False Diamond--An Abbot Agency Mystery (3 page)

The shadowy man laid his hand on Dilys's shoulder by way of comfort.

The harridan's face was a picture of shock, horror!

Bea looked from one stricken face to the other and wondered how much Max had known about all this.

‘So you see,' said Dilys, sniffing, ‘we can't query the ring, and we can't say anything to anybody about it.'

Sybil took a deep breath. Her colour was returning to normal though there was the very slightest suggestion that her head shook on her neck. ‘I see that I have been remiss, involved as I have been in my own affairs, and living so far away.' She caught Bea's eye. ‘Florida. The climate agrees with me, and the society in which I move is … But I ought not to have let things slide.'

Bea began to like the old dear.

Sybil's lips tightened. ‘I only came over this time because my brother got into a panic about … Though I'm sure it's a storm in a teacup. But, added to the cut in my Holland and Butcher dividend, it caused me to cancel a cruise to the Bahamas. Looking back, I see I've been living in a fool's paradise. I hadn't bothered to keep abreast of developments.'

Dilys said, ‘There's nothing whatever we can do about it. I begged you not to go on and on about the ring and—'

‘Now, what on earth do we do? And don't say “nothing”. I am not accustomed to sitting down when hit by a truck. Up and at 'em, I say.' She chewed on her lip, then turned to face Bea. ‘Well, now you know how things stand, Mrs Abbot, your involvement becomes a matter not just of convenience but of life and death for everyone concerned.'

‘No,' said Bea. ‘Wouldn't touch it with a bargepole.'

‘I dare say you
do
recoil from the prospect,' said the mink coat, getting to her feet and, incredibly, lighting another cigarette. ‘I can quite see it would mean a move out of your comfort zone to come to our rescue, but there it is; it appears we've all got to take action if we're to survive. You'll want to speak to your son about this, no doubt. I'll leave you my card. Ring me tonight or tomorrow morning before ten. I have an appointment at the osteopath's at eleven and he lives in some far flung suburb which is probably inhabited solely by members of the third world living on benefits. And don't tell me I shouldn't say such things, because at my age I'll speak as I find. Now, you can get one of your girls to summon me a taxi, and I'll be out of your hair. Dilys, I'll drop you off on the way home, right?'

Bea saw the two women off into a taxi before returning to her office to open the window, despite the chilly air outside, and let herself relax into her chair. She passed her hand across her eyes.

What a mess!

Could Max really have got himself tangled with the affairs of H & B? So much so that he'd be in financial trouble if Bea refused to help them out? Sybil had hinted as much, but … No, surely Max wouldn't have been so naive. Or would he?

Perhaps the lady had been shading the truth – Bea wouldn't put it past her to do so – and Max was not heavily involved.

But if he was …?

Bea reached for the phone and paused with hand outstretched, for someone – a man – was sitting at the back of the room. The man who'd kept to the shadows throughout that difficult visit. He'd come in with the two women, but not left with them.

She stilled her breathing. He was no threat, was he?

He stood up, smiling. A tall man of about her own age. Solidly built, wearing an expensive camel-hair car coat over a good, grey pinstripe suit. A tan, a gold signet ring, an excellent haircut and shave. Mid to light brown hair and plenty of it, somewhat unruly. Dark brown eyes, smiling, smiling. A slightly crooked nose hinted that he was no pushover.

‘May I congratulate you, Mrs Abbot, on your skill in dealing with my tiresome relatives? You are everything they said you were.'

She glared at him. ‘And who might you be?'

‘Leon, the black sheep of the Holland family. Much younger brother to Hector and Sybil. An afterthought, as you might say. In fact, a total shock to my parents. And before you jump down my throat, may I assure you that I have nothing whatever to do with the firm of Holland and Butcher or with the parent company, Holland Holdings. I have no money invested in H & B. What's more, I have no intention of pumping money into a sinking ship, and my reading of their balance sheet inclines me to think the company is going down as inevitably as the
Titanic
. My sister invited me to have lunch with her to meet my almost unknown niece, whom I had last seen when she was at school and monosyllabic about everything except some pop star or other. I accepted without realizing we were booked for melodramatics.'

