False Report (12 page)

‘Indeed,' said Piers, managing to keep a grave look on his face. ‘A pillar of industry, your mother. Going to the top of the honours list, I wouldn't wonder.'

‘Well, I don't know about that.' But he obviously hoped for it, oh yes. ‘It's true she has risen above what might easily have been, well, a total disaster in terms of . . . nearly three thousand employees, you know? It was such a shock! Her losing all that weight as she did in the months after it happened must have helped her physically, and I do try to make allowances when she . . .'

‘Flips?' suggested Piers.

Basil stared. ‘No, no. Of course not. Mummy never loses her temper. When she misunderstands, if that's the right word . . . No, when she imagines the worst about a totally innocent friendship which Daddy had with an unfortunate girl who was just like a daughter to him. I'm an only child, you understand? No sister, no brother. Mummy takes against people sometimes, and there's no arguing with her, although anyone else could see that Angie was the last person to . . .

‘Daddy knocked her off her bike, you know, not seeing her as he drove out on to the road. So of course he was worried about her. Who wouldn't be? And she was so sweet, and wouldn't take anything from him at first even to get her bike repaired, and she was off work for weeks with her wrist. But she left her address, so naturally he went round there a couple of times—'

Naturally. For ‘Angie', read ‘Josie'?

‘But there was absolutely nothing in it. He swore there wasn't, and I believed him. Mummy says now that he had some sort of mid-life crisis. She says he fancied Angie; well, who wouldn't? Pretty little thing, all dark curls and . . . don't get me wrong. I only caught a glimpse of her that once when I had to drop a note round to her to say Daddy couldn't make it, he was supposed to be taking her to the circus or something, that's how innocent it all was, though you could say it was unwise, but—'

‘Where did you take the note?' Bea was interested.

‘A back street house, Hammersmith Way. First on the left past St Peter's church – or was it St Matthew's? One or the other. Mid terrace. I could take you straight there, but she's not there now. No, no. It was a mid-life crisis. But when the money went missing from that old account that Mummy had almost forgotten about till she got the annual statement, and Daddy couldn't account for it, because he wasn't thinking straight, his sciatica playing up something chronic, and in so much pain . . . Well, it wasn't surprising that he got his pills muddled up, was it?'

Piers shook his head in sympathy. ‘A shocking, unforeseeable accident.'

Basil looked relieved to find Piers so understanding. ‘A genuine mistake, an overdose. Mummy was desolated, but she's recovered very well, very well indeed. In fact, everyone says she looks twenty years younger.'

He looked at his watch. ‘Now, have you quite finished? I promised I'd take the portrait down to her at the house in the country this afternoon, as she wants to show it to some friends. I asked the chauffeur to bring the car round about now.'

Bea said, ‘Did you see Angie, to tell her about your father dying?'

‘I went there, yes. But she'd moved.'

Basil left, carrying his mother's portrait with him. Bea watched from above as he loaded it carefully into a chauffeur-driven car below. She made a note of the licence number, just in case.

Piers joined her at the window, to hand over a slip of paper. ‘Daddy and Mummy's name and address. In an idle moment yesterday I asked her if she'd ever heard of anyone being caught by a pretty young thing, and her expression told it all. She wasn't prepared to talk then; said she'd think it over. She rang me back later to say her son would give me any details I needed if it would help you to overcome your grief at your husband's death.'

‘I don't know whether I'm appalled or amused at your taking my name in vain.'

‘It worked, didn't it? In my opinion she's still spitting tacks about Daddy's affair with young Angie.'

‘You agree with me that Angie set him up? The trap was sprung. Blackmail was demanded, so he fiddled the books to pay her off. Mummy found out, and he took an overdose.'

‘Angie might not be your Josie.'

‘Agreed. “Basil” was keen on her too, wasn't he? I wonder if it would be possible to track down her address?'

‘If it wasn't a “front”.'

‘She had to live somewhere. Had to meet her sugar daddy somewhere. Mummy wouldn't have taken kindly to his meeting Angie at their house – or at the workplace.'

