False Report (11 page)

Maggie sniffed and reached for a tissue. ‘Tomorrow, after I finish up at number fourteen? The tiler said he'd redo one corner of the new wet-room, but he's a slippery so and so, and I'll need to lean on him to make sure he does it.'

‘It's a date. Do you think it's safe to leave Jeremy alone for five minutes tomorrow?'

CJ was not amused. ‘Bea, the restaurant will hold the table for another half hour, but it's in South Kensington, so if we don't get a move on—'

‘I must change. Five minutes.' Bea fled up the stairs.

‘Let me help you,' said Maggie. ‘You have a shower, while I act as lady's maid.' She thundered up after Bea, overtaking her.

Fifteen minutes later Bea descended the stairs, fresh and cool, her make-up at a minimum but perfectly acceptable, her hair shining. Maggie had selected a short-sleeved lacy top in apple green for Bea to wear, over a silvery skirt. At the last minute Bea had snatched up a russet-coloured pashmina shawl to go over her shoulders while Maggie stuffed items from Bea's everyday handbag into an evening clutch. Silver sandals with a small heel completed the outfit.

CJ ushered Bea out of the house and into the waiting cab without comment. He was miffed that she hadn't been ready when he called, and he was making it clear he wasn't going to make polite conversation until she apologized for keeping him waiting . . . which she was not prepared to do.

She, on the other hand, felt much better for having talked to Maggie. At least now they were in this together. Whatever ‘this' might turn out to be. A mystery to be solved, perhaps?

Friday evening

Maggie answered the door, munching on Jeremy's bacon sandwich, while talking on the phone to Oliver.

A well-dressed stranger, holding a pizza box. Not a delivery boy. He had a puzzled look on his face. ‘Is this Mrs Abbot's place?'

‘That's us.' Maggie said into the phone, ‘Hold on a mo, Oliver. Someone at the door.'

The man said, ‘I can't believe this is happening. I was just walking along, minding my own business, and a pizza delivery boy got off his bike and pushed this box into my hands. Said he'd been ringing your doorbell for ever and couldn't get a response, and he was late back. He said it was for a Mr Waite at Mrs Abbot's house. And drove off. Do you have a Mr Waite at your house? Has he just phoned for a pizza?'

‘I didn't hear the bell. It's not very likely, but I suppose . . . if he woke up and felt peckish . . . Except, would he know where to call?'

The stranger shook his head at the mystery, handed Maggie the pizza, and made off down the road.

Maggie watched him go and returned to her phone conversation. ‘Oliver, something rather odd has just happened . . .'

Friday evening

The restaurant was one of those exclusive ones which have a few too many waiting staff for the number of customers being served. CJ opened the enormous menu. Bea looked inside her evening bag for her reading glasses. Oh. No glasses.

She smiled brightly at CJ. ‘What a day! Suppose you choose something light for me to eat?' Men liked to feel superior that way. And yes, CJ's rigid stance actually thawed a trifle. She threw in a couple of compliments about the restaurant, which wasn't really her style, but seemed to press the right buttons for him.

‘Ah well,' he said. ‘I'd forgotten that women can never be ready on time.'

Bea smiled through her teeth, wondering if his long-dead wife had been a poor timekeeper.

The meal was much as she'd expected: tiny portions which were over-decorated and over-spiced. Also, she suspected, overpriced. The wines were good, though. She exerted herself to draw him out. Why not? It cost her little, and she didn't think he led much of a social life.

On finishing his third glass, CJ actually unbent enough to pat her hand. ‘My dear Bea, may I say what a pleasure it is for me to dine with such an intelligent and amusing companion.'

Men always think you're intelligent if you get them to talk about themselves. Apparently, he'd forgiven her for keeping him waiting.

‘I trust,' he said, ‘that this is only the first of many pleasant evenings that we can spend together, now that you're planning to have more time to yourself.'

Alarm bells rang in her head. ‘Oh, I like to keep busy, you know.'

‘Yes, but . . .' He pressed her hand again. ‘All work and no play . . . you know?'

Play. What did he mean by ‘play'? What sort of ‘play' did he have in mind?

