Chapter Fifty
When Barbara arrived at Harpford Hall, the door was jammed. From inside, the voice of an older man barked: ‘First name, surname.’ She replied, ‘Barbara Sinker.’ He asked for her mobile number and she felt pleased with herself for remembering it.
The door cracked open. She slid through the gap and into the village hall. The last time she had been there was for that crazy presenters’ meeting. Now she looked around. Even in daytime the place was gloomy, and she went to turn the lights on.
‘So,’ said the man. It was the red-sweater pensioner with the long neck who had shouted at Edward. Trust him to get there first. ‘We’ve found it. It’s real. I’m in charge. How much was your loss?’
Barbara was too embarrassed to say the real figure, so she went in lower. ‘Thirty thousand. Thirty-two thousand,’ she added, feeling the precision would make it more believable.
‘I remember you from that meeting with Temmis,’ said the long-necked man. ‘I wonder if he knows about this.’
‘I don’t know what you mean by “this”, I haven’t a clue what’s going on.’
He drew closer. The sweater looked newly washed and the red was almost fluorescent. Barbara could smell his breath.
‘You won’t talk?’
‘No,’ said Barbara.
‘Not to son or daughter?’
‘I only have a daughter. I’ll keep shtum.’
‘Someone left our compensation in a box here.’ There was more knocking at the door. He went towards it, but said over his shoulder. ‘There was even a note saying how we should divvy it up.’
He pointed at the hole in the front of the stage and Barbara realized there was a person in there. As she approached, a hand shot out.
‘Count them.’
‘Is this for me?’
‘Yes. I heard you say thirty-two? We have enough for everyone.’
‘It was forty-three, actually. I hate to say it out loud.’
There was a pause. Was this anonymous man angry with her? She peered into the space under the stage.
‘What did the note say?’
A face appeared. He had the same rounded jaw as Red Sweater; his son, perhaps?
‘Who’s asking?’
‘Barbara Sinker. I’m on the victims’ WhatsApp group.’
As he manoeuvred himself in the crawl space, she caught sight of the hoard. Piles of twenties and fifties, arranged in a line, like tower blocks on a main road, stretching back into the shadows.
The man lifted a sheet of A4 paper and read. ‘This money is donated to the victims of the scammer at the radio station, so each can have what they’re owed. The rest to be donated anonymously to the station itself.’
‘Oh goodness.’ Barbara was nonplussed. Then: ‘Does it have my amount on there?’
He checked the list. ‘Sinker, yes, forty-three.’ He handed her another pile and a reusable Sainsbury’s bag. ‘Here you go. I think you should go now. We don’t want this getting out. No reference on the WhatsApp group please.’
‘I saw the message was deleted.’
‘Went after an hour. Dad screenshotted it. We got here first. You’re the …’ He paused. ‘The twelfth, I think.’
‘I hope no one gets missed out.’
‘We’ll do our best.’ Again, the hint of impatience.
The door to the hall opened again. The long-necked man was challenging everyone, it seemed.
‘I hope we’re not breaking the law if we take money like this.’
‘There’s a law against “theft by finding”, but you can’t steal a gift, can you? No one lost this, they gave it.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Barbara uncertainly. She moved away, pushing the notes deeper into her tote bag. Forty-three thousand pounds in cash … she felt very, very nervous. Would she keep it at home? She could make it last for years. She would store it in a vase. She knew which one.
Barbara straightened up. Suddenly, today was looking like a very good day indeed.