False Picture (20 page)

Both girls nodded assent, though with some reluctance on Charlotte's part. Bea considered that the girl would soon forget Liam if another suitor were to offer himself. That is, if Liam could ever have been considered a suitor, which Bea rather doubted.

Maggie was trying to be businesslike. Anything practical, and she was worth her weight in gold. ‘While you're gone, I'll unwrap everything for you to photograph on your return.'

Bea went down to the foyer where Herman was sitting, long legs stretched out to trap the unwary. He looked annoyed to see Bea and not the girls. Erik the Red was behind his desk and dealing with someone enquiring for a room, but held up a folded piece of paper to Bea as she approached. ‘A message for you, Mrs Abbot.'

Herman got to his feet, looking over her shoulder. ‘Charlotte and Maggie?'

‘Too upset to come down yet.' She thanked the hotel manager, unfolded the note, and read it.

Herman asked, ‘Bad news?'

Bea crumpled up the note. ‘Something from the London office. I'm afraid Charlotte's in a bit of a state. Your friend Liam's let her down, won't be joining her this evening.'

Did this mean anything to Herman? His stolid face failed to register surprise. Did he already know that Liam was opting out of the situation? She couldn't be sure.

‘All the more reason for me to take her out, make her forget her friend. A good dinner, a bottle of wine, no?'

‘Perhaps, if we went somewhere local? I don't think she's up to anything else. We could all four of us go to some place in Vlaamingstraat nearby?'

‘All four?' He looked towards the front door, frowning. Was there someone out there waiting for him to emerge with the parcels? The note in Bea's hand was in Erik's hand. A car registration number – Dutch, not Belgian – and the query ‘Do I call the police?'

‘Don't you think it's a good idea for us all to dine together?' said Bea, mentally checking that she had her credit cards with her, and enough money for a taxi back. It wasn't far to Vlaamingstraat, and they had to eat somewhere.

Herman smiled widely, his voice softening, adjusting to the situation. ‘Why not, eh? A parcel of beautiful women for me to take out for the night. Is that right … parcel of women? I'm afraid my English is not very clever.'

‘It is a very good word,' said Bea, thinking that this man could be charming when he chose, and how would Charlotte react to him in this mood?

‘Then I will cancel my reservation in Damme, and in half an hour we will all go out to make a great occasion, no? Oh, I nearly forgot. Liam asked me to pick up something from the girls to deliver to his partner here in Bruges. Two parcels? Something to grease the wheels of industry?' He rubbed his thumb against his middle finger in a knowing gesture. ‘I can take them with me now to save the girls the trouble, and then we will all be as free as … as air, is that how you put it? As free as air?'

So Herman was in on the scam. Perhaps she could get a little more information out of him? She made her eyes widen. ‘What sort of parcels might they be?'

‘A tin of shortbread, and a coffee set made by one of your great English potters. Wedgwood, perhaps? Worcester? A great treat for us here in Belgium.'

‘The girls didn't mention any presents,' lied Bea. ‘Are you sure you've got the message right?'

He smiled, a gold tooth glinting. ‘I check, right?' He went to the front door and disappeared down the steps to the street just as three tourists entered, noisily complaining about the difficulty of parking their car in Bruges. While Erik was reassuring them, telling them where they might park, Bea went after Herman to see what he was up to.

Was he phoning someone … Liam? His boss? No, he was leaning forward to speak to a man in a large car which had been parked right in front of the hotel. It didn't have a sign on the roof advertising that it was a taxi. No, it was a private car, and the number matched that on the note Erik had given her.

An elderly couple decanted themselves from a genuine taxi and had to manoeuvre their way around the stranger's car to reach the hotel.

Bea tried to see who Herman was speaking to, in the car. Could it be Liam? No, Liam was on his way back to London, wasn't he? Was this the man Liam was supposed to hand the goods over to? A fence? A Dutchman, not a Belgian?

A gaggle of twenty-something girls arrived on foot, each with a rucksack, and pushed past Bea into the hotel. Erik was going to be tied up for some time.

