False Charity (2 page)

The other part of her mind said, But he's a good lad at bottom, and he really worries about me. I'm not so sure about that anorexic wife of his, but … no, I won't think about that now.

‘… today's gathering is both a sad and a happy occasion. Happy, because a wonderful lady has been restored to us. Sad, too, because my wonderful Super Dad – who was always better than a real father to me – has, after a long, brave fight, left his earthly remains on some …'

I do hope, thought Bea, that he's not going to say, ‘on some foreign shore'.

‘… foreign shore,' said Max. ‘We shall all miss him tremendously.'

‘True. True. Here's to Hamilton.'

Max gestured to the mantelpiece on which stood a silver-framed photograph of a dark-haired, round-faced man, smiling benignly down on the gathering. Max brightened up. ‘No one can doubt that he had a good time while he was with us, that he wore out, instead of rusting out.'

‘Hear, hear.'

‘He fought a good fight,' said Max. ‘Cancer takes no prisoners, they say, and if he had any regrets at the end, it must have been that he wasn't given enough time to retire to the seaside and work on his golf handicap after going around the world. He will be remembered not only as a brilliant party-giver – I fancy he may be looking down on us now, and wondering if the champagne will go round—'

Subdued laughter.

‘He will also long be remembered for running the highly successful Abbot Agency, with its watchword of “discretion”. Over the years the agency has solved countless problems for people in distress. My dear mother only bowed out of it when Hamilton fell ill, and he only handed on the baton to me when he grew too frail to direct operations himself. I hope, I think, I didn't let him down when I took over from him, but now I've got a new career it's time to wind up the agency, too. Here's to an honourable retirement for the Abbot Agency.'

‘Hear, hear. The Abbot Agency.'

Bea sighed. It was the end of an era.

Again a phone bell trilled.

The phone continued to trill, and she realized to her horror that it was her own mobile which was ringing. Fishing it out of her jacket, she flicked it off, noticing as she did so that the call was from Piers, her first husband. They were good enough friends, nowadays. He'd phoned her in New Zealand after the papers had reported Hamilton's death. Nice of him. But she didn't want to speak to him now.

Max was winding down. ‘After her long years of service to the agency, followed by more years of loving care to Hamilton, we welcome my dear mother back home to a well-earned rest. Looking a million dollars as she does, I'm sure she'll soon be enjoying a good time on the golf course at the seaside, and in the club house afterwards. To Mother.'

‘Bea!' came the well-drilled chorus. Most of the women wore sympathetic smiles for a woman of sixty who might look younger than her years, but was not and never had been a bimbo.

Oh, well, thought Bea. I hope Max finds himself a better speech writer soon.

With many glances at watches, people began to pay their respects to Bea and drift away.

‘So sad, dear, but you've always been so strong.'

‘I just wish you weren't leaving the neighbourhood.'

‘Dear Bea, you must come round to see us sometime before you go.'

Arms went round her shoulders. A lot of air-kissing went on, and promises were made to keep in touch. Some of them were meant.

Max was looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. Busy, busy. The very picture of a man on whose shoulders the fate of the world, or his constituency, rested. Bea knew she was being unfair to him because he really was fond of her, but she was too tired to guard her thoughts.

Max put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a hug. She allowed herself to rest against him for a moment of much needed comfort.

‘Mother, I'm afraid I'm going to be late if I don't … committee meeting … but you can cope, can't you? Maggie will fill you in. That's the girl who's been helping me close up the agency. I've let her use a room on the top floor, but she knows she has to be out by the end of the week. Must dash. I'll come round tomorrow and we can have a good chat, tidy up the loose ends.'

Was Maggie the person manning the phones at the agency downstairs?

Following Max came his over-thin – not to say haggard – wife, Nicole, clutching her tiny Yorkshire terrier, which was wearing a tartan bow in its topknot. ‘Dear Bea, so good to see you coping so well, considering.'

