Chapter 8: The Man Who Called Himself Patient
I did not get back in my car.
I stayed standing in the car park with the phone against my ear and the morning sun flat and pale across the tarmac.
"How did you get this number?" I asked.
"Daniel gave it to me," Garrett said.
"Some time ago.
He mentioned you as a potential guarantor for his account."
Daniel had given this man my number.
Daniel had told a private lender — a man charging forty percent over principal — that his mother might be a guarantor.
"I am not a guarantor for anything," I said.
"Of course.
That's exactly why I wanted to speak with you directly.
To make sure there were no misunderstandings." A brief pause.
"Daniel is a good man in a difficult position.
I've been very patient with him.
But patience has a natural limit, Mrs.
Marsh, and I think you understand that."
"What is it you want?"
"I want the account settled.
That's all I've ever wanted." His voice remained pleasant.
"Daniel has indicated that you have the means to resolve this quickly.
I'm not asking you to do anything — I'm simply making sure you have the full picture.
So that if you choose to help your son, you can do so with clear information."
"And if I don't choose to help?"
"Then the civil claim proceeds.
A judgment gets registered.
Daniel's business closes.
His personal assets become part of the recovery process." Another pause, shorter this time.
"I understand he and his wife own a home."
There it was.
Not a threat spoken plainly — nothing so clumsy.
Just a set of facts arranged in a particular order, delivered in a pleasant voice, so that the shape of the threat was visible without anyone having to say the word.
"Mr.
Garrett," I said.
"I'm going to be very direct with you."
"Please."
"I am aware of the civil claim.
I am aware of the timeline.
I am also now in contact with my solicitor, who will be looking into several matters related to my son's account and certain other recent activities." I kept my voice level.
"If you have a legitimate claim against Daniel, pursue it through the courts.
That is what courts are for.
But if you contact me again — directly, or through anyone acting on your behalf — I will be asking my solicitor to look very carefully at the terms of your lending arrangement.
Forty percent over principal, monthly, is the kind of figure that tends to attract regulatory attention."
A silence.
Longer than his previous ones.
"I see," he said.
"I thought you might."
"Mrs.
Marsh — I want you to understand that I have nothing against you personally."
"I don't take it personally," I said.
"Goodbye, Mr.
Garrett."
I ended the call.
My hand was shaking slightly.
I noticed it the way you notice something from a distance — with interest, but without alarm.
I had been afraid during that call.
But I had not sounded afraid, and in my experience, that was the part that mattered.
I sat in my car and called Patrick Hale's office.
His assistant put me through immediately.
"A man named Marcus Garrett just called me," I said when Patrick picked up.
"He identified himself as Daniel's private lender.
He implied that if I didn't intervene, Daniel and Valerie's home would be at risk."
A pause.
"He called you directly?"
"Daniel apparently gave him my number and described me as a potential guarantor."
I heard Patrick's pen moving.
"Right.
I'm adding this to the file.
Evelyn — do not speak to Garrett again without me present or on the line.
And I'd like you to send me a voice memo of everything you remember from that conversation while it's fresh."
"I'll do it now."
"Good." Another pause.
"I made one of my three calls this morning.
The solicitor Valerie contacted — his name is Fenwick — he's agreed to speak with me this afternoon.
I expect to know considerably more by four o'clock."
"Thank you, Patrick."
"One more thing." His voice shifted slightly — not grave, but careful.
"When I spoke to Fenwick's assistant to arrange the call, she mentioned something.
She said the file had been flagged internally last week.
Flagged for review."
"What does that mean?"
"It means someone at that firm had a concern about the instruction.
About whether it was — proper." He chose the word deliberately.
"I don't want to speculate before I've spoken to Fenwick directly.
But it suggests that not everyone involved in this was comfortable with it."
I thought of Carol.
The grey cardigan.
The hands flat on the tablecloth.
The woman who had printed a document and carried it in her bag to a dinner she hadn't wanted to attend, waiting to see if she would use it.
"Patrick," I said.
"There's a woman named Carol who used to work for Daniel.
She's the one who showed me the document last night.
She may have more information.
I'd like to speak with her again — properly, with you involved if needed."
"Get me her details when you can."
I drove home.
I made a voice memo in the driveway, sitting in the car with the engine off, recounting every word of Garrett's call while it was still exact in my memory.
Then I went inside and called my sister.
Margaret answered on the second ring.
"I was wondering when you'd call," she said.
"Daniel rang me this morning."
I stopped in the hallway.
"He called you?"
"An hour ago.
He said you'd had a difficult evening and he was worried about you." A pause.
"He sounded worried about himself, if I'm honest."
"What did you tell him?"
"I told him I hadn't spoken to you yet and I'd call him back." Her voice was dry and steady, the voice she'd had since we were girls.
"Then I made a cup of tea and waited for you to ring.
Which you have.
So.
Tell me everything."
I sat down at the kitchen table.
The folded document was gone — it was in Patrick's file now.
But the table looked the same as it always had, and the kitchen smelled the same, and outside the window the garden was the same garden it had always been.
I told Margaret everything.
She didn't interrupt.
She didn't gasp or exclaim.
She listened the way she had always listened — completely, and without deciding what she thought until I had finished.
When I was done, she was quiet for a moment.
"Right," she said.
"What do you need from me?"
That was when I cried.
Not from sadness, exactly.
From relief — from the particular relief of being asked that question by someone who meant it without condition.
"I've made you my power of attorney," I said, when I could speak again.
"Patrick filed it this morning."
"Good." No hesitation.
"What else?"
"I don't know yet.
But I needed someone to know the whole story."
"You have that," Margaret said.
May you like
"You've always had that.
You just forgot to use it."
