Sister stole from dead mum!
Anne-Marie, left, stole from her dead mother
Friday 20th June 2008
It's one of the unwritten rules. When your mum gets sick, the family pulls together. So that's exactly what my brothers, Bernard, now 56, and Ian, 49, my sister, Anne-Marie, 40, and I had done when our mum, Shirley Scott, then 73, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's.
She'd split up with my dad, Brian, 77, when I was 19, and the five of us had been close ever since. Now, it was 26 January 2004 and, as I read an email from Anne-Marie, I couldn't believe my eyes. I know everyone's busy, but a visit more than once every six weeks would make the world of difference to Mum, she'd written. She's declining very quickly and I feel we all need to make the effort. I've drawn up the following rota…The cheeky cow! I fumed.
But it didn't stop there.
I'll be the only person with access to Mum's bank accounts apart from her, she went on. All her benefits are also in my name…You're all welcome to look at the statements… If anyone doesn't agree with the above… tough.
'What's got into her?' I muttered.
I visited Mum every week, and Ian and his wife, Julia, loved taking her out for tea and cake.
And even though Bernard lived a 200-mile drive away in Devon, he still came as often as he could.
Anne-Marie and I had always been close. OK, so we were total opposites. Anne-Marie was the wild child who earned a fortune on the Stock Exchange. I was her sensible big sister, the estate agent. While Mum and I would be happy spending a Saturday browsing in Marks & Spencer, Anne-Marie splashed out in London boutiques. She could afford it, and didn't we all know it!
Our Anne-Marie had to have the biggest telly, the designer shoes…
'It's all right for some!' Mum would laugh.
But putting our differences aside, Anne-Marie and I were always chatting on the phone. So when Mum had been diagnosed back in 2002, I'd got straight on the phone to my sister.
'I could move Mum nearer to me,' I'd suggested.
'She should stay where she is,' Anne-Marie had insisted. 'I'm only down the road.'
It made sense, especially as Anne-Marie had the support of her husband, Wayne Collard. I, on the other hand,
had had a tough year. I'd had a hysterectomy following cervical cancer, and separated from my second husband, Alex Smith, 62. And living 90 miles away, in Goodmayes, Greater London, meant it was a three-hour round trip.
So I was grateful to Anne-Marie for taking charge.
A year later, when she split up with Wayne and moved to St Albans, Hertfordshire, the doctor decided Mum should
go into a home. Anne-Marie and Julia got her a place at Oak Tree Manor in St Albans, and Anne-Marie was granted power of attorney over Mum's finances. Every week, I'd turn up with Mum's favourite magazines. Sometimes, she'd forget where she lived, or even who I was. It was heartbreaking, and that's why now, this email from Anne-Marie made my blood boil.
Heart racing, I replied.
Just behave and don't be so ridiculous, I wrote.
That was the last I heard of it, until a few months later.
I was visiting Mum, when one of the managers came over.
'Could you ask your sister to come in,' she asked.
'Can't I help?' I offered.
'I'm afraid not,' the manager explained. 'Your sister has power of attorney, so we can only speak to her.'
The next week, I mentioned it to Anne-Marie.
'Why haven't you been into the home lately?' I asked.
'No reason,' she shrugged.
Perhaps she was finding it harder than I'd realised. Then on 16 January 2006, Mum was taken to Hemel Hempstead General Hospital with pneumonia. Ian, Anne-Marie and I sat by her side, as she lay there, her eyes closed.
'I love you, Mum,' I sobbed, squeezing her hand as she took her last breath.
The grief knocked me for six. Over the next few days, I moped around as Anne-Marie took over the funeral arrangements.
'Shall we have Abide With Me?' I suggested. 'Mum's favourite.'
'We're not having any hymns,' she snapped.
'Hang on!' I spluttered.
'F**k off!' Anne-Marie spat.'It has nothing to do with you.'
I just sat there, too shocked to say anything. But by the next morning, I was so angry, I contacted the vicar myself. He
was happy to play the hymn.
A week-and-a-half later, Dad, Bernard, Ian, Julia and I were waiting by the hearse, when a taxi pulled up and Anne-Marie got out, wearing a smart grey suit.
'We're all feeling the strain, but we're sisters,' I said. 'Let's put all the nastiness to one side, for Mum.'
'F**k off!' Anne-Marie hissed.
Back at home after the funeral, I felt like I'd lost my mum and sister. Worst of all, I had no idea why she was behaving like this.
A month later, I popped round to see Ian. Julia had worked out the details of Mum's estate.
'There ought to be £80,000 left,' she said. 'Anne-Marie had a meeting with the probate office, and it's going to be split between the four of you.'
'Thanks, Mum,' I whispered, sadly.
But five months passed, and I hadn't heard anything, so I contacted the probate office.
'We have no record of your mum's death,' the woman said.
I got straight on the phone to Julia, and she agreed to phone Mum's bank.
Minutes later, she called back.
'You won't believe this,' she said, sounding shocked. 'Your mum's pension's still being withdrawn.'
'Who on earth…?' I gasped, my voice trailing off.
I thought of Anne-Marie in her flashy clothes, going on her fancy holidays…
'Anne-Marie,' I whispered.
I was so angry, I couldn't bear to speak to her. So I scribbled a letter…
If you don't come up with the balance and a reasonable explanation, I'm calling the
police, I wrote. The following morning, Anne-Marie called.
'I've spent the money!' she blurted. 'It's gone!'
Ian and Bernard called a family meeting, but I couldn't bear to go — I knew I'd slap her.
Ian phoned me afterwards.
'We sold her people carrier to the garage for £7,000,' he said. 'We'll split the money, but we'll
get nothing else out of her.'
'The money's not the issue,' I sobbed. 'Mum would have been heartbroken.'
It turned out Anne-Marie had been transferring, on average, £11,000 a month from Mum's account to her own.
While she was spending £200,000 of Mum's money, she hadn't even bothered paying the home. That's why the managers had wanted to see her. As it all clicked into place, I thought I'd burst with anger. I drove straight to Stevenage Police Station and reported her. For the next three hours, I gave my statement. Ian and Bernard gave theirs by post, agreeing that Anne-Marie needed to be punished, but also saying they didn't want her to go to jail because of her kids, Simon, 9, and Jasmine, 6.
She was charged with 19 counts of theft, and over the next 18 months, there were three hearings. She pleaded not guilty. But in October 2007, at St Albans Crown Court, she changed her plea to guilty. The following month,
I returned to see her sentenced. It made me laugh as she told the court she suffered from low self-esteem. As if!
'You've committed a serious crime,' the judge said. 'A feeble woman with no defence. Only your children have stopped you from going to prison.'
She got a one-year sentence, suspended for two years, and 200 hours community service.
She's liable to pay back £99,900, but after the sentencing, she left her job, so unless she gets a new one, we won't see a penny. It makes me sick. She's never even said sorry. I'm glad I took my sister to court. I did the right thing for Mum.
But when I think about how it's ended up, it breaks my heart. I always thought families were meant to pull together when times were tough, but the only thing Anne-Marie was pulling at were Mum's purse strings.