False Report (2 page)

‘As a matter of fact, I was going to ask you about—'

‘I need a second opinion. My ability to judge my fellow men has been called into question. I was visited this morning by the police, asking if I'd spent last evening with a man called Jeremy Waite. Which I had. The detective inspector pressed me for time and place. He tried to make me admit that Jeremy might have been out of my sight for ten minutes here or there. I said he hadn't.' CJ stopped, looked vaguely around, picked up his empty cup to sip from it, put it down.

‘The inspector was not amused to find that I could give Jeremy an alibi, since he was suspected of killing an under-age girl with whom he'd been having sexual relations.'

Bea stared at CJ, hoping against hope that he wasn't going to involve her in another murder.

‘The inspector believed I'd provided Jeremy with an alibi out of a misguided sense of friendship. I must admit I was shocked, but it didn't alter the fact that I'd been with the man the whole of the previous evening. And I said so. However, after the inspector had removed himself, I began to wonder if I had, in fact, been set up to provide Jeremy with an alibi, while he arranged for someone else to kill the girl.'

At this point the head waiter intervened with the bill. Around them tables were being cleared and relaid. The Ritz allowed you only so much time to have tea, and then shot you out so that they could prepare for the next sitting.

CJ laid his card on the bill. ‘Have you seen the latest exhibition at the Royal Academy? It's only just down the road.'

‘Not my scene,' said Bea. ‘And—'

‘A stroll around the pictures is just what we need after that tea, don't you think?' It wasn't a question.

‘And even if I didn't, you intend to prolong this conversation?'

‘Certainly,' he said, returning his card to his wallet. ‘He blushed, you see.'

Bea frowned. What had that got to do with it? Part of her wanted to tell CJ to get lost – but the other half was telling her that another hour away from the agency might help to clear her mind and enable her to think constructively about the mess she'd got herself into there. If, indeed, there was any such mess, which was a moot point.

She got to her feet, wondering if wearing a new pair of high-heeled shoes had been a good idea if they were going to walk the streets. They seemed comfortable enough so far. She was almost as tall as CJ when he stepped to her side. A grey man, well brushed, well tailored. A man who could melt into the background or take control of a gathering at will.

He held the door open for her. ‘Do you ever go to concerts at our parish church in Kensington?'

She gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘This is relevant?'

He nodded.

She shrugged. ‘Occasionally, when my dear husband was alive.'

‘I hadn't intended to go last night, but there was nothing on the telly, it was a fine evening, and I thought I might stroll round to the church, see if there was anything on . . . which there was. A man was reading the poster outside. He moved away, hesitated, came back to read it again. I thought I recognized his back view from somewhere but couldn't place him. I followed him in, checking my watch, wondering how long the concert was likely to last because I hadn't eaten yet. It was half seven. I found a seat at the back, saw him some way in front of me. Saw one or two other people I knew by sight. Nodded, that sort of thing.'

He gave a little cough. ‘I have made a study of physiognomy, as you might expect. In idle moments I often catch myself studying the man across from me in the tube, or restaurant. Is he a fool or a villain, a saint or a sinner? Does he belong in the dock, or on the judge's bench? This particular man was an oddity. I seemed to recall seeing him in an academic setting, something to do with music.'

CJ steered Bea across the road, as if she were incapable of judging for herself when the traffic lights had turned green. He raised his voice to be heard over the noise of traffic.

‘A middle-aged woman whom I knew slightly – we're both members of the local History Society – came to sit next to me. She was excited because her daughter was playing second violin in the chamber group for the first time. All young players, you know. Some on the way up. The oboist was particularly good. I made a note of the name. Afterwards, my neighbour introduced me to her daughter. Nice girl. Needs to lose a few pounds, but pretty enough if you like that sort of thing. I said the usual.

‘The man I'd noticed, but couldn't place, was hovering, waiting to speak to one of the cellists. I'd noticed he'd been watching her throughout. She, on the other hand, didn't seem keen to be spoken to.

