False Pretences Read online

  Bully for the guru!

  There were some formalities, of course. But soon enough Oliver and Bea were standing in the open air, blinking at the brilliance of the day.

  ‘Well, well! And who’s been blotting his copybook, eh?’ A lad of Oliver’s age, with a narrow head, chestnut hair and clever eyes. He punched Oliver’s arm, grinning.

  ‘Chris!’ Oliver looked dazed. ‘But how . . . Who? I didn’t expect—’

  ‘Dad said I was to collect you from the police station and take you back home with me. I’ve got a taxi waiting on the corner. Where’s Zander?’

  ‘I don’t know. Still inside, I suppose.’ Oliver took a deep breath, hesitated, but finally said, ‘I’d better rescue him.’ Although it must be the last thing he wanted to do, he returned to the police station. Bea trailed after him. Zander was there, arguing with someone about an address where he could be found that night, since it was clear he couldn’t go back to his digs.

  ‘He’s staying with us,’ said Bea, crossing her fingers and beginning to worry about how Maggie would take the news. She gave her address again, and Zander was free. He looked all right, a bit rumpled, but not in bad shape.

  Outside, Chris was fretting. ‘The taxi’s waiting. Debriefing. Important, Dad said. Do you want to come too, Mrs Abbot?’

  ‘I think not,’ said Bea, letting all her submerged worries about Maggie, the office, Max and Nicole rise to the surface. ‘Work, and so on. Oliver, give me a ring when you’re on your way home. Let me know about supper.’

  She flagged down a passing taxi for herself, wondering how to break the news to Maggie that Zander was going to invade her territory. Again. But what else could she have done?

  In the taxi Bea tried to relax. She was so tense that the muscles of her neck ached. She made herself breathe long and deep. She knew she ought to be giving thanks for the latest turn of events, but she was too wound up to think of anything other than the other problems that would be waiting for her back at home.

  She found herself praying, Please, Lord. I’m not sure I can cope. Oh, and thanks, of course. Many, many thanks. Keep on looking out for us, will you?

  And yes, back at home, it was bedlam. Before she went into her own part of the house, Bea went down the steps to the agency rooms to see what was happening there.

  She found that Miss Brook had abandoned her station to take painkillers with a cup of coffee, that Maggie was flying from one phone to the other, getting more and more excitable and less able to remember what she was supposed to be doing from one minute to the next . . . and, even as Bea opened her mouth to tell them Oliver was free, Bea’s important Member of Parliament son Max came pounding down the stairs to the agency rooms.

  ‘Mother!’ A couple of years ago Max could have been described as dreamily good-looking, but he was inclined to put on weight nowadays. Today he was also red-faced, and he was working himself up into a temper of classical proportions.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Abbot! No Oliver?’ said Maggie, winding one long leg round the other, ready to cry from frustration and anxiety. The phones kept ringing.

  ‘I’m so sorry to let you down,’ said Miss Brook, on the verge of tears for a different reason, ‘but I really think I must go home and rest.’

  ‘Of course you must,’ said Bea, seeing how drawn and tired Miss Brook looked. ‘It was good of you to come in. I suspect you ought to have stayed in bed all day. Now don’t you worry about a thing here. Go home and get yourself better. The answerphones will take messages, and we’ll deal with them one at a time. Maggie, relax! Oliver’s all right and will be home shortly.’

  How on earth were they going to manage? Well, she’d think of something – in a minute.

  ‘Mother,’ said Max, ‘this cannot wait!’

  ‘Oh yes, it can, dear,’ said Bea. ‘I’ve spent the morning in a state of high anxiety at the police station, and it puts everything else into perspective. Now, Maggie; did you cancel your electrician?’

  The phones went on ringing. Maggie sank on to the nearest chair and howled with relief to hear that Oliver was all right, while at the same time shaking her head . . . Which might or might not mean she’d contacted the electrician.

  Bea rolled her eyes, helped Miss Brook into her summer coat, and coaxed her up the stairs. ‘Take a taxi home; I’ll pay. And don’t come back till you’re fit.’

  ‘Come rain or shine, I’ll be in tomorrow.’ Miss Brook disappeared.

