The Opportunist

Lauren Voaden

 

Elisabeth leaned back on her plush outdoor lounger. Miles and miles of shiny glass windows winked at her as the sun began to set. It was an unusually warm day, even for summer, and from her penthouse flat, she could see London’s complex web of buildings and roads sprawled out below her. Freshly manicured fingers reached for the champagne flute resting on the adjacent side table. She brought it to her mouth and smiled as the bubbles tickled her upper lip. She couldn’t help but grin at all the busy people scurrying through the streets below. Like rats, she thought. She tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and turned her face to catch the last rays of the sun.

Her peaceful repose was interrupted by the front door clicking shut. Harold, a small ginger man in a well-fitted suit, stepped inside. He sighed as he placed his briefcase next to his perfectly polished brogues and shook his jacket from his shoulders. He folded it and laid it over the back of the nearby armchair, though he quickly whipped it back when he caught sight of his wife turning to look at him from the balcony at the end of the hallway. Instead, he then hung it neatly on the single crystal-encrusted hook by the door. He cleared his throat and headed towards her.

“Hey, honey. How’s your day been?”

“I just did some shopping on Bond Street and got my nails done. Helen flaked out of our spa trip again, her daughter’s unwell or something apparently.”

“Sorry to hear that, honey. There’s always next week.”

Elisabeth grunted and turned back to face the evening sun.

“Sorry I’m home late,” Harold continued, disregarding his wife’s disinterested expression. “It’s been such a terrible day.”

“Mm. Tell me about it. What’s for dinner tonight?” Elisabeth asked, changing the subject to avoid whatever dull conversation her husband clearly wanted to have.

“I haven’t thought about that yet. Look, Elisabeth, Mum’s dead.”

Elisabeth became stock still. The corners of her mouth twitched.

“When?”

“Last week. Apparently, my family has been trying to call the flat, but no one has ever picked up.”

“You know I don’t answer the phone to them.”

“But you knew Mum has been unwell.”

“Well, they could have called your mobile. I’m not your secretary.”

“They don’t have my mobile number. You know they…” – Harold took a deep breath. “That’s beside the point. Let’s not argue about it.” He leaned against the balcony door, his eyes glistening along his waterline.

“When’s the funeral?” she asked.

“Tomorrow. In Liskeard.”

Elisabeth grimaced at the memory of the dreary, hilly landscape she’d grown up in. Just the thought of the smell of dung spreading and freshly cut hay made her screw up her nose.

“You will come with me, won’t you?” Harold asked.

Elisabeth remained quiet, hoping that her husband would take her silence as an answer.

“Elisabeth?” Harold insisted. “We also need to visit the house.”

“Why would we need to visit that? No one’s lived in it for years. It’ll be a wreck.”

“But Mum’s left it to me.”

Elisabeth’s eyes lit up.

“She’s left you the house? I thought she was leaving it to your brother since he paid for all her care?”

“A solicitor called today. That’s how I found out she’s passed.” His voice wobbled. “According to her will, it’s been left to me.”

Elisabeth lifted her slim frame off the lounger and got to her feet. Her heels clicked across the wooden deck as she made her way over to her husband and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“Of course, I’ll come with you to the funeral.”

“Thank you, honey; I’d feel so much better having you there.”

“What are wives for?” She smiled sweetly and began making her way inside. “Out of interest, how many bedrooms is that house? It’s on a farm, isn’t it?”

Harold raised his eyebrows, blocking out any intrusive thought that questioned his wife’s sudden interest.

“Yeah. Four or five, I think. As you said, it’s probably gone to rack and ruin by now. It’s going to be hard to see it in such a state.”

“I know. But it’s nothing a quick bit of renovating can’t fix.” – She winked at him before disappearing into the living room.

***

The next day, Harold and Elisabeth sat in their red Mercedes Benz in heavy traffic just outside of London. Harold gazed over at his wife. Her delicate hands supported her head, her arms propped up by her elbows on the side of the car door. Her dyed blonde hair was perfectly styled; the finest line of grey at her roots was the only reminder that the girl he met at school was indeed ageing. Though not conventionally attractive, with a large, crooked nose and a receding chin, there was an undeniably irresistible charm about her. Her energy and confidence always captivated onlookers, and it was clear from her glowing skin and bright eyes that she took good care of herself. Harold had always felt a strange sense of jealous pride whenever he caught another man ogling her. At times he worried it was what he loved most about her, the way he always felt like a winner with her by his side. Perhaps she was cold and self-absorbed sometimes, but he was sure he could feel genuine warmth and compassion from her now and then — though Harold’s friends had made him acutely aware that he was the only one who could see that side of her. They’d never really approved of his relationship with her, but their concerns were nothing more than simple jealousy.

