False Report (4 page)

‘You were wearing pyjamas?'

‘The central heating goes off at ten and the house can be chilly even in May. I always have cold feet, which is one of the reasons Eunice didn't like me in her bed.'

‘So the snapshots showed her naked and you in pyjamas? Not exactly an erotic scene.'

‘She's erotic enough in her bare skin, I can tell you. I was very nearly aroused and it takes something for me . . . Well, you won't be interested in my health problems, will you? He had one of those cameras where you can see what pictures have been taken, and he showed them to me. The head shots didn't show my pyjamas, but they showed a lot of her. He sat down on the end of my bed, and he patted my hand and said that I'd been having it off with an under-age girl and these photos could get me into a lot of trouble. He said that he knew a way out. That's when he asked for money. Not all that much. Five thousand pounds. He said he knew I owned the house and that my wife was a top earner, and I could easily afford to pay. I simply couldn't believe it was happening, and I laughed out loud.

‘He didn't like that. He said . . . Oh, he said a lot of things, most of which I can't remember. But the gist of it was that he'd give me twenty-four hours to pay up, before sending the photos to my wife and to the school where I taught, so that they could see what I'd been up to. He said it was my choice, to pay up or be destroyed.

‘Then he left. He just walked out of the house. I was trembling. Shock, I suppose. I got myself a large brandy – I don't usually drink, but that was . . . Then I tried to ring Eunice, but she was out of town and had turned off her mobile to get a good night's sleep, so I left her a message and I got myself something to eat and then – I just waited for her to ring me back. There was nothing else I could do. Copies of the photos were pushed through the letter box before eight next morning. That Josie could . . .'

He shook his head at himself. ‘I'm a right mug, aren't I? At first I told myself that no one would believe that I'd interfered with a young girl. I told myself Eunice would laugh when I told her. But she didn't. Ugh! Bad time, that. She was furious with me. She warned me not to tell the police because she didn't want her husband to go to jail, which I suppose I might have done. She said she didn't want me to tell Clarissa, either, but then she told Clarissa herself. She told me to get out of the house and go to a hotel that night. She said she never wanted to see me again, that she would divorce me. I took the photos into school and told the head what had happened. He was fair enough, I suppose, suspended me rather than gave me the sack. I had to leave my pupils almost ready to take their exams . . . Oh well. Perhaps they'll be all right.

‘Looking on the bright side,' he said, attempting a smile, ‘I'd been working night and day to do my daytime job while trying to keep up with a commission to provide background music for some docudramas: television, cutting edge, fascinating stuff. And there's more work to come provided they don't hear about what I'm supposed to have done with Josie and make me persona non grata. Should I tell the television people about it? I think not.' His brow furrowed. ‘A pity you don't know anything about music. I'm having trouble with the coda. I can't quite see how to . . . It'll come to me in the middle of the night, I expect.'

He sounded committed to his music-making. He'd moved on. Good. Bea hoped the television people would be understanding if his connection with Josie ever came out, but there was one troubling point. ‘I'm told the girl was under-age.'

‘I thought she was Clarissa's age, eighteen. Maybe a spot older. She told me she was eighteen, and I never doubted that it was so. In very young girls, there's a certain look about the neck; unlined, slender. I can see that if Josie were under-age, it would make everything look worse, but . . . You know, I've seen other men – and women teachers, too – destroyed by false allegations from pupils. Usually there are warning signs: a pupil who's always wanting to be counselled, or feels hard done by a particular teacher, or is so consumed by hate or disgust with their family that they go around flying flags of anger at the world in general. Those are all danger signals to an experienced teacher. But I didn't see any of these things. What sort of idiot does that make me?'

‘Didn't Josie's minder threaten to go to the police if you didn't pay up?'

‘Blackmailers don't, do they? They want money, not publicity.'

‘Did they not know about the work for television? I'd have thought they'd have threatened to expose you there, as well.'