Herman gestured to Bea to join him in the street. She did so, clutching her arms because a light drizzle was beginning to mist over the landscape. She was thinking too many contradictory thoughts to be wary of him. He caught hold of her wrist. ‘Why you interfere in this, eh?'

Bea revised her first estimate of him; his grasp on her wrist proved he was far from flabby. ‘Let go! You're hurting me.' She looked around for help. This was a quiet part of town, but there were usually tourists lingering on the bridge over the canal, and cyclists dashing hither and yon. For once, the place was deserted, but the hotel lobby was full of people. She could scream for help if Herman couldn't be shaken off by other means.

Herman tugged her towards the car. The tinted window on the driver's side was wound down, and she could see a middle-aged man with a heavy white face sitting in the passenger seat. The car stereo was playing a Mozart wind quintet. Was this the car in which Herman had intended to take the girls to Damme? Was the passenger his driver … or his boss?

Herman shook her arm. ‘Answer me, old woman!'

‘What? How dare you! Let go, immediately!'

He shook her arm again. ‘Silly old women who poke their noses in, have their noses cut off. You hear me? The girls have our presents, and we want them. Go and get them, now!'

‘I don't know anything about any presents.'

He tightened his grip even further on her arm, and she heard herself mew with pain. She was frightened, but she would not give in. She looked for help to the man in the car, but he was smiling, lighting a cigarette, approving Herman's tactics. He was Herman's man, then.

She opened her mouth to scream, and Herman punched her in her midriff, causing her to jack-knife, out of breath. She might have been a two-year-old child, for all the effort he needed to control her.

He said, ‘Shall I kick your legs down, and lift you into the car? I'm no amateur, understand?' He twisted her wrist with the detached air of one conducting an experiment.

Pain screeched up her arm.

He said, ‘Is my English clear enough for you? Understand that if you do not hand over the presents at once, we will drive to a quiet place and see how much pain you can take. So, now you go and get the presents, yes?'

Monday, late afternoon

Rafael tried three times to get Liam on the phone before the idiot finally answered. Liam was on a train already, judging by the background noise.

‘Why didn't you answer when I rang before? You know I've got this big “do” on tonight.'

‘I thought it was Charlotte trying to ring me but …' his voice faded.

‘Are you on the train to Bruges? I told you to wait in Brussels till I'd decided what was to be done.'

‘I couldn't think what else to …' His voice came and went. Bad reception. Or perhaps the battery on Zander's phone was running out as well? ‘… but she's in a terrible state.'

Rafael was impatient. ‘So what! She won't dare go to the police or she'll land herself in jail. Now listen carefully. You're going to arrive in Bruges too late to pick up the goods from the
girls so I've arranged for someone else to do it. I want you back here in London tonight. The train stops at Ghent on the way to Bruges, right? Get off at Ghent and take the next train back to Brussels. If you manage the connections properly, you can be back in London and at the flat well before midnight.

‘I won't be able to leave the gallery till the early hours, and tomorrow morning there'll be all the clearing up to do. I'll meet you at your flat at, say, twelve o'clock tomorrow morning. I've got another job for you, and this time you'd better not mess it up.'

‘But what if Charlotte—'

‘Herman will deal with the girls. Once they're safely back in London you can chat Charlotte up as much as you please, promise her another jaunt to the Continent in the autumn. After taking the stuff over there for us once, she won't be able to refuse when we ask her to do it again. And next time, she'll know better than to open the parcels in her luggage.'

Liam quacked like a duck. ‘You intend to use her again?'

‘Naturally.' Rafael shut off his phone, and returned to the foyer. The guests were arriving, and he needed to flatter one, mislead another, and seduce a third. All in a day's work.

Monday, early evening

B
ea's wrist was on fire, and she'd been pushed off-balance. She couldn't breathe properly. She'd no doubt at all that the two men intended to take her off in the car till she agreed to hand over the two packages. There weren't any helpful passers-by coming and going over the bridge. But she had one last weapon she could use.

