False Step Page 15

  Piers took the last remaining lump of chocolate cake out of the tin. He didn’t offer any to Bea, but bit into it with an expression of bliss. With his mouth full, he offered some words of advice, which Bea interpreted with an effort.

  She couldn’t help laughing. ‘What? Get Nicole to tell him she’s pregnant? I can’t do that. No, that’s … Piers, you’re incorrigible!’

  ‘Am I not?’ he said, with pride, clearing his mouth. ‘It always worked for me when I wanted to end an affair. I’d tell the girl that my other girlfriend thought she was pregnant and with great sadness, I felt I must stand by her, et cetera. Even when there wasn’t another girl in the offing. I got the idea from you.’

  Bea felt herself go pale. ‘Piers, you didn’t decide to stay with me just because Max was on the way, did you? I mean … no, that’s despicable!’

  ‘Sort of, yes. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it up, but I did think that I ought to play the good husband for a while. I haven’t much of a conscience, I know, but it does twitch now and then.’

  ‘Well, you were no help at all when I had Max and he was nearly five when I finally threw you out. Do you mean that you stayed all that time because you were sorry for me? I … I’d like to do you an injury!’

  ‘Sure. I can understand that. I felt like hitting me, often. But the flesh was weak. In a way I was relieved when you threw me out. I was also sorry. You deserved better.’

  ‘Would you have stayed if I’d been a different kind of woman, more … I don’t know … up for it?’

  He sighed. ‘It wasn’t that. I really did love you, you know. As much as I could. It’s the way I’m made. I could never bear to do the same thing two days running, and there was a whole world out there to explore. At times I missed you terribly, but there was a certain sense of relief, too.’

  She digested this in silence. Did this make her feel better, or worse?

  ‘Any coffee on the go? And, while it’s brewing, suppose you tell me what you’ve got the builders in for. And have you any idea when Matthew’s funeral’s going to be?’

  Wednesday morning

  By nine o’clock in the morning, the agency answerphone was full, and had stopped taking any more messages.

  Oliver appealed to Bea. ‘What do we do? They’re all enquiring about Matthew’s car.’

  Bea gulped hot coffee. Piers had taken one look at the sheeted living room last night and taken her off to a pub where they’d talked about Matthew and listened to some rather good jazz till closing time. She didn’t feel like work this morning. Still less did she feel like confronting builders with the instructions Piers had left with her for them. Fortunately Piers had said he’d drop in that morning and have words with the foreman himself. The men hadn’t arrived yet, so the house was comparatively quiet, if dusty. Max had come in late, and hadn’t surfaced yet. Just as well. She really didn’t feel like coping with his melodramas.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’

  ‘Still in bed, I think. The plumber stood her up and she got all weepy last night, so I took her for a long walk …’ He shrugged. ‘She said she was going to take the morning off and I didn’t argue.’

  Bea nodded. This was only her first cup of coffee; after the second she’d be able to think straight. She hoped. ‘First things first. Clear the answerphone tape. Put a message on it to say that if anyone is ringing about the car, it’s been withdrawn from sale. Mrs Frasier did say we were to take messages about the car, but I have no instructions about how much to ask, where it is, and who has got the keys.’

  Oliver pulled the morning papers towards him. ‘I suppose she put an advert in one of these?’ He began to check. ‘If she gave them our telephone number, we should at least be able to work out what make of car it is and how much she wants for it.’

  Bea refilled her cup. ‘If you’ve finished running off the inventory and the photos, I suppose I could take them round to Mr Frasier with the keys. Normally I’d put the stuff in the post – well, not the keys – but under the circumstances I think I’d better deliver them by hand. I’ll be glad to get shot of this business.’

  ‘Two-year-old Jaguar, warranty, etc. Garaged, it says. I wonder where? Hm. A bargain. She could have asked more. Give me ten minutes and I’ll have everything ready for you to take. You don’t suppose they’d let me buy it, do you? I’m taking my test next week.’

  Bea raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you so sure you’ll pass?’

  He raised an eyebrow in return. Of course he’d pass first time.

  She said, ‘All right, being you, you probably will, but … first things first.’