Bea had a moment's disorientation. Fatigue, of course. The room faded out and she clutched at something, anything, to avoid falling. Then she was all right again, and could hear and see as before. She discovered she'd grasped Nicole's arm in her moment of weakness, and apologized. ‘Sorry, I'm more tired than I thought. What was it you were saying?'

Nicole gave her a look full of doubt, meaning, Was the old dear still compos mentis? Had grief turned her mind to jelly? Nicole said, ‘I was saying that I don't think there's much to discuss, but I'll pop in tomorrow morning to go over a couple of things with you. Dear Hamilton, I shall miss him so much. You must come down to us some weekend; not this weekend, though. Some constituency function, you know.'

On her way out Nicole brushed past an occasional table, causing it to totter and the glasses on it to fall. Nicole didn't notice in her haste to catch up with Max. Bea righted the table, thankful that the glasses that had stood on it were almost empty. The carpet might need shampooing, though.

She braced herself. The room was in disarray, with bottles, glasses, ashtrays – yes, some people had been smoking – and nibbles strewn on every surface. Also on the carpet. Max and Nicole had been living here for quite a while and various pieces of furniture had been moved to different positions. Ornaments had been switched round. Bea shrugged, thinking it wouldn't take her long to clear up … if only the room didn't keep swaying around her.

Then it settled. The silence was welcome. The bell at the agency door downstairs rang sharply but Bea refused to react. Enough was enough.

The sun had come out, and dust motes danced in the beams that shot through the half-open French windows at the back of the house. Bea thrust open the doors and went out on to the iron-work balcony to get a breath of fresh air. It was going to be a warm evening.

Curling iron-work stairs led down into the garden, which was not large but was protected on three sides by tall brick walls topped with spiky railings.

Bea saw that the sycamore tree in the corner had not been lopped that summer, so that it threw a canopy of green over the bottom part of the garden. Everything had been well looked after; the paved area around the modern fountain in the centre was weed-free, and the rambling roses trained to climb the walls had been dead-headed. Huge pots filled with busy Lizzies and ivy-leaved geraniums had been watered recently.

Garden chairs and a table had been placed beneath the tree, and Bea imagined Max and Nicole hosting a barbecue down there. Important people would attend; up-and-coming politicians, journalists, perhaps? People with money, definitely. Her mind went further back down the years … she remembered the boy Max riding his bike round and round, pretending it was a motorbike going vroom-vroom while Hamilton cooked the evening meal on the barbecue that he'd built himself. Later on, the four of them had been accustomed to eat alfresco meals at a trestle table Hamilton had found in a junk shop somewhere. She wondered where that table had gone.

Just to look at the garden lifted her spirits.

Neither Max nor Nicole were particularly light-hearted. Both were deeply serious about Max's career. Nicole showed no signs of producing children and this had been a source of sorrow to Hamilton and Bea. Ah well, thought Bea. There's still time. Hopefully.

Bea's dear husband Hamilton had been light-hearted on the surface, but he'd had a deep sympathy for the underdog and the wronged in society, particularly if they couldn't afford to hire expensive lawyers or go to the police.

Bea mourned his loss, greatly. They'd been together for many years; years of hard work in which they'd earned a good living while having the satisfaction of knowing they'd righted a lot of wrongs. Hamilton had been a good stepfather to Max. She didn't like to think how her son might have turned out if Hamilton hadn't been around to lend some stability to their lives. Max wasn't perfect – too much under the thumb of his wife – but then, who was?

She thought she'd done most of her mourning for Hamilton during the years he'd taken to die, though now and then something came back to catch at her throat and make her shake with the pain of her loss. They hadn't been lovers for a long time, but they'd always been good friends. What did the future hold for her? She couldn't think, daren't think. Was too tired to think.

She took out her mobile phone and listened to the message Piers had left on it. ‘Welcome back, and when can I drop round?' She shook her head. Piers was best kept at a distance. She deleted the message.

The agency doorbell rang again. Wasn't it after office hours? Usually the strident doorbell was muted by the last person to leave the office at the end of the working day, which was when the telephone was switched to Hamilton and Bea's living quarters. Presumably the Maggie person was still working.