Well, two weapons, actually. She brought weapon number one into play.
Dear Lord, help! Surely you don't expect an old-age pensioner to tangle with hard men like these? I need some assistance here.

Weapon number two. She lifted her free hand to show him that she was holding a piece of paper. Her voice came out in gasps. ‘The registration number of your car … it was noted because … you behaved strangely.'

‘What?' Herman's grip on her relaxed, and he turned to look up at the hotel.

Bea's voice wobbled. ‘If anything happens … he'll ring the police.'

Herman didn't know what to do. He bent down to speak to the man in the car. Would they still try to whisk her away, even though they now knew the car could be traced?

‘Get her in!' said the man inside the car. Herman swung Bea towards the back of the car … just as a large coach drove over the bridge and came to a halt outside the hotel with a sigh of air brakes.

Bea yelled ‘Thief!' as loudly as she could – which was not very loud – but the first tourist to descend from the bus turned his head to see what was happening.

‘Help! He's stealing my watch!'

A burly German dropped down into the road, followed by another of similar bulk. They were not young and they carried too much weight for perfect health, but they relished a call to arms.

The man in the big car yelled something and thrust open the driver's door.

Herman sent Bea spinning across the pavement into the path of the tourists and slipped into the car, the door swinging shut even as he started the engine and accelerated, screeching round a corner and away from the canal. Bea was caught and held by the foremost tourist, while the other pounded after the car only to give up the chase as it disappeared out of sight.

The coach load of tourists were shocked and helpful, but they were also tired after a long journey and were only too happy to be assured by Bea that there was no damage done – no really, she was quite all right. Shaken, of course, but a quiet sit-down for a few minutes would put her right.

The tourists trouped into the foyer, their baggage following them. Erik sent an anxious look in Bea's direction as she tottered through the foyer to the lift. She gave him a thumbs-up sign, and pressed the button for the second floor.

Her wrist burned.

She leaned against the side of the lift, trembling, wanting to cry and not allowing herself to do so, telling herself that she was in shock, that she had never, ever, had such a thing happen to her before. Telling herself that she was too old for these shenanigans. Her knees wanted to sag. She told herself she was pleased that she hadn't given in. Hamilton would have been proud of her.

She got herself out of the lift, couldn't face the stairs to the top floor and let herself down gently on to the settee on the landing. She wept a little, allowing herself a few minutes to give way, annoyed with Hamilton for dying, because if he'd been with her none of this would have happened. Men do have their uses, don't they!

The last time someone had hurt her physically had been at school, when a bullying sixth-former called … what was her name? … Petronella something … had given Bea a Chinese burn over some fancied slight or other. That had hurt, too.

The lift whirred, and she realized that the first of the coach party would be disembarking on to the landing any minute now. She couldn't be found, weeping, on the settee.

She dragged herself up the stairs to the top floor, holding on to the banister, thinking, You can do it, girl! She reached the landing. There! She congratulated herself. You did it!

She tapped on the door to the girls' room. Maggie flung it open, arms akimbo, in a state about something. There was no sign of Charlotte but water was running in the bathroom.

‘Believe it or not, she's washing her hair,' said Maggie, grinding out the words.

‘What!'

‘Apparently she feels the need to wash her hair in moments of crisis. I'd like to shake her till …'

Bea wanted to laugh. She wanted to sink down on the nearest piece of furniture and have a full-scale hysterical fit. She wanted someone to take over for her, decide what needed to be done. She wanted to be back home in her own quiet little house, contemplating a quiet evening with a smoked salmon sandwich and a not-too-worrying programme on the telly.

She gulped, controlling herself with an effort. She touched the corners of her eyes to flick away tears. Maggie wasn't looking at her. Maggie was pacing the room, muttering. If Maggie had been a cat, she'd be lashing her tail. It seemed that relations between Charlotte and Maggie had deteriorated even further. Oh. Dear.