‘Which reminds me,' she said, smiling at the absurdity of it, ‘that I had an offer you wouldn't believe this morning. The lease of my ex-husband's flat is up, and he suggested moving in with me.'

‘What?' He removed his hand and slid smoothly into mandarin mode. ‘Ah, the portrait painter with the golden touch. A favourite with the ladies, I believe.'

‘Indeed. As it happens, Jeremy seems to have taken up residence with me so I don't have a spare room to offer anyone. And speaking of Jeremy—'

‘I can't discuss him, as I may be called to give evidence on his behalf if the case ever comes to trial.'

Bea raised her eyebrows. What nonsense! CJ had been happy enough to give her chapter and verse the previous day. What was going on here? ‘The poor little man has asked me to get his house back for him, and in a weak moment I said I'd try. Surely his wife will hang on to it, even if he's as innocent as a newborn babe.'

‘I'm afraid I can't comment, other than to say that the world moves on, whether we move with it or not. We can never bring back our yesterdays, no matter how attractive they might seem in retrospect. Shall we make a move?' With an air of closing the discussion he summoned the waiter to pay with a gold card.

What he said was true. Bea considered her own situation. Whatever she did with the agency, she didn't see how she could return it to the way it had been run in the old days. Her present success had killed off the past. The agency now had too many clients for her to run it with a couple of women and a part-time accountant. And what about the buyers who were reported to be sniffing at her heels?

Her computer . . . the password . . . her mobile phone number . . . Maggie's work put in the bin . . . Ianthe's motives . . .

It was enough to make her want to retire to the Outer Hebrides and take up weaving, or folk singing. Only, she'd heard that broadband wasn't readily available in those parts. A pity, but perhaps it would be some day soon? Well, that was something to look forward to in her dotage, wasn't it?

SEVEN

Friday evening

‘
I
f you'll take my advice,' said CJ, holding the door of the restaurant open for Bea, ‘you'll distance yourself from Jeremy Waite. I agree with you that he's probably innocent of killing the girl himself, but if the tabloids get news of your taking him in, you might find yourself in the middle of a crowd of paparazzi, all wanting murky details about your past life.'

‘There aren't any murky details in my past life.'

‘It's surprising the twist they can put on the most innocent detail. Your charitable impulse to take in Oliver and Maggie could be misinterpreted, as could your continuing relationship with your first husband, whose peccadilloes are well known. The newspapers will make some lies up and defy you to sue them – which it would be folly to do. And what about Max? Suppose they start looking into his life? Is he as squeaky clean as he claims about his expenses?'

‘Of course.' Bea flushed, because she couldn't be entirely sure that he was. And he'd dallied with an extramarital blonde or two in the past, hadn't he?

CJ didn't labour the point, but summoned a taxi with a flick of his fingers. An admirable trait in a man, to be able to summon a taxi just like that.

Bea said, ‘Whatever happened to justice?'

A saintly tone. ‘My reputation depends upon my being an impartial witness.'

Through her teeth, she said, ‘Understood. But
I'm
not bound by your need to be whiter than white.'

Except, perhaps, that if the agency were targeted by the press, she might well lose most, if not all, of her clients.

She got into the cab beside him. ‘So now you've pointed out that there may be hidden dangers in the situation, where does that leave me? You drew me into this affair, remember. Did you foresee this conversation, when you invited me to have tea with you at the Ritz? One moment you ask me to look after the little man, and in the next you warn me off.'

A condescending smile. ‘It is always a pleasure to take an intelligent woman out to dine. I trust you enjoyed the evening and that it is only the forerunner of many more to come.'

Four letter words hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she restrained herself from spitting them out. With an effort.

When they drew up outside her house, she said, ‘Thank you for the evening. Most enjoyable. If I turn up any information which is relevant to Jeremy's case, do I tell you about it? Or would you prefer me to contact someone else?'

‘A Detective Inspector Durrell is in charge of the case. He gave me his card, which you can have. Yes, here it is. He seems competent enough.' A smile, a wave. He held the door open for her to leave the cab, got back in and told the driver to carry on.

Bea almost stamped her foot. But desisted. Her sandals were too fragile for rough treatment.

Saturday morning

Bea overslept. Maggie had disappeared by the time Bea got downstairs, but had left a note for her. ‘Winston's been fed. Back for lunch, with luck. Oliver rang, sends his love.'