Elisabeth shifted uncomfortably in her seat and let out an audible sigh that she intended Harold to hear. He turned to her, reluctant to indulge the tirade he knew was about to ensue. A second long sigh, however, indicated that the monologue was inevitable, whether he liked it or not.

“What’s with all this traffic? How much longer are we meant to sit and wait here? Someone could at least give us some information. What’s the holdup? God knows how long we’re going to be stuck on this stretch of road. Why can’t everyone just be turned around and diverted?”

“Lis, honey, all we can do is be patient. It’ll clear soon enough.”

Elisabeth scoffed. It grated on her when her husband kept so cool and collected.

“I suppose you’d be used to waiting around,” jibed Elisabeth. “Growing up surrounded by muck and tractors that can only do 10 miles an hour. The rest of us have learnt to appreciate how precious time is.”

Harold’s hands rested limply on the steering wheel. Staring straight ahead, he replied, “don’t act like you’re not a country bumpkin at heart. We both grew up in the same town.”

“My upbringing was nothing like yours. I never set foot on a farm,” she answered, inspecting her French-tipped nails.

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I was brought up,” came the reply. The unusually frosty tone didn’t go unnoticed.

“Not if you like being knee-deep in shit and treated like a slave.”

To Elisabeth’s surprise, Harold momentarily snapped.

“I wasn’t treated like a slave. I grew up understanding the importance of hard work and graft. That’s why I am where I am today. That’s why you can sit there with your perfectly styled hair and posh bag. That’s why you have the lifestyle you have.” He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath. In a calmer tone, he continued, “Lis, please, I’m driving to my mother’s funeral. Cut me some slack. You don’t have to act like the school bully right now.”

Elisabeth shot him a steely stare. For a moment, she was taken aback by the stark reminder of how she was probably still perceived back in her hometown. The traffic slowly started to creep forward. The rest of the journey continued in silence.

Five hours later, they were driving through Cornwall, an expanse of patchwork fields extended in every direction. Harold turned off the dual-carriageway and indicated left at the end of the slip road. He pulled onto a country road lined with a thick, green hedge that had grown so fervently through the summer months that it now absconded their vision and forced the car to drive closer to the middle of the road. Beyond the hedge was nothing but green hills, some smattered with a few sheep. Bodmin moor loomed in the distance. Even in the sunshine, the view still seemed bleak to Elisabeth. She hadn’t missed the countryside and was already pining for the bright lights of London and its soothing background hum. They soon reached the outskirts of a small town that most would describe as quaint, with picture-perfect cobbled streets and neatly thatched roofs. However, all Elisabeth saw was the damp, grey stones the houses were built from and the few piles of horse manure dotted along the back roads.

Harold manoeuvred into a small car park surrounded by a low stone wall. Elisabeth kept her eyes down, trying her best not to look at the austere hotel right in front of her. She hated the countryside. The pair climbed out of the car, and Harold took the luggage from the boot. Elisabeth made her way to the hotel reception, leaving her husband to jostle with the two suitcases. She reached the front door, twisted the iron doorknob to let herself in and sauntered up to the front desk to wait for him to catch up. She ignored the receptionist’s welcome.

Once Harold had checked them in, and they’d located their room, the silence was finally broken.

“God, that musty smell is awful.”

Harold said nothing.

“Are we visiting the house before the funeral tomorrow?” Elisabeth asked, whilst peering suspiciously into a cheap white ceramic mug.

“I really can’t face the house today. It feels wrong to be snooping around before she’s even been buried.” Harold’s eyes stared into space.

“Well, it’s not like she’s going to care much now, is it?” Elisabeth said plainly. “We could just go and check what sort of state it’s in.” She stared at her husband’s dejected expression and changed her approach. “I mean, it might give you some closure and a chance to say goodbye to your mother before tomorrow.” She waited for his expression to soften. It didn’t.

“I can’t. It’s too soon. The last thing I feel like doing is walking around her old home. She’s not lived there in years, and I don’t want to imagine what condition it’s in. She loved that house.” The muscles around his mouth tightened, and he sniffed to clear his nose. “Besides, she’s left it all to me, and I know that can’t be right. She always said everything would be split evenly between my brother and me. I don’t want to even think about that house until I’ve had a chance to speak to him about it and see how he’d like to sort it.”

“You mean you’re going to see if he’d like to share the profits from the house?”

“Well, perhaps. He might even have something he’d like to use it for. He always loved that house; we both did. It’d be such a shame to have to sell it, so it’d be nice to think at least one of us was making the most of it. Maybe he’d even like to get the farm up and running again.”