‘I don't think I ever talked to Josie about it. I write music under another name, you know.'

CJ had told her that, hadn't he? So what had CJ been after, when he'd arranged this meeting? Was it really to confirm CJ's conviction that Jeremy Waite was innocent of murder? Bea snorted. The little man's innocence was shiningly obvious. So what had CJ really been after?

Jeremy polished off the last crumb of food, looking at his watch, playing five-finger exercises on the table. ‘Do you know, I rather think I've solved it? I can bridge into a different rhythm while shifting into the next key. Do you mind if I get on with it now? You'll send me a contract in the morning, right? Lovely to have met you. CJ really has been my guardian angel, last night and now today.'

He got to his feet, and bustled away, leaving Bea to stare at her untouched pot of tea.

Her phone rang. ‘CJ here. Just checking how your meeting went. What did you make of Jeremy?'

‘Genuine. Innocent. I'm going to fix him up with some domestic help.'

‘Good. I'd like you to keep an eye on him, all right?'

The phone went dead. Bea looked at it, disillusioned. What did CJ expect? A round the clock supervision of an eccentric genius? No way. He didn't want her to investigate Josie's murder, did he? No way in spades.

At the back of her mind, she heard her mother say, ‘No good deed goes unpunished.'

Nonsense. She shook the thought away and turned her mind to more pressing matters, such as what was wrong at the agency.

Thursday afternoon

‘Nance, are you there? I'm still in the restaurant. I don't think she's his wife. It's more like a business meeting. Could she be his solicitor?'

‘His wife's a redhead in her late forties.'

‘This one's ash blonde and older. So it's not her. He's leaving. And she's still here. Shall I follow him – or her?'

THREE

Thursday late afternoon

T
he moment Bea stopped puzzling over the little man, her own problems flooded back into her mind and it seemed that the few hours away from the agency had given her a new perspective on things.

The thought popped into her head that the agency had perhaps expanded too fast. The words ‘a runaway success' presented themselves to her. Mm, yes. But a runaway car might be a hazard to other road users. Was it, perhaps, time to apply the brakes?

She gathered herself together and set off for home. Should she take the bus? No, a taxi presented itself as she left the Academy. She settled herself into the seat and immediately another problem surfaced in her mind.

Bea had caught her sort-of-adopted daughter Maggie in tears last night, but when Bea asked what was the matter, the girl had rebuffed all enquiries, saying she was going down with a cold. True? Hm. But if not true, what had upset her? Had her almost-boyfriend urged her to marry him? No, he was too sensible to do so before Maggie was ready for it. So what could be troubling her now?

Maggie had been spectacularly unsuccessful as a member of the domestic agency, since her skills had never lain with either the telephone or the computer. But she'd discovered a flair for working as a project manager for various building jobs in the neighbourhood. And Maggie loved to cook . . . which reminded Bea that she wouldn't need to eat again that night.

She ought, perhaps, to ring Maggie and warn her not to provide a big supper. She got out her mobile phone and tried Maggie's number. Engaged. Of course. The girl spent most of her life with her phone attached to her ear.

Frustrated, Bea made a mental note to try again in a minute. She wondered if the last of the new furniture had arrived for the flat she'd created for her second family at the top of the house. Wasn't there still a bed missing? She must check.

Maggie and Oliver – Bea's adopted son currently away at university – were very close to her heart and she cared deeply for both of them. She believed they cared for her, too, but . . .

Bea frowned. Oliver hadn't been in touch since she'd returned from her holiday; he must be busy. He'd made new friends, had been invited into some new line of research which was bringing him kudos in his chosen field of Higher Mathematics, but he usually emailed her several times a week. And hadn't.

It was a something and a nothing.

For heaven's sake, he was a grown man now, wasn't he? She must stop being such a mother hen and pay the taxi driver, who'd drawn up on the opposite side of the road to her house.

