False Picture (2 page)

‘What it is, we want you to investigate, or at least find out if Philip is involved, which we think he must be, though he couldn't have done it. You do agree, don't you?'

‘You've lost me, Velma. Who's Philip?'

‘Stepson, Sandy's boy.' Velma pushed her hair back off her face, looked up at the waitress with a smile, said, ‘Something plain. Soup, a salad. Oh, I'll have what my friend's had, right?'

The waitress smiled, and nodded. Most people smiled and nodded when Velma wanted them to do something for her. She had a wistful air which captivated people into thinking her a beautiful woman, although in fact she was – as Hamilton had pointed out when he first met her – a nice woman who used her large blue eyes to good effect. Bea had known Velma since they'd been at school together, but even she was not impervious to her friend's charm.

‘Black coffee for me,' added Bea to the waitress's back. ‘Now, Velma; you know perfectly well that the agency doesn't “do” murder. Tell me what's happened in words of one syllable.'

‘You were away when I got together with Sandy, weren't you? Well, the thing is that after my dear first husband died, rest his soul, I didn't quite know what to do with myself. After all, he'd been ill with this and that for so long and naturally I'd done what I could to help him look for cures and monitor his pill-taking so I'd grown used to not going out much. Then he had that totally unexpected heart attack and there was I, oh, terribly sad, of course, but a bit … well, I'm not sure quite how to put it.'

‘Let out of school early? Not sure who to play with?'

Velma laughed. She had a pretty laugh, and a prettier blush which proved she wasn't wearing a lot of make-up. ‘Something like that, yes. You were off with Hamilton on his dream trip around the world and then he died, of course, so sad, dear, and knowing you and him, it wasn't like me and my first, was it? I mean, you really did grieve, whereas I … well, of course I did grieve, but in some ways, though it sounds awful to admit it, and I could only do so because you are my oldest friend, but there was a certain sense of relief.'

Bea nodded. Velma's first had been a horrible man; a manipulative, selfish hypochondriac who'd kept her at his beck and call. ‘So there you were, a wealthy widow looking for a new playmate, and …?'

‘All of a sudden I was popular, being asked here, there and everywhere, and not everyone wanted me to back their financial propositions or get me into bed – though most of them did, I agree. Sandy helped me out when a particularly nasty specimen tried to drag me into his car. Sandy bopped him on the nose, and of course I asked him to see me home, knowing I'd have to make the running, because he's quite a shy old thing, you know. He's from a good family, not much money, works for a charity. I asked him to stick around and well … it wasn't long before … you know. So we got married. Sandy is a darling.' The waitress brought Velma's food, and got a dazzling smile of thanks in exchange.

‘My coffee?' asked Bea. The waitress shrugged, and disappeared again.

Velma picked up her spoon and took a sip of soup but didn't seem hungry. ‘I haven't any children, of course, my dear first wasn't able to, or I wasn't – it doesn't matter which now. I'm well past it, thank goodness. Sandy has a son by his first wife, a woman I've never met because she went off to live in Scotland somewhere with the intention of saving the planet, which is all very worthy though it's not clear how she meant to do it. Philip chose to live with his father and not his mother. Public school, not the tops because Sandy hadn't the money to do that and the boy is not exactly academic. A decent sports record, trials for the county, good enough to get him a job working in some television company, support procedures or something like that. You do see, don't you?'

‘Not quite. Why do you think Philip has committed a murder?'

‘Oh, he hasn't. Of course not.' But Velma's colour had faded and she looked more than her age, her pencilled eyebrows standing out against her fair skin. She pushed her half-finished soup aside and looked Bea full in the eye. ‘It's just that he's got one of his godmother's pre-Raphaelite oil portraits – a Millais, would you believe? – which is worth hundreds of thousands which he says she gave him for his birthday which was yonks ago. Only, Sandy happened to see it in on the floor in her flat a fortnight ago, because it had fallen off the wall when the wire broke, and he offered to replace the wire and she said he wasn't to touch it because he'd only do it wrong. She was like that, you know, most ungrateful for anything he tried to do for her. She told him to put it in a cupboard in her bedroom, and that's what he did.'