“Harold, what are you talking about? It was left to you. It says so in black and white.”

“Maybe so, but I know it’s not what she wanted.”

Elisabeth’s face flushed a deep pink.

“For Christ’s sake, Harold. You’d be giving away an incredible opportunity for us. Why on Earth would you give that up so willingly? You’re not married to your brother. Think of everything the sale of that house could do for us. The amount of—”

“You’re expecting me to sell the house?” Harold interrupted.

“Well, you’re hardly going to give up your job to move back here and live in a poxy run-down farmhouse and farm sheep. Of course you’re going to sell it.”

“My job isn’t the be-all and end-all. It’s tiring, it’s stressful, and I’m getting older. Maybe I’d like to move back here and take things easier, be closer to our families.”

A heavy silence filled the room once more.

“You’d be a fool to share that house with your brother. And there’s no way in hell that I’ll ever move back here. I’d sooner the whole thing burned down than we moved into it. If those are the options you’re considering, then you’re on your own.” A hint of a smirk flashed across her face. Checkmate.

Harold looked down at the floor. He was backing down; she could feel it.

“I’m going out.”

“Where are you going?”

“For a walk, I don’t know, just somewhere that’s not here.”

With that, she flounced out of the hotel room, ignoring the downcast face that stared after her. Best leave him to stew.

Once she exited the hotel, she took a moment to decide her next move. She reached into her bag for her phone and decided to search for directions to the house. She knew it couldn’t be far away, and she might as well see it for herself. After all, that old building might signify the start of a whole new chapter — one where she didn’t need to rely on Harold. After reaching for some signal, she found the directions and headed out of the car park and down a small dirt track to the left of the main road. She let out a grunt of disgust as her shoes kicked up the dry dust that had settled on the ground, shading the pale pink fabric of her espadrilles a strange shade of beige. The ground was uneven and pitted, and, without careful consideration, sharp stones would poke through the thin soles and jab into the soft skin on the bottom of her feet. Staring down the track, she saw the sun beginning to set over a line of oak trees, turning the tips of the leaves a warm golden colour. After a fifteen-minute walk, the hedge to her left gave way to an old stone wall ravaged by dandelions, nettles and dock leaves. Her nose wrinkled at the disorder. Eventually, she reached a gate. It had been pried open, and the tangled mass of grass and reeds that had commandeered the ground beneath it had been ripped, their brown roots now protruding from the soil. The remnants of what looked to be paving slabs peeked out from beneath the onslaught of foliage, and Elisabeth noticed they led to the front door of an old farmhouse. This must be it. To her dismay, she saw that it truly was in complete disrepair: the exterior walls were crumbling, and thick moss blocked the guttering that lined the decaying roof. The colours of the world around her started to dim as the sun continued its descent behind the horizon, and the inside of the house itself appeared to be nearly pitch black. Suddenly, Elisabeth noticed a flash of light coming from the upstairs window. It was moving around the building. She squinted to make out what it might be. It must be a torch. She quickly squatted behind the stone wall, repulsed at her proximity to the dirty ground, and waited to see who the owner of the torch might be. I bet it’s his brother, she spat under her breath. Ten minutes later, a young woman emerged from the front door and slowly made her way over to a bench at the end of the garden. She took a seat, her hands firmly in her pockets. Her curly blonde hair looked so familiar, but Elisabeth couldn’t quite match the thick tresses to a name. A family member maybe? She stared at the figure on the bench for a while, eager to ascertain who it was, but her attention was soon stolen by a raging flash of orange that suddenly reached out from under the front door. It was fire.

An overwhelming panic spread through Elisabeth. Perhaps it was the terror of being so close to a fire that seemed so out of control, or perhaps it was how the bright orange glow served as a reminder of how dark the countryside around her had become. She shot one final glance over at the blonde girl, who was still sitting, seemingly unperturbed, on the garden bench, watching the flames lick the threshold of the house. Elisabeth turned on her heels and dashed back down the dimpsy dirt track towards the hotel.

Just as she rounded a corner, she almost collided with a man taking his dog for the last walk of the day. She recognised him instantly as the father of one of the girls she used to pick on at school. He often paid her parents a stern visit back when she was a teenager. He stared at her, eyebrows raised, clearly suspicious.

“What’s the rush?” enquired his gruff, weathered voice.

Unable to catch her breath and feeling ashamed to be caught in such an unsightly state, Elisabeth only managed to muster a “nothing” before continuing her sprint back down the track. She soon found herself back in the hotel car park. She took a minute to catch her breath, leaning against the concrete wall whilst her lungs heaved oxygen back into her bloodstream. Once she’d straightened her hair, brushed herself off and regained her composure, she calmly entered the hotel and headed back to the room. Harold was lying in bed watching TV. He smiled at her as she pushed the door closed. His hand reached out for her, but she ignored him and headed into the bathroom to get ready for bed.

