False Report (30 page)

Besides which, she had a lurking suspicion that Mr Jason might be baiting another trap for Jeremy . . . but if she and Oliver were with him, nothing much could happen. Could it?

‘I'm off !' cried Max, and he banged the front door behind him. Had he dropped the latch this time?

Celia said, ‘I couldn't find any proper shoes for Jeremy, but he says he'll be fine in his sandals.'

‘Better than Maggie's bedroom slippers.'

Jeremy looked amused. ‘Oh, sorry. Are they hers? She should have said.'

The doorbell rang. And rang again. With urgency.

Oliver let someone into the hall and backed into the sitting room. ‘It's . . . I don't know.'

‘Let me in,' the stranger said. ‘Quickly. And close the front door.'

The woman might have been Bea's identical twin. She was about the same age, of medium height, with short-cut ash-blonde hair, wearing a caramel-coloured two-piece. High heeled shoes, a tan carry-on case, and a pigskin handbag over one shoulder.

Bea gasped. ‘That's very clever. Miss . . . Butt?'

‘May I prevail upon you to give me sanctuary for a few hours? I'm due to fly out tomorrow, but I need somewhere to stay overnight. I went back to the flat this afternoon to find it had been torn apart. So I packed a bag and left. Only, they'd disabled my car, and when I got a taxi, they followed in another. I think I lost them at Hammersmith station. There are so many exits they didn't have enough men to cover them all, so I hopped on the nearest train, got off at Earls Court and took the next one out, which happened to be coming up in this direction . . . which reminded me of you. I do hope you don't mind.' And she didn't care if Bea did mind.

‘I do mind. Very much. Do I take it that you've disbanded your – er – group?'

‘You might call it that. There's just me and Kath left, and I've given her some money and told her to make herself scarce. I don't think he'll bother with her.' She looked Jeremy over. ‘You must be Mr Waite. A pleasure to meet you at last. And this is . . . your son, Mrs Abbot? And a friend.'

‘I'm Celia.' Celia wasn't sure what was going on. Neither was Oliver. Nor Jeremy.

Bea said, ‘Miss Butt, you'd do better to ring Inspector Durrell and get yourself locked up. They firebombed this place this evening.'

‘Call me Nance, or Annie, if you prefer it. If I can get to Heathrow in the morning without being spotted, I'm out of your hair for good. Why would I want to bring the police in on what is a purely private matter?'

Oliver clicked his fingers. ‘You're the brains behind the Badgers? Do you really look like Mrs Abbot?'

Bea snapped. ‘Of course not. That's a wig, and she's copied the way I dress in order to confuse the men who are after her. By the way, is it men in the plural? Or just one?'

Unasked, Nance smoothed the back of her skirt and seated herself. ‘I seem to have offended quite a few people in my time. At least two, possibly three.'

‘Names?'

‘Oh, no. I'm so near to disappearing, it would be stupid to give away any secrets.'

Jeremy and Celia were holding hands. How sweet. Though not terribly helpful.

Bea said, ‘There's a Put-U-Up bed at the top of the house which is going spare. I'll make a bargain with you. I'll let you stay here tonight, and I won't ring the police till after you've gone in the morning, provided you give me proof that Eunice Barrow set her husband up for your fun and games.'

‘You could have asked for more than that. Consider it done.'

EIGHTEEN

Monday evening

B
ea felt she'd lost control of events.

Question: what to do first?

Answer: take Celia home.

Oh, but before that, check that all the lights were off downstairs; you couldn't trust firemen to see to such details. Show Ms Butt how to turn the television and the side lamps on and warn her not to open the door to anyone – not that she needed any warning. Yell at Maggie that they were on their way. Check that Jeremy had some overnight things with him, chivvy him and Celia out. Check that Oliver had keys to get back in with. Find the car; parked not too far down the street. Everyone in, seat belts on. Phew!

Oliver drove.

Celia lived in a pleasant road, lying quiet in the dusk, the street lights just beginning to flicker on. It was a very warm evening. Perhaps they'd have a thunderstorm later.

‘This is me,' said Celia, indicating a red-brick house with a cat sitting on the gatepost. There were lights on in the ground floor, and someone was drawing the curtains on the second floor. ‘I'm on the first floor. I would invite you in, but—'

‘Not tonight,' said Bea.

