False Report (15 page)

‘It's driving me insane, trying to work out what she's up to. I thought at first that she was working for Jackson's, another agency, who would like to buy me out. But if so, then surely she'd want to run the agency down so that he could get it at a rock bottom price? Instead, she's building it up. The client list has expanded and we're worth far more now than when she started.'

‘So it's not that.'

‘Then I wondered if she were trying to take it over herself, by pushing me into early retirement, making out that I'm no longer up to the job. Several odd things have happened which would normally lead me to wonder if I'm losing my marbles—'

‘Which you're not.'

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. No, I'm not. But on the other hand, I've come to realize that the agency has changed direction. I'm not exactly sure how or why it's come about, but I don't feel that I'm on top of things as I used to be. Yes, we're thriving, on paper. Our client list looks healthy, but a new problem has arisen; I don't think we're giving value for money any longer. Too many complaints.'

He looked startled.

She nodded. ‘They were very rare in the old days, weren't they? But Ianthe is dealing with the increased demand for our services by using half-trained or untrained staff. I suspect some of them may have been let go when that other local agency folded, and we've taken their people on without checking their credentials.'

He gave her an odd look. ‘Now I gathered from CJ – don't bite my head off; it's his idea, not mine – that he would like you to finish with the agency and settle down into a gentle retirement, perhaps carrying out the odd bit of detective work for him.'

‘Does he, really? Well, that's a ridiculous suggestion.'

‘Mm. You're good at it.'

‘I suppose an occasional foray into . . . No, no! Doing it every day would be too rich a diet for me. I need to lead a bread and butter life, helping clients out of difficulties, solving people's domestic problems. Besides which, running the agency enables me to stay on in this lovely house, buy my clothes at Harvey Nicholls and have a manicure whenever I want it.'

‘Not to mention keeping a home going for your two adopted orphans of the storm. Though Maggie is not technically an orphan, since her terrifying mother is still very much alive . . . and I suppose mine might be, too, if ever I bothered to look for her.'

‘Do you want to?'

He shrugged. ‘No.'

Bea thought he would look for her, some day. But perhaps not yet.

‘The other possibility,' she said, ‘is that Max has been stirring the pot. He would very much like me to sell up and retire to the seaside, so that he can move into this house. He said he knew of someone wanting to buy me out. I assumed at first that he meant Jackson's, but that half-baked agency isn't likely to swim in the waters which Max frequents. Perhaps there's another, bigger concern out there pulling his strings – and Ianthe's? Only, I can't quite see what she'd get out of it.'

He yawned. ‘Will you confront her on Monday?'

‘I'll have to, won't I? Because she won't be able to access the system without me giving her the new password. Thanks for running off the Christmas card list for me; remind me to buy a new address book. My old one seems to have had an encounter with a cup of coffee in Maggie's office. She says she hadn't put it there, and I believe her. Which reminds me . . . she's awfully quiet, isn't she?'

Saturday afternoon

Phil was taking the new girl through her act. ‘No, Kath. Put some emotion into it.'

‘I'm not one of your poncey actresses.'

‘No, dear. You're an extremely pretty young girl, who's about to earn herself a lot of money. Now, let's go through it again. You've been taken into an exclusive hotel bar by a man much older than yourself. You're not interested in him—'

‘That's for sure. Especially if it's you.'

‘Yes, dear. It'll be me, togged up like a city gent. I find you a seat near the target, whose picture I've showed you. You do remember what he looks like?'

‘A slug.'

‘Yes, perhaps you might think that at first. But then you'll remember how many millions he's got in the bank, and that makes a difference, doesn't it?'

‘All right. Get on with it.'

‘I buy you a drink, a large one, and urge you to get it down you. You hardly touch the drink—'

‘You keep telling me I can't drink, I can't smoke, I can't swear, and I can't get in touch with my old boyfriend—'

‘True; and we won't be beating you up because you've failed to turn enough tricks on the street, either. Just touch the glass to your lips and put it down again. Act as if you're a little bit frightened . . . All right, skip the acting. We'll work to your strengths. I put my arm around you and fondle your breasts—'

‘I can put up with a lot worse than that.'