***

The next morning at eleven o’clock, the pair arrived at the nearby church. A swarm of black-clad mourners surrounded the church grounds. Still wanting to make a point about yesterday’s argument, Elisabeth continued to maintain an emotional distance from Harold. This wasn’t an arduous task since her mind kept wandering back to the strange woman and the fire the evening before. She wondered if the house was all right. She’d not heard anything about it; not even the locals seemed to be gossiping about it. The fire must have been put out somehow.

A few hours later, the final funeral attendees were leaving the church ground, leaving only the immediate family in the graveyard. Elisabeth had never got on with any of them. They were all as dull as Harold. She watched as her husband approached his brother, nudged his arm and motioned for them to head over to a secluded part of the churchyard surrounded by large bushes dotted with pink flowers.

Elisabeth was about to put herself between the two men to prevent any discussion that might be had when two police officers appeared at the church gate.

“Excuse me, is there an Elisabeth Wilson here?”

Elisabeth tentatively raised her hand.

“Ma’am, we need to ask you a few questions.”

Elisabeth nodded her head and walked over to them. She glanced back at Harold. His appalled expression put her on the back foot, and a sense of dread began to take hold.

“We’re investigating a suspected arson attack and have been told by a gentleman who was walking his dog yesterday evening that he came across a woman running down Trethek Lane last night. He recognised you as the wife of Mrs Wilson’s son, Harold. We understand you and your husband are here for Mrs Wilson’s funeral, and we apologise for the difficult timing. However, we do need to ask what you were doing yesterday evening between the hours of eight and nine?”

Elisabeth peered over her shoulder again and saw Harold standing upright with his eyebrows furrowed. He was clearly trying to listen in on the conversation.

“I’d gone for a walk to visit the property. Me and my husband recently learned that we were going to inherit it.”

The officer raised his eyebrows. “You’re inheriting the house? Oof, it’s quite run down, isn’t it?”

“It is. It looked a right mess, to be honest.” The officer’s chatty tone put Elisabeth at ease. She decided to lighten the conversation. After all, she hadn’t done anything wrong. “Probably the best thing for it was to be burned down,” she let out a polite laugh.

“Yes. I suppose it would be. The insurance claim would be worth a packet, wouldn’t it.” The police officer held her gaze.

Elisabeth felt her expression drop.

“I guess it would. Not that I see how that’s relevant.” Elisabeth cleared her throat. “I saw a woman with curly blonde hair come out of the house and sit in the garden. She stayed there and watched the flames come out the front door.”

“You saw another person there?”

“Yes, she was blonde, as I said, and slim. I think she was wearing a black coat and a beanie.”

“And you saw flames coming out the front door?”

“Yes, she must have started the fire and then got a front-row seat to watch her handiwork unfold.”

“So, you went to visit the house, saw flames coming out the front door, and saw the individual who’s potentially responsible exit the building, and yet you didn’t think to report any of this to the police?”

Elisabeth fell silent. “No. Well, yes. What are you getting at?” She searched for the right thing to say. “It’s been a horrible week, I’ve lost my mother-in-law, and we’ve dropped our normal lives to come back here for the funeral. Yes, I saw flames pouring out of her abandoned, ruined home. Forgive me if I didn’t act logically; it was upsetting. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my husband; he needs me.”

With that, she turned on her heels and started to walk away from the officers. Harold was staring at her with furious intensity. As she approached, he began to walk in the opposite direction, back to the church car park. Elisabeth pursued him. As he opened the car door, she grabbed him by the shoulder and urged him to stop.

“Harold, wait, where are you going?”

“Anywhere that’s not here. Anywhere away from you.”

Elisabeth stared at him in shock.

“Harold, what are you talking about? Let’s just head back to the hotel and—”

“Save it. I heard everything. I know what you’ve done.”

A momentary look of confusion flashed across her face before it clicked.

“Wait, you think I started the fire at your mum’s house?”

“Well, it’s all a little too convenient, don’t you think? You’ve been desperate to get your hands on the money from the house ever since you found out it had been left to me, and you’ve said how much you’d hate to live there. You even said it would be better burnt down. You know what? Everything everyone’s ever told me about you is true. You’re materialistic, uncaring and cruel. Though I have to say I’m beyond shocked to find out you’re this level of insane.”

“Harold, as if —”

But he’d already climbed into his car and started pulling away.

She watched him disappear into the distance. Her life felt like it was unravelling before her eyes, and her only comfort was the police officer’s firm hand on her shoulder.