False Report (28 page)

What was the name of the big, black-haired woman who wanted to be manageress? Dahlia, that was it.

Dahlia was trying the door of Maggie's office, which fortunately had been locked against intruders. The rest of the staff seemed to have gone for the day.

Bea said, ‘Maggie's office is to be kept locked in future. You wanted to speak to me?'

Sitting in a chair beside Dahlia's desk was a big, loose-lipped untidy youth with a big conk, who didn't seem able to breathe through it. Badly bleached hair, which had not been washed recently. Acne. He was wearing overlong jeans, frayed from being trodden under his heels, and a stained T-shirt. He was concentrating on playing some computer game or other.

Bea didn't recognize him. ‘Well, Dahlia; come into my office.'

Dahlia displayed aggressive body language. That black hair was dyed. ‘He, your supposed son, threw us out, said it was private in your office. He was looking up porn sites, I wouldn't wonder.'

Oliver on porn sites? Bea blinked. ‘My adopted son? I doubt it.' Her office was empty, but the doors to the garden stood open. Oliver must have slipped out for a minute. Bea seated herself behind her desk. Her computer had been left on, and the files they'd been dealing with earlier were still piled on to her desk. She pulled out her top drawer and started her voice recorder. ‘Now, Dahlia; what is it you wanted to speak to me about?'

‘You've no need to advertise for another manageress, or to bring in someone from outside. Save yourself some money and let me have the job. After all, I know what's to be done better than anyone else.'

‘It's standard practice to advertise when a responsible job like this becomes vacant. The advertisements have already gone in. As I said earlier, you are welcome to apply.'

‘Yes, but . . . the thing is, if we're not getting the bonus we've been promised, it's going to be difficult, so being made up to manageress would be very handy. And I know where the bodies are buried.' And she winked at Bea.

Startled, Bea said, ‘What bodies?'

‘I'm not blaming you for leaving so much to Ianthe, taking time off when we're rushed off our feet. It's only natural you want to take it easy at your age.'

Bea tried not to grind her teeth. She knew she'd taken time out of the office for this and that over the past few months. There'd been regular visits to play with her grandson, and she'd spent time sorting out a couple of nasty crimes which had drifted her way. But the agency hadn't suffered, had it? She'd worked early and late to keep it on track . . . until she'd made the mistake of appointing Ianthe and letting Miss Brook and Celia go.

Dahlia hadn't finished. ‘What I think is that you need someone who you can rely on when you need to take time off. Someone who knows what's what around here.'

Her tone of oily satisfaction was too much for Bea. Almost, she snapped at the woman. ‘Thank you for your concern. I'll take it on board. I hope to start interviewing next week. Now, if that's all . . .?'

Dahlia flushed. ‘Well, if that's how you're going to take my offer, which was made with your best interests at heart . . .! But no, it's not quite all. My nephew, that's sitting outside at the moment. You've put him on the blacklist. I know he didn't do himself justice at school, what with his parents splitting up, and his getting a depression, and then there was that stupid teacher, who'd never liked him, saying he'd been up to no good with the computers in the lab, which was an outright lie . . .!'

Bea held up a hand to stop her. ‘We have a file for him?'

Dahlia pounced on the files and shuffled through them till she found the one she wanted. No photo. No wonder Bea hadn't recognized the lad.

Bea flicked through the file. Zack – save the mark! – had been sent out on three occasions as a waiter on Silver Service events. The results were a disaster. He'd turned up late, improperly dressed, been rude to the others on the team, and walked off the job without clearing up. Three separate times.

‘A poor report, three times.'

Dahlia bit her lip. ‘It's not his fault. He lacks self-confidence, having always been put down by his father, who never had a good word to say for him, and even threw him out of the house, would you believe? So I took him in, naturally, doing my good deed for the day, and he's like my own, you understand? Not that I ever had any.'

Bea sighed. What could she say to a lad who'd already accumulated a catalogue of disasters? ‘Let's have him in, shall we?' Even as she went to the door, she was aware of an altercation taking place in the big office.

Celia was storming at the lad, who'd seated himself at one of the office computers and had accessed . . . oh, no! Some porn?

Celia was trying to turn the computer off, and the lad was battling with her, laughing, thrusting her away.

