False Report (25 page)

Bea sighed. She stood up, eased her back. ‘You've failed, Ianthe. I'm not selling.'

FIFTEEN

I
anthe went bright red with rage. ‘You stupid old cow! Why pretend that you still care about business any more? Why don't you get out and leave it to someone younger and brighter than you?'

‘You've misjudged me, Ianthe. I haven't lost my appetite for work. My big mistake was in leaving too much to you, but that's all over. I'm worried that we've been having so many complaints, and that's the first thing I've got to tackle. If, as I suspect, we've been employing badly trained personnel, then that's going to stop, right now. It may mean turning away some clients for a while. As for Holland and Butcher, I certainly won't be selling the agency, though I may or may not go into partnership with them . . . I'll have to see what they're offering. Either way, the Abbot Agency will continue.'

Ianthe's chin came up. ‘You can't do that. You can't turn clients away. I've built this agency up. Our client list has almost doubled, and the agency is worth far more now than it was when I joined.'

‘You're a good office manageress, Ianthe, and if only you'd stuck to that, you could have had a career with us. As it is, I think you'd better clear your desk and leave right now. I'll send on any monies due to you.'

‘You're as good as accusing me of sharp practice, and I won't put up with it.'

‘Now you mention it—'

‘If you throw me out now, I'll . . . I'll sue you for wrongful dismissal!' She got to her feet, twanging with rage. ‘And what's more, all my girls will leave with me!'

Oliver came in and shut the door behind him. ‘I've told the girls in the office that Ianthe is not feeling too well and needs to go home. Here's her handbag, and her jacket.'

‘Has she got a memory stick in her bag? I hope she hasn't been copying our records, but she did that when she left Croxtons, so we'd better check.'

Ianthe screeched. ‘How dare you! As if I would . . .! I wish now that I'd thought of it, but I'd no idea you were going to throw me out! After all I've done for you!'

Oliver rummaged in Ianthe's bag. ‘No memory sticks here. I'll take her out into the garden and up the outside stairs. Then she can go straight out through the house to the front door so that she doesn't need to answer any questions from the rest of the office staff.'

‘I've every right to talk to my girls and—'

‘Put your point of view?' said Bea. ‘Tell them you've been sacked for disloyalty and sharp practice? Why don't you resign and leave quietly? That way what's been said between these four walls will remain that way . . . Unless you try to sue for wrongful dismissal, in which case . . .' Bea pulled the drawer of her desk further out, revealing her tape recorder in action.

Ianthe ground her teeth. ‘If you sack me, I'll tell the world all your secrets!'

‘What secrets?'

‘That you've been harbouring an escaped murderer, who killed an under age girl from his school—'

Bea spurted into laughter. ‘What nonsense.'

‘I've seen him with my own eyes!'

Bea shook her head. ‘The police have cleared my guest of all charges, so I'd be careful what you say, if I were you. Remember that slander can bring a heavy fine.'

Ianthe was sobbing in great gulps. ‘Your threats carry no weight with me.'

Bea said, ‘If you've left any other personal items in your desk, I'll see they're sent on to you.'

Ianthe screeched, ‘You ungrateful, dried up old cow! No wonder both your marriages ended badly, which is no surprise to me, seeing how badly your half breed of a son has turned out!'

Bea gasped.

Oliver's face was set in stone. ‘May I show you out?'

Ianthe snatched her handbag and jacket and stormed out into the garden and up the stairs, with Oliver following her.

Bea sank down into her chair, and closed her eyes.

She was shaking.
Phew! Lord, that wasn't very nice. I remember You got shouted at a lot, by all sorts. Well, well. You survived. And so will I. Breathe deeply. In . . . and out. That's it. Don't think of anything at all, except breathing in . . . and out.

She heard the front door slam far above. After a little while Oliver opened the door from the main office and came in. ‘All right?' he said. His self-control was, as always, admirable.

She held up her hands. ‘I'm still shaking, but I'll live. How about you?'