  What next?

  A client was waiting for attention in reception. A fortyish woman with well-cut dark-blonde hair and sharp eyes. ‘Mrs Abbot? I don’t suppose you remember me, but your husband saved my life a couple of years ago. I came to thank him for what he did for me, but I understand he’s passed on. I’m so sorry. He was a lovely man.’

  Max made a noise like a steaming kettle. ‘Mother, I insist!’

  ‘Max, one minute. Business first, pleasure afterwards.’ She pushed Max away, trying to concentrate. ‘Cynthia, isn’t it? Of course I remember you. Hamilton found you an office job in a big corporation in Dubai, didn’t he? Not our usual field of business, but he happened to know someone who knew of a vacancy. You did well, I believe. He would have been so pleased to see you again.’

  ‘I finished there last week and came back with a nice little nest egg. Before taking on another job, I wanted to thank Mr Abbot. If it hadn’t been for him, I don’t know what would have happened to me. And you, too. I’ve never forgotten your kindness. I can see you’re up to your neck at the moment. Is there anything I can do to help you for a change? Perhaps I could man the phones here for a couple of hours? Just to take messages.’

  Although Cynthia now looked capable of dealing with an armed mutiny, four years ago she’d been fleeing a drunken, abusive partner who had subsequently gone on to kill himself and two others in a car smash. Every Christmas since her departure for warmer climes, Cynthia had sent cards to the agency, saying how well she was getting on and thanking Hamilton for his help.

  Bea wondered if this was what the Bible meant about casting your bread upon the waters and finding it again later. Or was it just another answer to prayer, because He had known what she was going to need before she did?

  ‘Cynthia, you’re an angel. If you could? You can see we’re in a bit of a state.’

  ‘Will do.’ Cynthia seated herself at Maggie’s desk and picked up the phone. ‘Abbot Agency. How may I help you?’

  Max planted himself solidly in front of Bea. ‘Now, Mother!’

  ‘In a minute. Maggie, dry your eyes, blow your nose and make me a cuppa and something to eat. I’m dying of thirst and haven’t eaten anything today. Then you can help Cynthia, can’t you? Show her the systems?’

  Maggie snuffled her way up the stairs to the first floor. Bea followed, with Max in tow. The sitting room was too warm, the sun streaming in and baking the furniture. Bea unlocked the grilles over the windows and threw them open. Then drew the blinds halfway down. A breeze tentatively played over her ankles.

  Blessed relief.

  ‘Now, Max.’

  ‘Where have you been? That halfwit Maggie said you were at the police station, which was obviously a lie.’

  ‘No lie. Oliver was asked to help the police with their enquiries into a murder and subsequent arson—’

  ‘What!? Mother, this comes of your taking in all sorts of riff-raff. It’s a wonder you haven’t been murdered in your bed.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Max. Oliver keeps this agency going, and well you know it. If it wasn’t for his expertise, we’d have to close down tomorrow, and he was certainly not involved in the murder. He just happened to drop his friend off at the house where a murder had been discovered. And before you ask, no, I don’t know who did it, though surely the police will find out.’

  ‘You are far too trusting. Look at the way you’ve let that woman take over your phones when she’d just walked in off the street.’

  ‘Cynthia is well known to the agency. Be grateful that she was here, or I wouldn
’t be able to sit down and talk to you now.’ She patted the settee beside her. ‘Now, sit down and tell me what’s got you into such a state.’

  Maggie brought in a tray on which sat a large mug of tea and a plate of ham sandwiches. The tea had slopped on to the tray, and the bread of the sandwiches had been cut unevenly. Maggie was not her usual competent self. She sniffed, richly. Bea restrained herself from telling the girl to blow her nose.

  Instead, ‘Thank you, Maggie. I should think we might expect Oliver back in about an hour. I told him to bring Zander with him as he can’t return to his old digs yet. Oh, and can you manage supper for us all?’

  Maggie muttered something about not putting up with Zander, which Bea pretended not to hear, and stamped out.

  ‘Really, Mother. That girl is impossible!’

  ‘Ah, that reminds me. Nicole seems to be without a cleaner at the moment. Shall I ask Maggie to find you one?’