‘I know you can. But this time you push me away. Look really upset. Can you make yourself cry on demand?'

‘Don't be daft.'

‘All right. Suppose I have a stinky smelling hankie in my top pocket. You'd want to push me away then, wouldn't you?'

‘Dead right, I would. That's when I turn to the slug and ask him to rescue me?'

‘You've got the idea, at last. Can you make your lower lip tremble . . .? No, perhaps not. We'll just have to rely on your stunning looks and a flash of lacy underwear. Good girl. You've earned yourself a pat on the back.'

‘I'd rather have a glass of Red Bull, if it's all the same to you. Now, can I watch the telly?'

Once Kath was installed in front of the television, he got out his mobile phone. ‘Nance? Phil here. She'll do, though she's not a patch on Josie. Now, about the little man . . .'

Saturday afternoon

Bea found Maggie in her office, brushing her hands across her cheeks. Had she been crying? Twice in one week? This was so unlike the girl.

‘Maggie? You're being very quiet.'

Since Bea last saw it, Maggie's office had been taken apart even more. Her noticeboards were empty. The papers and stacks of catalogues had been moved, in orderly fashion, into a number of cardboard boxes. More boxes held samples of soft furnishings, different woods, and tiles; everything Maggie needed for her work.

Oliver crowded in after Bea. ‘What's been happening around here? Where's your computer and your printer? And the landline phone?'

Maggie wasn't looking at them. ‘Ianthe's been tidying up. She wants to use this office for herself, and of course she's right. I shouldn't be hogging this space, especially when I'm so horribly incompetent.'

Bea put her arm round Maggie. ‘You are not incompetent. You are one of the most efficient project managers I've ever come across.'

Maggie wailed. ‘But I ordered the wrong number of tiles! Look!' She thrust a typed copy of an order form at Bea. ‘There's not enough to complete the job, and I'm paying the tiler double time to complete the job today and it's all my fault!'

‘You don't make that kind of mistake,' said Bea. ‘Who typed this?'

A shrug from Maggie. ‘I don't know. I asked Celia to . . . but then she left, and Ianthe said she'd try to find someone to do it for me, and as I was short of time, she said she'd see it was put in the post for me.'

Ianthe strikes again?

Bea said, ‘Where are your notes on this job?'

Maggie lifted her hands, helplessly. ‘I had them there, in my in tray. But it's been emptied. I suppose it's in one of these boxes, but I don't know which one.'

Oliver and Bea exchanged glances. Bea said, ‘I'll have a word with Ianthe on Monday morning. This can't go on.'

Oliver took the copy of the order from Maggie. ‘How many more tiles do you need?'

‘A hundred and fifty. But it's Saturday afternoon, and—'

‘If I can borrow the car . . .' He raised his eyebrows at Bea, in an unspoken request, and she nodded. He said, ‘Maggie; you and I will go out to the depot, get the rest of the tiles and take them round to the tiler. No, first I'll ring the depot and make sure they've got enough and will keep them on one side for us. What's their phone number?'

Maggie looked wildly around. ‘I don't know. Perhaps in this box . . . or that one over there? The catalogue has a black and silver cover.'

Bea and Oliver each took a box to search for it. Maggie did so, too. Bea held up a tile manufacturer's catalogue. ‘This it?'

Maggie fell on the book while Oliver got out his mobile phone. ‘Read the number out to me.'

While he dealt with the matter of the tiles, Bea sat back on her heels . . . until her knees protested and she hauled herself to her feet.

She went back into her office and threw open the doors to the garden. It was cool and shady out there. She wandered outside, wondering whether to get the garden chairs out or not. The big urns which Maggie had planted up with summer bedding were doing well; red, white and apricot geraniums, mixed with Busy Lizzies and trailing ivies. The high walls surrounding the garden muted the noises of the neighbourhood.

