Chapter 6: The Name Frank Left Behind
I went back to Claire's street the next morning and sat in a parked position near the corner where I could see her front door without being visible from her windows.
I waited two hours.
At half past ten, she came out.
She was dressed carefully — not for errands.
For a meeting.
She walked to a car parked three houses down, got in the passenger side, and the car pulled away.
I had already called a local taxi firm from the hotel.
The cab was waiting around the corner.
I got in.
"The dark blue car that just turned left," I said.
"Please follow it.
Not too close."
The driver glanced at me in the mirror.
"You alright, love?"
"I will be," I said.
They drove twenty minutes to a business district near the waterfront.
Claire got out in front of a glass-fronted building and went inside.
The man driving the car stayed in it.
I couldn't see his face clearly from the angle, but he was large, well-dressed, and he didn't look at his phone while he waited.
He watched the building entrance.
I paid the driver and walked to a café across the street.
Forty minutes later, Claire came out with another man — not the one from her house.
This one was older.
A briefcase.
A lanyard around his neck.
They shook hands on the pavement.
He handed her an envelope.
She put it directly into her bag without opening it.
I photographed all of it.
When she got back into the car, I photographed the license plate.
That afternoon, I called Patricia again and read her the plate number.
"I can't run a plate," she said.
"But I know someone who can help.
Give me until tomorrow morning."
"There's something else." I told her about the property company.
About Stephen Crane.
About Claire's directorship.
Patricia was quiet for a long moment.
"Ruth, this is larger than a will dispute."
"I know."
"If they've attempted to fraudulently transfer property ownership using a fabricated legal document, that's not civil.
That's crjminal."
"I know that too."
"You need to be careful.
If this man — Crane — is connected to the firm and to Claire, and Hargreaves was warning you off—"
"I'm not warning off easily."
"I know you're not." A pause.
"Frank knew that too."
That stopped me.
"What do you mean?"
"He called me," Patricia said.
"Six weeks before he flew out.
He asked me a hypothetical — what would happen to your joint tenancy if he d*ed abroad and someone presented a foreign will.
I told him it would depend on the document and whether it could be validated here." She paused again.
"He thanked me and said he hoped it never became relevant."
The room felt very still.
"He was preparing," I said.
"He was trying to protect you.
Without frightening you."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Frank.
Always measuring.
Always careful.
"Patricia," I said.
"Is there any chance he left something with you?
A letter.
A document.
Anything he didn't explain at the time?"
A pause.
Longer than the others.
"There is an envelope," she said slowly.
"He dropped it off in person.
He told me to give it to you only if something happened to him abroad, and only if you came asking questions." Her voice was careful now.
"Ruth — you're asking questions."
"Yes," I said.
"I am."
"I'll courier it to your hotel.
Give me the address."
I gave it to her.
Then I sat by the window and watched the street below and thought about my husband, who had walked into something dangerous on purpose, who had left me a ring with a warning, who had left a letter with a woman he trusted, who had done everything he could to make sure I would find my way through this.
He hadn't told me because he hadn't wanted me to be afraid.
May you like
I was not afraid.
I was ready.
