False Report (23 page)

‘Don't you?'

‘I suppose so. But who? We've been over and over it, trying to think who's got the guts to fight back. Most of them are mere rabbits, you know.'

‘I've heard at least one of your victims committed suicide. How about a son or daughter exacting revenge?'

‘Look, they'd go to the police, try to drum us out of business that way. That sort doesn't kill.'

‘You're probably right. Well . . .' Bea looked at her watch. ‘I've got people to see, supper to cook. I won't say it was nice meeting you—'

‘Though it was.' The woman struggled to her feet, leaning on her Zimmer. ‘I'll think over what you've said. Maybe it would be best for us to lay off for a while, though it'll put a strain on our finances if we do.'

‘You have another girl ready to take Josie's place? Have you picked a suitable man out already?'

‘Of course. You'd approve of what we're doing, if you knew the slimeball, too. I'm not going to give you my real name. I'll use Josie's if I have occasion to ring you again.'

So saying, ‘Miss Angie Butt' zimmered herself expertly up the rise to the top of the Gardens and out of sight.

FOURTEEN

Sunday afternoon

B
ea returned home the way she'd come, wondering whether or not to report the recent conversation to the inspector. She came to the conclusion that she must do so, because somewhere or other there was a burned-out van with a body in it.

She let herself into the house and nearly fell over a couple of bulging black plastic bags. Was Jeremy really taking this business of moving out seriously? From the kitchen came the sound of the radio and Maggie chattering away on her mobile. Normal service had been resumed in that direction. Was Maggie going to be responsible for supper? If so, hurray.

Oliver's head appeared at the top of the stairs leading down to the agency rooms. ‘Is that you? Glad you're back. Piers is here, but I've just had a thought . . . something I want to check out.' He disappeared back down the stairs to the agency rooms. Normal service had definitely been resumed.

Piers himself appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, laughing. ‘Oliver said you'd gone to meet a dead woman. How like you!'

‘Not dead, but using a dead girl's name. I'll tell you all about it when I've had a cuppa.'

Maggie appeared in the kitchen doorway, taking the phone away from her ear long enough to say, ‘Tea's up in a minute. I don't know where Jeremy is; up top, I think. He's only just stopped playing some mournful tune or other – for which relief, much thanks.'

Piers held the door open for Bea to pass into the sitting room and shut it after them. ‘I'm all ears. I see you've got a house full. Is this your way of saying you don't want me back in your bed?'

He didn't seem too annoyed. Good. ‘It just happened. I'm going to try to get Jeremy back into his own house, and Oliver's only here for a few days, but . . . you're right. I don't think it would work.'

‘Oliver calls you “Mother Hen”. You collect lame ducks, don't you?' A frown. Correction; he was annoyed that his plans had been thwarted, but he wasn't spitting mad.

‘Given a fair chance, they're all winners, not losers.'

‘So you say.' He let out a long sigh, but relaxed into a smile. And then a laugh. ‘Well, I must say I'm disappointed; but if I'm honest I'll admit I've had qualms about it, too.'

‘Some new woman turned up in your life?'

‘Oh, her. Yes, I suppose you could say . . . But nothing that will last. I don't “do” permanent, you know that. Except for you and Max, who are and always will be permanent in my life, I hope.'

She smiled. ‘At a distance.'

‘Max told me you were selling up, which started me thinking about the future – yours and mine. But it was never going to work, was it? You don't really want to retire yet, do you?'

‘It was his idea, not mine. I think he's come across someone who might want to buy me out. He's encouraged them because he thinks that if I sell up, he can buy this house off me. Once he gets an idea into his head, it sticks, so I've got a fight on my hands there.'

‘I'll back you, any day. Let me know if you need any help.'

‘Thanks. Stay for supper? And by the way, the police need some help identifying who Josie's clients might have been in the past. May I pass on the tips you gave me? We can disregard the man who called himself Basil, who was collecting his mother's portrait, but what about Sir Thomas, who said he enjoyed a little extramarital flirting now and then, and the cigar-smoking Sir Charles, who is aiming for the House of Commons?'

