Chapter Seventy-Nine

“That is his full name? Am I correct?”

“That’s correct, yes. But my husband is nothing to do with the mayor’s office. So why…?”

“And your own full name?”

“Elizabeth Haswell. Look, what is this…?”

“Previously Kimberley? Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct. Mr Pensby, what…?”

“And of course, you’re happy to cooperate in dealing with these allegations? In clearing Mr Haswell’s good name?”

The question unsettles me. “Yes, of course I am. I assist my husband in anything he needs from me.”

“Good.”

He sniffs, swinging one ankle over a knee and propping his clipboard against the other knee. “I have a number of queries, and since you are happy to cooperate, now’s as good a time as any.” Head cocked, he gives a small, tight, smile, like the Mona Lisa on a bad day.

“Very well.” Arranging myself in best princess fashion, I sit, ankles tucked in and hands folded onto my knees.

“First of all, Mrs Haswell, how did you and your husband meet?” The smile holds, but somehow, a sneer lurks there.

My jaw flaps open. “How did we meet? What’s that to do with anything?”

“The allegation against Richard Haswell is that he staged a marriage with you as a method of diverting personal assets and thus gaining an inappropriate, and possibly fraudulent, tax advantage. We are therefore obliged to investigate the authenticity of this marriage. You claim to be involved in a genuine union to Mr Haswell?”

“There’s no claim about it. You want to see the marriage certificate? The wedding photos? Why should I have to answer your questions? It’s all utter nonsense.”

“In that case, you have nothing to fear from answering my questions.” He scribbles a note. Ticks a box. Then, in a bland monotone, “I am given to understand there was considerable surprise at the announcement that Richard Haswell, a man in his position, chose you as his wife. That your alleged relationship came, as it were, out of the blue. I gather, Miss Kimberley…”

My teeth grit, but I squeeze out the words. “Mrs Haswell.”

He sniffs again. Jots another note. “Very well, Mrs Haswell, I gather you come from… working stock… So, returning to my original question, how did you and Richard Haswell meet for the first time?”

He found me naked in his shower, seduced me, tied me to his showerhead, then made me beg him to fuck me ‘til I screamed…

“We met… at my place of work.”

“That was where? And under what circumstances?”

“I was his employee.”

Pensby’s brows arch. “His employee? So, Richard Haswell was paying you? You were answerable to him for your job? For your income and your living?”

“I suppose.”

“And if he’d asked anything of you, as a good employee, you would have done as he asked?”

“Anything within reason, of course, but he never…”

“Miss Kimberley, if you have been coerced or pressured into some arrangement by Richard Haswell, you have nothing to fear. An admission now would ensure that you would not bear the consequences of any criminal…”

“It’s Mrs Haswell! And I’m not about to admit to something that hasn’t happened.”

Another box tick, then, as though I’d said nothing at all, he continues in the same colourless drone. “Where do you live, Mrs Haswell?”

My brain blanks over. “Live? What d’you mean? I live here. This is our home. You must know that. You drove here. Knocked on my door.”

“Do you have a set of house keys?”

“Of course I do.”

“May I see them?”

Stomach churning, I fetch my purse from the side, producing my keys.

A brief glance. “This seems a small set of keys for such a large premises.”

“If I carried all the keys with me, I’d need a low loader. These are for the front and back doors, and my car. The others are in a key press in the house office.”

He sniffs. Scribbles. “And Mr Haswell. He lives here too?”

“He’s my husband. Of course he lives here.”

“So, you’re not here in the role of say, a housekeeper? You say you have access to the house office?”

My head’s beginning to spin. “This is my home. Yes, I have access to the office. And no, there’s already a housekeeper. At least…” I stumble over my words… “… there was a housekeeper.”

“There was a housekeeper? Where is she now?”

“She was dismissed.”

Another note. “So, you were installed in this…” He waves an arm around the room and out toward the windows over the gardens… “… extensive property, and the current housekeeper was removed from her position?”

“It wasn’t like that. She…”

“Where do you sleep, Mrs Haswell?”

My words splutter. “In the damn bedroom! Where do you think?”

“This is a bedroom you share with Mr Haswell?”

“Yes, of course.”

“May I see it?”

My jaw falls open. Then, recovering myself, “No, you may not. A bedroom is private space. I have already allowed you to enter my home. This lounge is a perfectly acceptable setting for us to talk.”

Another pencilled note, and a mutter. “Will not cooperate.”

“And why should I cooperate with something like that? An intrusion into my… our… personal space?”

He adopts an expression of strained patience. “I am investigating allegations of a fraudulent marriage…”

“Who made these allegations?”

“That need not concern you for now,” he continues smoothly. “But to answer your first question, in a matter of this sort, some of the questions will necessarily touch into personal areas. In order to prove your union with Richard Haswell is authentic, you must demonstrate that you act as a married couple is expected to and that you are familiar with each other in the ways a married couple typically would be.”

“And how…” I speak through gritted teeth… “... am I expected to do that?”

He places the clipboard on the arm of the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “It is standard procedure to ask both parties the same questions and then compare their answers to check for discrepancies. If there are disparities between their stories, it raises serious doubts about the legitimacy of their marriage.”

I inhale, then blow out my cheeks. “Alright. I get that. Very well, then. Go on.”

Pensby retrieves his clipboard, pencil poised.  “Do you share a bank account with Richard Haswell?”

“No.”

“Why not? Surely you would like access to your husband’s funds? Or does he not allow you access?”

“The question never arose. I’ve always earned in my own right and had my own bank account. It never occurred to me to change it.”

“Really? You marry such a wealthy man and yet you have no interest in that wealth?”

“Did I say I’m not interested? That’s not the same as being motivated by it.”

He arches a brow, but says nothing, waiting.

“Are you married, Mr Pensby? How would you feel about a woman you believed wanted to marry you for your money?”

“So, why did you marry him, Mrs Haswell? Or why do you believe he married you?”

“Because we fell in love and we want to spend our lives with each other.”

He sniffs, scratching his pencil over the pad. “Richard Haswell is of course significantly older than you. Has he written a will?”

“I… I’ve… no idea. I’m sure he must have. His accountants and lawyers would have advised him on that.”

“So, you have… no idea… if Mr Haswell has made you a beneficiary of any will?”

“I haven’t asked. But I know my husband is conscious of our age difference. I’m quite sure he’ll ensure that I’m solvent after…” My throat tightens… “After…”

But Pensby continues regardless. “Nonetheless he placed this… considerable… property in your name.”

“It was a wedding gift.”

“Very generous of him.”

Snide bastard…

“My husband can afford to be generous.”

“When did you learn of this generous gift?”

“On our wedding day.”

“You had no idea before then?”

“None. The first time I knew of the existence of this house was when he drove me here. When we arrived, I assumed he’d hired it as our honeymoon retreat.”

“Has he made you any more gifts?”

“Such as?”

“Oh… Art, perhaps. Jewellery. Deposits in off-shore bank accounts. Other properties.”

“He’s given me jewellery.”

“What kind of jewellery?”

“My engagement and wedding rings of course. I assume you don’t consider those to be taxable items?”

He sniffs… “Of course not…” … and pencils another note. “Anything else? Of what value?”

“Yes, there’s more. I’ve no idea what it cost him.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“Do you ask to see the receipt when someone gives you a gift?”

“Can I see these gifts?”

Necklace… Earrings…

Nipple clamps…

Butt plug…

“I can show you the necklace and earring set he gave me, if it proves necessary.”

Pensby ticks a box. Jots another word or two. Then face bland, staring straight at me. “What is Richard Haswell's preferred sexual position?”