‘My neighbour's daughter sent him such a look. “How dare he!” she said. She told us – alleged – that he'd seduced an under-age girl, been thrown out of the house by his wife, sacked from his teaching job, and quite right, too!'

Bea shrugged. ‘It happens.'

‘Yes, of course. Some girls look eighteen at twelve. I remembered where I'd seen him before. My old college had held a fund-raising event for a new music laboratory and he'd been on the same table at dinner, keeping us all amused. Someone told me that though he was a music teacher at a school in Kensington, he was beginning to develop another career under a different name, writing music for films and television programmes. I had to leave early so we were not formally introduced.'

CJ steered Bea through the archway into the comparative quiet of the Royal Academy's courtyard. There were seats in the sun and also under an awning where cups of tea and coffee were being served. CJ ushered Bea to a pair of isolated chairs near the water feature. She noticed he'd chosen their seats well, because the burbling of the fountains made it unlikely anyone could overhear them.

‘Shall we sit awhile?' Again, it was not a request.

They sat. Bea tilted her head back and closed her eyes as a sign that she was not particularly interested in what he had to say. What was she going to do about the agency? And why hadn't she thought to bring her dark glasses with her?

He said, ‘Have you noticed that even young girls fail to blush, nowadays? Is it a lost art, do you think? Older women rarely blush, but they're usually wearing so much make-up that I probably wouldn't notice if they did. As a woman, do you have an opinion on this?'

He was serious? Incredible.

She said, lightly, ‘Modern society holds that there's nothing we can do that we need to be ashamed of, that every kind of behaviour is acceptable. I suppose I might blush from embarrassment if I'd made a really stupid remark and hurt someone's feelings.'

‘Precisely my point. You might blush out of embarrassment but that's not the same thing as blushing for shame. My question was: did he blush from shame, or from embarrassment? I'd watched him psyche himself up to go to the concert. He sat by himself, talked to no one. He had gone there to watch the cellist perform. When she played a wrong note in her solo, he reddened out of embarrassment. He was concerned for her.

‘Afterwards, he waited till she was free to speak to him. He congratulated her on her performance, and she rebuffed him. He overheard what my friend's daughter said. There was a general drawing back of skirts. And he blushed.

‘He caught my eye. He recognized me and saw that I'd recognized him. There was no shame in his eyes. Defiance and embarrassment, yes. But no shame. At that moment I decided that he didn't belong in the dock, and that if he had done what they said, there must be extenuating circumstances. So, as we left the church together, I introduced myself and asked if he'd like to join me for a spot of supper. He agreed.'

‘Even though he'd been accused of abusing an under-age girl?'

‘In my time I've observed some young girls who were more predator than prey. I wondered who was the victim in this case. His name is Jeremy Waite, by the way. His wife is Eunice, twice married, a barrister who is so absorbed by her career that she's never had any time to be a housewife and has handed over the upbringing of her only child to paid help. Her daughter is the cellist Jeremy spoke to at the concert. No children by him.'

‘Is she the girl he seduced?'

‘That's why I need a second opinion . . . yours. I'd be surprised if he seduced anyone . . . but maybe I'm wrong. You see, we went to an Italian restaurant where the young and pretty waitress failed to stir his pulse, as did the young and pretty wine waiter. I was watching for a reaction from him to either, and there was none. We moved on to have coffee at my place, where he received a phone call from a girl – I could hear her high, clear voice – on his mobile. He told her that no, he was not going to meet her under any circumstances, and shut her off.

‘He explained to me in what seemed genuine bemusement that a young girl he'd befriended had been causing him no end of trouble. He said that being accused of misconduct with an under-age pupil was one of the professional hazards of being a teacher but he'd never thought he'd be a victim. She'd lost him his job teaching, but fortunately he had plenty of other work on, and he wasn't going to let it get him down.'

‘Didn't you say his wife had kicked him out because of his liaison with a girl?'

‘From the little he said, I gather,' said CJ smoothly, ‘that that might have been a relief to him, but he didn't comment, so I didn't enquire. I got out the brandy. A pleasant evening. Apparently the girl in question was killed soon after we went into the church for the concert.'