  ‘It’s about Nicole that I needed to talk to you. Your interference yesterday has put me in the most intolerable position.’ He stood in front of the fireplace, assuming the position of all dominant males through the ages. ‘Intolerable,’ he repeated the word, rolling it around his tongue. ‘As if I hadn’t enough to put up with at the moment.’

  Bea considered throwing her mug of tea over him. The tea was scalding hot. It would probably do him no end of damage. On the other hand, someone would have to clean the mess up afterwards, take him to hospital, get the rug cleaned, and so on. And she knew who that would be. Reluctantly, she abandoned the idea.

  He was still talking, of course. It took a lot to stop Max in his tracks once he got on his feet. She felt considerable sympathy for Members of Parliament who absented themselves during boring debates. She wondered which member could empty the chamber fastest. Would there be an unofficial prize for such a man – or woman? For after all, women could be as boring as men when they put their minds to it.

  He’d gone puce again. Oh dear.

  ‘Mother, you might at least listen to me when I’m talking.’

  ‘Sorry, dear. A lot on my mind. I went to visit Nicole yesterday. She was in quite a state, poor dear.’

  ‘She does nothing but complain. I try to be sympathetic, but really, she might make an effort. Lettice says—’

  ‘Watch your blood pressure, dear. Lettice really is poison, isn’t she? Pretty, of course, if you like that sort of thing.’ Bea crossed her fingers. ‘I thought she’d got her hooks into someone in the Cabinet nowadays.’

  ‘What? Where did you hear that? I didn’t think anyone knew that . . . nonsense, Mother. Lettice is ambitious, of course. Any intelligent woman would want to get on, wouldn’t they? And yes, it’s true that I did introduce her to . . . No, I won’t say his name. But it turned out that he wasn’t . . . well, interested.’

  ‘Gay, was he?’

  ‘That is neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is that you encouraged Nicole to go out and spend money that we haven’t got.’

  ‘I thought you agreed—’

  ‘A little dress or two, of course. But when I got home last night, the flat was littered with expensive—’

  ‘Of course, Piers might want her to wear something entirely different.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Piers. Your father, the portrait painter. When he paints her.’

  ‘WHAT!’

  ‘Mm.’ Bea sipped her tea, now cooled enough to drink. ‘I don’t know whether he’ll want to paint her at your place or in his studio. The light in your flat might not be good enough. But you can arrange all that with him, can’t you?’

  He gaped, beyond words.

  Bea sighed, reached for a sandwich, bit into it.

  ‘But Piers doesn’t . . . I mean, he charges the earth.’

  ‘That’s all right. It’s all in the family, after all.’

  Max took a turn around the room. Stopped in front of the portrait Piers had done of Hamilton, his adopted father. It was a good portrait, for Piers had captured Hamilton’s strength, humour and goodness. The eyes followed you around the room.

  Automatically, Max’s hands went to straighten his tie. ‘I did think, one day, that Piers might want to paint me, but when I broached the subject he said he only painted elderly, ugly and super-rich people. So why Nicole?’

  ‘Because he promised to pay for the guttering at the back of the house here to be replaced, and he can do this if he paints a few beautiful women on the side, so to speak. It’s a commercial proposition for him. He wants a sort of Mother-Earth-cum-Juno look. All ripeness and blonde beauty. I don’t think Nicole needs her hair colour lightened, but perhaps eyelash dying? I’m told it does wonders for a girl’s morale.’

  ‘What’s that? The guttering needs replacing here?’ He tried to look out of the window, lifted the blind, let it flap down again. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? That’s going to cost an arm and a leg, and I just don’t have that kind of money to spare, especially with Nicole on a spending spree.’

  ‘Piers said he’d pay for it, and if he doesn’t, the agency will. Oh, and by the way, Nicole doesn’t know about the portrait yet. I thought you might like to break the news to her.’

  She could see the idea sink into his mind and become a pleasant proposition. While he was mulling this over, she said, ‘Of course, you might have to fend off some of your friends who’ll also want their portraits painted by him, but it’s not everyone who has a beautiful, pregnant wife; a project interesting enough to appeal to Piers.’

