The golden envelope lies open by the glass of claret. He reclines, the full scope of the city stretched below tempered glass and the drooping plants that extend all around the apartment, dripping with the finer embellishments of the modern age and hints of older times - copper trims, polished oak - and the cosy pine-green paint, all illustrated in warm lamp light.
You are dead, reads the letter. Congratulations.
He smiles. The accounts are dissolved into the the various bodies outlined in his will - charities, hedge funds, his most favoured companies - and through a percentage will be lost in the wash, most of it will make it back to his secret accounts locked offshore, where he will no doubt relish in their free use. He, the ghost. Ghosts are not seen, nor heard. Ghosts are not expected. Ghosts are easily forgotten. And most of all, no judge would charge a ghost with a crime.
He smiles and sips the claret.
Paddy Dobson
24th January 2021