‘Oh,' said Bea.

Velma's face puckered as if she were going to cry. ‘I know it looks bad, but I'm sure there's an explanation somewhere. Philip could have called in to see her because he is her godson after all. She didn't have many visitors. She hates – hated – people going into her flat, taking up her time. You know how old people get, a bit suspicious, not wanting to let anyone in and probably quite right, too, seeing what's happened. She is – was – a hoarder, you can hardly move in her flat, she never opens the curtains, you wouldn't believe what she's got in there – two Lawrences, a Romney, and a Fuseli for a start and some miniatures in her bedroom, not to mention her diamonds and a string of pearls which went right down to her waist, believe it or not. Sandy was always on at her to put the best stuff in the safe, but she said she couldn't because she'd forgotten the combination, and when he said he'd get someone round to see to it for her, she refused because it would have cost money.'

Bea nodded. Her coffee came. Black. She stirred sugar into it.

Velma's eyes went all round the shop, back to her food, looking anywhere but at Bea. Bea thought, What are you hiding, Velma? You
do
think he did it. Whatever
it
is. ‘Her name …?'

‘Lady Lucinda Farne. As in the island of Farne. Notorious in her day.'

Bea half closed her eyes, remembering a newspaper item about the woman's death a week ago? Longer? Now what did she remember about it? Yes; Lucky Lucinda, they used to call her. She'd been a famous model who'd gone on to become the long-term mistress of an international financier and married him when he was in his dotage. Her husband had left her a title, his money and a considerable collection of pictures and objets d'art from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The newspapers had put her age at eighty-five.

‘How come she was Philip's godmother?'

‘Sandy's first wife went to art school, the Slade. Lucinda had given up being a model by then and was very wealthy, so she was one of the patrons. Sometimes she took an interest in the next generation, letting them fetch and carry for her, that sort of thing. Though why she would be interested in Sandy's first wife is a mystery, since she's a selfish bitch – pardon my language but she is, always taking advantage of his good nature. She thinks of nothing but how she can “fulfil” herself, that sort of thing. Almost the only thing she did for her little boy before she drifted out of the marriage was to get Lucinda to act as his godmother, thinking, I suppose, that she'd leave him some money when she died.'

‘So how come Sandy visits Lucinda?'

‘When she – Sandy's first wife – left for distant parts, she asked him to keep an eye on Lucinda, who was getting rather peculiar even then. She wanted Sandy to keep reminding Lucinda of Philip's existence because after all, who else would she leave all her money to? My dear Sandy is so good. He was looking after an old aunt anyway, so of course he said yes and so of course he did and does. Visit. Every other week, usually. I went with him a couple of times but you could see she really didn't want to see anyone younger or more glam than herself.'

Bea sipped her coffee. The newspaper report had suggested that Lady Farne had disturbed a burglar, been knocked down and died.

‘It couldn't have been Philip, could it?' said Velma, ready to cry.

‘How did you find out he'd got the picture?'

‘A couple of nights ago we went round to collect Philip to take him out to supper, which is where we ate the calamari that made us so ill. Anyway, before we went out, Sandy had to use the loo, one of the problems of age, and Philip's bedroom door was open and there was the picture, leaning against the wall. Sandy asked Philip where he'd got it, and Philip said his godmother had given it to him months ago for his birthday in February and of course dear Sandy knew that wasn't right but he didn't know what to think. He doesn't think quickly dear, not like you or me. So we all went out to supper and still he said nothing till we got home that night and then he told me, and we were both sick as dogs and … well, the next day he went off to confront Philip and there was a terrible row, but Philip stuck to his story and now Sandy doesn't know what to believe. Do I fancy some black coffee? No, I don't think I do.'

‘The picture was in Lady Farne's flat a fortnight ago? But Philip insists he's had it for four months?'

Velma nodded, containing tears with an effort.

‘Could she have given him a copy?'