He shook his sister's cigarette stubs – there were three of them – out of the window, and closed it. ‘That's enough fresh air for the time being, don't you think?'

He was charming, of course. And knew it. An interesting face, well-used, with sharp creases over his upper eyelids. He sat on a corner of her desk, smiling down at her. Always smiling, telling her without words how much he appreciated her looks and, well, everything about her.

She found herself smiling back, even while one part of her brain was waving a red flag. ‘You do realize that I'm not going to get involved in their mess.'

‘Neither am I.' He picked up one of the agency cards on her desk. ‘This is your business phone number? Give me your mobile number as well, will you? It might be useful.'

She didn't see why it should be, but gave him one of her personal cards as well.

‘Care to have dinner with me tonight?'

She had to laugh. She knew her colour had heightened. ‘Certainly not.'

‘I've sold my chain of dry-cleaners for a good price, I'm single with no dependants, I am buying a flat in the Barbican for weekends, and I promise I come with no strings attached.'

She shook her head. ‘Even I can see you come with strings attached. Your powers of persuasion—'

‘Equal yours? It would be interesting to discuss them over a decent meal. Our lunch was somewhat, er, curtailed, and I have an appetite for more.'

He didn't just mean an appetite for food. He was gazing at her cleavage with appreciation. She hadn't thought she had much of a cleavage when she'd pulled on a grey jersey wrap-around dress that morning, but he seemed to think she had. Her colour rose further, and she pushed back her chair. Hints of a good cologne wafted towards her. Better than cigarette smoke, of course, but … ‘No, thank you. I have other plans for the evening.'

‘Ah. You'll wish to speak to your son, Max. Of course.'

‘You know him?'

‘No. But the luncheon was informative. I admire Sybil, don't you?'

She said, ‘Yes,' without thinking.

He made his way to the door. ‘She doesn't give up easily, and neither do I. Tomorrow night, shall we say? I'll send a car for you at eight.'

‘No, I …' But he'd disappeared.

‘Bother,' said Bea. Then laughed. It occurred to her that she'd been working hard for a long time, that the cold, wet weather was depressing, and that she could do with being pampered for a change.

But. She reached out her hand to ring Max, and the phone trilled.

Snap! It was Max himself on the phone. ‘Mother, how are you doing? Thought we might have a bite to eat together this evening. The wife and son are still up in the cold north, and I'm all by myself till Parliament reconvenes.'

‘I'd like that. There's something I want to discuss with you.'

‘Eight o'clock? There's a new restaurant opened in South Kensington. Thought we might try that. Capello's. I'll book a table now I know you're free.' He rang off.

Bea relaxed. Max was always one of the first to sniff out a new restaurant. He liked his food. In fact, his lean good looks were fast becoming a thing of the past, the outlines of his face and body becoming blurred with good living. It would be good to see him again and to hear news of her delightful little grandson. She missed him when he went up to the constituency in the holidays. Bea knew the other grandparents spoiled him to death, and that they had to have their turn at looking after him, but … Well, she was fortunate to have a son who wanted to take her out to dinner.

Now, back to work. A long-time client was complaining about the bill, saying the ingredients supplied for her supper party for twenty close friends were substandard. Now, who had been assigned to that event? The client usually asked for … Hadn't that particular chef been available for some reason?

She concentrated.

At a quarter to eight Bea checked to see if her skirt was revealing anything untoward. The current fashion for short skirts meant they were usually worn without a petticoat but she thought they hung better with one. Her new, moss-green skirt went well with an old but still fashionable beaded, cream silk top. So, yes, she looked all right.

She left a note for Maggie, who was out for the evening. She fed Winston, their overweight cat, shrugged on her dark-grey coat, collected her evening bag, summoned a taxi, set the alarm and let herself out of the house.

It wasn't far to the new restaurant, and it looked as if it were becoming popular since her cab drew up in a queue of idling motors, all waiting to deposit their passengers at the front door.

