Five
Mel stares at Michael, frowning, as she tries to process what she’s just read, what it all means. She reaches out and drains her wine glass, knocking back the remains in one go. Nothing. It means nothing, she tells herself.
‘Steady on,’ Michael says through a mouthful of chips. ‘That stuff’s not water, you know.’ He tops up her glass anyway, seeing the thoughtful look in her eyes.
‘It’s just well-written rubbish. A scam,’ she says, grabbing a forkful of chips and stuffing them in her mouth. ‘And cruel to prey on the vulnerable.’ She drinks more wine. ‘But I admit, they had me for a moment.’ In my dreams, she thinks, carrying on with her meal.
‘Call me nosy, but I had a skim read downstairs. It’s about an inheritance, Mel. I really don’t think it’s a scam. Listen.’ He swipes up the letter and begins reading. ‘“Dear Miss Douglas, reference the Moreton Inn estate”.’ He glances up. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’
‘Nope,’ Mel replies indignantly, rolling her eyes. But then she takes a moment to think. ‘No, no, it doesn’t. But that’s the whole point of the scam, surely? Something random and tantalising to make me believe I’ve got some distant relative leaving me their fortune. They picked the wrong person for that.’ She eats some of her fish. ‘This is delicious, by the way. Tony’s on form tonight.’
Michael carries on reading. ‘“As agents for the executors of the will for the above referenced matter, I am writing to inform you that you are a beneficiary of the estate. Probate has been granted and associated affairs resolved, but since this is a complicated matter, with several attached conditions, I invite you to contact me by telephone or email at your earliest convenience, so we may discuss how to proceed with distribution.”’ He glances up, waiting for a response from Mel. But all she does is shrug and shake her head. ‘“Please find details about our firm in the enclosed documents, plus an information form which you will need to fill out with your personal details, sign and return to our office”—’
‘Yeah, right,’ Mel says, rolling her eyes and laughing. ‘Don’t tell me, they want me to fill out my bank details, National Insurance number, mother’s maiden name…?’ She trails off then, making a scoffing sound when she realises what she’s said.
Mother’s maiden name… as if she’s ever known it.
‘And how much do they want from me upfront so I can claim my glorious fortune? Fifty quid? A hundred quid? Or are they chancing their luck with a juicy grand? I can’t even buy my daughter new trainers, let alone give these piss artists anything.’
Michael sits back in his chair, the look on his face telling Mel that he knows she’s mistrusting to the core – understandable, given everything that’s happened in her life.
‘Where did those trainers come from, by the way?’ Michael asks. ‘Charity shop?’
Mel thinks back to earlier in her boss’s office, how Josette had been so nosy about the carrier bag. Her cheeks begin to colour with anger just at the thought of it.
‘Close. There was a charity donations bag at work. Stuff left over from the spring fair to raise funds for the residents’ recreation room. As if The Cedars bloody needs financial help,’ she adds bitterly.
‘Anyway, there was a second-hand clothes sale, a cake stall, a tombola. I was working, so didn’t have a chance to look. Stuff that didn’t sell was bagged up to take to a charity shop, except no one’s got round to taking it yet. I spotted the Adidas logo through the top of a bag.’
‘Surprised they didn’t sell,’ Michael commented.
‘Me too, but given the average age of our residents is about eighty-three, and their families are generally in their fifties and sixties, it’s hardly surprising.’ Mel laughs. ‘Anyway, I had to grab them for Kate. They were her size. And of course I donated the fiver on the price tag to the fund.’
‘Lucky find,’ Michael says, his eyes twinkling. ‘Now, back to this.’ He opens up the enclosed papers, scanning each of them briefly. ‘Green, Lupton and Hedge… Family solicitors specialising in wills and probate.’
‘They sound like a landscape gardening company,’ Mel says as Michael pulls his phone from his pocket.
‘Let’s see what Google says about them.’ He taps in a search and pulls up their website. ‘They seem legit, look.’ He gives Mel a glance at the screen. ‘Their website certainly appears real and has a list of staff. About ten in all. This letter is from Robert Hedge. Look, here he is.’
‘Anyone can pull up a generic image of a bloke in his late fifties in a suit to stick on a fake website, though,’ Mel says, barely looking at it when Michael shows her again.
‘What? Wait. So you think the website is fake as well as the letter?’
‘Actually, no. I don’t think the website is a scam. In fact, I’m pretty certain I’ve even heard of the firm. They’re in Solihull, right? They’re not far from my work.’
‘Yes, you’re right,’ Michael says, clicking on the ‘contact us’ link. ‘They’re on High Street. So you think an established firm would risk their reputation by running a scam?’
‘No-oo again,’ Mel says in that way of hers – ending with a laugh to show she appreciates Michael’s concern, but also that she’s not stupid. ‘I have a friend – had a friend,’ Mel corrects, remembering how she had to cut off so many people after she finally escaped, fearing she’d be found. ‘And she had this exact same thing happen. A letter from a legal firm, telling her she’d inherited half a million quid from a long-lost relative – only they’d had the foresight to use her actual surname in the scam, so it really did seem like a relative. And all she had to do to release the funds was fill out a form with all her personal info, including bank details, and send it back with an administration fee of fifty quid.’
‘And?’ Michael says.
‘Hook line and sinker,’ Mel says, shrugging. ‘It wasn’t the fifty quid they were after as such – though I imagine they’re nice little bonuses if they hit several thousand gullible victims. No, they cleaned out my friend’s bank account overnight. They had all the information they needed to steal her identity. Even though she only had a couple of hundred, it nearly finished her off. Her marriage was on the rocks anyway, but this took it over the edge. She just felt so… stupid. So vulnerable.’
‘And you’re not…’ Michael says, eyeing her over the rim of his glass, knowing he’s on thin ice. ‘Vulnerable?’
‘Oh do fuck off,’ she says, play-kicking him under the table as the wine winds through her veins, helping her relax.
‘Anyway,’ Michael continues, ‘this letter doesn’t say anything about a relative. Just Moreton Inn, whatever and wherever that is.’
‘It’s still going in the bin,’ Mel replies, leaning forward to grab the letter.
Michael swipes it out of the way.
‘Not so fast. I really think you should follow up. There are no weird-looking phone numbers here. Only the office landline, which is the same as the one on the website.’