Although . . . Bea frowned. ‘Basil's' Angie might well not be Jeremy's Josie.

Piers said, ‘“Basil” will deny everything, remember. If the police were interested, perhaps they could track the place down, but as she's no longer there I don't see the point of our trying to find it. Try these other leads instead. I don't
know
that either of them has been the victim of a Badger Game, but they're both rumoured to have had affairs on the side.' He handed her two more slips of paper.

‘Sir Thomas, aiming for the House of Lords. I did his portrait a couple of years back. A man with a face like a squeezed turnip, made his millions in the City and got out just before the boom went bust. He hinted he enjoyed a bit on the side but reckoned it was worth it, put it down to expenses. It kept him young, or so he said. Married into the aristocracy and enjoys the high life. The only thing is that if he'd got involved with your Angie or Josie, he'd have paid up with a smile.'

‘The trick being for the Badgers not to ask for more than their victims can afford to pay?'

‘Probably. The other man who might or might not be of interest is one Sir Charles, a big brute of a man, smokes cigars. He's been an unsuccessful Tory candidate at two of the last couple of by-elections and proposes to stand again as soon as there's another opening. A generous donor to the party. Ask Max. He might have come across him.'

‘He boasted to you about having a bit on the side?'

‘No, he's not sat for me, but . . .' Piers rubbed his ear. ‘Bea, I'm not sure I want you tangling with this man, because it's not supposed to be safe to cross him. I've seen him around, but never spoken to him. The thing is, I was painting a politician of a different persuasion recently, who said he'd been up against Sir Charles in a by-election and that there'd been allegations of nasty tricks . . . on both sides, I shouldn't wonder. My sitter had wondered about using an item of scandal he'd heard about Sir Charles, but eventually decided it wasn't worth it.

‘Apparently Sir Charles believes that women enjoy being “roughed up”. He boasts of saving a “juicy little bit” from a mugger, who'd been appropriately grateful afterwards . . . until her pimp had tried to get some money out of him, whereupon Sir Charles had beaten him up so badly he'd ended in hospital. Also there'd been some talk of a cab driver who'd tried to overcharge Sir Charles; he'd ended up in hospital, too.'

‘You think he might have been another of Josie's victims?'

‘Hardly a victim. In a way you can't blame him as his wife is an anorexic clothes horse who's got a stranglehold on him, since she's the daughter of a big mover and shaker at Central Office.'

Bea was restless. ‘Supposition, hearsay and gossip. Did your informant beat him in the polls?'

‘Yes, but I doubt if he'd talk to you about Sir Charles. That's it. You asked me to gather some gossip for you, and I have.'

‘I'm not sure what I'm looking for. Something which might help Jeremy, I suppose. Apparently, the police still fancy him for Josie's murder, think he paid someone to do the job. Most unlikely. Somehow or other I need to get the police off his back, without involving CJ. No, I don't think you know CJ; he's something in one of the ministries, was drawn into providing an alibi for Jeremy by accident and doesn't want anything more to do with him.'

‘What a pleasant man.'

‘Well, at least he doesn't tell lies in order to get people to talk to him.'

‘Me, tell lies? I've had a dozen women offering to leave their husbands in order to languish in my arms.'

‘I dare say. But you haven't been stupid enough to fall for a girl young enough to be your granddaughter. In any case, we can't assume it's the same girl every time.'

‘All right. Let's look at it another way. There's a brain behind the girl or girls. How do these girls know which men might fall for their charms? Are they picking out vulnerable but moneyed men by accident?'

Bea could see where this was leading. ‘You think there must be an older, worldly-wise person behind the scenes, selecting the men and teaming the girls up with them.'

‘In the only case about which we know anything for certain, a photographer was involved. Could he be the brains behind the scam? Is this a two-person venture?'