  ‘Clear the answerphone. Right.’

  It was still raining. Bea set the dishwasher running and cleaned down the surfaces. How long would it take for the dust to subside for good?

  Oliver returned in record time. ‘Tape cleared. New message inserted. Here’s the address for Mr Frasier. This envelope has two copies of the inventory in it, plus the photos, and our bill. There’s also a release form for the keys, which are … where?’

  ‘I’ve got them. Mr Piers is coming round this morning to deal with the builders for us, so you can let him in. Miss Brook will be back today, too. Can you cope if I leave you in charge?’

  He looked pleased and said of course he could. Well, it was nice that someone was feeling pleased with themselves that morning.

  Bea rang Damaris’s home number, introduced herself and said she knew it might be a difficult time for Mr Frasier, but if he could spare a moment or two that morning to clarify his wife’s instructions regarding her stepfather’s house?

  ‘Getting the house is the one bright spot on the horizon,’ said a depressed male voice. ‘Come when you like. I’ll be in all morning.’

  Bea checked the Frasiers’ address with the A to Z. At least she’d be travelling against the morning flow of traffic coming into London.

  The Frasiers’ house was a l930s semi-D in a quiet street lined with flowering trees. The house had been less well-maintained than its neighbours. The front garden wall had been removed to allow an elderly Escort to park off-street in what had once been a garden and was now an area of shingle ringed by unkempt bushes. The car had been in the wars, to judge by scratches on the doors and a dented wing.

  Bea began to wonder if the Frasiers were living on the breadline and might not be able to meet her fee. Oh dear.

  A long-haired black cat sat on the doorstep, waiting to be let in. When he saw Bea, he lifted one paw to her in supplication, blinking enormous golden eyes.

  ‘Charm gets you nowhere with me,’ said Bea. She rang the doorbell. There was a recycling box in the porch, empty apart from last week’s local free paper, which had been turned to the job section. A downpipe hung at an angle by the porch, allowing rain water to stain the pebble-dash and setting up perfect conditions for dry rot. The paintwork was shabby, to put it politely, and there were a couple of tiles missing off the roof.

  The door opened. A middle-aged man with a weight problem stood there. He had thinning, improbably dark hair, drooping shoulders and wore an air of defeat which must tell against him every time he went for a job.

  ‘Mr Frasier? I’m Bea Abbot, of the Abbot Agency. I rang earlier.’

  ‘Come in, come in. All at sixes and sevens. Such a shock.’ He put out a foot to stop the cat entering the house. ‘Mind the cat. It’s hers. Was hers. Don’t know what we’re going to do with him now. I can’t be bothered, that’s for sure. I suppose he’d better go down the vet’s this afternoon.’

  He ushered her into a sitting room dominated by a huge flat-screen television set, brand new, tuned to a sports programme. The packaging for the television set had been left sprawling over the carpet. Would Damaris have left it there? Probably not. Apart from the discarded packaging, the room seemed to be clean and tidy.

  A teenager with straggly hair over his eyes lounged in a bean bag which had seen better days. He was playing with some electronic game or other and didn’t look up when Bea was shown to a
chair and offered a drink. The packaging for the game was on the window sill, next to a vase of chrysanthemums. The water in the vase could have done with being topped up, but Bea guessed that wasn’t going to happen now.

  ‘Would you like a drink? Whisky, gin? Or tea, if you prefer. I think there’s some milk, isn’t there, Tom?’

  Tom shrugged, intent on his game. Mr Frasier made no move to turn off the television and when Bea gestured towards it, he said, ‘Got to have something to keep the old brainwaves ticking over, haven’t we? You into sport?’

  Bea shook her head. ‘We were so sorry to hear about your wife.’

  ‘Me too. I don’t know how we’re going to cope, I really don’t. Tell the truth, neither of us is used to shopping, or cooking and cleaning.’ He sounded more annoyed than upset.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She must have lost her balance, fell in front of an express train. Nothing anyone could do. The police said we wouldn’t want to see her. I said I thought I could cope, but not Tom here, who has a delicate stomach. We’re both on medication, you know. In the end, I met her mother up there, and we did it together. Weird woman. Didn’t cry at all. I did. So did Tom.’

