Hit and Run, Maria Frankland [books like harry potter txt] 📗

I think back to the refused transaction at the café yesterday and dash into the bedroom for my laptop.

I don’t need to search through his papers for this, I simply need to open up the banking app on my computer. I scan down the three accounts I have. There’s only a few thousand in my personal current account. There’s a minus balance in our joint account and just over a hundred pounds showing in our ISA. I stare at the numbers, a chilly hand of fear clutching at my chest. Where the hell is all my money?

I sift through papers in the bottom tray on his desk. Perhaps he’s done some transfers to an account with a higher rate of interest. Yes, that’s what it will be. Or to one with a reward, as an incentive for switching bank accounts. I pull out what looks like an agreement from the Yorkshire Building Society who we have our mortgage with. It’s a re-mortgage agreement. Oh, my God. He’s re-mortgaged the house. He can’t have done – they would have needed my signature. I jointly own it and paid my half at the start. My blood runs cold as I spot my signature and printed name, clear as day, at the end of the document. He’s taken a hundred grand out of the house. But I didn’t know about it. Could I have signed it when I’ve been drunk? I check the date. It’s only three months ago. The mortgage repayments will be much higher now than they were when we moved in nine years ago. And according to that message that was left – we’re behind.

But there’s more. A joint loan for fifty grand – again sporting my signature. I haven’t agreed to any of this. He has been forging my signature. What on earth has he needed all this money for? I don’t get it. But more importantly, what the hell am I going to do to get it back? He’s totally cleaned us out. And I can’t confront a person who’s dead. I’ve still got his funeral to pay for which will potentially wipe out what’s left. That will be me, done. Finished.

I Google James Turner, Manchester. There are several profiles on LinkedIn. One has the same profile picture as was on Facebook. I click through. It lists his profession as Financial Adviser. Looking further down his profile, I see he was at the same university, at the same time as Rob. That must be where they know each other from. But he doesn’t look familiar.

I press on a hyperlinked phone number. My chest palpitates as I wait for a connection.

“Is that James Turner?”

“It is.” Even with those two words, I detect an arrogance in his voice.

“You don’t know me, but you know my husband, Robert Matherson.”

Silence. At least he doesn’t deny anything. Nor has he hung up. Yet.

“Have you heard what’s happened to Rob?”

“Yup.” There are no condolences – nothing.

“I’m getting in touch to discuss some financial discrepancies I’ve discovered whilst going through Rob’s papers. There seems to have been a large payment made to yourself. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds. What’s that about?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea. Sorry. I can’t help you.”

“But I’ve got the statement in front of me. Three hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds transferred last month to James Turner. I need to know where my money is.”

“It must be a different James Turner. It’s not exactly an unusual name, is it?”

“You and Rob were at university together. You’re friends on Facebook. It must be you. Perhaps you could check your accounts if you’re not sure.”

“Don’t you think I’d know if three hundred and seventy-five thousand quid had hit my account?”

“I have to know where our money has gone. My husband is dead, and this situation has left me with nothing.” I try to breathe through the panic I’m feeling. “I can barely cover the cost of his funeral. Can you at least check for me? I don’t mind waiting.”

““Look, love,” he says. He really sounds smarmy. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, ringing me out of the blue, but I know nothing of any three hundred grand, nor any discrepancies.”

“Well, I’ll be giving the police your details. If you…”

“I haven’t been in touch with Rob for months.” He cuts in. “Don’t bother me again, do you hear?” With a click, the line goes dead.

As I try to gather my jumbled thoughts, the phone bursts back into life. The phone’s display says No Caller ID. I snatch it up from the desk, wondering if James Turner has taken pity on me and decided to tell me what he knows. But it’s a female voice.

“Is that Mrs Matherson?”

“Speaking?”

“It’s Elaine Watson here from the Co-Operative Funeral Service in Otley. Did you get our message yesterday?”

“Erm yes. Sorry for not getting back to you. I’m all over the place.”

“I understand. It must be a difficult time.”

They’ll have a stock of phrases, these funeral people. “I’ve had better weeks,” I say.

“I’m ringing to let you know that the post-mortem report has now been passed to the police, and Mr Matherson is ready for collection from the hospital.” She’s so brisk, so business-like. “Do we have your authorisation to proceed as you initially instructed?”

I want to tell her I do not know how I’ll pay for their services with only a few grand in my current account. But I won’t. I’ll have to manage. I haven’t a clue what I’m going to do. There’s Bryony who won’t tell me anything, Phillip Bracken, and now James Turner. It’s like a conspiracy.

“Mrs Matherson?”

“Sorry. Yes. Do whatever you have to.”

“Can we make an appointment for you to come in? So we can start making the necessary arrangements?” I hear a rustling of pages. “Is tomorrow at four o’clock any good?”

“Yes. I think so. I’ll get back to you if it isn’t.” I’ve lost all track of what day it is. I think it’s Friday tomorrow. Someone will collect