The Inheritance

  ‘I can’t believe you’re twenty-one,’ she sighed. ‘A grown man.’

  ‘You’re not going to blub again, are you?’ teased Jason.

  ‘No,’ said Angela, brushing away tears.

  ‘Listen Mum,’ said Jason, suddenly serious. ‘I want you to know I love you. And I’m really, really grateful for tonight. It’s been amazing.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re enjoying it,’ said Angela, slightly nervously. There was something about his solemn tone that she found jarring.

  ‘I love you,’ Jason said again, this time hugging her tightly.

  Angela frowned. ‘Is everything all right, Jase?’

  ‘Of course,’ he laughed, releasing her.

  ‘You’re quite sure? You’d tell me if something was the matter?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter, Mother,’ he assured her. Gringo, the family basset hound, picked the perfect moment to wander over, tail wagging, with the remnants of a priceless silk cushion wedged between his teeth. Seeing his mother about to explode, Jason grabbed the dog by its collar. ‘I’ll deal with this,’ he said. ‘You’d better go and rescue Dad.’

  ‘What do you mean, rescue him?’

  Jason pointed outside, to where Brett was standing by the bar, surrounded by a gaggle of local mothers from the church committee, no doubt hitting him up for a new roof. ‘Come on, Gringo. Let’s find you something to eat that’s made of food, fella.’

  Angela watched as Jason disappeared inside, with Gringo trotting merrily at his heels.

  Banishing her worries, she headed back outside.

  The party rumbled on into the night. At around midnight, Gabe Baxter began looking around for Laura, wondering if they ought to make a move. He realized guiltily that he hadn’t seen his wife for almost an hour, and hoped she was OK. She’d commented earlier that one of the few advantages of finding you were not pregnant, yet again, was that you could drink as much as you liked at parties. Gabe suspected that Brett Cranley’s assertion that it was impossible to get a hangover on really good vintage wine was going to be put to the test tomorrow morning at Wraggsbottom Farm.

  He collared Max Bingley. ‘Have you seen my Laura recently? I can’t find her.’

  ‘She was on her way up to the bathroom about fifteen minutes ago,’ said Max. ‘She looked a bit green round the gills to be honest,’ he added. ‘I daresay she was after some Alka-Seltzer.’

  Gabe weaved his way upstairs and along a winding corridor that led to a series of bedrooms. He’d been to numerous Furlings’ parties over the years, but unfortunately he’d been drunk at all of them, so had no idea which door might lead to a bathroom.

  ‘Laura? Are you up here?’

  Opening the first door on his right, he was greeted by an ear-piercing scream. Emma Harwich, stark naked and sprawled out on a four-poster bed, was going at it hammer and tongs with an older, blond man whom Gabe vaguely recognized.

  Wasn’t he one of Brett Cranley’s business partners? And didn’t he have a wife downstairs?

  ‘Sorry,’ Gabe mumbled, hastily shutting the door.

  After that he started knocking before he tried different rooms, calling out Laura’s name, but no joy. At last he found a bathroom, with a packet of Alka-Seltzer open next to the sink, beside an empty bottle of prescription pills. Curious, Gabe read the label.

  Lexapro. Wasn’t that an antidepressant?

  He saw that they were Jason Cranley’s.

  ‘I’m in here.’ Laura’s voice drifted through from an adjoining bedroom. Gabe found her perched on the edge of a neatly made bed. Not drunk, as it happened, but looking anxious. She was holding some sort of paper in her hands.

  ‘You all right?’ he asked her. ‘I was thinking about going home. Max Bingley said you weren’t feeling too chipper.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Laura. ‘But I’m not sure Jason Cranley is. Look at this.’

  Gabe sat down next to her as she handed him what she’d been holding – two sealed envelopes, one addressed to ‘Mum’ and the other to ‘Dad’.

  ‘This is Jason’s room,’ said Laura. ‘When I came up looking for something for my stomach, I found an empty bottle of pills on the bathroom counter. His name was on the front.’

  ‘Yeah. I just saw it,’ said Gabe.

  ‘Anyway, I was worried so I came through here and found these letters propped up on the bed.’