‘That's enough!' Bea didn't normally have to shout to get attention.

‘Gerroff me!' The lad flailed at Celia.

Oliver arrived from the garden and dived for the computer, trying to push the lad away from the screen.

‘Oi, you!' The lad produced a knife with a wickedly glinting blade.

Celia screamed, trying to get out of range, tripping over her own feet, falling backwards.

Someone hit the lad's wrist with the edge of a ruler.

He dropped the knife, which landed on the floor, and stuck there, upright, quivering. ‘You've broken my wrist!'

‘Serve you right if I had, but I haven't,' said Jeremy. ‘Now, anyone seen my shoes?'

SEVENTEEN

Monday evening

T
he phone rang. And went on ringing.

Jeremy picked Celia up and dusted her down. ‘You all right?'

She nodded. ‘Oh, Jeremy!' She might as well have swooned into his arms, like any lovesick Victorian maiden, and said, ‘My hero!'

Jeremy knew what to do. He put his arms around her. ‘There, there.'

The phone went on ringing.

The lout turned to Dahlia, clutching his wrist, tears in his eyes. ‘He hurt me!'

‘There, there,' said Dahlia, also crying, but holding out her arms to him.

Oliver picked up the phone and, with his free hand, pressed buttons to exit the porn programme on the computer. He held the phone out to Bea. ‘For you. The inspector.'

‘Hello?' Bea found it difficult to move. What should she say to the police? Should she charge that stupid young lad with assault? With accessing porn on her computer? With carrying a knife?

‘Durrell here. Just to say, the girl they've found is not one of the Badger Game gang. A streetwalker, yes. But a heroin user in her thirties.'

‘Oh. Understood. Thank you.'

‘Are you all right?'

She wasn't making sense, was she? ‘Oh. Yes, I think so. Thanks for letting me know. And if you hear anything more?'

‘I'll let you know.' He clicked off.

She put the phone down. Oliver was switching off all the computer systems. Good. She supposed.

Jeremy had his arms round Celia, who was weeping gently into his beard. Surprise! She was no taller than he. He'd managed to get dressed, after a fashion. A clean but wrinkled shirt and jeans. He was still wearing Maggie's bunny slippers, though. Where were his shoes, anyway?

Dahlia had her arms round her nephew, who was wriggling his wrist up and down and moaning with pain. Dahlia shot angry looks at Jeremy. ‘You shouldn't have done that. He didn't mean no harm.'

Bea shook her head. ‘Dahlia, enough said. I admire your loyalty to your nephew, but if you want to keep him out of trouble, you'd better get him some anger management and proper training. And what are you going to do about him carrying a knife?'

‘A knife?' Dahlia focused on the knife, and she turned on her nephew. ‘That's my best kitchen knife, you . . .' She set about him, slapping his head this way and that as Bea would never have had the nerve to do. ‘You . . . you dare touch my knives again, you ungrateful little turd!'

Oliver hunkered down to rock the knife back and forth till he could ease it out of the floor.

‘You give me that!' Dahlia snatched it from Oliver and dropped it into her handbag. She turned on her nephew. ‘Here I am trying to do my best by you, and look what happens!'

The phone rang again. Bea put her hands to her head. Shock. She was in shock.

Celia put her hands over her ears. Jeremy stood guard over her.

Dahlia gave her nephew another whack around his shoulders. ‘Get going, you! I'll deal with you when we get home.' She turned to Bea with an attempt at a smile. ‘Oh, Mrs Abbot, what we do for our families, eh? Er, I don't suppose you can overlook what's happened, can you? Give me another chance?'

‘Please, just go. I'll send on what money is due to you.'

Oliver held the phone out to Bea. ‘Someone called Jason for you?'

Bea cleared her throat and told herself to snap out of it. ‘Hello? Mr Jason of Jason's Place?'

A hearty, healthy, booming voice. A voice seemingly untouched by tragedy. The voice of someone who enjoyed life. ‘Mrs A? You gave me your card the other night. Is the wandering minstrel in hospital or with you, or what? A whole stack of mail arrived for him today. Also, his landlord's hired a skip and thrown out everything that was broken from the flat, and some bits and pieces of the little man's as well, which I thought was a shame, seeing as it wasn't his fault, so I've got a bag of his stuff sitting behind the counter here. Would he like to collect them or isn't he interested?'

