Page 87 of A Perfect Algarve Villa
Emily opened the door fully. ‘You’re lucky. Mark’s away for the night. Come on, but we really do need to get you properly settled somewhere.’
Thirty-two
April 7th
Ellis bank balance: £2,043,278.92
His mother’s wake was held in the Chalkwell house. Romeo soon became a trip hazard, wandering from one room to the next, seeking out his mistress. Mark squatted down to fondle the dog’s ears.
‘Maybe you came close to seeing her the way I did, eh?’ He gave the dog a last scratch. Deidre was adopting his mother’s pet, she would look after him. Romeo plodded off, patrolling the house, nosing amongst the guests. Like the dog, Mark found no solace in the formal front room, with its memories of Sundays spent eating Welsh cakes, listening to Deidre and his mother reliving their week for him. He raised his eyes towards the picture of the mining pit. Was that why this dismal painting had always hung there? To remind his mother how lucky she’d been in comparison to others? Like he was ... Like, if he were honest, hestillwas.
He tried the kitchen, staring out at the muddy back garden. March had been one of the wettest on record, April no drier. It was raining now. The kitchen still smelt of her, and her brown housecoat, hanging off a peg on the back door, brought a gagging feeling to his throat that threatened to choke him. No matter which room he tried, clutching an untouched Welsh cake cookedin her friend’s honour by Deidre – a reminder of all he had lost – people kept touching his arm, pulling him to a stop. Each one shared a treasured memory of Gwen, or asked if he was enjoying his life in the sun, how Emily was, and the two dogs, and had he found the right work-life balance yet?
His eyes kept smarting as he battled to control the tears. Mark took a bite from his Welsh cake to cover a sob but, unable to chew the food, he stumbled upstairs, shoulders heaving, mouth clogged full of soggy biscuit. He sat on the edge of his childhood bed – he’d never understood why she moved it from Colchester – his head sagging, tears welling at the corner of his eyes. Why? Why did this have to happen? The door squeaked open, but he didn’t look up. Hands rested on his shoulders, and a cheek brushed his.
‘I miss her. I loved her too, Dad. I know a little of what you must be feeling.’
His son wrapped him in a bear hug. Mark shuddered, swallowed, and then the tears started to spill.
The day he got home, Pedro called Mark with fantastic news: apparently, he wasn’t the only lawyer with a list of special clients. All invoices were to be reissued at commercial rates. It’s only money, thought Mark, putting the phone down; Pedro was lucky to get a second chance. Paul never gave Mark one.
Mark’s relief was short-lived. His UK accountant was the next person to call; HMRC was launching an investigation into both house sales. It had always been a risk, Mark knew that. Shit! He tried to concentrate on what his advisor was saying.
‘You’ll have been on their list of high-net-worth individuals for years, but while you were in the pay-as-you-earn scheme you were never of any interest. You are now.’
‘I don’t want to be of interest to the taxman,’ he said, suddenly feeling dizzy.
‘No one does. I know this man, James Jones. He’s a member ofmy bridge club. Excellent player. And he’s as good at his job as he is at the card table.’
‘Fabulous. Just my luck to get the A team!’ Mark groaned.
His advisor revealed that James Jones was a poacher turned gamekeeper who, after spending years devising complicated structures to ensure people minimized their tax burden, shuffling egregious levels of income into low-tax regimes, had decided he wasn’t prepared to be complicit in the game anymore and joined HMRC’s high-net-worth team. Mark’s accountant warned that his professional training gave James a nose for artificial schemes worthy of scrutiny, and his competitive streak – observed first-hand at the bridge table – the drive to unpick the camouflage.
James Jones reportedly saw himself as a modern-day Robin Hood, recouping every penny of tax possible, together with a hefty fine. He was a patient, persistent man, traits that served him well at work and at the bridge table and made him sound like exactly the sort of investigator who might uncover what Emily had done. Mark didn’t play bridge so didn’t understand the analogy his accountant was using to explain how James Jones worked: if there was a way of playing a bridge hand that would enable the bridge contract to be made, apparently James would assume that was how the cards lay and play on. Mark made a guess at the translation for the layman. ‘So, what you’re saying is, if there is any angle to view a dodgy looking tax arrangement that could unravel it, then this guy assumes that’s the case and launches an investigation.’