He hesitated. ‘People talk freely when I'm painting them, but there's a tacit understanding that what they tell me goes no further. They could make out a case that I've abused their trust even by passing on various items of gossip to you.'

‘Enough said. But if you hear of anything else, do you think you might tell the person concerned that the police are anxious for information and suggest they pass their news items along?'

‘I could try.' Clearly, he wasn't hopeful that the strategy would work, and neither, come to think of it, was Bea.

Piers stayed for supper. Bea had to wrench Oliver away from his computer downstairs to join them. Actually, Oliver was using the computer in her office, but that was a minor detail.

Jeremy seemed to have recovered his appetite, but hadn't forgotten about making a will. He asked Oliver if he'd found some information for him.

Oliver hit his forehead. ‘Sorry. Forgot. It can't be that urgent, and I'm a bit tied up at the moment. I'll look it up for you in the morning, right?' He took an apple from the bowl on the fridge and disappeared.

Jeremy dropped his fork and looked upset.

‘Never mind,' said Piers who, like Maggie, had begun to treat the little man as a somewhat backward if talented child. ‘Here . . . write down your intentions on the back of this shopping list . . . Bea usually keeps a pad somewhere . . . Yes, here it is. Have you a pen? . . . Use mine. Now, all you have to do is write down that you leave everything to the National Trust or Battersea Dogs' Home, or whatever, and sign it. Maggie and I will sign below as witnesses, Bea will pin it up on her noticeboard by the door, and Bob's your Uncle.'

‘Would that be legal?'

‘A notice of intent is legal,' said Piers. ‘It will do fine till you can get to a solicitor, who will wrap it up in obscure language and charge you for it.'

Jeremy scribbled away. ‘I want to pay for Josie to have a proper burial, too.' Piers and Maggie signed as witnesses, and seconds were eaten by all.

‘And now for some music,' said Jeremy, abandoning the supper table, with all its dirty plates, and leading the way to the sitting room.

Oliver didn't reappear. Bea had caught a glimpse of his profile as he left them and she recognized that look. When Oliver was on the trail of something, he became a hunter – just like her, and the inspector.

Jeremy treated them to an impromptu concert of light music, ending with some jaunty little tunes which he said he'd written for a children's television show. He asked, wistfully, if Maggie could sing, as he wanted to hear someone warble Josie's song. Maggie declined the honour, saying she was pretty well tone deaf.

He didn't ask Bea, which annoyed her, even though she didn't think her voice was up to much.

When Jeremy stopped playing and said he needed an early night, the group broke up. Piers said he'd best be on his way, and Maggie went off to join some friends for a drink in the pub. Knowing that the inspector was off duty for the rest of the day, Bea left a message for him to contact her in the morning.

The house lay quiet around her. So where was Oliver? Bea descended the stairs to tell him to pack it in for the night and found him still at the computer in her office.

He looked up with a grin. ‘I think I've found the people who might want to buy you out. I was looking in the wrong place. Do you know how many employment agencies there are in this area, any one of whom might cast a greedy eye upon your client list? Dozens. Only a few are specifically for domestic situations, but even then, there are too many to count. Max said it was a double-barrelled name, but it's Someone
and
Someone, which is not double-barrelled.'

‘Not Jackson's, then?'

‘A different kettle of fish.' He scrutinized the screen, nodded, and printed off a sheet of paper. ‘I think this is it.'

‘Holland and Butcher? But this isn't a domestic agency, and they're not even in London.'

‘Not far out. Grand house. Training for silver service, butlers, etcetera. Honourable mentions wherever you go in society. It's like saying your nanny was Norland-trained. Here's their website. The younger generation – that's Mr Butcher – is aiming for political life. Conservative, of course. Max might very well have come into contact with him as he's standing for some safe seat or other . . . Surrey? Oh, look! He's on Twitter, trying to build a faithful following of fans.'

Bea looked over his shoulder. ‘Can you go back to the website? I thought I saw something . . .'

