False Report (7 page)

She began to pace the shadowy room, arms folded around herself.

Dear Lord, you gave up so much to show us the Way and the Truth and the Light, when you came down to earth. I wonder how much and how often you regretted leaving your home to help others. And here am I, crying inside because I may have to leave my safe little niche so that other people can have a better life.

I ought to be ashamed of myself, but I'm not. I'm resenting it like mad.

She stood at the window, trying to understand what was happening, trying to resign herself to leaving all that she loved, her work, her extended family, the house which had been hers and Hamilton's for so many years . . . good years, filled with hard work and loving kindness.

Finally, she ran out of words to hurl at God and just stood.

In the end, she prayed again. For patience. For guidance. For the knowledge that she was still His much-loved child, however much she railed at Him.

In the stillness she remembered someone else's tears.

So what if Maggie had been crying? Maggie had ruined Bea's address book. Maggie was going to leave her. Maggie's tears were nothing to Bea, who must accept what was happening, pretend she didn't care. Move on with her life.

Max had said Bea would be a very rich woman when she sold up. Well, she wouldn't be that rich if she gave a decent sum away to Oliver and Maggie . . . on top of which she had guaranteed to see Oliver through university, which was going to cost an arm and a leg. She supposed that she could let Max buy the house on easy terms – which is no doubt what he intended – but then she'd have to buy herself somewhere else to live in a less fashionable neighbourhood and try to find something to do with the rest of her life.

In the silence came the sound of the front door closing, not with a bang, but a quiet thunk. Was that Maggie returning? Maggie usually rushed in, letting the door bang to behind her and yelling that she was back – ‘Hello, it's me!' She would then thunder into the kitchen, turning on the television and the radio as she went, talking on the phone to one of her friends or a workman, and then there would come the clatter of pans and the burble of the electric kettle.

Silence, except for quiet, slow footsteps mounting the stairs. Burglars? Or Maggie in unusually pensive mood?

An unshaded light bulb was switched on above Bea, and both she and Maggie jumped.

‘Sorry about the mess! I meant to clear it up, but . . . I didn't realize you were up here. This light's awful. There's some uplighters been delivered somewhere, but I haven't got round to unpacking them yet.'

‘I suppose I should have waited for an invitation to visit your new rooms. You've done a really good job up here, Maggie.'

‘Yes.' Maggie usually dressed in strident colours and coloured her hair in whatever shade took her fancy that week. Bea was concerned to see the girl was all in black today, and that her hair approximated to its original mid-brown. But so what if the girl was down in the mouth? Was that any concern of Bea's?

Well, yes. It was. ‘What's the matter, Maggie?'

‘Oh, nothing.' The girl looked around her as if she'd never seen the room before. ‘This overhead lighting's all wrong, don't you think?' She threw down her large tote bag. ‘It's quite all right, you don't have to say anything. I know it's time I moved on. I've been to look at a place today, but . . .' She moved her shoulders. ‘It wasn't very nice. I've got my name down for a rented flat at the estate agency in Church Street.'

Bea's tongue tied itself into knots. It wanted to say, ‘Do you really have to go?' and, ‘Why are you deserting me?' Instead, she managed, ‘How about a cuppa?'

Maggie made as if to move to the kitchen area, and stopped. ‘I don't think I've got any fresh milk up here.'

‘Come downstairs where it's cosy, and then you can tell me all about it.' Now why had she said that? Maggie's defection had wounded her. She felt raw. And here she was, offering to listen to the girl's troubles. Well, the offer had been extended, and Maggie followed her down the stairs, switching on the lights as they went.

The kitchen was warm, and their huge black furry cat Winston was lying on the central work surface, waiting for them. Maggie picked him up and buried her face in his fur. Bea filled the kettle and switched it on. She busied herself getting out mugs, fresh milk, tea bags and biscuits.

‘Tell me all about it.'

‘Oh, it's nothing, really. I didn't get the Thomason job, and I'm in a muddle with my paperwork as usual.'

‘What a shame. Did they say why not?' Bea had been consulted when Maggie had been preparing the estimates and thought Maggie's scheme had been sound and her quote well within the client's budget.

