Page 49 of The Soulmate

‘Baz went to see Arthur Spriggs?’

There was a note of disbelief in my voice. I understood on some level; Baz was intimidating as hell. But I would have thought someone like Arthur would have been used to that. I was shocked that all it would take was a visit from Baz to end this nightmare.

‘No. He didn’t seeArthur.’

Suddenly it made sense. Arthur hadn’t sent his men to Max; that wouldn’t have had the desired effect. He had to be cleverer than that. And so, apparently, did Max.

‘He left it with Arthur’s wife? Girlfriend?’

Max hesitated. There it was again – that flash. ‘He left it with Arthur’s daughter.’

A sick feeling came over me. ‘How old is his daughter, Max?’

A short pause. ‘I understand that she is two or three years old.’

Baz, I discovered later, had scaled Arthur’s fence and handed the little girl an envelope of cash while she played in the backyard. Her mother had ducked inside, so he waited for her to return before he left. It was important, Max said, that she saw Baz and understood what they were up against.

No harm came to the little girl, Max was clear about that, and I believed him. Then again, I’d also believed him when he said he’d never cheat on me. Goes to show how dangerous it can be, thinking that you know someone.

45

PIPPA

NOW

The Pantry is bustling. It’s impressive for a weekday. Certainly, it wouldn’t have been an unfamiliar sight in the middle of summer, but down here many cafes and restaurants rely on the weekend and school holiday trade from Melbourne.

I am sitting at a back table by the window, in front of a sandwich I didn’t order but that I’m enjoying desperately. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in days and there’s something calming about a full stomach. It doesn’t entirely relieve my anxiety, but it helps a bit.

‘If they knew about the connection between Max and me, they would have said so.’ That’s what Gabe said to me last night, after the police had left. ‘It just felt like they did because we’re nervous. You don’t have to worry.’

Easy to say.

This morning, when Gabe had taken the girls off to preschool, he’d been an entirely different man from the nervous, shaken one of the evening before. He’d decided that the police visit was a good thing, and that the most likely scenario was that they would have closed the case by the end of the day, ruling it a suicide. Even if Maxhadbeen here in Portsea, Gabe said, he’d have left by now. He was probably back in Melbourne, planning the funeral. Gabe seemed so confident. I envied him.

‘Be right with you,’ Dev says as he sails past, holding a couple of bowls of mussels.

I don’t often do wills face to face. I’ve never done one in a cafe while the client serves the lunch rush. But there’s something about the unorthodox arrangement that I like. He has two staff holding down the fort – one in the kitchen and one serving – but when it gets busy he chips in to help.

Dev’s will is one of the most straightforward I’ve done for a while. It almost makes me wonder why he’s bothering. Of course, my official position is that everyone needs a will. Official because that’s how I make money, but also because that’s how I live my own life.

I made my first will when I was twenty. I did it myself, online – bequeathing my clothes, my car and my five thousand dollars in savings to Kat. I’d also outlined my wishes for my funeral. Back then I’d wanted ‘Stayin’ Alive’ by the Bee Gees played at my funeral – I thought it would be ironic and make everyone smile. I’d amended that and most other things in my will since.

‘Assets?’ I say, when Dev slides into the booth opposite me. I hold my fingers over the keyboard of my laptop.

Dev is single, never married, no dependents. He owns The Pantry (with a hefty mortgage), his car, an apartment in Melbourne which is currently rented out. He has a modest amount of savings. I doubt we’ll need the full hour, even with all the interruptions. I’ve already decided I won’t charge him. Besides the free food this is bound to get me, I’ve learned that Dev is the mouthpiece for this entire area. If he sings my praises, it will spread like wildfire. And if everyone he talks to brings me straightforward wills like this, it will be money for jam.

‘In the event of your death, what are your wishes for The Pantry?’ I ask. ‘For example, you could have the business sold and the proceeds released to the estate, you could close it down, you could nominate someone to run it and the profits could be held in trust by the estate.’

‘It can be sold,’ he says. ‘Everything can be sold.’ A middle-aged woman in activewear enters and he waves at her. ‘Marg! We have raspberry and white chocolate muffins still warm from the oven.’

Marg groans. ‘I’ve just been for a six-kilometre walk!’ She orders the muffin.

‘And who will be your beneficiaries?’ I ask, when I have Dev’s attention again.

‘My brother, Sunny.’

I make a note of it, then look up. A pair of young women at the next table are watching us. Dev must have noticed too because he looks over at them. ‘Another coffee, Steph? Takeaway cup?’