‘Oh, Dad!’ Verity put her hand over her eyes and matched him tear for tear. ‘Poor Gracie!’
‘Aye, poor, poor Gracie.’ He echoed. ‘I don’t know what to make of it, Verity, but we’ll not let it drop. We’ll go back to the police. I still have friends on the force. The Mortons are still up at the big house. If it’s him, Verity, I swear to God, I’ll—’
‘Dad, you need to keep calm, and we need to let the powers that be do their job. But we’ll face it together, whatever comes next, we’ll muddle through.’
‘Aye, we’ll muddle through.’ He sniffed. ‘But, how, Verity, how did you come to know this?’
‘Erm,’ she stroked Dottie’s back and took a deep breath. ‘That’s the thing, Dad, Gracie told me too…’
Chapter Six - Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan
Aged 30
Poole, Dorset
Benjamin Stokes-Rattigan was in a state of shock. Standing now in the shower, he let the jets of hot water hit his skin, which was pleasant and uncomfortable all at once. Reluctant to step out of the cubicle, he took his time, knowing, once he did, the day would begin in earnest, events would flow, timings would be adhered to and he’d be swept along by the tide, part of the spectacle.
He wasn’t ready, knew he’d never be ready, not really.
‘Don’t take forever, Benjamin, the cars will be here in an hour!’
‘You think I don’t know that, Marcus!’ he barked, instantly regretting his tone. It wasn’t Marcus’ fault. His younger brother, like him, was only doing his best to keep control of this surreal situation, trying to get through.
It was an odd time, the period between his father dying and today, the funeral. Fourteen days during which he had taken trips down memory lane, picturing childhood holidays where they’d played in the sand or his dad threw him high in the swimming pool, only to catch him again. The man ruffling his hair with affection and wrapping him in a warm hug.
Lovely though these recollections were, he had no idea where they had come from as, whoever these memories belonged to,they certainly weren’t his! Throughout his youth there had been numerous holidays to exclusive islands in warm places, ski trips where roaring fires awaited them after a day on the slopes, weeks spent on yachts in the BVI, and they’d eaten inMichelinstarred restaurants the way others ordered chicken nuggets and went large for an extra couple of quid. Hugh Stokes-Rattigan was a man whose idea of casual dining was to loosen his tie. During all of these jaunts, and always with a nanny or assistant in tow, his father was strangely absent. Often present physically, but usually with a phone pressed to his ear or a laptop within tip-tapping distance or he’d be having a business discussion with a never seen before associate who would join them at the table and garner all of his attention.
In the days since the man’s death, Benjamin had watched a stream of visitors press the main gate for entry and make their way along the gravel path with flowers for Allegra and casseroles, of all things. It made him smile, as if his father’s wife would eat casserole made in a stranger’s kitchen. She wouldn’t. Unless those casseroles were vegan, macrobiotic and organic, and she’d had a chance to scrupulously inspect their kitchen and hygiene practices, which he very much doubted.
Allegra was a mystery to him. His stepmother of sorts and the second woman to hold the title in ten years, but at only six years older than him it was hard to view her as anything other than his father’s partner, definitely not motherly. Besides, he already had a mother, and she was wonderful.
Allegra was solely responsible for influencing his father’s decision to have a hair transplant, which had been very successful. Tooth veneers, which were dazzling. To upgrade his designer wardrobe, which was a bit hit and miss, Benjamin felt that cowboy boots on any man not a cowboy was a bit iffy. And of course his decision to purchase an Arancio Borealis coloured Lambo Huracan, which had proved to be a mistake, a big one, asit was now in three pieces, having wrapped itself around a sturdy oak tree on a tight bend.
Hence, the funeral.
In the aftermath of the accident, the house had felt busier than usual, as the police (emergency service, not the group), the local vicar, a funeral director, florists, a team from the bank and many of his father’s employees all at various times, took seats in the library or study, wearing similar solemn, grey-faced expressions. Allegra and Marcus had dealt with the vicar and bank; everyone else, he had greeted.
It seemed comical, a bit of a farce, as he shook hands with the men and women who only viewed him as Hugh’s son, a pretender, as he took his father’s chair behind the big desk, feeling horribly uncomfortable. Truth was he was inclined to agree with them, it all felt like pretending.
This was not a feeling new to Benjamin, who, at the age of eighteen – with a weighty gold watch on his wrist, gifted to him by his dad along with the words,‘you’re a man now’– hadn’t felt like a man. Instead he’d felt like an eighteen-year-old with a very fancy watch, but not a clue about life or how to live it.
Again at twenty-one – having signed on the dotted line, as his father proclaimed, ‘You’re a director now’ –he hadn’t felt like a director. He’d felt like a twenty-one-year-old with a title, and a very fancy three-year-old watch, who still didn’t have the first clue about life or how to live it.
Most of the staff he greeted wanted to offer him reassurance that his father’s business interests could be left safely in their care during this most unfortunate period of transition.
The car dealerships.
Yacht chandlery.
Boat sheds.
Hotels.
Office complex.
Estate Agency.
…and gyms.
