False Alarm Read online

  Lucy Emerson, one of the biddies, spreading the good news. With relish.

  ‘I’ve heard that, too,’ said Bea. ‘Maggie’s spending as much time with her mother as she can. I also heard that Sir Lucas might have someone else in mind?’

  ‘Isabella? Something double-barrelled and Spanish. I did wonder, when I saw them at a charity “do” last week, but Eliot said I was imagining things. Stupidly, I nearly passed out and had to take a taxi home by myself, so don’t quote me.’

  ‘Isabella?’ Piers finished his coffee and beckoned the waitress for another. ‘Do you mean the Spanish heiress, grandfather in olive oil, father in shipping? Quite a catch but slippery. She’s been engaged or married four or five times, mostly to footballers, if I remember correctly. Do you think Lucas can hold on to her?’

  Almost a grin. ‘Perhaps they deserve one another.’ She put her hand over her mouth. ‘Oh dear! I shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘Of course you should, between friends.’ Bea patted the pale woman’s hand. ‘Do you think Lady Ossett suspects?’

  ‘I rather think she does, but I can’t say exactly why I think so. Lucy and Carrie are so good to me. One of them comes down almost every day to make me a cuppa and make sure there’s food in the fridge – anyway, Carrie says that Lady Ossett doesn’t want to see what’s happening. Perhaps she knows but doesn’t want to know, if you see what I mean. I’m explaining myself badly, I’m afraid. Lucy thinks Lady Ossett may be too old to capture another husband, and that she’ll become miserable and depressed. But that’s just gossip. You mustn’t take it seriously.’

  ‘Lady Ossett is getting on nicely with the Professor at the moment.’

  ‘I thought they disliked one another. He’s terribly clever, you know, and really kind. He asks for me to be his partner if I haven’t been paired off with anyone else. He says I always know what he’s going to bid, and honestly I don’t. Or not very often. Sometimes. But the stakes have been getting higher just lately, which makes him swear under his breath, though of course I can hear him. I told Eliot I wanted to drop out for that reason, but he thinks I should continue for a while at least.’

  ‘What do you think about Tariq? Are you bothered by the noise he makes at weekends?’

  ‘Oh, no. Well, only if he leaves his front door open and then the music does tend to echo down the stairs. Eliot doesn’t like it when he’s working. But I suppose Tariq’ll be leaving soon. He got the sack, you know.’

  So Helen didn’t know Tariq had already departed? Fair enough. ‘What about the young people on the ground floor. Do they have parties at weekends?’

  ‘Occasionally, yes, but they’re on the other side of the hallway so they don’t disturb us so much.’

  Piers sipped his fresh cup of coffee. ‘What does Eliot say about them?’

  Bea gave Piers a sharp look, but Helen didn’t hear the sarcasm.

  ‘We don’t really know them at all. Lucy says they’re a bit of a nuisance and that they probably take drugs; but I really shouldn’t say that, because I’ve not seen anything myself.’

  ‘What about the people in number six?’

  Helen smiled. ‘Oh, Harvey. A real softie.’

  ‘Lucy – or was it Carrie? – started to say something about him but her friend cut her off. Is there something wrong there?’

  Helen was amused. ‘No, no. It’s just that he’s got a bit of an imagination. To hear him talk . . . He’s something of a standing joke. Sometimes he doesn’t seem to know the difference between fact and fiction. I suppose all writers are like that.’

  Bea looked a query.

  Helen almost laughed. ‘He writes pulp fiction, and lives out his plots. Thinks he’s another James Bond. There’s no harm in him. Now, if you don’t mind, I think I’d best be on my way. I need my beauty sleep in the afternoons.’

  When Helen had left, Bea said, ‘What do you think?’

  Piers shrugged. ‘Eliot sounds like the usual sort of bastard who marries a nice girl and drains all the blood out of her.’

  ‘She doesn’t trust her instincts but she’s pretty acute, all the same. That remark about Lady Ossett knowing exactly what was going on, but deciding not to know—’

  ‘I’ll bet she’s right about Isabella and Sir Lucas. I wonder who might be able to fill me in on that?’ He got out his mobile and brooded over the address list.