‘And he wasn't out of your sight all evening?'

‘He went to the loo upstairs at my place when it was time for him to go, just before midnight. I was going to ring for a cab for him. He said he'd walk, as it was a fine night, but as I was letting him out, a taxi drew up outside to let off a fare, and he took it on. He's renting a flat in one of the roads at the back of Church Street. It's small but convenient. Only, he admits he's not very domesticated. I told him you might be able to find him someone to come in several times a week to look after him.'

‘What?' Bea gave him an old-fashioned look. ‘Do I take it that you aren't sure he's as squeaky clean as you imagined, and that you want me to spy on him?'

CJ got to his feet with a smile for a man approaching them across the courtyard. ‘Judge for yourself. Jeremy, this is my good friend Bea Abbot, who runs a domestic agency and may be able to help you out.'

TWO

B
ea shot CJ a glance of pure cyanide as a small but well-made man, bearing a distinct likeness to a garden gnome, trotted over to them. He wasn't a dwarf, but he was vertically challenged. He must have been in his fifties, with a mop of greying hair which curled up into two ‘horns' on top of his head, and a short, curly goatee that curved upwards, too. His eyes were a bright blue, and his cheeks shone as if they'd been polished.

Unlike a genuine garden gnome, he wasn't wearing a red jacket and green trousers, but Bea did note he was wearing odd socks and brown sandals. The rest of him was clad in a Canadian-style lumberjacket in some designer's fanciful idea of a tartan, over a white T-shirt and jeans. The jeans looked new; everything else looked well worn.

The gnome twinkled at her. ‘My saviour, Mrs Abbot. Did my friend tell you I'm in need of rescuing, house-wise?' His nose twitched. ‘Why aren't you eating? Do I smell good coffee and sandwiches? I'm afraid CJ hasn't been looking after you properly. Do let me treat you to something to eat. I haven't eaten all day; quite forgot, you know. Been taking pains, har har, as the king said about his visit to the dentist . . .'

Bea rolled her eyes at CJ, who hid a grin behind his hand as he backed away, explaining that he was late for another appointment.

The little man said, ‘Come on inside, this way, are you a Friend of the RA? Very useful place for meetings, and the food is tasty. I sometimes come here when I'm working; when I remember, that is. I've often thought I ought to bring a doggy bag with me, in case there are any leftovers, but sadly there never are. Now what would you like, dear lady?'

Bea tried to take control of the situation. ‘Frankly, Mr Waite, I've just been treated to a good tea and I'm not hungry.'

‘What a pity.' He had the innocent look of a hungry child denied a treat.

‘But I'd be happy to have another cup of tea while you eat, if we can do it straight away. I mustn't be too long, though.' Looking at her watch.

‘Delightful,' he said, bouncing along at her side into the restaurant. The top of his head just about came up to her shoulder. ‘Now, if you take a slice of that tart and some cheese and biscuits, I'll have the salmon en croute and finish up anything you can't eat, right?'

He laughed, and the sound was agreeable. ‘I'm so pleased to meet you. My housekeeping skills are not – you know? We had a weekly order from Waitrose that I could dip into whenever I wished, and I'm hopeless with a computer, the last time I tried to order something it turned out I'd pressed the wrong button several times by mistake and we had a mountain of frozen peas delivered and they lasted for months. I desperately need someone who'll organize putting some decent frozen meals in the freezer for me every week. I never really bother about food when I'm working, but when I stop I feel ravenous and have to make up for lost time. And I'm not particularly good at keeping the bathroom clean. So, do you think you could help me?'

‘I might, yes,' said Bea, amused.

He carried a loaded tray to the cashier, paid for his and her meals with a gold card, and ushered her to a table near the windows. ‘Perhaps it ought to be a woman of a certain age, preferably married? What do you think? If she could also manage a few bits of admin for me, paying bills and so on, that would be wonderful but perhaps too much to ask for? CJ has told you about the little problem I've been having? Just a cup of tea for you? Is that all? Are you sure you can't manage some of that tart? It looks good.'