Chapter 9: The Man in the South County
His name was Arthur Pembridge.
He was seventy-one, a retired schoolteacher, and he lived in a semi-detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac in a market town called Farnhope.
He had answered Daniel's call with the careful, slightly wary manner of a man who had learned to be cautious with strangers.
But when Daniel said Vivienne's name, the line had gone very still.
Then Arthur said, "Come down."
He met Daniel at the door and led him into a sitting room that smelled of books and was filled with them — shelves covering most of two walls, stacks on the floor, paperbacks on the coffee table.
He made coffee and sat across from Daniel in an armchair with the look of a man who had been carrying something for a long time and was finally being asked to put it down.
"I was married twice," Arthur said.
He held his mug with both hands.
"First wife passed young.
Second marriage didn't survive." He paused.
"I was on my own for about six years before I met her.
Or before she introduced herself, I should say."
"She approached you."
"At a garden centre." Arthur gave a short, mirthless sound.
"She said she was a landscape consultant.
She was very charming.
Very interested in my garden, in the house, in how long I'd lived there." He looked at the floor.
"I thought she was simply good conversation."
"How long before she raised the property question?"
"Four months.
She brought a man with her — she called him a financial advisor.
Same setup.
Living trust.
Protecting against tax liability." Arthur looked up.
"I was recently widowed from the second marriage.
My solicitor had retired.
I had no one to call."
"You signed it."
"I signed it." His voice carried no self-pity.
Just the flat weight of the fact.
"And then when I raised a concern about the wording three weeks later, the advisor disappeared and she turned cold.
Very efficient, very cold.
She told me the document was valid and I should consult my own lawyer if I had concerns."
"Did you?"
"Eventually.
By which time she had already engaged a barrister." Arthur put his mug down.
"I couldn't afford to fight it properly.
She knew that.
When her people approached me about a settlement, I took it." He paused.
"I had to sign something saying I wouldn't discuss it."
Daniel set his coffee down.
"Would you be willing to make a witness statement?" he asked.
"My solicitor would do it properly.
Your name goes to a court, not to the press."
Arthur was quiet for a moment.
He looked at the bookshelves.
A framed photograph sat on the end of the middle shelf — a woman in a garden, laughing, caught mid-turn by whoever was holding the camera.
"She took four months from me," Arthur said.
"And about eleven thousand pounds in legal fees trying to fight something that should never have been able to exist."
He looked at Daniel.
"She found me because I was alone.
She thought your father was alone." He straightened slightly in his chair.
"He isn't, is he."
"No," Daniel said.
"He isn't."
Arthur nodded once.
"Then yes.
I'll make the statement."
The drive back took three hours.
Daniel called Marcus from a layby with the afternoon light going flat across the fields.
"Arthur Pembridge," he said when Marcus picked up.
"Farnhope.
He'll give a statement.
Same pattern, same method, different county, four years ago."
He heard Marcus exhale slowly.
"Daniel," Marcus said.
"A pattern across two victims, a void notary, your mother's will, and a company director willing to testify — this isn't just a property dispute anymore."
"What is it?"
"It's fraud." A pause.
"We don't file a response to her barrister.
We file a criminal complaint.
And then we send the complaint and everything attached to the county court judge before the hearing."
Daniel looked through the windscreen at the dark line of trees along the field's edge.
"Will she see it coming?" he asked.
"Not until it's in front of her," Marcus said.
"Her barrister will distance himself the moment it lands.
Barristers don't like fraud.
It changes their exposure."
"How soon?"
"Gordon and I can have the filing ready by Friday.
Hearing is Monday." A pause.
"Daniel.
She'll have one last move before then.
People like this always do."
"I know," Daniel said.
He ended the call and sat for a moment in the parked car, the engine still running, the heater working quietly against the cold.
Then he pulled out and headed north toward home.
Toward the cottage.
Toward his father.
He was forty minutes from the house when his phone rang on the seat beside him — hands-free connected, the name on the dashboard reading: *Vivienne.*
His thumb hovered over the button.
He accepted the call.
"Daniel," she said.
"We need to talk.
Tonight.
May you like
Before Friday."
She knew.