Bea didn't think quickly enough to be cautious. ‘I'm sure he'll be interested; and yes, he's staying here with me. How late are you going to be there?'

‘I stay late on Mondays, taking stock, placing orders. I'll be here till nine. That OK by you?'

‘Thank you. Yes.' She put the phone down, wondering why it was still ringing. No, it wasn't her landline, and it wasn't the same ring as her mobile, so it must be the front doorbell, upstairs.

Dahlia was sniffing, on the verge of tears as she took various personal items from her desk and pushed her nephew up the stairs and out into the street. Unasked, Oliver went after them to make sure the door to the agency was locked behind them.

The front doorbell above pealed again, then opened to the sound of loud voices. And banged shut.

Maggie shouted out, ‘Halloo, I'm back! And Max is here. Where is everybody? Downstairs, are you? Is there anything for supper?'

Celia was regaining her composure, trying to smile. Being the brave little soul. Tucking her hair behind her ears, blowing her nose, undoing the top two buttons of her otherwise prim dress. And what a difference undoing those top two buttons made to her appearance! She had one of the prettiest busts you could ever wish to see. Would Jeremy notice the signal? Er, yes; he had done. Oh, but . . .?

Bea said, to no one in particular, ‘Whatever next?'

Oliver went through to her office, closed and locked the French windows, secured the grille. ‘All safe down here.'

Max appeared. ‘Hello, hello? Company? Mother; a word?'

‘Yes, dear. In a minute. Celia, would you like to stay to supper – if I can find something to eat?'

‘Mother!' Max never liked being kept waiting. ‘It's important.'

Important to Max might not be important to anyone else, but Bea nodded and shooed everyone up the stairs. Oliver followed, shutting off lights, checking that the door to Maggie's office was locked.

Upstairs, Maggie had turned on the television and the radio. Of course. She was busy throwing stuff on the kitchen table. Cold meats, salad stuffs. ‘There's not much, I'm afraid. Baked potatoes with salad for everyone?'

Jeremy had his arm round Celia. ‘I'm taking Celia out for a meal, if that's all right with you, Mrs Abbot?'

‘Would you hold on a bit, Jeremy? That last phone call was from Mr Jason, who's rescued some of your stuff and has a stack of mail for you. I said we'd collect it this evening, but I'm not at all sure that's wise. I mean, is he playing both sides against the middle or am I imagining it?'

‘Mother!' Max's colour was rising.

‘Yes, dear; in a minute. Oliver, will you fill Maggie in on what's been happening? Now, Max . . .' She led the way into the sitting room and closed the door. ‘Sorry. It's been a difficult day.' And did a double take. Had a new suitcase been added to the jumble of Jeremy's black plastic bags in the hall?

‘Really, Mother, you ought to tidy the place up a bit. All that rubbish in the hall; it could give visitors the wrong impression.'

‘It'll be gone soon. Are you staying for supper? It's only a scratch meal, I'm afraid.'

‘I was hoping you'd find me a bed for the night. Well, for a few days. You see, I've found someone to rent our flat for the summer but he wants to move in straight away. So I thought I could bring some of my stuff over and store it here. The car's outside, full of everything personal that I don't want to leave in the flat. And I'll be up and down to London over the break.'

Bea let herself gently down on to the settee and leaned back, closing her eyes. How was Max to be accommodated? Every bed in the house was already taken.

‘Hmhm.' Jeremy was standing in the doorway. ‘Sorry to interrupt, couldn't help overhearing, because I was going to ask . . . Well, never mind that. I understand that there's a problem. It's more than time I moved out, Mrs Abbot. You've been absolutely marvellous, but your family comes first, doesn't it? And I'm well and truly back on my feet now.'

‘He can come home with me,' said Celia, at his side.

Bea took a deep breath. ‘No, he can't, Celia. He can't go anywhere. There's been at least two attempts to kidnap him, and I'm not letting him out of my sight till the villains have been caught.'

‘Kidnapping?' From Max. ‘What nonsense is this?'