He grimaced. ‘That woman is poison, isn't she? I seem to remember someone saying once that bricks and stones may break our bones, but hard words never will.'

Yet a pulse beat fast, too fast, on his temple.

She tried to laugh. ‘I feel as if I've been ten rounds with a heavyweight boxer.'

‘I'm told it does a woman good to have a cry on these occasions.'

She smiled, shook her head. Laughed. Stood up and brushed herself down. ‘I'm all right.' She turned off her recording device. ‘I'd better see how many of the other girls want to leave now Ianthe's gone.'

‘Before you go. Jeremy caught me going through the house. He wanted the name of a solicitor. I told him the name of the one you use and pointed him in the direction of the telephone.'

Bea nodded. ‘Good.'

‘Oh, and Celia's arrived. She's in with Maggie now, catching up on all the gossip. Is she to work for Maggie, or to take Ianthe's place?'

‘I had thought that she'd help Maggie out, but now . . . Do you think she'd agree to stepping into the breach, to help us get the agency back on track? I know she doesn't want the responsibility of the top job, but if she could only run the office till we can advertise for someone else, it would help us out of a hole. After that . . . who knows?'

Bea steadied herself, leaning against her desk. Her own pulse was still too fast.
Calm down, Bea.

‘I'll go and speak to her about it now. I'll have to find at least one more person to work in the office straight away. Perhaps they could do Maggie's work part-time as well? We need someone new, someone who's not been contaminated by working with Ianthe. Would you draft an advertisement for the post of office manageress, Oliver? We must try to get it into the papers today and interview as soon as possible.'

She left Oliver working at her desk and went into Maggie's office to speak to Celia. Twenty minutes later she entered the main office, and every face turned towards her. The phones were ringing, unregarded. Hardly any fingers were on keyboards.

A buzz of speculation died away. The only sound was that of the fans which were working hard in this sultry weather.

Bea spoke directly to the girl who'd joined them most recently, the one who had found Maggie's work in her waste-paper bin. ‘Anna, would you switch all calls through to the answer machine for a while, as I have an announcement to make?'

Anna did so, then slid back into her place.

Bea took a deep breath to steady herself. ‘Owing to a difference of opinion as to the way I run this agency, Ianthe has resigned her position and left.'

Dead quiet. The odd glances were exchanged. Some lips were thinned.

Bea said, ‘There have been rumours that I'm about to retire and sell the agency. They are false. I am not about to retire, nor to sell up. The Abbot Agency has always had a name for discretion and service. It is our aim to arrange for the best personnel, trained to the highest standards, to accommodate our clients' needs. I believe we may have been falling down on this of late.

‘With my son's help, I plan in the next few days to go through the complaints files to see if the staff we've sent out to jobs recently are in any way at fault. If they are, then we will not be using them again. What's more, we must be more rigorous in checking the CVs of anyone who applies to us for a job in future. Is that clear?'

Sideways glances. Some reluctant nods. Anna had her eyes down, doodling on a pad. Bea thought that Anna seemed less likely than the others to follow where Ianthe had led.

‘Are there any questions?'

Some fidgeting. A lot of frowning. A heavy-set girl spoke up. ‘Suppose you do find a single complaint against someone on our books, does that mean we're not to give them any more jobs?'

‘A single complaint can be investigated. It may not be substantiated. Bring any such to me. Two strikes: he or she is out, and we don't use them again.'

‘But there's never enough well-trained staff to fill all our vacancies.'

‘I know. We will have to decline some jobs if we can't fill the vacancies with people we can trust to do the job properly.'

‘But –' this was the heavy-set girl again – ‘Ianthe set us targets and promised to give us a bonus in September if we've met them. If we're to turn down business, we'll never meet our targets and bang go our bonuses.'

A murmur of approval.

Ianthe had promised them a bonus in September? That was a good way of ensuring their loyalty through a changeover, wasn't it? Ah, but why September? Was Bea supposed to have retired by then?

‘Scrap the targets,' said Bea. ‘Good work deserves a rise in salary. Yes, we may handle fewer cases in the next few months, but that means we can give better service. In the short term we may not make so much money, but in the long run—'

‘Well, I don't think much of that.'