It needn't concern her any more. Hamilton's will had been a simple affair; everything to her, with keepsakes to the children and one or two old friends.

Hamilton had advised her to close the business, sell the house and leave the area to make a fresh start, but now the time had come to put his plan into action, she realized that the last thing she wanted to do was retire to the seaside and play golf. That had been Hamilton's dream, not hers. So what should she do?

She'd think of something. Tomorrow.

Now she must find an apron and start clearing up from the party. Trust Max to give a party in someone else's house and leave them to do the washing-up.

Someone had swept into the room behind her. A stick-thin girl with hair dyed pink, wearing too short a skirt over thin legs that didn't warrant such exposure. Bea stifled a ‘Tut!' and brought out a social smile. ‘You must be Maggie? Have you come to help me clear up? That's kind of you.'

‘Welcome home, Mrs Abbot. You can safely leave everything to me, you know. Max said you might be glad of a hand after your journey.' The girl couldn't be more than twenty, but had the bossy manner of a good nanny. She bustled around, making a little too much noise for Bea's tired brain. Bea thought that anyone watching might imagine Maggie was the hostess, and Bea the guest.

Bea said ‘Thank you,' and tried not to wince as the girl clashed glasses together. Bea was so tired that her head was buzzing but she told herself that the girl meant no harm, and with jet lag it was better to keep going till bedtime if she could, allowing her body to recover its natural clock the quickest way.

The doorbell rang again downstairs, and the girl said, ‘Tsk! Can't they read? Didn't they see the notice I put on the door?'

‘I'll get a tray,' said Bea. She went through to the kitchen at the back of the house to fetch a tray and an apron. The kitchen, she noticed with resignation, was in a mess. Now that
would
need cleaning up before she went to bed. She could never sleep easily if her kitchen were in a mess.

Maggie came through with a double handful of dirty glasses, which she plonked down on the sink. ‘It's probably that awful woman again. Nothing for you to worry about. I'll pop down and tell her to get lost.'

Someone was already coming up the stairs, someone who didn't mean to be fobbed off by Maggie or anyone. ‘She's back, isn't she? Out of my way, girl.'

‘Now wait a minute …!' said Maggie.

A head of curly blonde hair hove into view, and Bea smiled. ‘Well, well. A voice from the past. How are you, Coral? Long time no see.'

Coral Payne was no more than five foot tall, with a big bust and the organizational ability of a sergeant major. She was also an excellent caterer who'd been on the agency books for years.

‘Bea Abbot, you're a sight for sore eyes. I'm really, really sorry to hear about poor Hamilton but now you're back, you can put everything right again.'

Which was when alarm bells began to ring for Bea.

Tuesday, early evening

Lena seated herself on the settee, removing her earrings. ‘He was gay, wasn't he?'

The body still lay where it had fallen. A fly droned around the room.

Richie shook his head. ‘I wouldn't have said so, no.'

The boy picked up the hint she'd given them. ‘I'm sure he was. Gay men often go cruising and meet with trouble, don't they? Of course he played the field. I overheard him saying so, the day I was at the hotel—'

‘Mixing business with pleasure,' said Richie. ‘If you hadn't given the receptionist your phone number, he'd never have known how to contact us.'

‘How was I to know he'd recognized me? It was just bad luck that he'd worked at a place we'd done before. He shouldn't have tried to blackmail us. It's his own fault that this happened.'

Richie persisted. ‘You should have walked out as soon as he recognized you. We could have cancelled the function, got clean away.'

‘That's enough,' said Lena.

Noel turned a sunny smile on his mother. ‘So what do we do with the body, then?'

‘We'll wrap him in a shower curtain and in a couple of hours' time when everything's quiet we'll carry him down to the garage. We'll pretend he's drunk if anyone sees. Put him in the boot of the car, and dump him on Hampstead Heath. Being gay, it'll cause no surprise if he's found up there, beaten to death.'

A dark stubble was beginning to show on the older man's chin. ‘Hang about, Lena. He'll have taken some precautions, maybe told someone about us?'