them earlier today. Similarly, we’ve been unable to get any reaction from Mr Quick himself through any of his registered companies.
Significantly, though, neither the solicitors nor Mr Quick’s representatives have denied his involvement in the unusual case, leading many commentators to conclude that this is all for real. ’
The screen switched back to the studio.
‘Very exciting,’ the man at the desk said. ‘Let’s hope more becomes clear in the coming days. In the meantime, people are advised to check their post very carefully.’ He smiled, a big cheesy grin that showed huge white teeth. ‘After all, it could be you.’
Sheila’s head snapped round to face Cheryl. ‘What did you do with that letter? Where did you put it?’
Cheryl felt as though she’d been waiting for this moment for a very long time. ‘It burned, Mum. You threw it on the fire. Remember?’
‘Why didn’t you stop me?’
‘You were too fast.’ She got up, out of the chair, because she didn’t trust herself to keep a straight face. Her mum looked like an angry chipmunk. ‘Nice cup of tea?’ she offered.
‘You heard what they said. It’s real. That man has left us some money.’
Me some money. Not us. Me. ‘He’s not dead yet. Wills don’t work until someone dies. I thought you’d know that, Mum. Seeing as how you’ve spent so much time thinking about yours lately.’
As Cheryl left the room, she thought it might not even matter if the letter did turn out to be fake, if the token (carefully hidden upstairs beneath a loose piece of carpet) was nothing more than worthless junk.
She couldn’t imagine anything more satisfying than the expression on her mother’s face just now.
Before the kettle started whistling Cheryl heard Sheila’s voice again. Coming from the hall this time.
‘Hello? I want the number for BBC Cornwall. News desk.’