  ‘Shit.’ Gabe ran a hand through his hair. ‘You think he’s overdosed somewhere?’

  ‘I think it’s possible,’ said Laura. ‘I mean, look around this room. It’s immaculate. Doesn’t that seem odd to you? For a twenty-one-year-old boy?’

  ‘Like he was putting all his stuff in order,’ Gabe said quietly.

  ‘Exactly. The pills. This room. He left notes.’ She held up the envelopes. ‘I think we should do something’

  Gabe felt his stomach lurch. She was right. Jason had seemed very happy earlier, when he saw him downstairs. But hadn’t he read somewhere that people were often calm and happy right before they topped themselves? As if, once they’d made the decision, they already felt at peace?

  ‘I’ll go and find Brett,’ he said grimly. ‘We need to open those letters.’

  Angela and Brett were sitting on a bench together beside the lake when Gabe and Laura found them. After several large whiskys and two outstanding Cuban cigars, Brett had pushed his earlier encounter with Tatiana out of his mind. He felt calm again, and happy. Angie’s presence soothed him tonight, the way it always used to in the old days. If it could just be the two of them again – if Tatiana Flint-Hamilton could somehow evaporate and Brett’s sexual obsession evaporate with her – he felt sure that everything would be OK. Gazing out over the lake, with his wife’s hand in his, cool and slender and lovely, Brett could taste the peace and contentment waiting for him.

  Until Gabe Baxter came along and shattered it.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ said Gabe. ‘But we found these in Jason’s bedroom.’ He handed Angela and Brett their respective envelopes.

  ‘There was an empty bottle of pills in the bathroom next door,’ blurted Laura, ‘and his bedroom seemed very … tidy. Not a thing out of place. We don’t mean to pry and it’s probably nothing. But we were worried …’

  Angela Cranley went sheet-white. She let out a long, low moan of anguish. ‘Oh God. I knew something was wrong. I knew it! I should have followed him.’ The panic in her voice was palpable.

  Instinctively, Brett reached over and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

  In the distance, the chopper noise they’d heard earlier was back again. It grew louder by the second, making conversation impossible, then receded. Somebody, presumably, had got their shot.

  Angela gazed down at the envelope in her hand, the neatly written single word – ‘Mum’ – and let out a sob. Her hands were shaking. ‘I can’t open it.’

  ‘Give it to me,’ said Brett. He’d already torn open his envelope and glanced at the contents. Now he did the same with Angela’s. Her letter he read more closely, carefully scanning every line. His face was set like flint.

  Laura looked at Gabe and raised an eyebrow. Brett’s expression was hardly that of a concerned father. If anything he looked irritated. Not for the first time, Laura wondered how her husband could like this cold-blooded, arrogant, compassionless man.

  Turning to Angela she asked, ‘Is there anything we can do? Should we call the police?’

  ‘The little shit,’ muttered Brett furiously. His voice was so quiet it was almost inaudible. Somehow that only served to make it more menacing. ‘The stupid, stupid, reckless little SHIT!’ Standing up, he screwed both letters up into a tight ball and hurled them on the ground.

  ‘What? What’s happened?’ said Angela desperately. ‘Brett, for God’s sake tell me! What did he say in the letter? Is he all right?’

  ‘Not for long he isn’t,’ snarled Brett, already walking away from her back up towards the house. ‘I’m going to kill him. I’m going to kill them both.’


  Angela sat frozen with shock. Quietly, Laura bent down and retrieved the balled-up letter.

  ‘Here.’ She handed it to Angela. ‘We’ll, er … we’ll leave you to it, shall we?’

  Angela nodded. ‘Perhaps that would be best,’ she whispered. ‘Thank you. Goodnight.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  Gabe led Laura away.

  ‘That was odd,’ he said.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘What do you think’s going on?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Laura. ‘But I tell you what. I feel sorry for Angela Cranley. I wouldn’t be married to that bully of a husband for all the tea in China. He didn’t seem to care about his son at all.’

  Gabe said nothing. It was hard to argue with her this time.