‘Tomorrow,' said Jeremy, getting out of the car with Celia and making sure she had her keys with her to get in. ‘I'll ring you.'

Celia was swallowed up by the house. An upstairs light came on. Jeremy got back into the car with a sigh. ‘Jason's Place next? I hope there's a contract for the children's series in the mail.'

Oliver drove again. Bea was beginning to regret the bargain she'd made with Nance, or Annie, or whatever she was called. She was on the verge of asking Oliver if he thought she should ring the police, anyway . . . when he drew up in front of the corner café.

Oliver peered around. ‘No sign of an ambush tonight.' So he, too, had had his suspicions about which side Jason was on?

Bea got out of the car with Jeremy. The little man didn't really need her with him, but she didn't want him going anywhere alone. Besides which, she needed to stretch her legs, and to think. She had a horrible feeling that she'd done a stupid thing by allowing Nance to stay the night. She ran her hand round the back of her neck, wishing she'd changed into something cooler before setting out.

There was a dim light on inside the café, though the blinds were down over the windows and the card on the door said ‘Closed'.

Jeremy rapped on the door. Big Jason let them in. ‘I was just about giving you up.'

‘Sorry. There's a lot going on.'

‘Not to worry.' Nothing much seemed to disturb Mr Jason. Surely he was as innocent as Jeremy? The big man hefted a black plastic bag over the counter. ‘Odds and sods, rescued from the skip. The landlord's got new furniture being delivered tomorrow and reckons to let the place again, double the rent, by the end of the week.'

Jeremy nodded his thanks. ‘I was sorry about the piano.'

‘Well, he's not replacing that, I can tell you. Says he isn't having any more musicians in his place. Too much trouble. Now, there's a whole slew of mail.' Jason thrust a clutch of letters at Jeremy. ‘I threw away most of the junk, but hadn't the time to go through everything properly.'

‘Ah.' Jeremy beamed, selecting and opening just one envelope. ‘The contract. Celia will be pleased.'

‘Who's Celia?' enquired the big man.

‘Don't ask,' said Bea, leaning against the counter. For two pins, she'd fall down and never get up again.

Jeremy yelped. ‘And another! I must ring her . . . though I suppose it's a bit late tonight to disturb her.'

‘Congratulations,' said Bea. And to Mr Jason, ‘Did the police collect the big plastic bag the kidnappers used on Jeremy?'

Mr Jason looked blank. ‘I haven't seen it recently . . . I wonder where . . .? It's possible the girl who stood in for me today may have . . . I'll have to have a look around for it.' He turned to Jeremy. ‘Have you got a place to stay for tonight, because I could maybe get you into a friend's place, runs a B & B out Earls Court way.'

‘No, thanks. All fixed up.' Jeremy was leafing through his letters, tearing some open, smiling at some, wincing at the bills.

‘We mustn't keep you any longer,' said Bea. ‘Thank you, Mr Jason. You've been just great.'

‘A friend in need,' said Jeremy, trying and failing to make a tidy bundle of his mail. Bea took them off him and told him to carry the plastic bag containing his belongings instead.

Oliver had drawn up a little way along the road, where it was just possible for another car to squeeze past. ‘It's getting dark. Where's Piers living now? The last I heard he was living near the Tower of London.'

‘He's in Earls Court now. I'll direct you.'

There was nowhere to park outside Piers' place, either. Oliver said he'd drive around, be back in ten minutes or so. Bea guided Jeremy across the pavement and used the door phone to let Piers know they'd arrived. Up the stairs. Up and up.

Piers met them at the top. He was on his mobile phone, talking to someone, preoccupied. ‘Come in, come in. Be with you in a minute. Make yourself at home – but I may have to go out in a while. The settee's quite comfortable, bathroom over there. Turn the telly on if you like. Sorry there's no food.'

Whoever he was talking to snapped off the connection. Piers looked at his phone, laughed, shook his head. ‘Well, it seems I'm not seeing her this evening after all. Do you fancy a jar or two before turning in, Jeremy?'

The sitting-room-cum-studio was furnished in minimalist fashion, but the settee and deep armchairs looked comfortable.

Jeremy dropped his things on the floor. ‘Don't mind if I do. Nice and quiet here. Thanks, Mrs Abbot.'