Good. Winston was acting as if he hadn't been fed for a fortnight, so Bea gave him some scraps of the bacon she was frying for breakfast. Unlike some cats, he preferred human food.

A soft footfall. Bea jumped. It was Jeremy Waite, barefoot, hair all over the place, still half asleep. ‘Breakfast?'

She fed him, asked what he intended to do with himself that day. He didn't reply. She shrugged, gave up on him. ‘If you go out, take a front door key with you.' She showed him where the spare hung in a cupboard by the back door. He nodded, though she wasn't sure he'd understood what she'd said. Well, Maggie would be back at lunchtime, and so would she.

She went down to the agency rooms. It was Saturday, and only two girls were on this morning. One was Anna, the girl who'd retrieved Maggie's paperwork from her bin. Both girls smiled and nodded at Bea as she passed through to her office, collecting the mail as she went. Before she went into her own room, she paused to look into Maggie's office. Hm. Just as she'd expected; everything had been cleared off the desk, and Maggie's papers had been neatly placed into a large cardboard box. Maggie was being moved out.

Frowning, Bea went through into her own office, sorting the post out as she went. Bills, mostly. She switched on her own computer. Was asked for the password. Yesterday's didn't work; surprise! Bea got through to Anna on the internal phone and was relayed the new password. Now how had Ianthe got the password changed from last night? Had she instructed Anna or the other girl to change it early this morning?

Bea wished Oliver were due home. He'd know how to disentangle this business of Ianthe's changing of the password every five minutes.

She dealt with the mail with one eye on the clock. Piers had asked her to be at his studio at ten, so she hadn't much time to deal with agency affairs.

She was tempted to shut the computer down for the day, but after considering the problem of the passwords, left it running on a screen saver.

She fluffed up her hair, checked that her short-sleeved blouse and skirt looked presentable, and flagged down a taxi. It wasn't worth taking the car round to Piers', as there was no possibility of parking there. The taxi was held up in traffic and, as she toiled up the stairs to Piers' place, she realized she was going to be a few minutes late.

‘Come!' Piers was at work already. This time he was putting the finishing touches to the background of the gimlet-eyed woman's portrait, the one he'd planned to work on the previous afternoon.

There was another man in the room; a youngish, fattish, hair-receding business type, trying to look comfortable in casual clothes, whereas Bea thought he'd only look right in a three-piece suit. An accountant? Someone in the banking system?

‘Come in, Bea. You know where the coffee is. I've actually remembered to get some milk in. Meet “Basil”, whose real name I am forbidden to give you.'

‘Mummy said it wouldn't be necessary.' Indeed, he bore a distinct resemblance to the iron maiden in the portrait, though somewhat watered down. Son? A man in his mid-thirties who still called his mother ‘Mummy'?

‘Basil' shook her hand. His was slightly damp. ‘It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Abbot. Mummy thought about what Piers said overnight, about your husband having a similar experience to poor Daddy's, and she decided that I should give you the facts without mentioning any names. Mummy is sympathy itself for you in your loss, but you must promise me never, ever, to reveal, well, anything, because we don't want the paparazzi . . . You understand? And of course we would deny, if . . . Absolutely.'

Bea treated him to a reassuring smile. ‘Absolutely.' So Bea's husband was supposed to have had a problem with another young girl? Which husband would that have been? Hamilton, or Piers? Or some fictional creature thought up by Piers? She shot a glance at Piers, who was looking amused.

Bea made coffee for herself and ‘Basil', and fixed an enquiring, sympathetic expression on her face.

It wasn't that warm a day, but ‘Basil' patted his forehead with a clean, folded handkerchief. ‘I can't really see any advantage in disclosing . . . And indeed, this is all supposition on Mummy's part, you understand? I personally don't agree at all with her conclusions, and there is absolutely no proof. But Mummy . . . She was distraught when it happened. We had to get the doctor in for her. But now . . . Well, everything's worked out brilliantly, because she's a wonder, she really is, and the business has taken a leap forward under her direction. Daddy had always said she would have taken to it like a duck to water if she'd stirred herself. But then, she never had to bother her head with it while he was alive, did she?'