Chapter 53
On the day of the press conference, when news of the tokens spread the world over, high tide at Daymer Bay occurred at ten minutes past nine o’clock in the morning. Tara pulled into the car park at three minutes past.
‘And we’ve got some breaking news,’ the BBC presenter was saying, as Tara tucked her purse and phone into the glove compartment.
‘Barker, Momen and Dodds, the Cornish firm of solicitors at the centre of the story about Logan Quick’s eccentric last will and testament, have announced a press conference at eleven thirty this morning.
I think our reporter, David Lyme, is on the line now. David, what’s happening in Exeter?’
Tara turned up the volume.
‘Well, Jeremy, there’s been a lot of activity around the offices of Barker, Momen and Dodds since news of Logan Quick’s will broke,’ replied the new voice.
‘Earlier this week we saw increased levels of security around the firm as, presumably, the recipients of the mysterious tokens were dropping in to find out more. Nothing official has been announced as yet but, maybe this morning, that will all change.’
‘And I’ve just heard from the producer that we will be covering the press conference live, so stay tuned, folks. More on Logan Quick and his intriguing legacy as we get it.’
The station moved on to another story and Tara turned off the radio. Almost immediately, her phone began to ring.
Holly was reading case notes when Coffie opened her office door. ‘You need to see this.’ He put a notepad computer on her desk. ‘It’s going out live now.’
‘Mate, I’m on a deadline,’ Holly argued.
The screen showed a YouTube channel and two bearded young men in T-shirts sitting side by side at a desk. Both wore headphones and were speaking into enormous microphones. Each had a laptop. The background looked like a giant, purple egg box.
‘These two have nearly four million subscribers,’ Coffie told her. ‘And they’re talking about you.’
‘So, that’s Intense Bulk Protein Shakes,’ the boy on the left was saying. His hair had a ginger tinge, otherwise he was practically indistinguishable from the one on the right. ‘Perfect for that protein hit directly after the gym or in between meals. Toby uses it all the time, don’t you, Tobes?’
Tobes, the darker-haired kid in a yellow T-shirt, smirked as he flexed his very unimpressive muscles.
‘And now back to the main story,’ Ginger Hair went on.
‘And that’s treasure hunts. We do love a treasure hunt, don’t we now?
We might dream of winning the lottery but given the choice between having millions handed to us on a plate and seeking it out for ourselves on a swashbuckling adventure of derring-do? Well, what would you do, Tobes?’
‘I’d take the plate,’ Tobes replied.
Ginger laughed. ‘And yet from the dawn of time, we’ve yearned for treasure, the harder to find the better.
Take the hunt for the golden hare in the seventies.
The book that started the whole thing off sold over a million copies.
People were looking for the thing all over the world. And where was it found?’
‘I don’t know, Ben, tell me where it was found.’
‘Berkshire.’
Both men laughed.
‘Course, that was before we were born,’ Ben went on.
‘So, how about this one. Back in 2010, an art dealer called Forrest Fenn announced that he’d buried a bronze chest full of gold, jewellery and artefacts somewhere in the Rocky Mountains.
It took a decade, and hundreds of thousands of seekers, before it was finally found in 2020. ’
‘Seriously?’ Holly sighed. She really did have a hell of a lot to get through.
‘Give it a minute,’ Coffie told her.
‘My favourite is the Lake Toplitz Nazi treasure,’ Tobes said.
‘This lake, somewhere in the wilds of Austria, was used by the Nazis as a naval testing station in the 1940s. Towards the end of the war, they began sinking containers into the water. It’s believed they dumped billions of dollars of gold down there, meaning to come back and get it when all the, you know, the fuss about the Holocaust had died down.
But that didn’t happen. And the lake is three hundred feet deep.
At least five divers have died trying to recover the lost Nazi gold.
But tell me, Ben, why are we talking about treasure hunts? ’
‘Because we have one of our own here in Cornwall,’ Ben replied. ‘And we’re about to find out a whole lot more about it at a press conference this morning given by Cornish solicitors Barker, Momen and Dodds.’
Holly looked up at Coffie, saw the I told you so look on his face.
On the screen, Tobes said, ‘When we say treasure, in this case we’re talking cold hard cash, aren’t we?’
‘Possibly,’ replied Ben. ‘But it all depends upon the possession of a mysterious token, a small bronze coin covered in ancient writing. We know an undisclosed number have been sent out, and three have come to light, in the hands of some ordinary local women, prompting many to speculate what these three have done to be singled out like this.’
