Three million pounds plus.
That was what James Caruthers left behind when he died.
James wasn’t known to have that kind of money behind him. He lived in a council bungalow with three cats and his neighbours barely knew him.
In fact, most of them steered clear of the old man who spent most days in a great coat and wool cap, whatever the weather. No one knew what he got up to inside his decrepit home because of the newspaper taped over the windows.
Daily a care assistant would turn up, make sure that he was still breathing and shove a ready meal in the microwave oven, then they’d be out of there wrinkling their noses at the stench clinging to their clothing.
Other than that, James’s only other contact with humanity was when the milkman delivered his single pint of gold top.
James would peer out over the chain on his door and give a gruff thank you, before slamming and locking the door again.

One morning the milkman raised his concern to the police when the old man didn’t come to the door.
The cops turned up, broke in, and found James lying in the corner of his kitchen.
There was half a sandwich on a saucer next to the blazing gas fire in the living room. The other half – missing a single bite - was in the kitchen sink, as well as a wad of masticated bread and corned beef.
It was concluded that the old man had choked on the sandwich, made it to the sink where he’d hacked it up, but his overtaxed heart had then given out.
No suspicious circumstances.
Case closed.
No investigation.

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