Total pages in book: 147
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
“Then who are you talking about?”
“That rich prick you brought here!” The forcefulness of her words almost knocks me on my ass. “I got that letter after you brought him. I’m gonna shove that silver spoon of his right up his arse, you see if I don’t.” She balls her hand into a fist, banging it against her thigh.
“I brought? Do you mean Oliver?” For all her insults, it’s clear she’s frantic, but what on earth?
“Yeah, him. I saw him snoopin’ about the place that day he moved the dog food. Talking on his phone, he was, looking shifty and up to no good.”
“Oliver didn’t do this.” I find myself standing because, even as I reassure her, a little voice inside me says, He wouldn’t, would he? But that’s ridiculous. He wouldn’t be interested in a scrappy piece of land in the middle of—
I halt. That’s not the direction my thoughts should’ve turned. Except I know him. And I know he’s all about frying bigger fish.
“No one ever said nothin’ about the place before, and I’ve been here donkey’s years! He comes here, and all of a sudden, I get that letter. It’s him, I’m telling you!”
“Nora, please calm down. Do you have the letter? Can I see it?”
“You pulled it out of the postbox weeks ago. I just shoved it on the admin pile without looking at it.” Her expression turns mulish as guilt pokes a thin finger at my chest. I’ve long suspected Nora is dyslexic. She’s old enough to have been raised at a time no one knew or cared about so-called word blindness. That she can read at all is probably testament to her stubborn attitude. Given my suspicions, I’d more or less wheedled my way into being her unofficial admin assistant a couple of times a month. I generally open the mail to stop it from stacking up, and we go over its contents together.
“If I gave it to you, it doesn’t mean I knew what was inside.”
“I didn’t say that.” Her chin juts out.
“Well, can I read it?”
Her hand shakes as she reaches for her pocket, and my heart gives a little pang at how frail she suddenly looks.
“You’re on my side, right?” she asks, crushing the letter to her chest.
“Always.”
“I told you toffs are no good, but you didn’t listen.”
“Nora, please. I wouldn’t let anyone do anything to stand in the way of your work.”
Suspicion seems second nature to Nora. I have no idea what she’s suffered in her life or why she’s turned from people. She hasn’t been the easiest person to get to know. While I get the sense that her experiences led her to this path, she’s no animal hoarder trying to fill the holes in her own life. She’s a genuine advocate and puts all her energy and efforts, the entirety of her focus, into saving the animals no one else gives a damn about.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around.” That I’ve been so caught up in my own life and my own problems and, let’s face it, caught up in Oliver. “But if you don’t want me to read it, how can I help you? Shall I call Yara instead?”
“No.” She thrusts out her hand. “You read it, then tell me it’s not from him.”
I unfold the crumpled paper. It’s from a lawyer, and as I scan the text, my heart sinks to my sneakers.
A notice to . . . what the hell is the law of adverse possession?
Hereby notify . . . application made to the Land Registry. Such security measures as deemed applicable. Continued use for the foreseeable future . . . demonstrating exclusive possession.
“Nora, who owns the land?”
“Levi Blau. But he’s been dead for more than twelve years now.”
“But you pay rent though, right?”
“I used to, but he died, and no one asked for it after that. I used to put the rent money to one side, just in case, but there didn’t seem much point after a while.”
“No one reached out to you about it?”
She shakes her head.
“You didn’t try to find anything out?”
“How? By séance?”
“I don’t know. His wife? His kids?”
“He had a sister who went to live in South America, I think, but she was even older than him. What was I supposed to do?”
Oh, I don’t know, maybe try not to stick your head in the sand. I blow out a breath, glancing down at the letter again.
“The question is, who owns it now? Whoever put the fence up says they’re applying to the Land Registry office, but that doesn’t mean they own it, right?”
“I don’t know, but they’re not gettin’ me out.”
“No.” Reaching out, I curl my hand over hers. “Not if I can help it.”
I leave Nora and go through the motions of my visit—health checks, meds, and I call and schedule a scan for a newly arrived pregnant whippet. Once done, I get out my phone and search the web. It would appear that William the Conqueror, the king of England way back in 1066, has a lot to answer for. Apparently, in this country, you can just proclaim yourself owner of land (or property) that you can prove has been abandoned by its owner. There’s a little more to it than that—time frames and hoops to jump through—but that is the crazy crux of it.