‘From what Jeremy said about the photographer in his case, it doesn't sound likely. I'll have to ask him. Mind you, the most unlikely people can be found studying the
Financial Times
at breakfast. But it takes a certain cast of mind to think up the means by which the girls make contact with these older men. A bicycle accident. A mistaken address. Saving a pretty young thing from a mugger. It seems to me that these are carefully thought up, even orchestrated, events. It looks like a three or even four person group to me.'

She struck her hands together. ‘Oh, this is nonsense. These are probably isolated instances in which vulnerable men are taken for a ride by a number of bright young things.'

Piers put his arm around Bea's shoulders. ‘You don't believe that, do you?'

She shook her head. She didn't remove his arm, either. It was a comfort, even if her wiser self knew that in ten minutes' time he might be putting his arm around another woman, who would possibly be younger and prettier than Bea. Still. For the moment, she accepted it.

He nuzzled her ear. ‘And you've been thinking about my proposition?'

She nodded. It didn't seem quite as outrageous now as it had done at first.

‘Good. The light at the top of your house should be fine for painting.'

‘No, you don't.' She eased herself out from under his arm. ‘That's Maggie and Oliver's home.' And she could just imagine the chaos Piers would create in her household, demanding attention at all hours of the day and night. And suppose he wanted to bring a woman in . . . No!

‘But you said—'

‘I'm not saying anything, or promising anything. There's a lot to consider and I'll let you know when I've thought it all through.'

‘Worth a try.' He looked at his watch, and picked out another canvas to put on his easel. This one was blank. He selected some photographs from a clutch of papers on the table and pinned one up above the canvas. ‘I'm not sure how this one is going to turn out. I've had two attempts at this man already and abandoned both. Third time lucky.'

‘I can take a hint.' Bea finished off her coffee and departed.

Saturday noon

‘Calm down, Phil. You're wearing the carpet out.'

‘How can you make jokes when—'

‘My job is to do the thinking for all of you, and not to let you fly off like a Catherine Wheel.'

‘I want to get Jeremy where—'

‘And bring the police down on us? Don't be an idiot. We can't touch him. So let's move on with our next—'

‘We know where he is. I can winkle him out of there and—'

‘You said there's at least two other women living in that house. So how do you propose to get him away without anyone noticing?'

‘I'll tell them I'm the police, and he's wanted for more questioning. Plain clothes police. No problem. Get him in the car, get going. Jonno can drive the car, and once we have him at the garage at the back of the flats, say . . . or anywhere quiet . . . it's the weekend, plenty of places we can dump him afterwards. Come on! You don't like the idea of his getting away with it, either. Am I right, or am I right?'

‘I don't like the odds. What about the women? They'll remember you, and when he turns up dead, they'll be able to describe you. We can't risk that.'

‘I'll wear heavy-framed glasses and a hairpiece. They won't need to see Jonno, he'll be sitting in the car outside. Look, I promise I'll be back before you know it. It's just a spot of unfinished business, that's all. And then we can concentrate on the next one, right?'

EIGHT

Saturday afternoon

B
ea put her key in the door and walked in on Bedlam. At least, she wasn't old enough to remember what an eighteenth-century madhouse looked like, but she assumed that what she was seeing might be close enough.

A large man in a brown suit was standing with his back to her, pointing at his watch and yelling that someone should get a move on, or else!

The garden gnome, clad this time in grey silk pyjamas, was dancing up and down, shouting that it wasn't his fault.

Maggie, in an emerald green top with hair to match, was screaming at someone to get out of her way. So at least Maggie was back to her usual appearance.

A gentle tide of water washed over the hall carpet towards Bea, causing her to dodge sideways into the sitting room . . . which was littered with books, dirty plates and mugs, cardboard boxes and papers. Someone had opened the French windows and a breeze was shifting papers around. Winston, the cat, was chasing the papers up and down the room. What was going on here?

Bea shut the door to the sitting room, in the hope it would keep the water out of there, and advanced on the kitchen . . . which was in a similar state of disarray, with dirty cooking pans everywhere and water sloshing about on the tiled floor.

The large stranger stood in her way. He was red in the face and yelling that he hadn't got time to waste.