Mr Mann widens his shoulders and folds his arms. ‘She rewrote her will a month before she died. I don’t think she meant to imply Saffron might die. It’s just a condition of her will that she decided to impose on Miles’ inheritance.’

‘Was she compos mentis?’

His eyes harden. ‘That is tantamount to accusing me of malpractice.’ He pauses. ‘Of course she was. As a solicitor I wouldn’t have allowed her to change her will, if she wasn’t.’ His voice is tight and clipped. ‘I knew your mother for fifty years. I was always very aware of the clarity of her mind.’

I stand up, put my hands on the conference table and lean towards him. ‘You don’t need to get heavy with me. I have no intention of contesting my mother’s will. Or accusing you of anything. But I’m sure you must understand, as a lot of money is involved, I am now most concerned for the safety of my wife.’

169

Aiden

We step out of Mann and Mann Solicitors, and stand on the pavement outside. I am shocked and surprised. Worried about Miles. Worried about you, Saffron. What was Mother up to? Why Hayley? She hardly knew her. She had been your nanny for less than a year. Hayley being mentioned in the will is a lightning bolt.

I look across at Miles. He has an expression on his face that I have never seen before, despite all that we have been through over the years, including our childhood fights, the death of our father, our mother. Even when he punched me after he caught me kissing you.

It’s a dull August day. A gritty sky. Pan-scrub clouds blocking the sun. But despite the cloud the background temperature is high. Solid heat presses against my body. I wipe the sweat from my brow with my hankie, and undo my tie.

‘Come on, mate, let me take you for a drink,’ I say. ‘Let’s go to The Bear for a quick one.’

Miles’ face softens a little. ‘Yep. I think I need more than one before I go home.’

We walk to The Bear in silence. We step inside. Tuesday night. Not many customers. A group of scantily dressed young women in the corner. Bras showing. Lycra sliding from their shoulders. Two elderly men, heads together over a pint, and us.

‘What can I get you?’ I ask.

‘A double whisky.’

‘All right, you sit down. I’ll go to the bar.’

As I set up a tab and order the drinks, I look across the room to Miles, to check he is all right. He has chosen a table near the fireplace and is sitting, body stiff, with his head in his hands.

I place his whisky in front of him and sit down next to him.

He looks up. ‘Thanks,’ he mutters, lifting the glass to his lips and knocking it straight back.