Chapter 5: The Solicitor's Office
My solicitor's name was Gerald Marsh.
He had handled my affairs since Richard was alive — a careful, unhurried man who asked questions twice before he answered anything once.
I called his office at eight in the morning.
His assistant put me through in under two minutes, which told me she'd heard something in my voice.
"Evelyn," Gerald said.
"What's happened?"
I told him everything.
He listened without interrupting.
When I finished, the line was quiet for several seconds.
"Send me those four images," he said.
"Right now, while we're talking."
I forwarded them from my phone.
I heard the soft sound of his computer.
"The partial document," he said slowly.
"This is a form I recognize.
It's a third-party authorization — used to grant another individual access to manage or direct financial decisions on someone's behalf." He paused.
"It's not a full power of attorney.
It's narrower.
But depending on what institution received it and whether it was accepted, it could grant access to specific accounts or assets."
"Is my name on it legitimately?" I asked.
"The name at the top appears to be yours.
The signature—" He stopped.
"Evelyn, this image is partial.
I can't determine whose signature that is or whether it was witnessed.
What I can tell you is that if this document was filed with any financial institution or property register and your signature was forged, that is fraud."
The word sat in the room with me.
"What do I do?" I asked.
"First, you contact every institution where you hold accounts, property, or investments.
Today.
You ask whether any third-party authorization has been submitted in your name in the past three years.
You ask for written confirmation of current access levels.
You do not mention this to Daniel or Valerie before you have those answers."
"And if something was filed?"
"Then you come to me immediately and we contact the appropriate authorities." His voice was steady and careful.
"Evelyn, this may amount to nothing.
The document may have been drafted and never submitted.
But we treat it as real until we know otherwise."
"Understood," I said.
"One more thing," Gerald said.
"The restaurant record.
Keep the original.
Keep it somewhere outside your home."
I thought of Valerie's hand reaching across the table last night, trying to take Patricia's phone.
"Already noted," I said.
I spent the rest of the morning on the telephone.
My bank first, then the building society where I held a savings account that Richard and I had opened together thirty years ago.
Then the solicitor's firm that managed the small rental property I owned in the next town — a cottage Richard had inherited from his mother, which I had kept because it felt like keeping something of him.
The bank came back quickly.
No third-party authorization on file.
No access requests in the past three years.
The building society took longer.
A manager called me back just before noon.
"Mrs.
Hartley," she said carefully.
"We do have a record of an inquiry made approximately fourteen months ago regarding adding an authorized party to your account."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"Was it completed?"
"No.
The process was initiated but not finalized.
The required documentation — which would have needed your original signature in branch — was never submitted."
"Who made the inquiry?"
A pause.
"A Mr.
Daniel Hartley.
He identified himself as your son."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"Thank you," I said.
"I'd like that in writing, please."
The cottage was the last call.
The property management firm put me through to a senior partner I had never spoken to before.
She sounded careful in a way that made something tighten in my chest before she had said anything at all.
"Mrs.
Hartley," she said.
"I'm glad you called.
We received a letter approximately eight months ago instructing us to redirect rental income payments to a new account.
The letter appeared to carry your signature and a covering note explaining you had changed your primary bank."
The room went very quiet.
"I did not send that letter," I said.
A long pause.
"I see." Her voice had gone very still.
"Mrs.
Hartley, we acted in good faith on what appeared to be an authenticated instruction.
I want to be transparent with you — payments have been redirected for eight months."
"To what account?"
"I — I would need to verify before sharing those details.
Mrs.
Hartley, I would strongly recommend you contact your solicitor immediately."
"He's already aware," I said.
"Please freeze all outgoing payments from that property with immediate effect and send everything you have regarding that letter to Gerald Marsh at Marsh and Corrigan Solicitors.
Today."
"Of course," she said.
"I'm very sorry."
I sat at my kitchen table after the call ended.
The morning light came through the window in a long pale stripe across the floor.
Eight months of rental income.
Redirected.
A letter with a signature that was not mine.
I picked up my phone and called Gerald.
"They took money," I said when he answered.
"Eight months from the cottage account.
A forged letter."
A short silence.
"Then this is no longer a precaution," he said.
May you like
"This is a crjme, Evelyn.
And we have enough to report it."