‘That’s about the size of it. He smells a rat because it looks a bit cute. You claimed that cottage in Devon as your principal private residence the year before you stopped work.’ Mark chose not to remind his accountant whose advice that had been! ‘And now you’re selling two houses and claiming that you’re no longer tax resident. It’s too tempting, and the prize is substantial. Ifyou were still in the UK system, which you’re not, I did a rough estimate and I reckon you’d owe around £2 million! You and I know it’s a coincidence. I’m sure you’ve kept the records we advised you to, which will prove that when you sold the houses, you were, and still are, tax-resident in Portugal.’
Yes, Mark had all the records. They just didn’t show quite the same picture his accountant assumed they did. He replied with a long, drawn-out groan.
‘Don’t be alarmed. This is just a nuisance,’ the accountant reassured him. ‘Would you like me to prepare a response?’
‘I can manage. Forward me the letter. I’ll get in touch if I need help.’
Mark stared at his phone for several minutes, as if blaming it for propelling him once more into dangerous territory. No more sitting on the fence; fib or pay up!Would this investigator delve deeply enough to uncover Emily’s extra two days? Was Mark prepared to lie, or at best, be complicit in his wife’s lie by submitting false records? He certainly couldn’t ask his accountant to write to James Jones. Mark would have to do his own dirty work.
It took several attempts to draft a reply, checking his records, but mostly wrestling with his conscience. To win, Mr Jones needed to prove that either Mr or Mrs Ellis had failed to leave the UK tax system; it only took one of them to be linked to the UK for them to lose. Mark ran through HMRC’s armoury of possibilities, the series of tests to trap the unwary tax dodger. Mark claimed to have spent precisely ninety days in the UK and to have worked only thirty-nine of those, so the investigator would find no joy on either the forty days of work rule or the 90-day rule. Emily claimed to have used her full 90-day allowance and hadn’t suddenly started working in the UK, so she cleared both tests too. Their only son was an adult, so the family connection rule was irrelevant. It looked watertight in favour ofthe Ellises.
Mark hit send. He wanted the submission to end the problem and tried to ignore the enduring sensation of doubt. Maybe he should’ve found a way to involve the experts. This James Jones was bound to spot that the formal notification of investigation was sent to a firm of accountants, but the response came direct from their client. Why? With £2 million at stake, why would someone nickel and dime over a few thousand pounds of advisory fees? Unless they were hiding something they were prepared to gloss over themselves, but couldn’t expect a professional advisor to be duplicitous about?
It was Emily’s birthday, and she asked for lunch at a restaurant on the edge of a manmade lake on Quinta do Lago. It was a popular tourist attraction, enhanced by the water sports on offer: paddleboards, dinghies, pedalos, even scuba diving, all tempting money from a parent’s unguarded wallet.
Mark offered to drive so the birthday girl could enjoy a glass of wine. Emily waited on the porch, stroking one of the elephant’s trunks while Mark set the house alarm. She had two tricky subjects she wanted to broach. Firstly, were they going to run Villa Anna as a B&B this year? Off the back of the previous year’s reviews, bookings were piling in, only they didn’t need to take paying guests anymore. Not unless the taxman sent them a bill for £2 million, which was the second toe-curling topic on her list.
Recalling Mark’s expression when he told her about the tax investigation, her insides started crawling. He’d refused her offer to work up a response. All day, she’d hovered outside his study chewing a thumbnail, watching his fingers tapping and listening to his sighs and groans, unable to summon the courage to slide open the glass door. She kept walking away. He said he’d discuss his draft with her, but that evening he told her he’d already replied.
Hearing the bleep-bleep of the alarm setting, she watched Mark lock the door, itching to ask what his letter to Mr Jones said.
The couple walked together to the car, and he opened her door.