  Bea signalled to the waitress for a cup of coffee for herself. Her headache had gone now she’d eaten, and she was feeling much better. So much better, in fact, that she gave in to gluttony and ordered one of their extra special marzipan, cream and chocolate cakes. Wow! Treat!

  She tried to think clearly. If Helen were right and Lady Ossett had suspected her husband was about to leave her, then might she have set that trap on the stairs? Well, possibly.

  Bea shook her head at herself. A while ago she’d been so sure that Lady O had been innocent, and now . . . she couldn’t make up her mind.

  ‘Hi, there!’ Maggie, looking pleased with herself. With Oliver in tow. Several people had left the café, so there were a couple of chairs free. Maggie pulled up one for Oliver, taking Helen’s for herself. ‘Phew! What a morning! I shopped for food, only to have my mother say she’s going out for the rest of the day and the food will keep for tomorrow. I could spit!’

  Oliver was looking smug. Hm. Why?

  Bea ignored him to speak to Maggie. ‘Well, that’s your mother all over. Had you plans for tomorrow?’

  ‘I was going out for the day, long walk in the country, pub lunch, you know. But Mother says she may need me and she doesn’t think I ought to let my friends monopolize my time, which is a bit of a laugh when she’s trying to do just that herself.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Piers, turning away to talk on his phone.

  Oliver’s self-satisfaction continued to annoy Bea as she accepted delivery of her cream cake and Maggie ordered coffees for herself and Oliver.

  Bea continued to direct her questions to Maggie. ‘What do you make of the Professor?’

  ‘He saw I was a bit flustered, having to cart all the shopping up the last flight of stairs. He even came out to help which was nice of him. Usually he looks right through me. He’s terribly clever, you see; and I’m not. Well, not in his way, if you see what I mean. I’ve known him for years, of course. Both his wives were called Margaret, though he called the second one Peggy, and they both died of cancer, poor things. Did you hear about his cat? Wasn’t that awful? I’d die if anything happened to our Winston.’

  Oliver got tired of waiting for someone to take notice of him and said, ‘Congratulate me, guys. I’ve cracked the case. All tied up with a red ribbon and ready to hand over to Sir Lucas.’

  ‘Really?’ Bea was surprised. ‘Well, good for you. Who’s the rotten apple in the barrel?’

  ‘No one you’ve talked to. I was suspicious as soon as he was mentioned, but I don’t want you to take it hard. You can’t be expected to deal with this sort of thing.’ Condescending in the extreme.

  Piers snapped off his phone and paid attention.

  Bea set her teeth. ‘Don’t keep us in suspense, Oliver. Who is it?’

  ‘Harvey Middleton. Commercial spy. Convicted by the work of his own hands.’

  Bea had a sinking feeling. ‘Flat six? The writer?’

  Oliver was amused. ‘You must admit, it’s a good cover. I’m keeping him on ice until I can ask Sir Lucas what to do about him. I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes at M15 by handing him over for interrogation.’

  ‘Cor!’ Maggie was half laughing, but impressed. Puzzled. ‘Is Harvey really M15, then? Are you sure? I can hardly believe it.’

  Oliver assumed a bland expression. ‘We may never know the whole truth. All I can say is that there probably won’t be any prosecution, which will please Sir Lucas.’ He smiled at Bea. ‘Don’t take it hard that I’ve cracked the case when you couldn’t. I’m sure you did your best.’

  Bea dabbed at her mouth with her napkin, removing the last
trace of cream. Her hand shook. Was he right? He could be . . . but . . . She didn’t know what to think . . . except that she wanted to slap the smile off Oliver’s face, or push the table into his midriff, or empty her coffee cup over his head. Or all three. ‘Dear me,’ she said, as lightly as she could. ‘Well, congratulations.’

  Piers frowned, picking up her mood, but just then he received a call on his mobile and turned away to attend to it.

  Bea signalled for the bill and got to her feet, saying, ‘Must go. So much to do.’

  Piers followed her out into the open air, talking on his phone the while.

  Bea seethed with repressed rage. Ready to hit something or somebody. Or herself. She told herself that she ought to have been able to congratulate Oliver, and instead she’d cut him off. Was she angry because he’d succeeded where she’d failed?