  Tom didn’t look particularly grief-stricken to Bea. She told herself; what did she know about it? ‘That’s terrible. What a shock.’

  ‘It was. When they rang at first, I told them they’d made a mistake, but they said they’d found her handbag and it was her. And of course it was. No suicide note, thankfully. I don’t know what I’d have done if they’d found a suicide note. No, it was an accident, pure and simple.’

  ‘Why did they think …?’

  ‘Her stepdad killing himself like that. They said it often happens, one set of miseries triggers another. I said Damaris wasn’t at all upset by her stepfather’s death, but they didn’t like that, either. I suppose she was upset in a way. A terrible thing. Platform crowded with people all waiting for the local stopping train, express comes along, everyone warned to stand back, everyone does except for Damaris, who falls straight into its path. They shouldn’t let the express trains run through the same platforms as the stopping trains. I’m surprised it doesn’t happen more often.’

  Bea shook her head in sympathy. ‘Dreadful for you. So sad.’

  Tom abandoned his game and stood up. He must have been well over six foot, and thin with it. A slight odour emanated from him. Not too keen on washing? An immature face. Age twelve or thirteen? He ignored Bea to demand attention from his father. ‘Are we going down to get me those new trainers or not?’

  Mr Frasier huffed. ‘Not today, Tom. There’s so much running around I’ve got to do. Registering the death, seeing the solicitor, getting rid of the cat, all that sort of thing. That’s if I can get the car started. The battery’s flat.’

  ‘Hire one. We got money now, haven’t we?’ Tom had very light-blue eyes with a hard expression; just like his mother.

  Bea said, ‘Which reminds me. Mrs Frasier asked the agency to take enquiries for Mr Kent’s Jaguar, and we’ve been fielding telephone enquiries for it since yesterday afternoon. Only, she didn’t give us the details or the keys, so we weren’t able to take the matter any further. In fact we’re not sure we should.’

  ‘We can’t touch it yet,’ said Mr Frasier, his tone warning his son to be careful what he let slip. ‘You know what Trixie said yesterday.’ To Bea, ‘My sister, she works in a solicitor’s office, knows the law, told me yesterday that we can’t touch anything till it’s cleared for probate.’

  ‘Aunt Trixie said we could get some money quickly by—’ He realized what his father meant, shot a sideways look at Bea and mumbled, ‘But maybe I’ve got it wrong.’

  ‘Yes, you have,’ said his father. Meaning, ‘Shut up, you fool!’

  Bea hid a smile. Had they intended to sell the car for cash to cover their immediate needs? Also the costumes? The Frasier house could certainly do with an injection of funds. The carpet was threadbare, the three-piece suite had seen better days, and the room hadn’t been decorated in years. The only new things in it were the television and Tom’s electronic game.

  Bea got down to business. ‘Your wife asked us to prepare an inventory for the contents of Mr Kent’s house, to include the theatrical costumes. We have done this for her, with photographs. I hope this is satisfactory.’ She handed over the package.

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Mr Frasier, shuffling paper. ‘Any idea how much this stuff will fetch yet?’

  Tom abandoned his sulk to look over his father’s shoulder. ‘I thought we could move into the house. I mean, that would be a bit of all right. Better than living in this dump.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ said his father. ‘It will take about six weeks to get probate, Trixie said.’

  Bea held out her invoice. ‘Well, I’m sure your solicitor will be able to give you some definitive advice. Meanwhile, here is the invoice to settle our account.’

  Twelve

  Wednesday morning

  Father and son looked at Bea with open mouths and calculation in their eyes. It was clear to her that neither had a penny to bless themselves with. Damaris Frasier had had a job. Presumably it was she who had paid the mortgage and run the house. Without her, what did they have? He would have a disability pension, perhaps? And Tom? Child benefit, presumably? Why wasn’t he at school today? He wasn’t showing any sign of shock or sorrow at his mother’s death.

  Mr Frasier held the inventory and photos to his expansive stomach, gripping them as if he’d never let go. ‘You’ll have to wait till probate, when everything’s settled, right?’