Oliver returned to it. He said, ‘They're high class, stylish, and expensive. They've been turning out butlers and other high-earning functionaries since the days of Jeeves and Wooster. The career openings for such people may no longer be in grand country houses, but they're still needed in embassies and by the nouveau riche, Russian millionaires, pop stars and highly paid footballers. Remunerative, very. Ah ha! Is this what you mean? At the bottom it says that all clients who are successful in passing their exams at the end of the training period will be referred to a highly reputable domestic employment agency, who will endeavour to place them in a suitable position. Will you just look at the name of the agency they've been using!'

It was Croxtons, the agency who'd folded earlier that year. Bea let out a long sigh.

Oliver nodded. ‘I've got the creeps all up and down my spine. The Holland and Butcher website isn't exactly up to date, is it? You'd expect them by now to have deleted the name of the failed agency and substituted a new one. They desperately need to reassure people that there will be a job for them at the end of the courses they're running. No jobs, no takers for tuition, right?'

‘So why haven't they done so?'

‘Can you think of another really high class domestic agency who'd fit the bill . . . apart from ours?'

She thought about it. People in the business tended to circulate news and views all the time. Clients report disasters and triumphs. A picture emerges. ‘You're right. There are one or two middling good agencies around, but they're not supplying the embassies or Millionaires' Row as we are.'

‘What would I do, if I were in H and B's shoes? I'd try out another agency on the sly, without committing myself. The only mystery to me is why they haven't contacted you before now, whether they're interested in buying you out or just coming to a mutually-beneficial agreement.'

‘Our reputation hasn't been spotless of late. I've let things slide, and there's been complaints. I suspect we've been trying to place too many badly-trained personnel.'

‘If you had well-trained people to offer, you'd be laughing all the way to the bank. An arrangement with Holland and Butcher would suit both parties.'

It made sense. ‘Good work, Oliver. I'd never have thought of this, but it feels right. Only, I don't see where Ianthe fits in. Perhaps I'll find out tomorrow.'

He grinned. ‘She's going to go spare when she realizes Maggie's back in her own office with one of the agency computers. I wonder if your little tape recorder is good enough to tape your confrontation with her? I'll set you up with something more efficient in case she tries to throw a strop.'

‘I think she's more likely to cry. She's the sort of woman who thinks tears will get her what she wants.' Except that every now and then Bea had spotted the iron fist under the velvet glove on Ianthe's hand.

He shuddered. ‘Tears? Ugh. Sooner you than me. How many times have you reminded her to give you the password every day?'

‘Three. I took the precaution of photocopying each reminder before I put it on her desk, and yes, I know that's grounds to sack her. But she does get through a mountain of work, and if I sack her, how would we cope?'

He shrugged. ‘I can stay on for a day or two till you get a replacement.'

She had hoped he'd say that. ‘That would be generous of you, and I'd be eternally grateful if you could, even though I know I shouldn't be keeping you from whatever it is you're supposed to be working on at the moment. But before I give her the sack, I want to find out exactly what she thinks she's doing.'

He looked at his watch. ‘I said I'd join Maggie and her friends at the pub for a drink before they close for the night. All right by you?'

Monday morning

Some Monday mornings are worse than others. The thought of what she had to do that day filled Bea with dread. Ianthe . . . Jeremy and Eunice . . . Whatever had possessed her to say she'd help the little man get his home back?

She did the power-dressing bit with a white silk blouse over black, tailored trousers. She took care with her make-up and forced herself to eat some breakfast.

If she had to sack Ianthe, how soon could she get a replacement? Advertisements would have to be put in the newspapers, and then time allowed for people to reply . . . and more time before interviews could be arranged . . . and then if the candidate were already employed elsewhere, she would have to give notice at her present job. Say two months in all? Oliver could stay to help for a week, maybe more. But not for two months. No. Out of the question.

Another thing; she must tell the inspector about what had happened to the van with the body in it, and give him the tape-recording of her conversation with ‘Miss Butt' and the photo she'd taken of her – not that it would do him much good, as the woman had been heavily disguised.