  Harvey was a commercial spy in league with Sir Lucas’s enemies? But Helen had said . . . Had Oliver got hold of the wrong end of the stick? Was he riding for a fall? Nice lot of mixed metaphors there. Well, she was feeling thoroughly mixed up, so there!

  Piers said, ‘See you, then,’ and shut off his phone. ‘Calm down. That young imp thinks he’s a proper detective because he’s come across an oddity, but if Helen says the man is a bit of a joke, then Harvey’s more likely to be a fantasist than a commercial spy. Do you mind if I take a break?’ He gestured with his mobile. ‘A prospective client is coming to the boil, wants to meet up, and there’s a lead on something I’d like to check out for you. I’ll ring you tonight, shall I?’ He set off for the tube station at a rapid pace, leaving Bea to glare at his back.

  She could happily kill Piers, too. A thought; there were still public phone booths at tube stations, weren’t there? Mm, yes. But not terribly suitable for what she had in mind. She looked around. Yes, at the corner of the road by the church there were a couple of boxes; not the new blue ones but the older, red, tourist-attraction boxes. Exactly what she’d had in mind. Conveniently close to the flats.

  She opened the door of the first one. No advertisements. No cards. Oh. The second, likewise. But . . . ah, she could see where some had been attached to the windows with double-sided sticky tape. They’d removed the cards – or whatever they were – but there was still a trace of tacky on the glass.

  ‘You’re out of luck. The cleaners have just been round,’ said a voice from behind her. She looked down to see a tousled young hoodie sitting propped up against the end booth. He was wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and trainers. He had a half-eaten baguette in one hand and an open can of beer in the other. Drunk? Not yet. But doing his best to get there. ‘Give us a fiver?’

  She shook her head. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were into that sort. Unless . . .’ He leered.

  She could feel her face grow hot. ‘Looking for someone of the same sex, you mean?’

  ‘Want a card? Yours for a tenner.’

  ‘You said five. Have you got one?’

  ‘Might have. Nice thick card. Useful for cleaning between the teeth.’

  Or for chopping cocaine? She tried not to shudder. He wasn’t that old, his accent was that of a reasonably well educated lad and his skin wasn’t bad. If he were on drugs, he hadn’t been on them for long.

  He rummaged in his pocket and produced some call-girl cards. Yes, they were about the right size, but were they the ones she was after? The phone booths might be used as an advertising venue for any number of people or services.

  He held one up for her to see. ‘I only used this one once.’ A picture of a young blonde baring her bottom. ‘Miss Rumpelstiltskin’, followed by a telephone number. ‘Yours for a tenner.’

  Bea shook her head. ‘I’m only interested in one particular card, one that was put up within the last few days. It’s got an address on it.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  She shook her head and began to walk away.

  He sprang to his feet and called after her. ‘Go on. You can afford it.’

  She stopped, but shook her head. ‘Someone has been playing a nasty joke on an innocent friend of mine, printing up some cards with her phone number on them and leaving them in a place where a man using the phone would assume that she was on the game. Which she isn’t. It’s been quite distressing. I thought if I could only find out who was doing it, I’d give him a piece of my mind.’

  ‘Fifty pounds if I tell you what he looks like?’

  ‘What?’

  He shrugged. ‘The pimps come round every morning to put up the cards for their girls, straight after the cleaners have been round. No real names and only telephone numbers. The pimps dress like me, casual. Now this guy is a businessman, in a proper suit with a briefcase and all. I see him come down the road every morning and cross to the tube station. Every evening he comes back the same way. Works in the City, I reckon.’

  ‘A businessman?’ said Bea, wondering how this fitted in.

  ‘He never pays me no mind. Then, it would be about a fortnight ago now, he stops by the phones on his way to work in the morning and I think he’s forgotten his iPhone. But no; he darts into the booth, takes some cards out of his briefcase, sticks them up on the windows and goes down the tube station. The pimps are livid. He’s muscling in on their territory, see? But he’s an amateur; he does it too early because the cleaners come round and take most of them. Only a few get into the right hands. And they’ve just got telephone numbers on them.’

  ‘You took one yourself. Why?’