‘It was all my fault. I should have checked, and it's no good saying that I'd never needed to check before when Celia typed quotes up for me, and I know I ought to do my own typing, but . . . there's always been so much to do, and Celia was brilliant at fielding messages for me, and she always managed somehow to fit my work in with hers, and I know you were worried that I was taking up so much of her time, but you never mentioned it to me.

‘No, I ought to have realized. I feel so stupid. Ianthe said she'd have to find someone else to do my work for me after Celia left, and she did get one of the girls to type up the estimate for me, but it was all such a rush at the last minute that I didn't check, and the girl put it in the post for me. I've no one but myself to blame.' She shrugged. ‘The total was five thousand over budget. A simple typing error, and I didn't spot it.'

Bea poured boiling water on to the tea bags. ‘Ianthe said I thought you were taking up too much of Celia's time?'

Another shrug. A dip into the biscuit tin. ‘They're so busy down there. I ought to have realized they haven't time for my bits and pieces any more. You should have said something, though I can see why you didn't, not wanting to hurt my feelings and all that. As if ! Maggie the Thicko, what? Anyway, I've got the message now.'

‘I'm not sure that I have. Maggie, have you seen my little address book recently?'

No blush, no embarrassment. No sigh of shame. ‘The one Oliver gave you at Christmas? Have you lost it? Do you want me to have a good hunt round for it? Where did you see it last?'

‘In your office downstairs.'

A frown. ‘What? But . . . why should . . .? I don't understand.'

‘Neither do I. Maggie, I'm wondering if perhaps Ianthe has been a little too businesslike—'

‘One can't be businesslike enough, she says.'

‘Oh yes, one can. It seems to me that in her care for one side of the business, she's let
you
down.'

‘Yes, but I'm not really part of the agency nowadays, am I? And she's so busy. And the girl who's replaced Celia is . . . Well, she doesn't know me, does she? She doesn't see why she should do any work for me, and she's right.'

Bea thought about that. And followed on with, ‘Have you any other jobs which you've asked Ianthe to see to?'

‘Well, yes; and she's trying hard to fit them in. I'm a bit worried about one estimate which needs to be in next week. Ianthe keeps putting me off, so I'm thinking of taking it to a typing agency I've heard about. It's not your problem.'

‘I think it is. Maggie; I want to help.'

‘Bless you, but I can manage.' Maggie looked at the clock, checked her watch, and gave a little scream. ‘I promised to ring someone back tonight. Do you mind if I . . .?'

‘Go ahead.'

‘Oh, but what about supper? I ate something earlier, but—'

‘I've eaten already. Go on. Get on with your life. I'll clear up here.'

Maggie vanished, already talking into her mobile. Feeling better now she'd talked to Bea.

Bea felt worse. Ianthe was right in thinking that Maggie ought to outsource her own typing. Or was she? The fact was that the agency was changing. Most people would say it was for the better. Bea wasn't so sure.

She made a phone call of her own. Her first husband Piers, who had tom-catted himself out of their marriage, had become a good friend over the last few years, and he could always be relied upon for some cool-headed advice . . . that is, if he weren't totally absorbed in whatever subject it was that he was painting at the moment. He might have been the stereotypical painter who starved in a garret when he was younger – except that Bea had gone out to work to keep him going in those years – but nowadays he was a much sought-after portrait painter, wooed by all the great and sometimes not so good.

‘Piers, can you spare me a minute or two tomorrow?'

‘Ah. Yes. Been expecting this. Got a sitting at ten, early bird. Half eleven do you?'

Yes, indeed.

Someone was leaning on the front doorbell. What? At this time of night? After ten. Whoever it was had no intention of giving up.

Maggie was returning back down the stairs, still with her mobile to her ear. ‘Who . . .?'

Bea went to open the door, and the garden gnome tripped over the doorstep and fell into the hallway. Slap, bang, down he went, falling sideways, landing flat on his back. There was blood on his forehead, which he was trying to cover with one hand, while clutching a handful of manuscript paper to him with the other.

‘So sorry,' he said, not making any attempt to rise. ‘Shock. You know?'

He closed his eyes.

‘Who on earth . . .?' Maggie switched off her mobile.