  The view from the helicopter was spectacular. Furlings was already an illuminated speck in the distance. Below them the South Downs slumbered, silver-green and ethereal in the moonlight, undulating ever onwards towards the calm, mirrored stillness of the sea. Villages nestled between the hills, snaking their way along valley floors beside the river Swell. Every now and then a church steeple punctured the skyline, reaching up boldly into the night sky with its magical blanket of stars.

  Tatiana leaned across and squeezed Jason’s thigh. She had to press her lips right against his ear to make herself heard. ‘This time tomorrow we’ll be man and wife,’ she told him. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Jason said truthfully. He placed his hand over hers.

  ‘No regrets?’

  ‘Regrets?’ his eyes widened. ‘God no. I can’t wait. It’ll be a whole new life.’

  Yes, thought Tatiana. It will.

  They were headed to Le Touquet, where they’d spend the night at the Château de Montreuil Hotel before marrying at the town mairie in the morning. It was astonishing how easy it had been to organize the paperwork. Tatiana remembered how much her father had loathed the EU, and particularly the French, and felt a stab of nostalgia and affection. She’d always imagined Rory would be there to see her married. Then again, she’d always imagined she would be married at home, at Furlings, on the lawn …

  She looked across at Jason Cranley. He looked even paler than usual in this light, his skin practically translucent beneath the shock of red hair. Will I ever be attracted to him? She pushed the thought away, along with an image of Marco; Marco whom she’d been too cowardly to tell the truth to; Marco whom she’d hurt, badly. She did feel guilty about that. But the truth was, this was a war, a war against Brett Cranley, and in a war there was always collateral damage. Civilian casualties. She owed Marco a lot, not least for giving her the business idea that was going to make her rich and change her life. She would make it up to him one day. Today, however, was about her and Jason. The one thing Marco hadn’t been able to provide was the seed capital to get Tati’s business off the ground and secure her Coutts loan. That, among other things, was where Jason came in.

  Tatiana Flint-Hamilton might not be getting married at Furlings. But by marrying Jason Cranley, and securing access to his very sizable trust fund, she was one large step closer to eventually getting her beloved home back. She was also rescuing him from a miserable life, a life in which he’d been enslaved and belittled by his tyrannical father. By casting himself as their common enemy, Brett Cranley had unwittingly created a bond between Tatiana and his son. OK, so Tati wasn’t wildly attracted to Jason the way that she was to Marco – or even, in some toxic, destructive way to Brett. But she liked him, genuinely. Tati and Jason were friends. She knew of many marriages that had been built on less.

  ‘What about you?’ Jason looked worried suddenly, a cloud of anxiety passing across his boyish features. ‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you? I love you so much, Tatiana, but I want you to be happy, more than anything.’

  Closing her eyes, Tati kissed him on the lips. He tasted of chocolate cake and sweet wine. The kiss wasn’t erotic but it was perfectly pleasant. She smiled.

  ‘I am happy, darling. Very. I can’t wait to be Mrs Cranley.’

  Leaving England behind them, the helicopter swept out to sea.

  PART TWO

  The Reckoning

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Five years later …

  Logan Cranley ran a finger along her lower lashes, deliberately smudging her black eyeliner into what she hoped was a sexy, rock-chick effect, and admired the results in the mirror of the tack-room loo.

  Perfect.

  Logan wasn’t especially vain for a sixteen-year-old girl. But she was especially beautiful, a fact she understood and accepted with the same calm appreciation that another girl might feel for a sunny day, or a better-than-expected mark at school. Her looks didn’t particularly interest her. They were a means to an end, a useful weapon in her romantic armoury. At least, they were supposed to be. So far they’d been no bloody use at all.

  Tall, almost five foot eleven in her riding boots, with long, slender legs, a tiny waist, and the sort of glowing, translucent skin that rich older women spend their lives trying to recapture, Logan Cranley was now officially employed as a stable hand at Wraggsbottom Farm. It was, without reservation, her dream summer job. And she had Laura Baxter to thank for it.

  ‘We may as well employ her, as she’s here all the time,’ Laura observed to Gabe over breakfast one morning, pushing away a plate of untouched scrambled eggs.

  ‘I’ll employ her if you eat something,’ said Gabe sternly.

  ‘I can’t,’ Laura groaned. ‘Truly.’