‘Intriguing.’
The two young men shared smiles and knowing looks.
‘Just the sort of mystery we love,’ Ben went on. ‘The press conference starts at eleven thirty, folks, and we’ll be covering it live, so stay tuned.’
The pair moved on to another story. Without speaking, Coffie cut the volume and scrolled down so Holly could see some of the comments appearing.
I’ve heard whoever has the token gets the money. We need to find these bad boys.
It’s a scam. I can’t believe people are falling for this.
Anyone know where these bitches live?
We could snatch one of her kids. She’ll soon hand it over then.
Holly had seen enough. She turned the laptop away.
‘You cannot go public,’ Coffie told her. ‘Put that bloody thing in a bank safe deposit box and forget all about it till you hear Logan Quick has died. I tell you, Holls, that man has handed you a poisoned chalice.’
‘Cheryl! Get your lazy arse in here.’
More than once over the last couple of weeks, Cheryl had wondered if her mother was in the early stages of dementia.
Sheila had never been a mild-mannered woman, but her spite had been subtle.
She’d never made a habit of swearing. Since the arrival of the token, though, her language had deteriorated and all too often her manner stretched from irritated to abusive.
Or maybe she just couldn’t cope with her daughter having the upper hand.
Cheryl straightened up from the washing machine and joined Sheila in the sitting room. The TV was on, uncomfortably loud.
‘There’s a big announcement today.’ Sheila didn’t take her eyes from the screen. ‘I’ve forgotten what they called it. It’s happening at eleven thirty. That’s in ten minutes. You need to get on the phone to those solicitors. They can’t spring surprises on us like this.’
‘What sort of announcement? Mum, please turn that down, I can’t hear myself think.’
‘I told you, about the will. He must have died already. Get on the phone. You know the buggers won’t talk to me.’
Cheryl left the sitting room and picked up the phone.
If nothing else, the chance to eavesdrop would make her mum turn the TV volume down.
As she waited to be connected, she felt a churning in her stomach that was beginning to be all too familiar.
There were times when she honestly couldn’t say whether she was glad the letter with the token had been sent to her or not. Life had been a lot easier before.
On the other hand, Sheila planned to make her homeless. Even a modest inheritance would make a massive difference.
‘I’m afraid Mr Caiger isn’t available, Miss Young,’ a woman with a crisp accent told her, as Sheila appeared in the hallway. The arrival of the token had worked wonders for her mother’s mobility. ‘May I take a message?’
‘I’ve just heard about today’s announcement,’ Cheryl said. ‘Has Mr Quick changed his mind?’
‘Has he died?’ Sheila hissed.
‘Mr Caiger anticipated that some of the token recipients would be in touch,’ the woman told Cheryl.
‘In fact, you’re the second lady I’ve spoken to this morning.
Mr Caiger has authorised me to tell you the press conference is being held at Mr Quick’s instigation but does not affect your position at all. ’
‘Thank you,’ Cheryl said, before putting the phone down.
‘What?’ Sheila demanded. ‘What’s happening?’
‘I think we’d better watch the TV, Mum,’ Cheryl said.
Tug watched the press conference on repeat. Twice. He’d seen it live on the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news channel but wasn’t sure he’d taken everything in.
The bloke called Joseph Caiger entered the room and walked towards a podium, for all the world like he was president of the USA.
Two other men stepped in after him and vanished from view.
After wishing the assembled group a good morning, Caiger introduced himself as the partner responsible for wills and probate.
Tug thought he could hear a tremble in the man’s voice, as though he wasn’t entirely comfortable with what was going on.
‘A little over a week ago,’ Caiger said, ‘a number of letters were sent out from this office, informing the recipients that, in certain circumstances, they were due to inherit an equal share of the wealth of Cornish businessman Mr Logan Quick.’
Glancing down, the man cleared his throat before continuing.
‘I can confirm that Mr Quick has been a client of this firm for several years and that we issued those letters on his instructions and in good faith.’
Tug felt his insides tightening, although he knew already what came next.
Another glance down, then, ‘This firm has acted responsibly throughout and in accordance both with the law and with our client’s instructions.’
Slimy git, thought Tug.
‘I can further confirm that Mr Quick’s will does indeed currently reflect the contents of the letters sent out.’
‘You mean it’s for real?’ someone called out from the audience.
‘What do you mean by currently?’ another asked.