  A tiresome thought struck him. ‘Yes, but Lettice—’

  ‘I’m afraid she’ll be a little jealous,’ said Bea, polishing off the last sandwich. ‘Perhaps it will spur her on to find another sugar daddy.’

  Max reddened. ‘I’m not—’

  ‘I expect you’ve been too soft-hearted, helping her out financially. But now that will have to stop, won’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes. I mean, I’ve never . . . Well, only once or twice.’

  Bea brushed down her skirt and stood up. ‘Well, I’d better get back to work, and you’ll want to give the good news to Nicole, won’t you? Tell her Piers will be ringing her soon to discuss what he’d like her to wear, and so on. It’s great that she’s over her morning sickness now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  She walked him to the front door and saw him out. Once he’d gone, she leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, breathing long and slow. I think that went all right, didn’t it, Lord? And let me say again, ‘Thank you’. For getting Oliver and Zander out of trouble, for leading Cynthia to us just at the right minute. And please will you keep an eye on poor Nicole and tell me what to say to Maggie and oh dear, is she going to throw a tantrum about us giving Zander a bed for the night?

  The phones downstairs kept on ringing. Cynthia had a good telephone voice, low-toned, with clear diction. She would be looking for a top job now, perhaps in one of the ministries? She’d make a good civil servant.

  Maggie had not gone to help Cynthia but was crashing around in the kitchen. Oh dear.

  Bea pushed herself off the wall, lifted her chin, pulled in her stomach. On with the next. Could they afford to take on more help at the agency? They were always extra busy when staff went on holiday – or were under investigation by the police – and, now that Maggie was often out all day, they could do with some help. But could they really afford it?

  Wednesday evening

  It was always as well to think these things through before you embarked on them.

  Sandy had agreed to the after-hours meeting, as she’d known he would. After all, he needed witnesses to their collaboration as little as she did.

  She left the Range Rover parked in front of a shopping centre nearby, round the corner and out of sight of his office. She had everything she needed in two large bags marked with the name of a well-known department store.

  He opened the door to her himself. ‘You took your time. Been shopping?’

  ‘I didn’t want to leave the stuff in
the car. May I use your loo? You’re all alone?’ she said, making sure.

  He nodded, turning back into the corridor leading to his office. ‘First on the left. I thought you’d see sense.’

  She changed into her overalls in the loo. Put on the new rubber gloves. Took the gun out. Holding it behind her, she went down the corridor into his office. He was standing with his back to her, pouring himself out a whisky.

  Bang, bang, you’re dead. And he was.

  Her instinct was to get the hell out, but no; she’d planned to make sure he hadn’t left anything on his desk to incriminate her and that she would do, even if her heart was beating too fast for comfort.

  She stepped over him to get to his diary. The whisky bottle had fallen on the floor and spilled its contents; what a waste. Had the fool really imagined she was going to give way to his demands to continue their scam? She checked his diary. Good. He hadn’t even noted their appointment.

  If there was anything on his computer, it would lead back to Denzil and not to her.

  Now came the nasty bit. She turned him over to take his wallet from his top pocket, his Blackberry and his watch. Motive for murder: theft.

  One last look around. Back to the loo, remove overalls, put them and the gun back into the shopping bags. Keep the gloves on. Smear the door handles. And out goes she.

  ELEVEN

  Wednesday evening

  Supper for five. Bea and Maggie, Oliver and Zander, plus Chris Cambridge, who had attached himself to Oliver’s side. Chris reminded Bea of a puppy who’s overjoyed to see his master again after a day spent apart.

  ‘Did they really lock you up in a cell? How long was it before the duty solicitor arrived? Did he believe you when you said what had happened? What do you mean, “How could you tell?” Oh, you mean it was his job to believe you, but that you weren’t sure that he did? Well, how did it feel to be locked up?’

  Maggie was playing the non-cooperation card because Zander had been invited to supper. Maggie was sullen. Maggie was monosyllabic. Maggie said she rather thought she’d go out for supper if Bea didn’t mind. Maggie had cried her eyes out when she thought Oliver was in trouble, but the moment he walked back in through the door she turned her back on him and pretended he wasn’t there.