A man got out of the taxi immediately ahead. Bea, who'd been getting the fare ready, reached for the door handle and called out, ‘Max!'

He hadn't heard her, of course.

Another man followed Max out of the taxi, and the two of them stood on the pavement, arguing in amicable fashion about who should pay the fare.

Benton.

Oh. How stupid she'd been to think Max would miss an opportunity to bring the two of them together! She did not look forward to an evening spent at the mercy of two bullies.

What to do? She said to the taxi driver, ‘I'm so sorry. I forgot that I have to make a phone call before I go into the restaurant. Would you turn into the next street and find somewhere to park for a few minutes?'

She needed backup. For a moment she thought of Leon Holland and smiled. He'd alleviate the tension, but he hadn't taken any part in that difficult family interview in her office, and it might not be a good idea to rely on him. Besides which, whatever he might say to the contrary, he was tied to the fortunes of Holland and Butcher because he wouldn't want his sister and niece to be left in financial difficulty.

She needed someone who could deal with the likes of Benton without causing a fuss.

Her first husband, whom she'd divorced years ago for tom-catting around? They'd become good friends in recent years, but … no, he was out of town at the moment. Think again, Bea.

Ah. She knew the very man. She used her mobile phone to contact CJ Cambridge, the grey mandarin who was a behind-the-scenes figure in some unspecified but powerful government department. She'd come to know him quite well in recent years. True, he had several times hinted he'd like to know her even better, but she could deal with that.

‘CJ? I'm in trouble. Are you free tonight?'

CJ climbed into Bea's taxi. ‘So, where's the fire? Brief me.'

She did.

He nodded. ‘Ah. When it comes to finance, perhaps Max is not as clever as he thinks he is. Would you like me to play the part of an old friend who rather disapproves of your working when you could be at home soothing my brow and cooking me delicious meals?'

‘In your dreams.' She looked at her watch. ‘Shall we make a move? We're half an hour late. Not too bad.' She paid off her cab with a good tip and allowed CJ to take her arm as they walked round the corner and into the foyer of the restaurant.

Max and Benton were there, both looking at their watches. Max bounded to his feet. ‘Mother, you're late!'

‘So sorry, dear,' said Bea, offering her cheek for an air kiss. ‘I'd half promised to go out with CJ tonight and, when he reminded me, well, it seemed a good idea to invite him to join us, instead. So, how are you, and how is my beautiful daughter-in-law and my darling grandson?'

Max was frowning even while he tried to smile a welcome. ‘Fine, they're both fine. They'll be joining me in a few days' time. Good to see you again, Mr Cambridge. Do you know Benton, managing director of one of our most successful private companies? Just what the government ordered, right?'

Benton was on his toes, looking from one of the party to the other, not sure what to make of this development. He thrust his hand out to Bea. ‘I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to this.' He brayed his infamous laugh.

Bea instructed herself not to wince.

Benton turned to CJ. ‘An old family friend? What a pleasant surprise.' Making it clear he wasn't pleased at CJ's presence. Clearly, he'd planned an evening with Bea cast as Piggy in the Middle.

‘Somewhat.' CJ was giving nothing away.

The maître d' was hovering. ‘A table for four, sir?'

Bea said, ‘I thought this place might be named after “A capella” for unaccompanied singing, but I don't think so, do you?'

The decor was white, black and red, with geometric shapes on the walls and a low level of lighting. She'd often wondered if low lighting was intended to hide poor cooking, but the tables seemed pretty full so perhaps it would be all right. The music was another matter: wailing pipes of some sort, not easy to identify. But at least the sound level was not ear-battering.

‘Specialities on the board,' said the maître d', seating them near the door to the kitchens and indicating a large blackboard on the wall, just too far away to read. ‘The menus … and the wine list.' He handed a menu to each of them, but laid the wine list on the table before CJ, which amused Bea. There were times when CJ could be as unassuming as a dormouse, but tonight he exuded effortless authority. The waiter had got it right.

Benton laid not one but two iPhones on the table and rubbed his hands. ‘Cold night. Brrr. Mrs Abbot, my better half tells me you're not fond of lobster. Is that right?'