Chapter 9: The Solicitor's Office
The solicitor's name was Carol Deane.
She had an office above a pharmacy on the high street, a desk covered in organized stacks, and the particular manner of someone who had heard a great many terrible things and remained unshockable.
She listened to everything without interrupting.
When I finished, she picked up the letter from Voss and read it slowly.
"This is significant," she said.
"A physician preparing a psychiatric assessment based solely on a third party's account, prior to any clinical contact, is a serious professional conduct matter."
"I want to report him," I said.
"You can and you should.
The General Medical Council will want to see this." She set the letter down.
"The estate matter is more complex but not unwinnable.
Do you have access to your father's original will?"
"Raymond says he has a copy."
"We'll need it.
We'll also need the amended version and the dates of execution.
If your father was already significantly ill six weeks before he d*ed, there may be grounds to challenge the amendment on the basis of capacity." She looked at me over her glasses.
"This will not be quick."
"I understand."
"And your mother — does she know you've consulted a solicitor?"
"I told her we'd be in touch through one.
That's all."
Carol nodded.
"Don't contact her directly.
Not about the estate, not about the clinic, not about anything.
All communication goes through me from this point."
She turned to Sarah.
"And you — how are you feeling?
Physically."
"Better.
Tired."
"I'd recommend seeing your own GP today and documenting the episode.
The dizziness, the confusion, the fact that you were transported without your consent.
Get it on record while it's fresh."
Sarah nodded.
Carol picked up a pen.
"One more thing.
The text message from Raymond — do you still have it?"
"Yes."
"Don't delete anything.
Screenshots of everything.
The call log on your mother's phone if you can get it — though we won't push for that yet." She made a note.
"I'll reach out to Raymond's solicitor to arrange a formal statement.
If he's willing to testify, that changes the picture considerably."
We left her office an hour later.
The high street was busy with the ordinary noise of a Tuesday morning — a woman with a pram, two men arguing cheerfully outside a café, a delivery van blocking the crossing.
Sarah stopped on the pavement.
"I keep thinking about Lily," she said.
"What she saw.
What she heard your mother say to her in that freezer."
"I know."
"She's six, Daniel.
She carried all of that by herself until you came home."
"She's stronger than either of us."
"She shouldn't have to be." Sarah looked at me.
"I want her to talk to someone.
A proper child counselor.
Not because she's broken — she's not.
But because she deserves to have someone help her put it down."
"I'll find someone this week."
Sarah nodded.
She looked back at the street.
Then she said, quietly, "Your mother called me this morning.
Before everything happened.
She said she'd done everything she'd done because she loved you.
That she'd always put you first."
"She put herself first.
Everything else was a reason she invented afterward."
"I know." She slipped her hand through my arm.
"I just wanted you to know what she said.
In case she says it to you."
I thought about my mother sitting on the edge of the bed in our room.
That look on her face — old, tired, almost convincing.
"She'll say a lot of things," I said.
We walked back to the car.
That afternoon, my mother's solicitor made contact with Carol Deane.
The letter he sent on her behalf said she was prepared to discuss the estate matter privately, within the family, without involving the courts.
Carol forwarded it to me with a single line of her own beneath it.
*She's worried.
May you like
That's good.
Don't respond.*