‘Lady Farne did not give house room to copies. Why should she? She's a billionairess who could furnish a wing in a museum with what she's got stuffed into that flat. She's become increasingly eccentric of late years, and miserly. She complained about the gas bill, so there's no heating in the flat. She had the phone cut off because she said the only people who used it were cold callers, and Sandy had to argue with British Telecom and pay something himself to get the service restored. She refused to wear one of those emergency thingies from the Social round her neck in case she fell, refused to have her light bulbs changed to energy saving because she'd have to spend some money out to get the benefit, you know. And as for insurance!' Velma lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness.

‘Sandy went on and on at her about keeping up the premiums, but goodness knows whether she actually did. Spending money on that sort of thing was unnecessary, she said. She was living on twopence a week and eating off gold plate. Metaphorically, of course. I don't
know
that she's actually got any gold plate, but you get the idea? Tried to get Sandy to pay for a cleaner for her place, and then said she wouldn't dream of letting anyone into her flat who might steal from her and … oh, I don't know! So, you'll help, won't you? I'll pay anything, within reason.'

‘Me? What? How?' Bea thought of the tax demand on her desk; no, in her wastepaper basket. ‘No, of course not, Velma.'

Velma leaned forward, dropping her voice. ‘You think we should let it pass, let everyone believe that it was a burglary that went wrong?'

Bea stared at her fingernails. Did she really like this new shade of polish? That tax bill …

Velma said, ‘You think it would be best to let sleeping dogs lie? Don't ask any more questions, don't do anything to draw suspicion on to Philip? Let Sandy get a stomach ulcer, because his indigestion is something chronic ever since it happened? Let Lady Farne's body be cremated and her estate wound up, and hope she hasn't left Philip anything in her will? Let Philip profit from murdering an old woman?'

Bea sighed, shook her head. ‘What does Sandy say?'

‘He dithers, poor darling. One minute he says we should tell the police about the picture being in Philip's flat, and the next he's defending Philip, saying it can't have been him because he doesn't carry a knife and wouldn't know how to use it.'

‘But Sandy doesn't want his son's name being given to the police?'

‘Would you, my dear? Would you?'

Bea grimaced. Her only son Max had recently been elected to the House of Commons, and was married to an ambitious young woman. Bea thought Max was squeaky clean, but suppose … some temptation? Some mischance? What would Bea do if Max happened to kill someone in a car accident, say? It was a dilemma. She hoped she'd do the right thing, but maybe she wouldn't.

Velma leaned forward so that no one else could hear. ‘What we thought was that you could get someone into the flat to befriend Philip, worm their way into his confidence, get the truth out of him. Find an explanation for his having that picture. He's a loner, it should be easy. So, can you think of someone you can put in there?'

Bea had a sneaky, awe-inspiringly awful thought. Living with noisy Maggie was driving Bea insane. Could she possibly suggest that Maggie move into Philip's flat and befriend him? It would be the most enormous relief to have a quiet house again. Common sense told her Maggie would be useless as agent provocateur. ‘No, I can't think of anyone. What do you mean, anyway … “put someone in there”?'

Velma got out a tiny notebook. ‘The flat belongs to me, one of my first husband's better investments. Buying to rent in Kensington is as good as printing your own money, you know, all done through Marsh and Parsons, the estate agents just down the road. The flat's always been let to young professionals who can afford something a bit up-market. Four bedrooms – one is enormous and has twin beds in it – two bathrooms, large living room and kitchen. All mod cons.

‘When I married Sandy and he moved in with me Philip came too, but I couldn't put up with him coming home all hours, mostly drunk and disorderly, breaking things, smoking a bit of this and that, the usual thing, dear, nothing really criminal, but disruptive.

‘So I suggested he move into a vacant room in my flat which is co-ed now, men and women, thinking they'd be some kind of sobering influence on him. I'm not sure that that worked out, but one of the girls has left, so I thought you could put someone in there to find out what's really going on, someone who can befriend Philip, who's not the most … well, I'm not sure how to describe him exactly, but he doesn't seem to mix with the others in the flat. Surely you know someone who could do it? Preferably female, but it could be a male if the remaining girl moved into a single room and two of the boys bunked in together. I'll pay you well.'