  He grinned. ‘I could see he was an amateur, pimping his girlfriend or wife, maybe. Respectable gent like that! Tut! So I thought I’d take one of his cards and maybe in a little while he’d be good for a fiver to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Did you try it on him?’

  ‘Thought about it, but I was always busy when he went by and he was always in a hurry. He didn’t put any more in for a while and I thought maybe it was a one-off. Then he did it again last Friday and I thought I’d get him for sure after the weekend.’

  ‘You’ve got one to show me?’

  ‘Tell you what, make it fifty and I’ll give you one of each. The first card had two phone numbers on it, but the ones he put up a couple of days ago gave an address.’

  Bea held up her handbag, but didn’t open it. ‘Describe the man.’

  ‘Money first?’

  ‘You haven’t given me anything yet. I need both cards, and a description.’

  ‘Ginger hair, smarmed down. Fancies himself. City gent. Handmade shoes, dark-grey pinstripe suit. His tie matches his shirt; pink. Leather briefcase big enough to hold his laptop and all.’

  The description meant nothing to her. ‘Age?’

  ‘Thirty-five, maybe forty. You’re not going to cheat me, are you?’

  She paid him out thirty pounds and paused. ‘The cards?’

  He shuffled through the ones in his pocket and handed over two. She gave him the rest of the money, hoping no one would think she was paying him for drugs. The cards were exactly as he’d said. One had two phone numbers on, and the other gave the familiar address of the flats. As she snapped her handbag shut she said, ‘I suppose, silly question, you don’t want a job, do you?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ve got one. Selling the Big Issue. I do mornings and evenings, coupla hours a time. Me and my girl, we spell one another.’

  ‘I don’t see any magazines.’

  ‘Under the tarp at the back of the booths. I was on my lunch break when you caught me. Want to buy a couple?’

  ‘No, no. You’ve had enough out of me. But listen: it may not appeal to you, but I run a domestic employment agency—’

  He laughed and shook his head.

  She sighed, shrugged. ‘You should apply to join the police. You’ve got a good eye, and they’d give you training.’

  He laughed again and turned away. No, he wouldn’t go for a job with the police. A pity, but he was old enough to make his own decisions in life.

  She walked away, wondering what i
t was that was jumping around in her handbag. Oh, it was her old mobile. She’d forgotten she’d muted the ring tone.

  ‘Mother? Where are you? I’ve been trying to get you all morning but nobody seems to know where you are. I tried your mobile, but it says the number is unobtainable, and it was only at the very last minute that I thought of trying your old number—’

  ‘I’m afraid there was an accident with the new—’

  ‘There’s no Maggie here, or Oliver, and the girls in the agency rooms haven’t seen hide nor hair of you. What on earth are you playing at?’

  ‘Dear Max. Maggie needed some help with something. I’ve been out all morning but I’m on my way back now. I’ll be there in –’ she looked at her watch – ‘ten minutes. Put the kettle on for me?’ She clicked the call off, trying at the same time to switch her mind away from the mysterious goings-on at the flats and back to her one and only son and what he might want from her.

  Oh. She remembered now. Piers had said Max wanted her to appoint him a director of the agency, which was a bit daft since they weren’t a limited company, didn’t have any directors and were doing very well without them, thank you. He wanted to be a director for Holland and Butcher as well? Where did that idea come from? Not from her.

  So, it must have been suggested by H & B, who seemed very anxious indeed for closer ties between them and the agency. Which was all very well, but she wasn’t at all sure she wanted to get into bed with H & B, since . . .

  Her mobile phone rang again, and she answered it as the traffic lights changed colour and she crossed the road.

  ‘Mrs Abbot?’ Someone with no time to waste. ‘I’ve been ringing your landline and your mobile but—’

  ‘Sir Lucas?’

  ‘No one seems to know where you are. Young Oliver finally gave me this number—’

  ‘I’ve been—’

  ‘Well, never mind that now. Your boy has managed to identify the traitor’s accomplice but I can’t attend to him at the moment; there’s meetings going on till late tonight. I want you to get over there and make sure he doesn’t leave till my head of security can collect him. I don’t want any more slip-ups, as there was with Tariq. I’ve told the caretaker to be more careful this time, but he may need backup. Understood?’