‘Jeremy Waite,' said Bea. ‘Musician. Murder suspect, though I don't think he did it. It looks as if he's been duffed up.'

‘Not so.' Jeremy opened his eyes but made no attempt to rise. ‘Shock. If I might just rest for a bit . . .' His eyes went up to the ceiling and followed the plaster frieze around. ‘Nice bit of moulding, that. Early Victorian? Black and white tiled floor, probably. I do hope I'm not bleeding on to it.'

‘Er, no,' said Bea, seized with an inappropriate desire to laugh. ‘Do we call the police or an ambulance?'

He jerked to a sitting position, still holding on to his head. ‘Neither. It was my flat they did in, not me. Fortunately, I was out when they arrived.'

‘When who arrived?'

A shrug. ‘Josie's dead, so it can't be her. Her photographer, I suppose. I'd popped out for ten minutes. Came back to find the front door downstairs open. Thought I must have neglected to pull it to behind me when I left, but when I got upstairs, I could see I'd been burgled. Or not burgled, probably, because what do I have that's worth stealing?'

‘Nothing missing?' Bea helped him to his feet and deposited him in a chair.

‘A random act of burglary?'

‘I might have thought that, if they hadn't massacred the piano.' He dabbed at his forehead. ‘Am I still bleeding? I'd gone out to fetch a pizza, was feeling peckish, and I still had the carton in my hands when I got upstairs and saw the mess. I thought that whoever it was might still be there, so I grabbed some paperwork and ran for it, but I must have caught my foot on the carpet, and what with holding on to the pizza and all . . . I took a tumble down the stairs.'

‘Yes, yes. Let's get you cleaned up.'

Maggie and Bea lifted him up between them and carried him through into the kitchen, with him still talking.

‘So I got out my mobile and rang the police. And they said they'd log the incident and try to get back to me tomorrow and I looked at the front door and saw the lock had been smashed and I realized they could come back and get me at any minute so I couldn't stay there. Only, I couldn't think where to go, and I started walking up the road and suppose I must have dropped my mobile somewhere because I couldn't find it to ring anyone else, and I remembered you lived nearby, and that's why I'm here. Ouch!'

Maggie applied a dressing to his grazed temple. ‘Hold still, now.'

He took a deep breath, looking around him. They'd put him on one of the kitchen stools. His legs dangled way off the floor. ‘You haven't got a biscuit or two handy, have you?'

‘And a cup of tea,' said Maggie, refilling the kettle. Maggie was good with children of all ages. ‘I'm Maggie, by the way.'

Bea was thinking. ‘I agree you can't go back to your flat, Jeremy. I suppose – just for tonight – you could sleep here, and then look for something better in the morning?'

Maggie chucked mugs on to the table. ‘The bed in Oliver's room is already made up. I'll put out some towels for him.'

Jeremy had already worked out that Maggie was going to be more sympathetic to his need for food than Bea. ‘You haven't by any chance got a cheese sandwich, or perhaps something a little more substantial?'

‘An omelette?' Maggie went into production. ‘Spanish: tomatoes, mushrooms, onions and potatoes. Right? With a baked apple and custard to follow?'

‘Bliss,' he said. Then shivered. ‘It wasn't a random burglary, was it? Not if they used an axe on the piano. The rest of the furniture didn't amount to much, and they just tossed my papers around so I can easily catch up on my work, but the piano . . . what am I going to do without a piano?'

‘Rent one,' said Maggie. ‘I can arrange that for you. No, wait a minute; it would be almost impossible to get a piano up to the third floor here. How about a good electronic keyboard? Would that do you?'

He turned his glowing, innocent smile upon her. ‘You are an angel.'

Bea escaped into the living room, where she doubled over, giving vent to a bout of painful laughter. The little man reminded her of Rumpelstiltskin, the dwarf in the fairy tale who came to an unfortunate end, but this modern-day gnome always fell on his feet, didn't he? He was like one of those toys that, no matter how often you laid them down, bounced back to an upright position as soon as you took your hand away.

She got out her mobile and keyed in CJ's number. ‘Yes, I know it's late, but you'll never guess what's just happened. I appear to be sheltering a suspect from a murder enquiry. Do the police need to know I've got him?'