‘Nor I.'

‘Stuff that for a lark.'

Bea noted the girls who were going to follow Ianthe into the wilderness. Bea thanked God that they were the ones most closely allied to Ianthe, and therefore the ones she least wanted to keep. ‘If you wish to leave the agency, then please do so now, this minute. Clear your desks and go. I will send on any wages due.'

She waited. The heavy-set girl and one with a face that would sour cream got up and, with much huffing, extracted their personal effects from their desks and made their way out of the office and up the stairs to the street. From the floor above came the faint sounds of a melody, swelling and fading. Jeremy on his keyboard, of course.

Bea looked around those who remained. There was one more woman she would like to dispense with, but she could work with what was left. ‘I take it the rest of you wish to remain. You earn a good wage, and if we can get the agency back on track, the future is rosy. Meanwhile, if you come across someone applying for a job whose credentials look dicey, please refer them to me or to Celia. Yes, Celia – whom I'm sure most of you will remember. For those who don't know her, she used to work for us in the past, and I considered it a sad day when she left. She will be acting manageress for the time being, though—'

‘I should be promoted to manageress,' said a woman with a permanently angry expression. ‘I've been here the longest and know the ropes.'

This was the last of the women whom Bea wanted to get rid of. Bea nodded. ‘We are going to advertise the position, of course. I hope to be able to run interviews early next week, and any of you can then apply for the post. Meanwhile, Celia has kindly offered to step into the breach and will run the office until I can appoint someone on a permanent basis.'

Bea opened the door to Maggie's office and ushered Celia into the room. ‘Celia, will you come in, please? I'm sorry the top drawer of your desk is broken, but I'm sure you can get that fixed. Anna, will you turn the phones back on, please?'

Celia was a pretty blonde, a softer version of Ianthe, of about the same age. She looked around the office with a pleasant expression on her face. ‘Afternoon, everyone. Most of you I know already, but I'm going to go round to each desk to make sure I know all your names and what you're currently doing.'

Bea continued to stand on guard, watching, while Celia went round each desk, introducing herself and checking that she had all the girls' names correct. The phones came back on.

Anna lifted her hand. ‘Call for you, Mrs Abbot. A Detective Inspector Durrell.'

‘Thank you, Anna. I'll take it in my office.'

Bea found Oliver there, busying himself at her computer. Well. Fine. She supposed. She tried to shift her brain back from office matters to what it was the inspector might want with her. Something about . . . a body in a van. Yes. She lifted the receiver. ‘Inspector? I trust you got to spend some time with your family yesterday.'

‘Thank you, yes. And you?'

‘I had a call yesterday afternoon from the woman who seems to be the brains behind the Badger Game, suggesting a meeting. She wanted to check my views on recent events, especially the fracas on Saturday night outside Jason's café. She said she'd come to the conclusion that a third party is homing in on the gang, trying to knock them off one by one. She wanted me to confirm that Jeremy is definitely not to blame. Which I did.'

‘What does she look like?'

‘Middling in age. Middling height. Hard to tell because she was got up like an old lady with a Zimmer frame. I took a shot of her with my camera and made a tape recording of our conversation, though I don't suppose either will be much use. Someone in that lot knows all about disguises. Someone who used to be an actor, perhaps?'

‘Interesting. I'll call round later to fetch them.'

‘Hold on. There's more. She confirmed that the man I saw being killed was the gang's photographer. He is dead. She said they'd torched the van and left him in it. Do you want to look into that? A white van, no markings.'

‘How many of those are there around? A thousand, say? Licence number?'

‘Sorry. Dirtied.'

‘Large, medium or small?'

‘Mother Bear, rather than Baby or Daddy.'

A sound like a sneeze came over the phone. ‘Is there anything else you can remember about it?'

‘Well . . . one of Jeremy's shoes might be inside it. He lost it in his escape from the van, so it might perhaps still be there. I don't suppose that's much use if the van's been torched.'