The sycamore tree, too, was quiet this evening. Earlier there'd been a breeze, but now the leaves were still. Bea stood under the tree, with her hand on the bark. A blackbird – or was it a starling? – flew to a branch high overhead. And squawked. No, it was bigger than a blackbird. It must be a pigeon.

All God's children. Pigeons and starlings; Maggie . . . and Ianthe.

Whatever had possessed Ianthe to make out that Maggie was incompetent and oust her from her office? Maggie's skills didn't run to computers but, with proper office backup, she could manage a miscellaneous workforce of plumbers, electricians, tilers and any number of assorted clients, without turning a hair.

So why, Ianthe? Why?

Was she doing this solely because she wanted the kudos of an office of her own? She might think it didn't matter if Maggie worked upstairs in the newly-created loft extension. In a way it did – and in a way it didn't. But Maggie did need secretarial assistance, and it was up to Bea to sort that out for her. Again Bea regretted Celia's departure.

Dear Lord above, whatever is going on here?

Like an echo at the back of her head, she heard a voice say:
All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing.

Yes, dear Lord. I understand that, and I'm not going to sit back and let Maggie be sidelined. I have to take action. But is Ianthe really evil? I thought I'd know if I ever met someone who was evil, but I don't feel repulsed by her. I feel . . . I feel that she looks at me . . .

How did Ianthe look at Bea when she wasn't fluttering around pretending to be a dizzy blonde? She looked as if she were a blackbird considering how best to tackle a worm. She looked at Bea as if she were a problem to be dealt with.

Evil can grow from a tiny shoot. Ambition eases the conscience. Inconvenient truths become of no importance. Ambition dictates that the greater good must prevail.

So in Ianthe's eyes, Maggie is expendable? She's undermined Maggie's confidence – a relatively easy thing to do. She's tried to destroy mine – not so easy. But she's tried to cut the links between Oliver and me – and almost succeeded – because . . . because . . . why? Because she thinks he might fight on my side?

But – to what purpose? Why is Ianthe doing this? Is there some connection to Max and his ambitions here?

Silence. Apparently, it was up to her to find out.

Oliver put his head out of the door. ‘The sooner Maggie passes her driving test the better! And don't say she'll never make it, because I'm determined she will. I'd better give her some tuition in the summer holidays. Anyway, we're off, now. Oh; car keys?'

‘Usual place. Kitchen cupboard.'

He nodded, vanished.

She stood there for a while, with her hand on the tree. She allowed her worries to sink down to the back of her mind. She listened to the song of the birds that nested in the sycamore. She heard the pigeon flap away. Some blue tits swooped down to feed on the nuts which Maggie had hung from a branch of the laburnum near the house.

Maggie had bought Bea a bird bath for her birthday. Bea was standing so still that two sparrows came down to perch on the edge to drink. They rarely got right down into the water . . . but then a blackbird arrived and plunged in, fluttering his wings, sending a shower of fine drops over the sparrows, who chirruped but didn't remove themselves. Perhaps they enjoyed the shower?

I love this house and this garden, said Bea to herself. Would it really be for the greater good if I had to leave?

Who would gain? Max, and his family. But he can afford to buy a house with a garden somewhere in the suburbs, can't he? Somewhere on a tube line which will take him into Westminster quickly. So why should I have to move?

I don't have to.

And Piers? Does my dear ex-husband really want to resume conjugal relations with me? Perhaps he does. Perhaps he's getting to a stage in life when he thinks he might settle down and play at being monogamous.

I couldn't trust him. Not on past form. Do leopards ever change their spots? I don't think so. He'll still be attracting women when he's in his eighties. Besides which, I don't want a man under my feet all the time, needing to be waited on, and considered, and taking charge of the remote control for the television. Wanting to watch sport on television when I want to be quiet. No.

There was a movement on the balcony above, where the outside iron stairs curled up to provide access to the kitchen and sitting room French windows. The birds all flew up in alarm.

Jeremy Waite, still wearing his incongruous grey pyjamas. ‘Mrs Abbot, there's someone at the front door, ringing the bell. I can't quite make out who it is, and I don't want to . . . dressed like this. Do you think my jeans might be dry by now?'