  Bea had been afraid this might happen. She was sorry for the Frasiers, sort of. ‘There are various grants you may be entitled to and back pay from Mrs Frasier’s job. Have you any insurances? No? Well, I’m sure your solicitor will be able to help you. In the meantime, can you tell me anything about a Ms Cunningham? She contacted us last night claiming to be the new owner of the Kent house.’

  ‘What!’ Father and son looked shocked. Mr Frasier said, ‘Cunningham? That … no, I can’t believe it, not even of her!’

  ‘Dad! You know Mum promised I could have Uncle Matthew’s recording equipment and—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Mr Frasier snarled at his son.

  Bea waited for clarification, which wasn’t forthcoming. ‘You know the woman?’

  ‘She’s …’ Mr Frasier huffed and wheezed, reaching for an inhaler. Asthma? He puffed, got his breathing back under control. ‘She’s an old friend of my wife’s, a music peri … that is, she goes into schools to teach keyboard a couple of days a week. She gives piano lessons in their front room, too. She’s no relation to Matthew. I can’t think why she should say—’

  ‘Dad! That’s my stuff that—’

  Mr Frasier turned on his son. ‘Shut up!’ He swung back to Bea to say, ‘The Cunningham woman’s a poor sort of creature, always hanging on my wife’s coat-tails, wanting a lift here or a favour there. It’s preposterous for her to claim she’s inherited the house. We have! Or rather, Damaris did, and of course she’s left everything to me.’

  Bea said, ‘The problem is that Ms Cunningham now has a set of keys to the house. Your wife phoned and left me a message to say Ms Cunningham would be there early yesterday to check over one or two things, and that we should hand over our own bunch of keys when we’d finished taking the inventory. Ms Cunningham arrived rather later than we expected, and let herself in with her own keys.’

  ‘She’s got keys? But … how could she …? You think my wife gave her some keys?’

  ‘That’s stupid,’ said the boy, scrabbling around under the settee, and producing a once-expensive but now slightly scuffed leather bag. ‘This is Mum’s handbag. They gave it back to us last night. The keys to Uncle Matthew’s house must be here.’ He pulled out a wallet, a coin purse, tissues, make-up bag. He emptied the lot out on to the carpet. ‘These are her house keys.’ He held up a bunch with a small teddy bear hanging from it. ‘And her shop keys.’ These had a tw
inkly star attached. There were no other keys at all.

  The Frasiers looked at one another in consternation. ‘Why would Mum give Uncle Matthew’s keys to that old bat?’

  Derek Frasier rounded on Bea. ‘Well, if you had a set to do the inventory, then you don’t need them any longer, do you? You’d better let me have them, right?’

  Bea wasn’t so sure about handing them over to this precious pair. They might use the opportunity to clean the house out, and if they weren’t going to inherit … no, she couldn’t let them have the keys. Then she remembered where she’d left them, upstairs in her dressing-table drawer. ‘I have a set back at the office. I’ll be happy to hand them over to you when you’ve paid my bill and I’m clear in my mind as to who now owns the house.’

  ‘What? Hand them over, now!’ Tom was getting aggressive.

  Bea spread her hands. ‘I’m sorry. They’re at the office.’

  ‘But if we don’t have the keys …’

  If they didn’t have the keys, they couldn’t lay their hands on anything to bring in some much-needed cash. Consternation!

  Bea gathered her things together and stood up. ‘You know where to find me, when you’ve taken advice from your solicitor.’

  Neither man moved to show her out, so she stepped ahead of them to the door. She felt, rather than saw something swish past her shoulder, and turned in shock to see the older man helping his son to his feet. Mr Frasier was wheezing again.

  ‘Sorry,’ he huffed. ‘My son slipped. Can you see yourself out?’

  Tom had slipped all right. He’d aimed a blow at Bea, but had been pushed aside by his father. The look Tom sent Bea was enough to convince her that she’d better wear chain mail next time she was in his vicinity.

  She walked with unsteady steps to the front door, and let herself out. The fresh air revived her a little. She leaned against the front door, recovering. The cat sat up and blinked – or winked? – enormous yellow eyes at her. A tiny slip of pink tongue appeared and disappeared. The cat said, ‘Yow?’