  After five long years of fertility treatment and three miscarriages, each more heart-breaking than the last, Laura Baxter was finally twenty weeks pregnant. It was the furthest along she’d ever been, and she felt sicker than the proverbial dog. Having Gabe flapping around her day and night like a useless chicken didn’t help matters either, although Laura could see how delighted he was, and how terrified of something going wrong. They’d been through hell these past five years, but they’d been through it together.

  Tired of passively watching while Gabe sailed their marital ship into bankruptcy, Laura had sat down at her computer one winter morning and not got up again, other than to eat and sleep, until she’d finished a new teleplay. An Archers-esque drama about farming life, it was the best thing she’d written in years. Within a month she’d sold it to Sky TV, and been commissioned to write a further two daytime soaps. The money wasn’t spectacular, but it was decent, and steady, and it had meant the difference between the business surviving or Gabe’s farm being repossessed. Deeply grateful, but with his manly pride more than a little wounded at having to be rescued by his wife, Gabe had thrown himself into diversifying Wraggsbottom to try and protect against another run of bad harvests. He’d begun by converting six outbuildings into holiday lets, a business that had started generating income almost immediately. Stage two had been to open up a livery stables and riding school. That had taken longer, but it hadn’t required much investment to get it started. The stable blocks and paddocks were just sitting there, waiting for a lick of paint, and some fencing, jumps and a few tons of sand had been all he needed to create an outdoor ‘school’. Within two years the stables had become the most profitable business on the estate, as Gabe proudly now thought of the farm, and not without reason. He and Laura now had almost as much land as Furlings, and were one of the most successful mixed farms in the Swell Valley, if not in all of Sussex.

  The only downside to the great Baxter turnaround in fortunes was that both Gabe and Laura worked all the hours God sent, which left neither time nor energy for romance. When they did have sex, it was always under the gun of Laura’s ovulation test stick, the pressure to conceive hanging over them like a dark, oppressive, profoundly un-erotic cloud. Between that and the exhaustion and Laura’s wild hormone swings – the IVF injections were murder – it had been a gruelling time.

  But now, at long last, all their hard work was bearing fruit, both literally and metaphorically. The farm was in the black, Laura’s writing
was ticking along nicely, and they were finally, finally, about to become parents. To someone other than Logan Cranley, whom Laura had come to think of almost as a surrogate daughter over the past few years. Albeit a daughter with a lot of attitude.

  ‘You realize if we give her a job she’ll be here every day,’ said Gabe, removing the offending egg and handing his green-faced wife a ginger biscuit, one of the few foods she could still stomach. ‘I don’t want her bugging you when you’re trying to rest.’

  ‘I won’t be trying to rest. I’ll be trying to write. Besides, she’ll be working in the yard, so it’s you she’ll be bugging.’

  Gabe rolled his eyes.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Laura teased him. ‘Tired of being the object of desire, are we?’

  ‘I’m not any more,’ said Gabe. ‘She’s over me. Brett told me she’s going out with Seb Harwich.’

  ‘Oh, is she?’ Emma brightened. ‘That’s wonderful. I love Seb. He’s so funny and sweet.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Gabe, grumpily. ‘I’m not a fan of all the beads. He’s turned into a proper pothead since he got back from India.’

  The younger brother of Emma Harwich, Fittlescombe’s first home-grown supermodel and all-round brat, Seb Harwich was an easy-going twenty-one-year-old with a love of cricket and girls (in that order) whom everybody in the village adored. Including Gabe, for all his disapproval of Seb’s year-off fashion stylings.

  ‘Maybe Logan will get him back on the straight and narrow,’ said Laura, tongue in cheek.

  Gabe snorted with laughter. ‘Yeah, right.’

  ‘At least if she’s working here she can’t get into too much mischief,’ said Laura. ‘Will you tell her or shall I?’

  That conversation had been a week ago. Now Logan was here, an official member of Gabe’s staff. She’d had to pinch herself when she got up for work this morning. No more thinking up excuses to drop by. From now on she would see Gabe every day. More importantly he would see her. At some point he was going to have to realize that she was no longer the little girl he’d first met more than six years ago, when he bought that land from her father.