‘See you in the morning.'

Down the stairs. Her knees protested. She was getting a tension headache. She waited on the pavement, and after a while Oliver drew up in the car. She got in. ‘Home, sweet home. I hope. Oliver, I've done something stupid, letting that woman stay, haven't I?'

‘Don't know what else you could have done. You have to admire her, in a way . . . Oh, I thought you might like to know, I found out why CJ shoved Jeremy on to you. CJ's scheduled to be an expert witness in a trial in which Eunice is appearing for the defence. He thought there might have been a conflict of interest, so wanted you to get Jeremy off his back.'

‘How like him to shove his problem my way. Wretched man. I'll make him treat me to an evening at the theatre when this is over.'

It was getting dark, but no cooler. She felt hot and sticky. How long till she could get under the shower? Oliver turned into their street. There were no parking places left. Max's car was accounting for one, of course.

Oliver double-parked in the road near their house. ‘You'd better hop out and I'll drive around, find a place to leave the car. I'll check the agency door downstairs when I get back.'

‘I'll do it. I'm not that keen to face our latest visitor.'

‘I've a feeling the security lights on the outside stairs may have been knocked out by the fire.'

‘Point taken.' She opened the glove compartment on the dashboard and rescued the wind-up torch they kept there. She got out and stretched, wished a breeze might spring up. Sultry was the word for it. Or torrid.

There were lights on in the sitting room. Maggie usually drew the blinds in the dusk. Or Bea did. Ms Butt obviously hadn't thought to do it. Oh well. They'd all had a tiring day.

She made her way round the ruined bay tree in its pot, to the head of the steps leading down to the agency. Ugh, the smell of burned petrol . . .

As she stood there, feeling for her house keys in her handbag, one of the sitting room windows above her was thrown open. She looked up and glimpsed the silhouette of a man. And overlaying the smell of burned petrol, the unmistakable scent of a good cigar.

The scent of a cigar. She remembered . . . two nights ago Jeremy had been kidnapped and shoved into a white van. Bea had opened the door of the van to find out what was the matter with the driver and had smelt . . . the scent of a good cigar. Fresh cigar.

Stale cigar smoke is horrible. It clings to carpets and curtains and . . . clothing.

The man who'd killed Jonno in the van must have been smoking a cigar not long before.

The man at the window was smoking a cigar now. A man with broad shoulders, a man who moved easily, looking out down the road, and then drawing the curtains. He'd looked out, but he hadn't looked down. He hadn't seen her.

No one she knew smoked cigars. No one in her house smoked.

Alarm bells.

There was an intruder in the house with Ms Annie Butt. Friend or foe?

Ouch. Probably foe, because the figure at the window reminded her of the man who'd killed O'Dare, the photographer.

Maggie . . . where was Maggie? Had she gone to stay the night with a friend? Or invited someone in to join her? Bea fervently hoped she was out.

Panic. No, mustn't panic. Keep calm.

Pray.

Dear Lord, dear Lord . . . panic stations here! Help me! Tell me what to do.

When he'd found a parking space for the car, Oliver would walk straight back into the house. And so would Max.

A motorbike puttered to a stop in the street and was hauled on to its rest, parking between two cars at the kerb. Friend or foe?

Oh, nonsense; she was getting paranoid.

Still . . . she felt with her foot for the next step down, and the next. It might be wise to take shelter in the shadows until she knew for certain what was going on. The steps were gritty under her feet. She put out her hand to steady herself. The stone of the wall was gritty, too. The stench of the fire was all around her now, disguising the scent of the cigar.

The front door opened above her, and she held her breath.

She heard heavy footsteps climb the steps to the front door. Which meant . . .

‘Well?' A man's voice. Deep.

‘She took him off with her. I tried to follow but lost them in traffic.'

Did she know that voice? She rather thought she did, but couldn't place it. The front door shut.

Her heart was going thump-thump.

Miss Butt wouldn't have let the man in. No way.

So, Maggie must have done. Let me think. Maggie had talked about seeing if a friend would come round, or go out with her. Also, she'd wanted a pizza. It was possible she'd have phoned for one and trustingly opened the door when someone rang the bell – and it might not have been a pizza delivery man who called.