On a bright summer's day the early Victorian buildings in her street were a sight for sore eyes. She admired the freshly-painted cream facade of her own mid-terrace house and the neat, paved forecourt with its matching bay trees in pots. A discreet sign indicated that the Abbot Agency could be found by descending the steps to the basement area, while four wider steps led up to the front door under its imposing portico.

Ranks of tall sash windows glistened in the afternoon sun, reducing in size as they marked the positions of the large reception room and hall, and the bedrooms in the upper storeys.

The sky was blue overhead. A jet crossed the sky in the distance, humming to itself.

Bea got out her keys, thinking of Jeremy Waite, thrown out of his family house and confined to a small, rented flat, where he couldn't even have his grand piano. She couldn't be that sorry for him. He might have lost his wife, his job and his home, but she had to admire the way he was forging ahead with his new life.

Bea still had her family, her home and her job. So what was she complaining about? If something was amiss at the agency, it was up to her not to whinge, but to do something about it. And if there wasn't anything wrong at the agency, then . . . Oh well, retirement couldn't be that dreadful, could it?

There was permit parking only in the street. As she crossed the road, she checked that her own car was safe and undamaged from brushes with passing vehicles, which it was, and spotted another familiar car. Her important – in his own estimation at least – member of parliament son's car. A Jaguar. She'd given him a book of visitor's tickets some time ago and he'd stuck one in the window, just as he ought to do if he wished to avoid a fine for parking in that road.

What was Max doing here? Waiting for her, obviously. She felt a familiar tightening of nerves, because a visit from Max usually meant he wanted something. But . . . a nasty thought. Was all well with her darling grandson? She usually saw him twice a week but for some reason it hadn't been convenient the other day. Perhaps he was ill?

She had planned to go down into the agency, but instead she mounted the stairs to the front door and let herself into the house.

Thursday late afternoon

‘Nance? The bird's let herself into a big house on the far side of Kensington Church Street, not a hundred yards from where I found Josie. It looks as if she's running some kind of business from the basement. The Abbot Agency, whatever that might be. Escort agency? She'd make a fine madam. It doesn't sound like a solicitor's office, does it, but it's only a hop, skip and a jump from the music man's new flat.'

‘She's not a totty?'

‘Far from it.'

‘We'll know where to find her if we need to. Meanwhile, we've got to think of the future. I've done all the groundwork for a new project, and I'm not giving up, especially after we lost out so badly on the last one. Someone's sending round a girl who might be a suitable replacement for Josie, and I'd like you to see her.'

‘It's too soon. Josie's not even buried yet.'

‘It's never too soon to earn some more money. Be there.'

Thursday late afternoon

‘Max, my dear! How nice to see you. And how is my beautiful grandson? I was so sorry to miss him earlier this week.'

‘Now, Mother. Don't be obtuse. You know perfectly well that Nicole has taken him up to our house in the constituency for the summer break. I hope to join them soon. Our flat here in London is not pleasant in this heat.'

‘I'd forgotten you were going so soon.'

Bea's drawing room was pleasantly cool as she'd had the forethought to lower the blinds over the windows at the back of the house before she left. She raised them now and threw open the French windows so that, just for a minute, she could step out on to the wrought iron staircase which curled down into the garden. A breath of fresher air stirred the curtains behind her, and she thought how pleasant it would be to go down and sit in the shade of the sycamore tree, perhaps with a glass of iced water. But not yet.

Max had taken up his stand with his back to the fireplace – which held a display of ferns at this time of year. Bea loved him dearly. He was the only child of her first marriage to a tom-catting portrait painter who had wooed her as an eighteen-year-old but, finding marriage and responsibility not to his taste, had abandoned her to bring up their son alone. Piers was in the money nowadays, and he and Bea were now good friends. He'd even managed to re-establish some sort of relationship with his son. Piers had never been handsome but had all the charm in the world.

Max, on the other hand, was tall, dark and handsome . . . if carrying a little too much weight. Bea held back a sigh. Max was wearing his ‘official' face. Max was on the warpath about something.